Donnigan did not join her for some time. Kathleen put the coffeepot on. He would be chilled and would appreciate a cup.
She stoked the fire again so that the pot would boil quickly.
When Donnigan pushed his way through the door, his arms were filled with packages.
Looks like he bought out the store, Kathleen thought to herself, and in spite of her resolve she felt a stirring of interest.
But Donnigan looked bothered by something. Never had she seen such darkness in his eyes.
She wished to ask what was wrong, but she bit back the question. It was none of her business, was it?
Donnigan deposited all the parcels on the table. They filled the whole area. Kathleen wondered where he expected her to serve the coffee.
“Should I take—these—to the bedroom?” she asked when he turned to remove his heavy jacket and hang it on the peg by the door.
“Do whatever you want with them,” Donnigan replied in a tone she had not heard him use before. “They’re yours.”
Kathleen’s eyes widened. Something was wrong and that was for sure.
He washed his hands at the basin. She waited for the explosion she was sure would occur. She had remembered hearing that tone in her father’s voice, and it had always been followed by a display of his Irish temper.
“Kathleen,” Donnigan said as he reached for the towel. His voice was controlled—too controlled, as though fighting for patience with an erring child. “Don’t ever feed the horses.”
Kathleen stared at him in surprise. Surely—surely that wasn’t a sin. Was he so possessive—?
“It could have killed them.” His words were almost sharp. Blunt and stabbing.
Kathleen gasped and groped for some response. “I—I only gave them oats,” she managed to say.
He just nodded.
“I’ve seen you give them oats.” Kathleen was surprised at her own boldness. She who had determined not to cause any friction in this marriage was actually answering back to her husband. Madam would have been shocked.
“Yes,” he said and returned the towel to the peg with one quick jerk. She felt that he was losing a bit of his control as well. “Very carefully measured oats,” he said, his face taut with emotion. “If I hadn’t happened home when I did—if those two horses had eaten what they had been given—” He stopped, seemingly unable to even think of the consequences.
He ran a trembling hand through his hair. She waited—her own hand fumbling with the parcel nearest her.
He took a deep breath, fighting hard to get himself in control again. When he spoke, his voice was low and almost pleading. As if he were talking to a child, Kathleen thought, and anger filled her whole being.
“Kathleen.” He crossed the kitchen and stood close to her. “I know the farm is new to you. I know that you have never learned to—to care for stock and—and such. But please—don’t—don’t do things without checking with me. Oats—too many oats—can founder horses. Can kill them at times. We could have lost both horses. The mare and—and Black.” He was almost white with the enormity of her misdeed.
Kathleen’s own face went pale. She had not known. How could she have known?
“Sure then, and why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded. “Why don’t you teach me? You won’t even talk to me other than telling me what I should or should not do.” Her voice rose as she spoke until she found herself shouting. “You just—just keep treating me like—like I am a child. I’m not! I’m almost eighteen. And I’m not stupid either. I can learn. I’m an adult. Not a child who needs your coddling. Treat me like an adult. Give me some respect.” And with the last words Kathleen’s hand sought the nearest parcel of yardgoods and hurled it at Donnigan. She did not wait for his response. With sobs of anguish she ran to the little bedroom and slammed the door with such force the whole cabin trembled.
She flung herself on the bed and cried. Cried for home and Bridget. Cried for her missing father. Cried because of the empty, lonely place in her heart that would not go away. And cried for her marriage—the one she had just managed to destroy with her outburst. Surely Donnigan would never be able to forgive her for the way she had acted and the angry words she had hurled at him along with the wrapped material. She had just proved that she was indeed the child he thought her to be.
Donnigan lowered himself slowly to a kitchen chair and put his head in his hand. He had really done it. He had told himself all the way from the barn to the house that he must keep his control. That Kathleen did not know better. That he must not let his fright show as he spoke to her. But he had messed up the whole thing. Had really messed up. He wondered if he could ever make things right.
No, no, he guessed he couldn’t. Things had never been right, not from the very beginning. This whole thing—this whole arranged marriage was a sham and a shame right from the start. He had been a fool. A blind fool to let Wallis and Lucas talk him into such a scheme.
But hadn’t he become involved of his own free will? Wasn’t it his decision? No one had twisted his arm that he had remembered. He couldn’t go laying the blame at his neighbors’ doors.
Donnigan lifted his head and ran his hand nervously through his hair. No. It was his fault. He had to take the full blame. He just hadn’t been ready for marriage. Oh, he thought he was. Longed for a wife and even children. But Kathleen was so—so young and so—so—That was the trouble. He had ordered a wife and they had sent him a child.
Though he never would have dared to share his feelings with Kathleen, daily he worried that she might announce she was expecting a child herself. His child. She was too young, too frail to bear his baby. It was a fear that haunted him—that sometimes kept him awake in the darkness as he felt the strands of her dark hair touch his shoulder and listened to her even breathing as she slept.
And now—now he had hurt her deeply. So deeply that he had no idea of how to go about repairing the damage. Were they to go on and on in this marriage, shut away from each other? He didn’t know if he could stand it.
He shook himself free from his dark thoughts and rose to get a cup of the boiling coffee.
He had no choice. He was in the marriage now. Whether it was a good one—or a poor one—had little bearing. Kathleen was his responsibility. He would care for her in the best way he knew how.
Kathleen cried until she was exhausted. At last she fell into a troubled sleep. When she at last awoke, the bedroom window told her that darkness had fallen. Unconsciously she shifted on the bed, trying to sense if Donnigan slept beside her.
She felt a pang of concern when she discovered his absence, and then another pang when she remembered what had brought her to the room in the first place.
“He will be so angry with me,” she mourned and rolled back over to bury her head in the pillow for a fresh burst of tears.
“What do I do now? Oh, what do I do?”
In spite of her desire to stay right where she was with her sorrow, she forced herself to stir.
“It’s past supper,” she scolded herself, not one to avoid responsibility. “He’ll be hungry.”
Kathleen reached up to calm her tumbling hair. The pins had come loose as she had tossed in her sleep. She didn’t wish to take the time to repin it, so she lifted the comb and ran it quickly through the dark, tangled curls, letting them tumble about her shoulders in girlish fashion.
“Now he will really think me a child,” she said to herself, and anger burned her cheeks again.
He was sitting silently in his big chair when she quietly slipped out to the kitchen. A newspaper was spread across his knees, but she noticed that his eyes were not upon it. At the sound of her entrance he roused and looked at her.