He froze instantly, then lifted his head with a jerk. “You’re lying.”
“No,” she said bitterly. “My mother is the widow MacCain. Your father raped her, then sent her away when he found she was with child. Your father. . .is my father, too.” She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. And the pain in her eyes was more than he could face. Because he knew that it was true.
Then for the first time he seemed to see the bodies, and to realize that they had once been men. And he saw her, his gentle sister, ravaged and distraught by the work of his own hands. He did not feel remorse, which was beyond him. But sorrow he could feel, and even, in that moment, a halting compassion.
“I’m sorry. Mary. I didn’t know..... There’s really nothing more I can say.” He rose, shifted uncomfortably, trying to reconcile himself to his actions. It was impossible.
“Is there anything I can do now,” he said stiffly. “To make it better.”
“No. Just go away.”
He turned, and started to leave.
“Wait,” she said, half against her will. She could not look at him. “Help me to bury him. Both
of them.”
He put on his jacket, pawed the ground with his boot. “.....I’ll need a shovel.”