Pioneer Bliss: The O’Rourke Family Montana Saga, Book Five

by Flightner, Ramona

  Pioneer Bliss

  The O’Rourke Family Montana Saga, Book Five

  Ramona Flightner

  Grizzly Damsel Publishing

  Copyright © 2020 by Ramona Flightner

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews – without permission in writing from its publisher, Ramona Flightner and Grizzly Damsel Publishing. Copyright protection extends to all excerpts and previews by this author included in this book.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. The author or publisher is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Cover design by Jennifer Quinlan.

  Jefe

  I’ll never forget your eyes gleaming with

  delight as you told me your

  latest brilliant idea.

  Thank you for being my greatest cheerleader.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Sneak Peek at Pioneer Devotion!

  Ramona’s Reader’s Note

  Also by Ramona Flightner

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Missouri River, Late May 1867

  “Everyone down!”

  The captain’s voice rang loud and clear, as arrows pelted the side of the steamboat and as the ping of bullets against the boiler-plated pilothouse echoed in the otherwise quiet riverbed area. Declan O’Rourke launched himself at the nearby young woman, hauling her down and covering her with his broad shoulders and back. He would not allow anything to happen to her.

  He shivered as he heard the whoops of delight as the Indians charged, their horses’ hooves thundering over the riverbank, as they approached the docked steamboat. Shattered glass sprinkled over Declan, as the Indian’s bullets landed too close for comfort.

  Declan glanced up and noted he was at a door, leading into the dining area and staterooms. Squirming around until he could kick it, he battered at it until it crashed open. “Hold on,” he murmured, a moment before he yanked the prostrate woman off the ground and unceremoniously pushed her inside. He slammed the door shut, pulled her to the farthest side of the room, and toppled over a small table for them to hide behind.

  The sound of guns firing continued to echo throughout the riverbed, although it sounded as though the majority were fired from the men on the steamboat, rather than the marauders on land. After a hair-raising cry, Declan heard horses stampeding away. A heavy stillness settled over the steamboat, the quiet interrupted as men swore, glass crinkled underfoot, and a few men called out for aid. Others laughed and began the retelling, already exaggerating their role in rebuffing the Indian attack. Hoping there were men on board who could help the injured, Declan focused on the woman in his arms.

  Staring into her terror-filled eyes, he demanded, “Tell me he’s well. That he’s unharmed.” When she remained unresponsive and shivering, his hands ran over the bundle tied securely against her chest. Only when the baby gave a small squeal of delight, as though the entire adventure had been exhilarating rather than terrifying, did Declan heave out a breath of relief. “Thank God. The lad’s well.”

  His words seemed to finally stir her from her stupor, and she nodded. Her arms had remained wrapped around the baby throughout it all, and she kissed his head. “Yes, he’s well. As am I.”

  “Good,” Declan muttered. “I don’t know where I’d find another wet nurse en route to Montana Territory.” He grimaced, as he knew he sounded ungrateful for all she had done for him. “I’m glad you’re well, Samantha. I didn’t mean—” He broke off what he would have said with a sigh. Once, he had been known for his charm. Now he feared he would always be a bitter, surly man.

  “I understand. Your concern will always be for him. As it should be.” She shifted, reminding him that he remained half on top of her. “I believe the threat is gone, sir.”

  “Aye, it is.” He heard the captain, bellowing for men to haul in timber for the steam engine. “Although I wouldn’t put it past the Indians to attempt another attack while we’re docked again.” He pushed away and stood, offering his hand for her to rise. When she was on her feet, he peered at the bundle resting against her chest. “How’s my lad?” he murmured, running a finger down the boy’s cheek. At the babe’s gurgle and a smile, Declan felt a tightness in his chest ease. “Here. Let me hold him.”

  Samantha loosened the bindings of the wrap she had fashioned to hold the baby in place and slipped him into Declan’s arms. “I’ll need to feed and to change him soon.”

  “I know,” he murmured, breathing in the soft scent of the baby. “I want a moment with him.” He kissed one silky cheek and then the other. “He might not need soothing, but I do. And you’re a good lad, aren’t you?” he said to his son. “Calmin’ down your da.” He ran a hand over the babe’s satiny smooth head before kissing it too. Stepping outside to the opposite side of the steamboat, away from the riverbank and any possibility of a stealth attack, he faced the Missouri River. “Ah, lad, you have no idea how much joy you’ve brought me.”

  At his son’s gurgle, Declan chuckled, cradling him against his chest. Even though he stared at the muddy ever-churning waters of the mighty Missouri, he failed to see the elevated riverbank or the swallows swooping, as they built their nests in the cliffs. Instead he saw her. The beautiful, deceitful Magnolia Harding.

  The room was smoky, with the lamplight casting an eerie, yet romantic light over the ballroom. Men prowled as they looked over the women, who stood to the side of the room, preening and posturing. Men outnumbered women, and the women knew they would have their choice of dance partners this evening. With a sigh, Declan resigned himself to another tedious evening of watching his younger brothers, Eamon and Finn, flirt and cajole women with their charm and sweet words.

  After accepting a glass of watered-down whiskey, he stood, arrested in place at the sight of the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld. Gold curls framed her face, while crystal clear blue eyes met his with an audacious boldness. Against his will, he pushed through the crowd, eager to hear if her voice was as sweet as she looked.

  “Miss,” he murmured, flushing at his inane beginning. “If you’re not spoken for, would you dance with me?”

  “I could never dance with a gentleman when I do not even know his name,” she said in a soft, sultry voice, redolent of the antebellum South.

  “I beg your pardon.” Declan ran a hand through his thick black hair, then wiped his sweat-soaked palm on his pants. “I’m Declan O’Rourke.”

  “An Irishman,” she murmured, unable to hide the slight disdain in her voice.

  “Aye,” Declan said. “I’m Irish, although I help run a prosperous business in Fort Benton, Montana Territory.”

  “Oh, I do enjoy an ambitious man.”

  Ro
cking back on his heels, he smiled at her. “Well, you won’t find an O’Rourke who isn’t ambitious.” He paused. “Miss … ?”

  “Miss Harding,” she said, as she reached out her arm. “And I do so love a waltz.” She raised her eyebrows in a mocking manner. “You do know how to waltz.”

  Swallowing, Declan shrugged. “I can stumble my way through one, miss.” He rested his hand over hers, gently tugging her with him to the makeshift dance floor. As he pulled her into his arms, he relished the feel of her against him and wished the moment never had to end.

  A dustpan rattling with glass fragments jerked him from his reminiscence. Declan gripped the baby to his chest, kissing his head again, as wee Gavin gurgled with pleasure. “Ah, there’s a good lad,” he murmured. “Always content. Always happy.”

  He frowned as he considered Gavin’s mother. The mercurial and mercenary Magnolia Harding. Although as beautiful as a confection, she had hid a cruelty and a selfishness that he had detected too late. “Almost too late,” he murmured, as he rubbed his cheek over Gavin’s head.

  “Ye all right there, sonny?” the wiry captain called down to him from the uppermost deck surrounding the pilothouse. After a moment, clattering feet sounded on the steps, and the captain approached. A man of middling height, he had thick brown hair and dark-brown eyes that hid his keen awareness of all around him.

  “I’m fine, sir.” Declan smiled at the man who had taken an interest in him and his small entourage, since the moment he had boarded the steamboat weeks ago in Saint Louis.

  “Your young’un all right?” He scratched at his head, sending a few strands on end. “I know there will be those bellyachin’ you didn’t come to fight, but we had plenty of men all too eager to let off some steam.” He shook his head. “Don’t let ’em get to you.”

  “Sir, thank you,” Declan said.

  “Now let me see that darlin’ boy of yours. You know I never can have enough baby time.” He grinned at Declan, who turned, so that Gavin faced the captain, a little bit of drool dribbling down his chin. “Will you come to Uncle A.J.?” He held out his arms, his smile flashing, when the baby made a sound of delight as Declan handed him over.

  “Oh, I’ve got you, lad,” the captain said. “I only wish my dear Bessie could see you. She’d spoil you rotten. But then your papa tells me that he’s taking you home. To meet your grandparents. And your true aunts and uncles.”

  Declan made a sound of disagreement. “A child can never have too many people who care for him. I thank you for your regard for him, sir.”

  “Sir, sir. Don’t go sirring me. I ain’t your boss. Call me A.J. or Mr. Pickens. But I prefer A.J.,” he said with a broad smile, as he rested his head against young Gavin’s downy head. After another long moment, he gave a reluctant sigh. “I have to check on the rest of the crew and guests.” He kissed Gavin’s head. “’Til next time, little one.” He handed Gavin back to Declan and moseyed away, calling out to crew and men loitering on the deck. Rather than groans at his approach, the men responded with laughter and good-natured ribbing.

  Declan smiled, thankful for the captain’s friendship. This was the third river trip Declan had taken—one to Fort Benton when his family moved there in 1863, and now the round trip river trip to and from Saint Louis—and none of the other captains had been personable or interested in friendship with the people on board. Instead they’d been solicitous but distant, as though understanding the moments spent on the steamboat were fleeting and would lead to no lasting amity.

  A.J. seemed unique. As far as Declan could tell, this captain knew every passenger’s name and enjoyed talking with each of them, if he had time. He never partook in any gambling or excessive drinking but enjoyed watching others lose their shirts and their sobriety. A self-proclaimed romantic, he loved a good story. Declan feared A.J. waited to hear Declan’s tale. “Well, you’ll wait in vain,” he muttered, as he nodded to Samantha, who shifted from foot to foot, as she kept an eye on her charge. With a reluctant sigh, he handed his son over to her, counting the minutes until he saw Gavin again.

  * * *

  A week later, they were only another week short of their arrival at Fort Benton. Declan had left Gavin with Samantha, as he strolled to the deck, determined to have a few moments to himself. Although he had thought his surliness—and the fact he was a single father traveling with a young woman—would deter any woman on the boat from approaching him, that had not been the case. So far, he’d had to dissuade each young woman on the vessel from their pursuit of him. Somehow they believed him to be a prosperous merchant. He grunted as he fingered his well- tailored suit, wondering why the trappings and appearance of wealth were all that were needed to provoke interest. Grimacing, he recalled that he, too, had once been drawn in by the superficial, without searching for substance.

  He scoffed and let out a deep breath in an attempt to relax. The steamboat was docked in the middle of the Missouri, rocking slowly in place to the gentle sway of the large river. In this position, they were protected from any attacks, although they were more vulnerable to large pieces of driftwood floating downstream. However, after their recent Indian attack, A.J. wanted no further incidents that could delay their arrival at Fort Benton.

  After another deep breath that failed to relax him, Declan swore softly. Nothing would relieve him of his mounting anxiety about returning home. Facing his family. Acknowledging to his father that he had been a fool. Ducking his head, he resented that he was returning a failure.

  He dreaded seeing the disappointment in his mum’s gaze. That thought alone nearly gutted him. However, he didn’t know what to do or where else to go. The thought of remaining alone, with a baby, in Saint Louis was past bearing. He wanted and needed his family around him. He couldn’t imagine not sharing the joys of his son with someone. Anyone.

  “You look as lonely as a tick wishin’ for somethin’ to bite,” A.J. said, as he approached. “What’s the matter, sonny?”

  Declan smiled, as that seemed to be A.J.’s favorite question, at least with regard to him. “I’m envisioning my return home.”

  “Seems to make you dyspeppered,” A.J. said, as he rocked his shoulder into Declan’s.

  “Dyspeppered?” Declan asked. “What sort of word is that?”

  “Oh, a fine word. My Bessie, now, she’s a librarian. And she knows all sorts of fancy words. She’s lost patience with my inability to keep any of ’em straight.” He laughed and slapped a hand onto the railing, as though he’d just told the finest joke. “So I told her, fine. I’ll give you words. Big pompous words. And I have.”

  Declan gaped at him a moment, before a smile dawned. “You mean to tell me that you just make up words? Words that sound good to you?”

  “You tellin’ me that ain’t a good-soundin’ word?” A.J. asked, his eyebrows raised. “It’s every bit as good as anythin’ a doc would tell ye.”

  “Dyspeptic,” Declan breathed. “Of course.”

  A.J. smiled at him, as though Declan were saying the same word. “So, sonny, is your family mean? Will they reject your son?”

  Declan shook his head. “Of course not. They’re wonderful.” He shrugged, then shook his head again. “It’s just that I wish I were coming home with a bride. Along with a son.”

  A.J. let out a wheezy sigh, as he pulled out his pipe. After tapping in tobacco, he lit it, while pulling in air to the pipe. When he was satisfied the pipe was lit, he threw the match into the water below. He gave a few pulls on his pipe, nodding with contentment, as the sweet, smoky scent of tobacco filled the air. “Now you tell me what’s got you so riled up, sonny. Doesn’t seem to be no good reason for it.”

  Declan sighed and rested one hip on the railing as he faced A.J. “You don’t understand, sir.” He spoke with the faintest hint of Ireland in his voice. “I was raised to believe I should not have children until I was married. And that my wife would be a good, respectable woman, who liked my family as much as I loved them.” He shook his head. “I failed. And I dread
seeing their disappointment.”

  A.J. puffed away at his pipe for long moments. Finally he lowered the pipe and tapped it in the air, as his brown eyes gleamed with sincerity. “I’ve seen how you dote over that boy. Seen how you love him. Protect him from all harm. Ain’t no decent father or mother in the world who’ll take exception to their son lovin’ a child that way.” He paused. “From what you’ve said, your folks are more than decent, sonny.”

  Flushing, Declan nodded. “Aye. They’re wonderful.”

  “Then they ain’t the problem. You are.” He nodded as he drew on his pipe again, while meeting Declan’s incredulous stare. “You’ve got puffed-up notions of who you are and what you’re supposed to be. They’re about chokin’ the life out of you, son.”

  Declan glared at him with indignant anger.

  “You know I’m right, an’ it only makes ye ornerier.” He smiled, his teeth clamped around his pipe. “You wish things was different. You wish you was comin’ home with a bride your mama could be proud to call daughter. But you ain’t. And now you’re makin’ up all sorts of fears in your head.” He paused. “What was your woman like?”

  “A deceitful witch,” the younger man rasped, as he closed his eyes. “I risked my family for her.”

  Puffing on his pipe, A.J. nodded in commiseration. “We all have a woman in our past who makes us wish we’d decided to be monks, lad. Be thankful ye didn’t have the misfortune to marry her.”

  Against his will, Declan chuckled and shook his head, as he looked at A.J., a man who was like an older brother. “Aye, then my folks would really have had reason to complain.”