For Love of Liberty

by Julie Lessman

  “No!”

  She screeched to a stop, her suspicions confirmed. With a slow turn of her head, she peered over her shoulder, the sheepish smile he gave her downright shameless. “I mean, no need to bother her, Miss Maggie,” he said with a casual shrug of massive shoulders, rugged hands pinched as white as the sheet at his waist. “So, if you’ll just discreetly snatch my clothes, boots, and holster, I’ll be on my way.”

  She spun on her heel to face him with an arch of her brow. “You haven’t been discharged yet, Mr. Donovan, have you?”

  “Why, of course I have, ma’am,” he said with an easy drawl she’d lay good money would have gotten him far more than his clothes from every nurse on the floor. “And I’d be fully clothed and walking out of here right now if the nurses were around, you have my word.” Offering an almost shy duck of his head, he cuffed the back of his neck with a bulge of a bicep that slackened her mouth, masculinity oozing out of every pore of the man’s half-naked body. “So if you don’t mind, ma’am, I surely would appreciate my things.”

  Maggie stared, in absolute awe of the raw magnetism he seemed to possess, a draw obviously detrimental to all women given the wild racing of her own pulse. Shaking off the pull, she expelled a quiet sigh, peering up with a sympathy she truly felt in her heart. “As much as I’d like to, Mr. Donovan, I’m concerned for your well-being, so I really think it’s best if you wait to talk to Sister Frederica.”

  The roguish air vanished in the hard clamp of his jaw. “Look, lady, I’ve been pushed and prodded in this sick man’s jail for over 48 hours now, and I’m going home whether you give me my things or not. So I’m asking you to save us both a whole lot of humiliation and just give me my dad-burned clothes.”

  Maggie bit hard on her lip, desperate to thwart the grin that just ached to break free. But the sight of a near-naked bandaged rogue with a tic in his temple was too good to resist, and with a sweep of her hand toward the end of the hall, she gave him a mischievous smile. “I assure you, Mr. Donovan, the humiliation will be all yours.”

  The blue eyes narrowed to slits of sapphire, and with a hard jerk of the sheet at his waist, he bolted past her, luring a giggle from her mouth when his bunched bedclothes whooshed by in a growl. “Thanks a lot, lady,” he muttered, bare feet slapping against the wood hallway.

  “Mr. Donovan, wait!” Feeling a wee bit guilty, Maggie gave chase, but the damage was already done the moment he stormed into the nurses’ station. People gawked and stared in the crowded waiting room near the front door while he rifled through cabinet after cabinet, jolting a poor elderly sister out of a catnap on the counter.

  “Where are my clothes?” he hissed, terrorizing the sweet old nun who darted away with far more speed than Maggie would have credited her, disappearing into the meeting room where Sister Frederica held court.

  “Mr. Donovan, please!” Maggie rushed around the nurses’ station, desperate to calm the man down. “You’re making a scene.”

  He paused midway through gutting a drawer, the fire in his eyes singeing her to the spot while an entire waiting room looked on. “No, Miss Mullaney, you’re the one who’s made the scene by refusing a totally innocent request.”

  Her chin lashed up. “True innocence is generally fully clothed, Mr. Donovan,” she said with a jut of her brow, determined that this swaddled Lothario would not pin any blame on her. “And possesses far more patience”—a smile tickled her lips—“not to mention clothing—than you appear to own at the moment.”

  Burning her with a truly scorching look, he chose to ignore her while tearing through another two cabinets, linens and medical paraphernalia flying through the air.

  “Brendan Joshua Donovan—halt!” Everything froze mid-air except the linens when a booming voice paralyzed Maggie and every other living thing on the first floor.

  He spun around to do battle like a patched-up Roman, but the sheet flaring around his straddled legs managed to steal a bit of his thunder. “Where-are-my-clothes?” he bit out, the sound as hard as the cut of his jaw.

  “Safe and sound, Mr. Donovan,” she said in an equally clipped tone, circling the counter with an amazing amount of grace given her wide girth. She slapped a large clipboard down on the counter to face him head-on, and Maggie stifled a grin when the sheet-clad Romeo took a step back. “Which is more than I can say for you, young man, if you don’t get your carcass back to your room this instant.”

  He had the audacity to lean in, sheet cinched high. “Get this and get it good, Sister Fred, I am not going back to that cage, so unless you want me to continue making a spectacle of myself in your fine hospital here, I suggest you return my clothes to me right now.”

  Maggie pursed her lips to thwart a chuckle when Sister Frederica’s intimidation ramped up with a fold of burly arms, her black habit expanding and contracting with a loud huff of air. “Don’t you threaten me, young man. I wear a cornette headdress referred to as goose flaps in this town, so ‘spectacles’ hold no sway with me.” Checking the watch pinned to her white bib, she invaded his space, the starched flaps of her white cornette headdress jerking up along with her head to sear him with a fearsome glare. Despite merely coming to his mid-chest—or mid-gauze as it were—she poked a thick finger to his chest in obvious warning. “Now I promised your uncle you would get the rest and care you need to heal properly, so if you plan on leaving my watch, Mr. Donovan, I assure you most wholeheartedly—it will be without your clothes.”

  One of the nurses tittered, and the scoundrel wasted no time in homing in on the poor girl with a perilous smile, eyes and tone softening considerably. “Do you know where my clothes are, Cassie?” he asked quietly, his tender smile assuring her she was the only woman in the room.

  Honeyed curls bobbed in consent, and his smile lit up like one of those mirrored lamps used in the operating rooms of Bellvue, eyes sparkling more than the cobalt poison bottles lining its shelves. Maggie smothered a grunt. And just as toxic, no doubt.

  “Well, then, I’d sure love to take you out for a steak dinner tonight, Cass, at the Gold Hill Hotel if you like. All I need is for you to tell me where my clothes are, darlin’, and I’ll even get them myself.”

  Maggie watched in total fascination as the girl—a petite blonde with longing in her eyes—nearly swayed on her feet, eyes locked with Donovan’s as if he were a snake charmer instead of a snake. Maggie suppressed a second grunt. A misnomer if ever there was.

  “Cassie?” he whispered, and the sound actually fluttered Maggie’s own stomach, much to her dismay, so she knew poor Cassie had to be sucked under his spell. The girl wet her lips as if she could taste the steak in question—or the man offering it—then glanced at Sister Frederica as if to plead his case.

  Sister withered the tiny nurse with a scowl so potent, it eradicated every single smile in the room. “Trust me, Cassandra, I am saving you a lot of heartbreak when I say …” Thunderous brows piled low into a threat. “The bed pans on floors three and four need attending, so I suggest you begin right now.”

  Thwack! Maggie startled when Donovan’s fist bludgeoned the counter. “That is pure, unadulterated blackmail, Sister, and you know it!”

  “Not at all, Mr. Donovan,” Sister said in an unwavering tone. “There is nothing ‘pure’ about it, much like the bribe you offered that poor girl, I might add.” She jutted her chins—all three of them—in challenge.

  Beads of sweat glazed the man’s brow as his desperate gaze darted from face to face, the fail-proof smile appearing about to crack. “A twenty-dollar gold piece to anyone who delivers my clothes and boots,” he rasped, voice hoarse with desperation, “and an evening out I promise you will never forget.”

  “My, what an incredibly generous offer, Mr. Donovan,” Sister said with a stony smile, one thick dark brow rising in question as she surveyed her staff. “Although I doubt a twenty-dollar gold piece can provide the ongoing security of a salary, despite the pleasure of your company.” Everyone flinched when she clapped her hands loudly, shooin
g the rest of the nurses back to their jobs. “Back to work, ladies. I assure you Mr. Donovan will soon be back in your charge.”

  “The devil I will,” he muttered, retying the sheet around his waist with a hard jerk of the corners. “Out of my way, Sister.” Shoving past the perfectly calm nun, he stomped around the counter and strode straight for the front door, still ridiculously handsome in nothing more than gauze and lumpy cotton.

  “And just where do you think you’re going, Mr. Donovan?” Sister Frederica demanded, bustling around the counter to keep up with the cowboy’s long-legged stride. “You cannot leave here in that state of undress!”

  “Watch me,” he groused over his shoulder, ignoring an elderly woman who fainted dead out as he passed.

  “You come back here this instant,” Sister called, the boom of her voice apparently less effective the closer he got to the door. She waved a nurse over to attend to the woman on the floor. “Your dressings need changing twice daily and medication applied. And you need to rest.”

  “I don’t have time to rest—I have work to do,” he growled. He almost knocked a man down when he slammed through the front double doors, his sheet blowing in the wind as he barreled down the wooden steps.

  The double doors banged closed, and Sister shook her head in apparent dismay, the flaps of her cornette in obvious agreement. She unleashed a noisy sigh. “A mule with second-degree burns,” she muttered, turning to make her way back to Maggie who stood wide-eyed at the counter.

  “Goodness, is he going to be all right?” Maggie asked, legitimate concern lacing her tone.

  Sister’s answering chuckle managed to escape from a mouth pursed in a tight-lipped scowl. Snatching her clipboard up, the nun made a beeline for her office, flicking impatient fingers behind her in a directive for Maggie to follow. “Well, the burns will eventually heal, Miss Mullaney, but I’m afraid the pig-headed obstinacy is here to stay.” She nodded to a row of wooden chairs parked in front of her desk and then closed the door as soon as Maggie took a seat. “Nonetheless, a good dose of humility via a traipse through town in a sheet will do that boy good.” She dropped into her own chair with a groan, eyes lidded with heavy folds of skin that suddenly narrowed as if weighting her down. “A mite too cocky for his own good, Miss Mullaney, and in case you haven’t noticed, a wee bit too handsome for it too. Seems to think he can charm anything in a skirt, so you best be on your guard.”

  Blood gorged Maggie’s cheeks against her will, her only defense the thrust of her chin. “I assure you, Sister Frederica, that type of man holds absolutely no appeal to me whatsoever.”

  The edge of Sister’s lip quirked, creating a rather endearing dimple to emerge in her overly generous cheek. “And I assure you, Miss Mullaney, that that type of man can steal the affection of any female from here to Carson City. And that was before he risked his life to save one of Virginia City’s most celebrated citizens from a fire over two days ago.” She lowered her head, piercing black eyes pinning Maggie to the chair. “Liberty O’Shea’s father,” she emphasized, “which is why I believe you’re here in the first place?”

  Maggie nodded, never more grateful for Liberty O’Shea, her mother’s dearest friend who had just rescued Maggie from a fate worse than death. “Yes, you see, Aunt Liberty”—she paused, feeling the need to explain—“well, she’s not my aunt, of course, but I’ve always called her that because she’s my godmother and my mother’s best friend. At any rate, she asked me to come with her after she received the telegram about the fire, and since I attended Bellvue School of Nursing, I felt that St. Mary Louise Hospital might very well be the ideal place to apply for a job.”

  “Indeed.” Sister squeaked back in her chair, meaty hands clasped over a formidable stomach. “I’ve already researched your credentials, Miss Mullaney, when Miss O’Shea telegrammed her request that I interview you, and her recommendation goes a long way in this town. So I’m well aware you are more than qualified from a technical standpoint.” She hesitated, lips compressed so much, they seemed to disappear altogether. “My concern would be more along the emotional risks involved, given your youth and naïveté.”

  Maggie blinked, somewhat taken aback at Sister’s remark. “I don’t understand, Sister, I’m almost twenty years old—that hardly qualifies as either young or naive.”

  “Perhaps not in New York, Miss Mullaney, but this is Virginia City, where there are over one hundred saloons, give or take a few, within a very small radius. That’s one drinking establishment for every thirty-two people, my dear, which means a lot of what we see in this hospital has to do with a very rowdy and very lascivious male component.” She lifted in her chair ever so slightly to assess Maggie’s House of Worth coral silk dress, from its voluminous skirts to its tightly fitted bodice. Her gaze instantly flicked up to Maggie’s chestnut hair, which she’d jumbled on top of her head in a cluster of ringlets and a frizzle of soft bangs. A weary sigh escaped her lips. Sagging back in her chair, she studied Maggie through slatted eyes that held a trace of a twinkle. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to wear a sack?”

  Relief coursed through Maggie’s veins, assuring her she would do whatever it took to acquire this position. “Absolutely,” she said without hesitation, “I would be more than willing to wear whatever you like, Sister, including a gunny sack.”

  Sister’s mouth curled into a dry smile. “Over your head?”

  Maggie stilled, all blood ceasing to flow until she realized Sister Frederica was joking. Her face flushed so hot, she was certain she resembled a saloon girl with rouge on her cheeks. Wonderful. I should fit right in.

  Sister hovered over her desk with a squeak of her chair, hands clasped and dark brows knit low as she bent to meet Maggie eye to eye. “Frankly, Miss Mullaney, I’m a wee bit worried you can’t handle the element here. Suppose you tell me why I should hire an innocent like you, merely to expose you to one of the most sinful cities in this nation?”

  With everything in her, Maggie strove to remain calm despite the awful hammering in her chest, knowing full well the fate of her future lay in this woman’s hands. Silently drawing in a deep swell of air, she met Sister’s gaze head-on, a slow smile wending it’s way across her lips at the memory of a near-naked cowboy decorated in cotton and gauze. She arched a brow. “Because the arranged engagement from which I fled, Sister, was to a man like your bandaged cowboy and any other womanizer just like him. Rest assured I have no interest in men like that or really any men at all.” She sat straight up in the chair, shoulders back and lips firm, unflinching as she locked gazes with a woman she’d come to respect in mere minutes. “In fact, I find myself greatly inspired by women like Florence Nightingale and you, Sister, wondering if perhaps my calling isn’t to remain single altogether, forgoing on the servitude of marriage so that I may serve others instead.”

  A smile twitched at the corners of Sister’s mouth. “Which I assure you will be more than a challenge in a city where the number of men far exceed the number of women, my dear.” She paused, her eyes narrowing in scrutiny. “Then may I assume that our ‘near-naked cowboy’ had no affect on you whatsoever?”

  Some of Maggie’s bravado faltered a bit when blood coursed into her cheeks, but she ignored it with an unyielding lift of her chin. “I won’t lie to you, Sister. Mr. Donovan does have a certain”—she swallowed hard—“charm, I suppose, but I quickly proved to myself and to him that I am immune.”

  “And how exactly did you do that, young lady?” Sister asked, forehead in a squint.

  Maggie nibbled at the edge of her smile, the memory warming her eyes to a twinkle. “Well, you see, he was hiding in the stairwell at the end of the hall when I went to look out the window, and the poor man tried every tactic in the book to coerce me into retrieving his clothes.” She lifted a hand, ticking off Mr. Donovan’s methods in a sing-song manner. “Flirting, teasing, begging, guilt, seduction ...”

  “Pardon me?” Sister jutted a brow.

  Her smile took a twist. “He flexed
a bicep,” she explained with a dusting of heat in her cheeks, adamant that no cowboy—half naked or otherwise—would ever get past her defenses.

  The nun’s low throaty chuckle surprised her, and the satisfied grin on Sister’s face immediately unraveled any knots Maggie may have had in her stomach. “Well, well, young lady, you just may be exactly what I’m looking for then, as long as you can steer clear of heartbreakers like our Mr. Donovan. But it won’t be easy.”

  “And why is that?” Maggie wanted to know. Yes, no doubt the rogue was one of the finest looking examples of manhood Maggie had ever seen, but it would take a whole lot more than a chiseled face and body to turn her head.

  “Because, my dear, Brendan Donovan is not only handsome and charming to a fault, but he is also the foreman for his uncle’s Silver Lining Ranch as well, which he has helped parlay into the largest, most profitable ranch in all of Nevada.”

  Wonderful. A hardworking example of manhood on top of handsome and charming. Maggie gulped. But it still wasn’t enough.

  “And then, of course,” Sister continued, an unmistakable look of affection flickering across the old nun’s face, “he’s utterly devoted to his family, a veritable hawk when it comes to watching over his two little sisters. Not to mention a staunch mentor for his younger brother who works in a bar, much to his uncle’s disdain.”

  One side of Maggie’s mouth tipped up. “His mentor? In drinking and womanizing, no doubt?”

  Sister sighed. “Regrettably, you’re correct about the womanizing, but the man has never touched a drop of alcohol as far as I know. Which is why he’s so dangerous to the young ladies of Virginia City. Especially since he scaled a burning staircase to save little Frannie after rescuing both Liberty’s mother and housekeeper, who were asleep in their rooms.”

  “No!” Maggie could do nothing but gape, absently wondering if a cowboy could be canonized. “Please tell me the child wasn’t hurt!”