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Authors: Catherine Anderson
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alone."
Uttering those words made Caitlin feel desolate. In the recent past, it had been Patrick who'd always stood at her side, Patrick who had helped her through the rough times. She and Patrick, against their father and the world. What had happened to him that he could sit there now, a pathetic lump of whiskey-fouled flesh who couldn't even stir himself to meet her gaze?
"I wasn't much help," the old man admitted, jerking Caitlin back to the present. "Didn't dare use my equalizer, here"—he patted his rifle—"and my days of fisti-cuffin' are long since over. But I done what I could. Like you say, we was lucky."
Caitlin gave him a shaky smile. "Thank you. And, now, if you'll excuse us? I need to talk with my brother."
Hank nodded his understanding and stepped outside. Caitlin didn't bother to make sure he'd left. She began pacing in a wide circle in front of Patrick.
"So," she said sharply. "You shot Keegan's prize bull, did you? Brilliant move, Patrick. Let me guess. I'll bet you came up with that fantastic idea after you started drinking."
Patrick finally acknowledged her presence by leaning his head back against the wall. Even in the dim light, she could see the glistening trails of tears on his cheeks, and when she looked into his eyes, she forgot whatever else she meant to say.
"Hank's right, you know." He saluted her with his whiskey jug, which he upended to show that it was empty. "I'm a worthless excuse for a man, a worthless excuse for anything."
In Caitlin's memory, she'd never heard her brother's voice sound so hollow, or so hopeless. Beside him, she noticed that the dirt was splotched with telltale wetness where he had poured out the remainder of the liquor.
"I used to look at our da and hate him for being so weak," Patrick whispered in a rough voice. "For loving his whiskey more than he loved you and me. I could never understand the hold it had on him."
What rang loudest to Caitlin was what Patrick had left unsaid, that now whiskey had the same hold on him. The thought wrenched at her. How could it be that in so short a time, her brother had come to this? She stiffened her shoulders against another wave of pity. Feeling sorry for Patrick wasn't going to help him.
"You haven't been drinking long enough to be that far gone, Patrick. You could still quit, if only you'd try." Caitlin knotted her hands into fists, praying to God that what she said was true. "I refuse to listen to any tales of woe. You're the one who decided to take that first drink tonight. Only you. And you're the only person responsible for what came after. Keegan's bull? You had to know he'd come after you for pulling such a stunt. Yet you shot the animal anyway? It was madness. Utter madness."
His blue eyes glistening with tears, his face drawn with regret, he said, "I swear to you, Caitlin, I'll never take another drink. If you'll only just forgive me, I promise you, I won't."
"Where have I heard that before?"
"No, Caitlin ... I swear to you, this time I really mean it."
As determined as she'd been to give Patrick a tongue lashing he'd never forget, Caitlin realized she was quickly losing a hold on her anger. She looked deeply into her brother's eyes again and saw only heartfelt sincerity there. No lightly made promise this, but a vow. "Oh, Patrick, I believe you do truly mean it."
"I do. I promise you, I truly do." He raised one knee to support his elbow and cupped a hand over his eyes. For a moment, he appeared to be holding his breath, and then he sobbed. "Oh, God, Caitlin. I'm just like
Pa.
All it takes is a little whiskey, and I'm a stranger, even to myself." He hauled in a jagged breath. "When I realized Keegan meant to take you to the back of the barn, all I could think about was myself, and what would happen to me if you didn't go. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please tell me the bastard didn't hurt you. Please."
Her heart caught at the pain in his voice, and suddenly her one concern was to alleviate it. "No, no. He didn't
Uttering those words made Caitlin feel desolate. In the recent past, it had been Patrick who'd always stood at her side, Patrick who had helped her through the rough times. She and Patrick, against their father and the world. What had happened to him that he could sit there now, a pathetic lump of whiskey-fouled flesh who couldn't even stir himself to meet her gaze?
"I wasn't much help," the old man admitted, jerking Caitlin back to the present. "Didn't dare use my equalizer, here"—he patted his rifle—"and my days of fisti-cuffin' are long since over. But I done what I could. Like you say, we was lucky."
Caitlin gave him a shaky smile. "Thank you. And, now, if you'll excuse us? I need to talk with my brother."
Hank nodded his understanding and stepped outside. Caitlin didn't bother to make sure he'd left. She began pacing in a wide circle in front of Patrick.
"So," she said sharply. "You shot Keegan's prize bull, did you? Brilliant move, Patrick. Let me guess. I'll bet you came up with that fantastic idea after you started drinking."
Patrick finally acknowledged her presence by leaning his head back against the wall. Even in the dim light, she could see the glistening trails of tears on his cheeks, and when she looked into his eyes, she forgot whatever else she meant to say.
"Hank's right, you know." He saluted her with his whiskey jug, which he upended to show that it was empty. "I'm a worthless excuse for a man, a worthless excuse for anything."
In Caitlin's memory, she'd never heard her brother's voice sound so hollow, or so hopeless. Beside him, she noticed that the dirt was splotched with telltale wetness where he had poured out the remainder of the liquor.
"I used to look at our da and hate him for being so weak," Patrick whispered in a rough voice. "For loving his whiskey more than he loved you and me. I could never understand the hold it had on him."
What rang loudest to Caitlin was what Patrick had left unsaid, that now whiskey had the same hold on him. The thought wrenched at her. How could it be that in so short a time, her brother had come to this? She stiffened her shoulders against another wave of pity. Feeling sorry for Patrick wasn't going to help him.
"You haven't been drinking long enough to be that far gone, Patrick. You could still quit, if only you'd try." Caitlin knotted her hands into fists, praying to God that what she said was true. "I refuse to listen to any tales of woe. You're the one who decided to take that first drink tonight. Only you. And you're the only person responsible for what came after. Keegan's bull? You had to know he'd come after you for pulling such a stunt. Yet you shot the animal anyway? It was madness. Utter madness."
His blue eyes glistening with tears, his face drawn with regret, he said, "I swear to you, Caitlin, I'll never take another drink. If you'll only just forgive me, I promise you, I won't."
"Where have I heard that before?"
"No, Caitlin ... I swear to you, this time I really mean it."
As determined as she'd been to give Patrick a tongue lashing he'd never forget, Caitlin realized she was quickly losing a hold on her anger. She looked deeply into her brother's eyes again and saw only heartfelt sincerity there. No lightly made promise this, but a vow. "Oh, Patrick, I believe you do truly mean it."
"I do. I promise you, I truly do." He raised one knee to support his elbow and cupped a hand over his eyes. For a moment, he appeared to be holding his breath, and then he sobbed. "Oh, God, Caitlin. I'm just like
Pa.
All it takes is a little whiskey, and I'm a stranger, even to myself." He hauled in a jagged breath. "When I realized Keegan meant to take you to the back of the barn, all I could think about was myself, and what would happen to me if you didn't go. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please tell me the bastard didn't hurt you. Please."
Her heart caught at the pain in his voice, and suddenly her one concern was to alleviate it. "No, no. He didn't
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