“Just don’t go there in the bloodied shirt!” Dylan yelled, already riding away.
His words made Briana take a long peek from behind the laundry. “You need washing done?” she tweeted. Her bright coppery mane was the same shade as Dylan’s, and everyone else’s in the O’Leary family. Everyone’s but Ned’s, who’d taken after his poor mother and her auburn locks. The O’Learys were the only redheads living in the valley, yet Ned still stuck out like a sore thumb on the weekly trips to church, marked as an outsider even among those who shared his blood and name.
Sometimes, he wished Mother hadn’t brought him back here. That maybe they could have made a different life for themselves up in the Rockies—a pipe dream of a reality where the mountains weren’t full of vicious predators and unforgiving winters.
Ned waved her off. “No need!”
He headed for the side door of the massive house to avoid being spotted by his aunt in the main corridor and offend her sensibilities with blood. Though knowing her, soaking the shirt in cold water would have been the priority.
The scent of cooking root vegetables reached him in the dark hallway—a sign Aunt Muriel was busy preparing dinner—but he rushed upstairs and opened the first door on the left into the small room he shared with the youngest of the O’Leary brothers.
Rory looked up from his small desk, frantically shoving something under the slate board covered with chalk symbols. The boy’s narrow shoulders relaxed when he saw he hadn’t been walked in on by his mother, and he left the thin book he must have been reading uncovered. For a boy of twelve, he was quite tall, even if lanky, and when he swung his legs, his feet dragged over the floor.
Every time Aunt Muriel had borne a child, she’d expressed the hope that they wouldn’t end up with the O’Leary nose, but Rory’s childlike face was sprouting one already. Big, with a round tip, it was a dominant feature in all of her children’s faces. Even Brianna hadn’t been spared, though her nose was proportionally smaller than those of O’Leary men, including Ned’s. He might have darker coloring than his pale cousins but couldn’t deny shared blood, based on that detail.
“Is that blood?” Rory asked with his mouth hanging open.
Ned pointed to his lips. “A spider’s gonna crawl in there, lay eggs in your brain, and you’ll die.” If there was someone who shouldn’t be hearing about what had happened on the road, it was Rory. The silly boy would be sneaking out to gape at the scene the moment he found out.
“Will not!”
“Bored of your calculus? What is it about this time? Jesse James or Billy the Kid?” Ned asked to distract his cousin, amused when he noticed the bright color of the dime novel cover.
Rory leaned back in his chair, sucking on his front teeth. “Maths is a waste of time! I can count well enough, and the ranch’ll go to Dylan anyway.”
Ned picked up the little book, which featured a mean-looking gunslinger on the cover. “Dylan knows his way around a cow, but he’ll need someone smart to help him with his books. This?” He tapped on the novel. “Enjoy it, but remember it’s all fantasy. In real life, people like this are scum of the earth.” Who kill innocent travellers and leave others for dead.
Rory stuck the tip of his tongue through the gap between his front teeth, like he usually did when sinking into thought. “I dunno, bad men live by no code, and Jesse James has one. He only robs Yankees.”
“Would it be all right to rob folks if I made sure to never hurt the Irish?” Ned asked but put away the book and took off his shirt to change into one his aunt would approve of.
Rory hummed, rocking in his chair. “It could be. Depends whether everyone else is bad or good,” he said, clearly at odds with the lesson Ned was trying to teach him.
Ned watched Rory in the mirror as he slicked back his short, tousled hair and quickly combed the short sideburns, which had gotten matted throughout the morning. “No man’s ever an angel or a devil. Remember that at least. You can’t go ‘round killing people, regardless of what you might think of ’em.”
“I say some folks need killing,” Rory said in his yet-unbroken voice and shrugged as if he’d seen it all.
Ned gave a bitter chuckle. “Aren’t you the know-it-all. And who decides those things? You?” The worst thing was, Ned agreed with his cousin. Some rabid dogs needed putting down, but he wouldn’t be inserting such ideas into that young head. When he was Rory’s age, it had taken him long enough to let go of seeking out impossible justice for his parents.
Ned washed himself with water from the basin in the corner and put on a fresh pair of pants along with a plaid green shirt that matched the color of his eyes. With the pants and snapped button in one hand, he headed off toward the source of the delicious aroma he’d sensed earlier. Only the women and Rory were in the house at this time of day, with the men working around the ranch from breakfast to dinner, so he walked to the kitchen through the parlor.