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

by Jane Porter

  They’d just turned onto Highway 93 from the freeway. Shane pulled over onto the shoulder of the one lane highway, and shifted into park. “What do you mean, save her? She had cancer. How could he save her?”

  “This can’t be included in your book. None of this can be part of your book, Shane.”

  He waved his hand, impatient. “It’s off record, yes. So was it cancer, or not?”

  “She didn’t have cancer. That’s the story they put out there, it’s what Bill wanted everyone to think.”

  “She was forty-two when she died. How did she die then? Did Bill kill her?”

  Jet shook her head. The silence stretched.

  And then Shane’s expression changed, awareness dawning. “She killed herself,” he said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  He sat back, swallowed hard, his hand rubbing across his jaw. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Troy found her. He tried to revive her. It was too late.”

  Shane hit his fist against the steering wheel, the thud loud in the silent car.

  It was in that moment she saw what she’d been missing. It was right there in front of her all this time but she hadn’t seen it. Nor had any of the others. She wasn’t sure how she’d missed it because suddenly it was glaringly obvious.

  Shane was a Sheenan.

  Shane was—incredibly, impossibly, unquestionably—one of them.

  “Shane,” she whispered.

  He just shook his head. There were tears in his eyes. He shook his head again, and she understood he wasn’t shushing her to hurt her. He was shushing her because he was hurting.

  Chapter Eleven

  Shane was silent as he drove. He had no words. He struggled to process everything Jet had said. He was grateful Jet didn’t try to initiate conversation. He couldn’t speak if he wanted to. He’d known his mother had died back in 1997. He’d even visited the family cemetery earlier today in Cherry Lake, paying respects to his mother’s and grandmother’s grave, but he’d believed the story he’d read that she’d battled a lengthy illness, and then ultimately lost.

  He found it significant his mother had taken her life. It helped explain the intense family dynamics. The Sheenan brothers weren’t born aggressive a-holes. They’ve been shaped by tragedy and had closed ranks out of necessity.

  Maybe they had more in common than he’d thought.

  The thought was bittersweet, but also strangely comforting.

  On the outskirts of Cherry Lake, Shane broke his silence. “We’re almost there,” he said. “Just a few more miles.” And then he told her about the town, and how it earned its name from the cherry orchards rolling from the edge of Flathead Lake to the base of Mission Mountains. He told her how the first cherry trees were introduced into the valley in the late 1800s, and it wasn’t until 1930 that some enterprising farmer planted the first commercial cherry orchard.

  He told her how, when he’d stopped by a grocery store in Cherry Lake earlier in the day to buy a few things for the cabin, he’d commented on how quiet downtown was to the cashier, and the cashier—an older woman who’d been born and raised in Kalispell—said the tourists stayed away from Cherry Lake in winter, but as soon as June rolled around, the tourists would return to open up their vacation cabins and cottages and run speed boats and jet skis on the lake all summer long.

  Shane glanced at Jet. “I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I thought the speed boats and jet skis sounded fun.”

  Jet smiled. “You’re such a boy.”

  “It’s fun to be a boy. Do you have fun being a girl?”

  Her smile turned mischievous. “If I’m with the right boy.”

  “Are you?” he asked, voice deepening.

  She turned to look at him and her gaze met his and held for a second before she nodded. “Yes.” Her cheeks warmed. “As long as I’m with you.”

  The sun was beginning to drop as Shane turned off the highway onto a smaller lane that curved up the hill away from the lake. They climbed for a half mile or so, and the trees became taller, thicker, and the road more narrow.

  “You’re sure we’re going the right way?” Jet asked, as the lake disappeared from sight and the sinking sun was hidden by the shadow of the mountain.

  “Almost there.”

  “It seems pretty remote.”

  “The cabin’s on a couple acres.”

  “And you picked this one because….?”

  “It has an interesting history, and happened to be available.” He slowed to turn off onto the dirt road that dead-ended in front of a log cabin.

  It wasn’t a very big cabin, just one and a half stories tall, with stacked log walls and a small, rustic front porch. A stripped log bench sat beneath the front window, with neat stacks of firewood tucked under the bench seat, while a carved wooden grizzly cub stood sentry next to the front door.

  Shane carried their bags from the car and set them down on the porch to fish the cabin keys from the grizzly cub’s hollowed leg. After unlocking the front door, he pushed it open, flipped on the porch light, and invited her in.

  The cabin was essentially one big room, a combination living room, dining room and kitchen. A big river rock fire place anchored one side of the cabin while the kitchen with the oak and pine cabinets, and what looked like a new stove, anchored the other. There were trusses in the vaulted ceiling and wooden shutters at the windows, with most of the shutters already open. The heater had been turned on, too, so the cabin was toasty warm.

  “It’s cozy,” Jet said, giving her nod of approval. “Cute.”

  “There’s a loft bedroom upstairs, and two bedrooms downstairs.” Shane closed the front doors and set the luggage by the couch. “You take whichever bedroom you prefer.”

  Jet peeked into each bedroom on the main floor. One had a queen bed with an oversized red and black quilt while the other room had two twins already made up with sheets and colorful Pendleton blankets.

  “I’ll take the twin bed,” she said. “You take the queen. You’re bigger than me, you need the extra room.”

  “I’ve learned to sleep anywhere so I don’t care about the size—”

  Jet cut him short by marching into the twin bedroom and shouting, “Mine!” The door slammed shut behind her.

  He stared at the door a moment before cracking a slow smile. Ah, Jet, his girl.

  Ball of fire. Just like the glow of orange ink near his elbow. He needed to add some ink for her. Something that would honor her. A heart? No, that was too easy. It had to be more original, more profound, more Jet. But what would it be? What could be as strong and sweet as his girl?

  That was when he knew he was keeping her.

  That was why people promised to love forever. Because he wanted her in his life, at his side, forever.

  He loved her. He knew she had feelings for him, too, but how could he ask her to choose him without telling her who he really was?

  But it was hard.

  He wasn’t good at talking and sharing. He’d spent too many years bouncing around as a kid, one foster home to another.

  Most of the foster homes were tolerable. There had only been a couple truly bad ones in the dozen he’d known. In general, people were decent and, in general, those who became foster parents did it for the right reasons.

  No, he’d never been adopted. But that was as much his fault as the system’s because he hadn’t tried to endear himself to any of the couples or singles or families that he’d lived with. He’d never been rude, but he’d never sucked up, or showed vulnerability, or deep gratitude or any real emotion.

  His social workers used to talk to him about “opening up a little,” so his foster families could get to know him, and then maybe they’d want to keep him, but Shane had just stared blankly at the well-meaning social worker until the man or woman dropped the topic. Even as a little kid, adoption was out. It wasn’t an option, not for him, as he had a mom, and a family, and his mom would be coming for him. So he’d waited. And waited. It had taken him a long,
long time to accept it that she wasn’t coming. He’d burned with anger over the lies and games. It would have been better if someone, at some point, told him she wasn’t coming. It would have been better to know as a young child that she’d never return.

  Maybe that was why he’d wanted to hate the Sheenans. They were the ones she’d kept. Five other boys…

  It had killed him to know he was the only one she’d given away.

  But Shane was beginning to understand. He still didn’t have all the pieces, but he had enough now to know she hadn’t come for him because she couldn’t.

  She couldn’t.

  And for the first time in his thirty-four years, it was enough.

  It was fine. He got it. She was just a woman…once a young girl.

  How she must have suffered knowing he was somewhere else…how it must have burned within her.

  “I forgive you, Mom,” he whispered. “I forgive you.” And forgiving her, he felt a rush of pure love. The kind of love he hadn’t felt since he was just a small boy.

  Tears burned the back of his eyes and his chest seized, the air bottling within. The years were tumbling away, the anger falling, shattering at his feet. Words he’d refused to think, feel, believe filled him, overwhelming him.

  Words of love. Words of comfort. Words he was sure she needed to hear.

  Blinking hard, he cleared his eyes and let his heart talk to her. I love you, Mom. It’s okay. Don’t worry anymore.

  Tears weren’t manly. Tears were a sign of weakness but he couldn’t help himself. He’d waited his whole life to tell her this and it was impossible to hold the emotion in. Love was so powerful. It was really the only thing that mattered.

  Remembering her Bible—he’d brought it from the Sheenan homestead—he took it from his satchel and lightly ran his fingertips over the still black cover. Mom.

  Flipping the cover open he went to her name. Catherine Jeanette Cray.

  And then he felt her. She was with him. Her energy wasn’t heavy tonight, nor was it sad. She was just quiet. Waiting. Listening.

  She was listening to him, waiting for him, and he understood why he’d felt her spirit so strongly at the house in Paradise Valley. She needed him to move forward so she could. She needed him to be one of her boys.

  His throat ached as he touched her name penned in girlish script. “It’s okay,” he told her. “It’s okay.”

  I promise.

  His heart beat hard. He wanted to help her, wanted to protect her. She’d been through so much.

  You have to know I love you. I’ve loved you every day of my life.

  One day we’ll be together and we’ll talk it out. One day we’ll have all the time we need to make things right.

  So rest easy, Momma. It’s all good. I’m good.

  And it was true.

  He was good. Everything was good. And maybe that was why he cried. He was free. Free to love, free to move forward.

  He closed the Bible, put it on the table, and rapped on Jet’s bedroom door. “Hey, babe, do you have a minute? There’s something I want to tell you.”

  Jet sat down on the cabin’s small couch next to Shane. It was a small sofa, more of a loveseat than anything else, and she could see he was upset. His long black lashes were damp and his eyes weren’t quite dry.

  She swallowed and waited, hands folded in her lap.

  He picked up the scuffed, black leather Bible and flipped it open to a page near the beginning and handed it to her. “That,” he said quietly, “is me.”

  Jet followed his finger, saw the list of dates and the corresponding names—Brock, Troy, Trey, Cormac, space, Dillon. His finger tapped the blank spot next to 1982.

  “That’s you?” she repeated, looking up at him, still seeing the emotion he was trying so hard to hide.

  “Or at least that’s where I should be. I was the baby born in 1982.”

  She’d been right. She’d got it right. “You are a Sheenan! I knew it, I knew—” She broke off seeing Shane’s expression. “I’m sorry. I’m ruining your big reveal.”

  His brow furrowed. “You knew?”

  “I figured it out today.”

  “How?”

  “You look so much like Brock…you fight like Trey…you’re witty like Troy…” Her voice faded. “Should I not have figured it out?”

  He didn’t answer that, instead asking, “Do you think the others know?”

  “No.” Her shoulders twisted. “I don’t think they’ve spent enough time with you. I have. And I’ve watched you with them. You have many of the same mannerisms—”

  “Even though I wasn’t raised with them?”

  “Must be in your DNA.” She paused, marveling a little at what he was telling her. She’d thought he seemed familiar. She’d felt strangely comfortable with him. But to discover it wasn’t her imagination and that he really was a Sheenan…

  “Have you known this entire time?” she asked.

  He left the couch and crossed to the fireplace where he picked up one of the pinecones on the stone mantel. “Yes.”

  “Did you know before you leased the house?”

  “Yes.”

  She slowly exhaled, beginning to see the bigger picture. “That’s why you wanted to lease their house. Not because it was close to the Douglas ranch, but because it was the Sheenans’.”

  He took a second to answer. “From the book perspective, I could have lived anywhere in Paradise Valley—maybe even in town, in Marietta—but as someone who always wondered what it was like to be a Sheenan, yes, I wanted to be there, in the home I never had.”

  She winced inwardly. He hadn’t spoken coldly or sarcastically, and yet the words were painful to hear. He’d grown up so very alone, while the rest of them had been there, together, a family. “How did you find out you were a Sheenan?”

  “When I discovered there were two birth certificates. The original and the amended one.”

  “Sheenan was the name on the original.”

  He nodded.

  She couldn’t imagine what that discovery must have felt like. “How old were you when you found out?”

  “Late twenties. I needed a new passport and had to request a birth certificate and the clerk asked if I wanted both.” He saw her expression and shrugged. “The clerk was new. She didn’t know as she’d never encountered an amended certificate before and so that was the first real ‘break,’ and it was a big one.”

  “Knowing you, you didn’t just go okay, there’s a name, that’s who I am. I’m sure you did research.”

  “A lot of research, including a DNA test. The test is quite reliable.”

  “Who did you test?”

  “Troy.”

  “How?”

  “I hired a private detective to get the DNA sample. Troy does a lot of appearances and meetings out of his office in San Francisco. The PI followed him and was able to get a Starbucks coffee cup Troy had discarded.”

  “You tested the cup, and Troy was a match.”

  “A ninety-nine percent match, and since Troy and Trey are identical twins, at least two of the five Sheenans are my full-blood brothers.”

  Something in his tone brought her up short. “You don’t think the others are?”

  He hesitated. “It’s not my place. I don’t feel right speculating.”

  “But that’s what you do. That’s the whole nature of your work.”

  “This is different.”

  He didn’t say more. His jaw was set and he looked resolute. She knew that face. It was the Brock-Troy-Trey stubborn face. The one that said they were done negotiating, done playing nice. How fascinating that he had it, too.

  She gave him a long look. “You don’t want to hurt him, whichever one he is.”

  “I spent my life an outcast. I’d never do that to someone else.”

  “Maybe…he…would want to know?”

  Shane was silent, considering this, and then he shook his head. “No. In this case, I don’t think so. They’ve had enough grief and loss.
They’ve had more than their fair share of pain. I’m not here to cause pain. That’s not why I went to Marietta. It wasn’t what I wanted to do.”

  She stared at him, somewhat dazzled and amazed. “This is the book you need to write. This is a story all of America—”

  “No.”

  “It’s fascinating—”

  “Won’t do that to them. They are entitled to their privacy. No one needs to know all the Sheenan secrets.”

  “What about yours?” she asked, thinking it incredible that he’d been here nine months and yet he’d never said anything to any of them. “Why haven’t you told them?”

  “I wanted to get to know them a little bit.”

  She frowned. “But when were you going to tell them? Before or after they evicted you?”

  He smiled grimly. “I wasn’t sure I’d even tell them. It all depended on how things went. It all depended on who they were.”

  She heard something in his tone that made her sit a little straighter. “You still don’t like them.”

  “I still don’t know them.” He left his position by the fireplace and paced the room. “Arriving here last spring, I only knew what I’d discovered in my research. They were a wealthy, prominent Paradise Valley ranching family dating back to the 1880s. The Sheenans owned not just one huge cattle ranch, but two, with the eldest Sheenan son, Brock, having bought his own place years earlier. William Sheenan’s wife, Catherine, died in the summer of 1997—it was an incurable illness, that’s all the papers said—and had been buried in a private ceremony at the small cemetery in Cherry Lake, Montana, and Bill died late March 2014 and was buried at the cemetery here in Paradise Valley.”

  “They weren’t buried together?”

  He shook his head. “But discovering that piece, the burial at Cherry Lake, was important. That’s when I knew I’d found the right family, the right Sheenans, and bits of story and memory came together. My grandmother had told me that my mother used to bring her other children to a family cabin at Cherry Lake. My grandmother said twice a year she’d sneak away from the others to come see me.” He drew a deep breath. “And this is that cabin. This was hers, Catherine Cray’s.”