Keegan's Lady (50 page)

With every step Ace took, he could feel Patrick's gaze boring into his back. How long had his brother-in-law been in town? he wondered. Had Patrick seen him enter Barbary Coast Mortgage? Shit. Of all the people to have seen him, why did it have to be Patrick?

When he reached the bat-wing doors of the saloon, Ace shot a surreptitious glance back down the street. Just as he'd suspected, Patrick was still standing on the boardwalk watching him, his face creased in a thoughtful frown. Ace swore under his breath and pushed the saloon doors open.

The interior of the drinking establishment smelled just like a hundred others Ace had frequented. Stale smoke, even staler whiskey, and the stench of unwashed bodies. Little wonder he found the smell of barnyard manure preferable.

The instant the doors swung shut behind him, a blonde in a red sequin gown appeared, seemingly from out of nowhere, to clasp his arm.

"Hello there, goodlookin'. What'd'ya say to buyin' l'il ol’ me a drink?"

Ace smiled down at her. "Sorry, honey. I have other fish to fry at the moment." Casting a glance at the men bellied up to the bar, Ace shook free of the woman's grasp. Just as he'd hoped, the individual he was seeking was standing there, nursing a glass of whiskey. Ace strode over to the counter and elbowed his way in beside the stout, ruddy-faced man with blunt features and grizzled brown hair. "Bartender, I'll take a whiskey, please."

The barkeep slapped a shot glass onto the counter and did it over the well-varnished oak surface toward Ace. I he fact that the glass spun to a stop directly in front of him gave testimony to the fact that its sender had been serving whiskey for a good long while. Grabbing a half-filled bottle off the shelf behind him, the man stepped over to slosh out a fairly precise measure of liquor. "That'll be two bits."

Ace reached into his trouser pocket and fished out change. He laid the requested amount of coin on the bar, picked up the tumbler, and downed the whiskey in one gulp. As he set the glass back down, he turned to gaze at the portly man beside him.

"Seems the clientele in here hasn't much improved since my last visit," he said softly. "Do you come in just lo pass the time of day, Dublin? Or could it be you have lo drink to live with your conscience?"

Cruise Dublin looked up, his bloodshot blue eyes filled with equal parts surprise and wariness. "Are you addressing me, Keegan?"

"Sure as hell am." Ace ran his gaze down to the man's paunch, which was so considerable it stressed the buttons of his shirt. "You're a piece of shit. I don't know about everyone else in here, but I don't much like rubbing elbows with a turd."

Dublin's face went angry red. "If you're trying to pick a fight with me, I'm not that stupid or that drunk. I've heard about your skill with a gun."

Ace smiled. "Have you, now?" He reached to unfasten his gun belt. After putting the weapon on the bar, he said, "What's your excuse now, Dublin? Cowardice?"

"I have no quarrel with you."

"That's where you're wrong." In a voice pitched so low no one else could hear, Ace added, "There's the little matter of a sixteen-year-old girl you raped, mister. You made her life hell for six long years. It's one of those things I just can't let go. You understand?"

"She's lying!" Dublin said with a hiss.

"I wouldn't call my wife a liar if I were you. That's liable to make me real mad."

"She's mistaken, then."

"I don't think so. A woman doesn't tend to forget the man who raped her. It's one of those things that tends to linger in her mind."

Dublin squared off with the bar again and picked up 1 his jigger of whiskey with a trembling hand. "What do you want from me? An apology? Fine. You have it. Now leave me alone."

Ace curled his hand over his holster. "I'm giving you a choice, you miserable little sack of shit. You can fight me like a man, or I'll put my gun back on and blow you straight to hell. Take your pick. I'll even let you have the first punch. How's that for a deal you can't pass up?"

Giving no advance warning, Dublin snorted and tossed the whiskey in Ace's face. The liquor got into Ace's eyes, temporarily blinding him. Swinging away from the bar, he gave his head a shake and blinked. In the blur, he saw Dublin grabbing up a chair. The next thing he knew, his head exploded with pain. He went down like a felled oak, landing flat on his back. Dublin buried a boot in his ribs, then kicked him again. And ' again. The breath whooshed from Ace's lungs. He rolled to his knees, tried to gain his feet. Dublin sent him down face first again with another swing of the chair.

"Fight! Fight!" someone yelled. Ace heard running I footsteps. Then a voice called, "Get the marshal! Quick!"

As the sting of the whiskey in his eyes dissipated, Ace regained some of his sight. Enough to see Dublin's boot coming at him again, anyway. Before the well placed kick could reach its target, Ace snaked out a hand and grabbed the bastard by the ankle. With a forceful twist, he brought the other man down. Dublin landed hard on his back. He was so fat, he looked like a turtle lying there, belly upthrust, his short limbs thrashing uselessly.

Ace sprang up and grabbed Dublin by the lapels of his jacket. Jerking the man to his feet, he planted a fist square in his mouth. The sound of his knuckles connecting with teeth made a very satisfying sound. For Caitlin, Ace thought. For all the tears she'd shed. For all the heartache she'd suffered. For all the times she'd been afraid because of what this son of a bitch had done to her.

At any other time, Ace would have held himself in check. There was no denying he had a physical advantage over the older man, that it wasn't really a fair match. Dublin was short, fat, and twenty years Ace's senior. No contest. Ace usually picked opponents who could give back as good as they got.

Not this time. He thought of Caitlin, of her fragile build and bony elbows. He envisioned her big blue eyes, always so filled with shadows and dark with fear. This bastard had raped her, not caring that she had no strength with which to fight back. Not caring if he humiliated her, or terrified her, or caused her pain. Not a fair match. Now Dublin was going to find out how it felt.

Ace looked into Dublin's frightened eyes, drew back his fist, and hit him again. And then again. After that, he stopped counting.

At some point, one of the other men who had been standing at the bar grabbed Ace by the arm. "Whoa, partner. Unless you mean to kill him, I think he's had enough."

Ace let go of Dublin's jacket and watched the man rumple. He landed with a thud, one side of his face against the floor. Blood streamed from his nose and mouth. Breathing as hard as if he'd been running, Ace stood there, feet spread, hands knotted, gaze fixed on the unconscious man. It wasn't finished. It would never be finished. He'd meant to make the little bastard crawl. To make him grovel, the way he'd undoubtedly made Caitlin grovel. To hear him beg. Instead, he'd beaten him into a senseless stupor.

Ace doubted that Caitlin had been so lucky. There'd been no escape into unconsciousness for her. No way to block out the pain. That was one of the most terrible things about rape; it didn't initially kill a woman. That came later, when she had to live with the memory of what had happened and the feeling she'd never be able to lid herself of the taintedness.

"Never enough," Ace muttered under his breath. With that, he buried the toe of his boot in Dublin's sided viciously. With all his strength. It was another first. Ace never took shots at an unconscious man. When the fight was over, it was over. "Rot in hell, you miserable piece! of garbage."

Staggering back to the bar to get his gun, Ace wiped his face with his shirt sleeve. He had just buckled his gun belt and was tying down the holster when No Name's estimable marshal came crashing through the doors. Estyn Beiler. Like his cohort, Dublin, he was a stout man who had gone soft around the middle. Ace fixed a hate-filled glare on him. Though he'd met the man countless times on the street since his return to No Name, Ace still felt a nearly overpowering revulsion when he saw him. He would never forget the night of his stepfather's death, or the faces of the men who'd been responsible.

Glancing down at Dublin's unconscious form, Beiler yelled, "You're under arrest, Keegan."

"What's the charge?"

"Assault."

Ace glanced around the saloon, looking several of the men near him directly in the eye. "You all saw it. Dublin attacked me first."

"That's right," one of the men confirmed. "Cruise took the first swing. Went crazy. Picked up a chair and worked Keegan over good."

Beiler's face went angry red. "Cruise isn't that big a fool. You're twice his size and half his age."

Ace sneered. "I realize he generally picks on people who can't fight back. I guess this time he decided to make an exception."

Ace glanced around for his hat, which had gone flying when Dublin had beaned him. He spotted it lying under a table and stepped over to collect it. After straightening the crown, he set the Stetson at an angle on his head, then politely tipped the brim. "Gentlemen."

With that, he made his exit. Despite the fact that his head hurt like the blazes, Ace was smiling when he stepped out onto the boardwalk. He stood there for a moment, not caring a whit that the sky was still overcast. Caitlin had nailed it right on the head this morning; it was an absolutely glorious day.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Oh, my God! What happened?"

Ace hadn't realized he looked that bad. Caitlin's startled greeting told him otherwise. Stepping into the house, he pushed the door closed behind him and sailed his hat toward the table. "Nothing much."

"But you have blood all over your upper lip!"

Tossing a towel down on the bench, she came running over to him, her eyes wide as she regarded his face. Ace gave his nose a wiggle, recalling how he'd done a face plant on the barroom floor. "I do? Hmm."

She clasped her hands at her waist and went as white as chalk. "Patrick," she said softly. "You got into it with Patrick."

All the way home, Ace had debated whether or not to tell Caitlin about his set-to with Dublin. On the one hand, he didn't want to sound like a puffed-up braggart. The man had gotten what was coming to him. That was the end of it. On the other hand, Ace had wondered if she wouldn't want to know. Though he'd had a personal change of heart just recently, he still maintained that revenge could sometimes be awfully sweet, and if anyone on earth had call to want a taste of it, Caitlin did.

"Not Patrick," Ace assured her.