The Lost Sheenan's Bride (Taming of the Sheenans Book 6) Page 16

  “What do you want to know?”

  “How did you get them? Why? When? What are the designs…you know…everything.”

  “My curious kitten,” he drawled.

  “I am, so, tell me. How old were you when you got your first, or did you get them all done at once?”

  “My sleeve? That’s come together over ten years. I get some new ink every year, usually on or around my birthday.”

  “When is your birthday?”

  “End of this month.”

  She sat up straighter. “We’ll have to celebrate!”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Not necessary.”

  “Oh, but it is. I love birthdays. Let me plan something for you…please?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Bad answer. You’re supposed to say yes, and mean it.”

  He gave her an amused look but didn’t argue. “I got my first tattoo when I was eighteen. It was the bird here.” He tapped the design she’d been looking at.

  And she’d been right. It was a wing. Jet leaned towards him to get a better look. “It’s a raven,” she said, skimming the beak, the eye, the tight wing. She looked up at him. “Like your raven story.”

  He nodded.

  “But I thought your raven became a swan?” she asked.

  “That’s here.” He turned his arm, shifting to show her the inside of his wrist. A swan had been worked into other swirls and shapes, many of them reminiscent of Native American designs.

  She turned his arm, following one of the shapes, coming to a long feather. “Is this an eagle feather?”

  “Could be. It’s also a quill.”

  “Because you write.” She continued to trace the birds and feather and black ink that turned into a burst of orange. “What is this one, though? I can’t tell. Your sleeve is in the way.”

  “It’s a flame. The glow of fire.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It’s to remind me to be careful. To not let my anger burn. The sun can burn. Fire burns. But it’s destructive if I do.”

  “Why tattoos?”

  “They tell a story. They are, I suppose, the story of me.”

  His words made her heart hurt a little bit and she ground her back teeth together to hide the fact that he made her feel so much. He was independent and tough, and yet his need to be tough made her feel protective.

  He caught her expression. “You don’t need to be sad. Not for me. I’m good. I promise.”

  “But these past few months in Marietta haven’t been easy for you. The book’s been a struggle, too, hasn’t it?”

  He didn’t immediately answer. “If I had to do it over again, I wouldn’t.”

  That surprised her and she wanted to ask more but it didn’t seem like the best time, not with the exit for Butte on top of them and she still hadn’t figured out where they were going to stay.

  “You can trust me,” she said quietly, reaching for her phone to have one more look at hotels, realizing they’d maybe just have to stay at a chain place rather than the interesting place her heart desired.

  “I believe that,” he answered.

  “Good,” she said firmly. “Because if you share something with me, I won’t blab to Harley…or to anyone. I have your back.”

  “I know.”

  And from his tone, she knew he meant it, too.

  Maybe they were finally getting somewhere.

  In downtown Butte, Jet stood in line to order coffee from a funky, little coffee house while Shane made a series of quick phone calls. He was off the phone by the time their coffee was ready and they spent the next forty-five minutes walking up and down the historic neighborhoods with names like Granite, Idaho, Washington, and Broadway. There were huge mansions that had been preserved, and smaller Victorians that were still inhabited, and then there was a string of mansions for sale, as well as a series of older brick buildings a few blocks east that were vacant and had seen better days.

  “I wish I could fill these buildings up with families and businesses,” Jet said as they started back for Shane’s car. She was keenly aware of the past, and how Butte had gone from nothing to grandeur—it was one of the first cities where all its citizens had electricity—to a community still struggling to preserve the past while moving forward into the future. “It’s hard to see so much standing empty.”

  “Was it what you expected?” Shane asked, unlocking the car doors.

  It was nearing dusk and night was rapidly falling. “Yes, but it makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Uncomfortable?”

  “It was once so beautiful. And it’s not anymore. Many of these big houses need owners to love them, and right now it should be rush hour with cars and traffic, at least cars returning home from work, but the streets are empty and too many houses are dark. And even though there is a new Butte, and the university, Montana Tech, this historic district isn’t considered desirable anymore, and I can see why. Families want to raise their children in neighborhoods with other children.”

  “Should we push on then? We don’t need to stay the night here. We didn’t end up booking anything.”

  Jet turned to look up behind her at the hill with the line of tired Victorians and further to the east was the ruined mountain, once known as the richest hill on earth. “Maybe we go,” she said. “Since we don’t have rooms here.”

  “Well, we do have rooms, if we want them. They’re available and I just need to confirm or let them go.” He pointed to a huge brick and stone house on the corner one block over. “That’s where we’d stay if you were interested.”

  “Another one of the Copper Kings’ mansions?”

  “Yes. Frasier Mansion.”

  “Is that one a bed and breakfast, too?”

  “Like the Clark mansion, it’s usually just open in summer, but I made some calls and they could accommodate us if we were interested.”

  “Just like that?”

  “I have connections.”

  “Impressive.”

  He let this slide. “They agreed to let us have two rooms, but we’d be the only ones there, after they let us in.” He hesitated. “I should warn you that many people claim it’s haunted.”

  She stared across the street, fascinated but even less comfortable. Butte was not sitting well with her. She’d expected to love it, but instead she was really ambivalent. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “I’ve encountered paranormal activity.”

  Her eyes widened.

  His broad shoulders shifted. “Native American culture recognizes spirits. Maybe that’s why I’m sensitive to it.”

  She eyed the hulking brick and stone mansion with the turrets and numerous narrow windows on the upper floors. “I don’t know…it was more inviting earlier. Now that it’s getting dark it’s giving me the creeps.”

  “It’d help if they turn on lights.”

  She turned to look at him and then back at the three story mansion. “I could have sworn Paradise Valley’s first teacher was a Frasier. There’s a plaque commemorating a Miss M. Frasier on the wall in the small staff room, but probably no relation.”

  “It’s not just a relation; McKenna Frasier was copper baron Patrick Frasier’s middle, and only surviving, daughter.”

  “McKenna?” Her eyebrows arched. “Seems to be quite a popular name in Paradise Valley.”

  “Maybe that’s because McKenna Frasier was the great-great grandmother of McKenna Douglas, Trey’s wife.”

  “Wouldn’t McKenna Frasier have been an heiress?”

  He nodded. “She was one of the wealthiest young women in America. Highly educated, very beautiful, and very privileged, she left Butte for the East Coast with big dreams, but fell in love with the wrong person, had an affair—details are contradictory, but it was enough to ruin her. Her father cut her off, leaving her penniless, and she had to return to Montana, as a teacher in remote Paradise Valley.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Close to your age, I think. Twenty-three, maybe
.”

  “Did they ever patch things up? Between her and her father?”

  He shook his head. “Her father never spoke to her again.”

  “Horrible.” She hated Butte now. “Do you mind if we pass on the night in the historic, but possibly haunted, house? I’m glad you’ve had experience with ghosts, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that, particularly if the ghost belongs to Patrick Frasier. He does not seem like a nice old man.”

  “I agree. Let’s continue to Missoula. I’ll call the manager and let her know we won’t be staying after all.”

  They ended up checking into a Marriott hotel at the Missoula airport. Their rooms were next to each other, but there was no connecting door. Jet phoned Harley but got her voice mail and so, after leaving her sister a message, Jet headed downstairs to meet Shane for dinner. They sat at the counter in the hotel bar and ordered off the bar menu, and Jet teased Shane about their room arrangement over flatbread pizza and beer.

  “You meant it when you said you’re not going to have me,” she said, tearing off some of the crispy crust and popping it in her mouth.

  “I don’t have women, and I certainly won’t have you. And the only way things go further between us is if it’s right, and we’ve agreed it’s right, when we’re one, sober, two, have protection sorted out, and three, not in the heat of the moment.”

  “You’ve certainly thought this out.”

  “When systems are turned on, it’s hard to think clearly, but sex is serious, we both need to be sure it’s the right thing for the right reasons, and I don’t think we’re there yet. Are we?”

  She thought of Ben and the pregnancy scare and how alone she felt when he gave her the ultimatum. She couldn’t imagine Shane giving her an ultimatum, in fact, he’d assured her he wasn’t that kind of guy, but at the same time, there were no guarantees. She’d had her heart broken before. It could easily happen again.

  “No.”

  “I’m not trying to play the heavy, either,” he added, fingertips grazing her cheek. “Just after the whole foster care thing, and not having a place of my own, a place where I belonged, I’m cautious. Protection is huge, and the risks understood—”

  “I get it.” And she did. “Normally I’m the one putting brakes on things. Not sure why I can’t—or don’t—with you. You’re pretty dang hot.”

  He smiled, flashing white teeth. “We’re pretty dang hot,” he corrected, raising his beer glass to her.

  She grinned. He’d said we. From a man like Shane Swan that was almost as precious as a diamond ring.

  Well, okay, that was going overboard but still, we was good. We had to mean something.

  The next morning he dropped her off at the school where they were holding the workshop, and gave her a kiss goodbye, telling her to be a good girl and not get in trouble.

  She laughed as she climbed from the car.

  “I’ll be back at four,” he said, “or sooner if you call me.”

  Shane watched her walk away from him, and he felt a stab of regret, as if he was losing her, or maybe part of him.

  Until he’d met Jet, he’d lived with an icy hardness in his chest. The ice warred with the anger in his veins. He’d grown up angry and disillusioned. He’d worked hard to prove himself and the anger shifted to a low simmer, a deep seething resentment towards those who’d abandoned their children, but he’d become a success despite his fury and frustration. Success had given him a polish and a distance. He learned to detach. He learned to pretend he didn’t care.

  It wasn’t until Jet entered his life that he realized how much he still cared. And how much he still wanted all that he’d never had.

  With her, he felt good. He felt accepted. She didn’t care about him because he was the wealthy, famous author. She cared for him. He felt her warmth and light in the marrow of his bones.

  But seeing her walk away, even though she turned and gave a jaunty wave, made him realize how fragile his security was.

  Could she love him despite his weaknesses and shortcomings?

  Could she accept him, and grow with him, as they faced an uncertain future?

  He wanted to believe it, but it was too soon. They both knew it was too soon. And so as she headed to her workshop in a Missoula high school cafeteria, he drove away, feeling loss, and worry, and a hint of shame.

  His brothers—he couldn’t help calling them that now, if only to himself—he saw how they loved each other and protected the others. They’d even banded together to protect McKenna and their mother. They weren’t bad people. The only reason he hated them was because they’d rejected him.

  And truly, he didn’t hate them. That was fear and anger talking. He just wished he’d had what they’d had. He wished he’d had a childhood in one home with one set of parents, his parents. He wished he’d had the memories they shared, even the bad ones, because those memories of a harsh father and a lonely mother had bonded them. Those memories were what made them the Sheenan brothers.

  Shane merged back onto the freeway, heading for Polson. He drove with the satellite radio station on, turned to his favorite station, which was playing Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven”. He cranked the volume up, always grateful for music, which could distract him from feeling, and lost himself now in the extended guitar riff.

  But after a bit, he didn’t hear the guitar, or the lyrics. He kept seeing himself as a boy, and he saw himself alone, again and again, with just an old, blue suitcase that he took from place to place. There were no photo albums, no special cards, no gifts that went with him. There was no one in his life today who knew him as a baby, or a young child. For years his agent had been encouraging him to write a book about his life, a memoir of sorts and, based on what the literary agent knew, he believed he could get Shane an impressive deal, but there was a reason Shane used a pen name. He wanted to keep the lives separate, and the past buried.

  Or at least that was what he’d told himself.

  But now after spending nine months in Paradise Valley, living in the home of his biological parents, dating the sister-in-law of his eldest brother, he realized he’d failed at keeping the lives separate. At the moment, they were hopelessly tangled.

  He’d imagined that working in Marietta would give him clarity but instead he felt more like a wounded bear, stumbling and staggering, and dangerously close to roaring with pain.

  He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t maintain the deceit. He didn’t like this version of himself. Living as he was, he was neither Sean S. Finley or Shane Swan. Living as he was, he couldn’t claim either life.

  It was time to let one of them go. He just hoped he was making the right decision.

  Shane was back to pick her up at four. Jet practically ran to the car, so happy to see the big, burgundy SUV with the obnoxious silver chrome right where he’d left her this morning.

  “Hey, you,” she exclaimed, climbing into the car and leaning over to give him a kiss. “So glad you came back for me.”

  “It’s a very cozy, little cabin,” he said, “but it wouldn’t be half as fun without you.”

  She buckled her seatbelt. “Have you been there?”

  “Checked in, dropped everything off, even bought some groceries.”

  “What about your meeting with Laura’s mom? Were you able to track her down in Polson?”

  “I did. There is one very nice shoe store, and I found it, and had quite an interesting conversation. She had a lot to say about the New Awakening church. She also had some interesting things to say about the Sheenans. I didn’t expect that.”

  Jet turned in her seat to face him. “What did she say?”

  He hesitated. “This is between us, yes? It goes no further.”

  She nodded.

  “Bill Sheenan had been having a long affair with Bev Carrigan, Hawksley’s wife. They lived on Circle C, and she said all the ranch hands knew there was something going on. Bill would visit when Hawksley wasn’t there, but Bill and Hawksley never spoke. Ever.”

 
; “Oh. I knew that.” Jet grimaced. “Two of the Carrigan daughters were fathered by Bill Sheenan. In fact, half of Marietta probably knows by now.”

  Shane’s foot lifted from the accelerator and he looked at Jet, stunned. “Are you serious?”

  “Mattie and Callan,” she added. “The oldest and the youngest. Harley told me just after I arrived. The girls only found out a year ago. It’s been tough for them. Tough for everyone. Mattie and Brock were both born within a year of each other, and both are Bill’s.”

  “This is like a soap opera.”

  “It is, but worse, because it’s real. From what I understand, Bill and Bev had a fight and so Bev went and married Hawksley—she was pregnant at the time, and I don’t think Bill knew it until later. But upset that his girl had married someone else, Bill retaliated by marrying the first beautiful woman he could find—which was Catherine Jeanette.”

  “Bill didn’t love her,” Shane said roughly.

  “No. From what I gather, it was just a revenge thing. Catherine was young and pretty, and in the beginning he loved to show her off, parade her around town, especially if Bev was around.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “I don’t know when Bev and Bill began seeing each other again, but Harley said Brock knew about it, and Brock tried to force his father to stop seeing Bev, but it got really physical, they’d brawl, like you and Trey, and then later Bill would take out his anger on Catherine.”

  Jet glanced at Shane and his jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed. “Should I stop talking?”

  “Is there more?”

  “The reason Brock left home was because he couldn’t stand the way his dad treated his mom. He begged his mom to leave his dad, but his mom didn’t want to end up like her mom, alone with three kids, and no way to support them. She didn’t want to be on welfare. Didn’t want people to pity her. She wanted more for her kids and so she stayed with him.”

  “But Brock loved her? Was she a good mother?”

  “Brock apparently adored her.” She felt a welling of emotion as she remembered the things Harley had told her. “He would have done anything for her. But it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t save her.”