Charlie started to follow.
“Mr. Hardt, if I may have a moment?” Seamus stopped him.
“Seamus, your proposal has merit. I like it just fine. But you see my predicament.”
“Aye, sir. I do,” Seamus said. “But on the point of partnership specifically…would you be needing time to think on that, sir?” If he could so much as get a handshake that a man the likes of Charlie Hardt would agree to a fifty-fifty partnership, surely his wife would be impressed.
Charlie studied him. “I’ve always known you were a hard worker and there’s been no man more loyal to me. You come up with a way that we can finance both projects, and you’ve got yourself a partner. How’s that?” Charlie held out his hand, waiting for Seamus to agree.
Without a clue of how he intended to go about it, Seamus gripped the man’s hand in a firm handshake. “Aye, Mr. Hardt. Agreed.”
Charlie smiled and gave Seamus a wink. “I have faith in you.”
Later that afternoon, Seamus considered the irony of his boss’s words. Trying to come up with the means to fund renovations of the Nugget and build the reverend a new church was going to take something short of a miracle. And if business continued to slack as it had the last couple of days, that miracle couldn’t come soon enough.
He stared over the empty room, polishing the last of the glasses he’d washed. He needed to find a way to make revenue and get the miners spending their money in the saloon again. Many, he understood, were simply bone-weary and after a few drinks were ready to turn in, preparing to start work early the next day. And he’d heard a rumor that there was a band of musicians who were offering cheap entertainment down in the tent community. Seamus decided to speak with them and offer them the chance to perform in the saloon on Saturday evenings. But he’d have to pay them for their time and there again was his trouble.
Seamus glanced at the cabinet where he kept his special recipe whisky. The very same that he’d once sold to miners out of a tent when he had arrived in Noelle. It was Norah’s grand-da’s recipe. It had been famous back in Ireland, and Seamus hadn’t told Norah that he’d been making and selling it. After being hired by Charlie Hardt, he kept the two cases he’d made on reserve, waiting for the right time to find a way to distribute it to a wider market.
The saloon door creaked open and, in the late afternoon shadows, a small figure entered.
“Felice?” He frowned, pushing past his previous thoughts. It wasn’t entirely unusual for the brothels to send a runner up to the saloon if the liquor cabinet ran dry. For years, Seamus had replenished stock at La Maison, once run by Madam Bonheur. But since the madam had fled Noelle on an attempted murder charge and La Maison burned to the ground last month, it had been pretty quiet. He’d heard rumblings that Felice had taken over the abandoned saloon across the street and was renting it from Hardt, opening her own establishment on what Charlie had dubbed “entertainment row.”
“Come up with a name for your place yet?” he asked as she adjusted her fringed shawl around her shoulders. Beneath she wore a frilly dress that appeared too large, given how low it dipped, exposing a good amount of skin.
She sashayed across the room, letting the shawl drop seductively. She smiled when she noticed Seamus’s hardened gaze.
“Seamus, honey. I’m in a real pickle. I sure hope you can help me,” said the blonde in her soft, squeaky voice. She dropped her shawl on a chair as she walked toward him. Seamus drew in a quiet breath. The thin fabric showed her underpinnings. She paused and smiled, no doubt at his hungry expression. Good lord in heaven, the woman knew what a man craved. She wore her blonde curls swept off her neck and secured with glittering combs, highlighting the graceful curve of her neck. Her alabaster skin was supple and smooth in contrast to the rough callouses of a man hands. Her cheeks were blushed just enough to entice, and her lips, rouged to a rosy pink, were a temptation to any man. Her waterlily-scented bathwater wafted across the room, tickling his senses.
Seamus blinked. “I’m sorry, what’d you say? What is it you’d be needing, Felice?” He looked away before God could strike him down for his thoughts. He forced them to Norah, how she’d looked at him the last night they were together. He turned his back to check the stock on the shelves and see what he and his new partner (at least in his mind) could afford to sell. He felt a hand slide down over his trousers.
“What I need, Seamus Malone, is some of this fine, Irish—”
“Whisky, Felice,” he said, taking her hand and dropping it at her side.
She gave him a little pout, and then her face came alive in a bright smile as she batted her lashes above captivating blue eyes. Rumor was, she’d left her husband and child to find success in the theater. Given the woman’s flair for the dramatic, the fact that she’d not made it in show business puzzled the heck out of him.
“I need something special, Seamus.” Her gaze took him in, head to foot. “Something that will set my place apart from all the other places on the row.”
His gaze narrowed. “What’d you have in mind?”
She twirled a corkscrew tendril around her finger. “One of my regulars who’s back in town working the mine was talking about a special homemade whisky you once sold to the miners.”
“Is that so?” He eyed the petite woman.
“Said it was the best he’d ever drank.” She cocked her head. “I don’t suppose you’d have any of that famous whisky left, would you?”
And there it was. Like a sign from above. Sure, it had some risk, but maybe the old family recipe of Norah’s grand-da should be resurrected. He’d set aside for years, not having the time, and working hard to set an example for his boss. He needed something that would raise money. Maybe a few bottles sold locally, a few glasses served slightly higher than the standard fare, let news travel, and create a demand. He mentally counted how many bottles he had tucked back in the storeroom off the kitchen.
“It’s me private whisky, Felice. An old family recipe. Top o’ the line.” He gave her a wink. “It dunna come cheap.”
She gave him a wry smile. “Neither do I, honey.”
“How much you got?” he asked, already calculating how fast he could rebuild a new still, get more bottles, maybe have a fancy new label made to showcase his fine Irish-made whisky.
Felice planted her hand on her hip and, with a sultry smile, tugged at the lace ribbon of her bodice. “More than enough for the likes of you, honey.”
Seamus reached out and grabbed her wrist. “I mean, money. How much are you willing to pay?” he asked.
Her beautiful face crumpled in a frown. He’d offended her.
Seamus raised his brows, waiting. Business was business, and few in town understood that concept better than Felice.
“Same as the liquor we’ve bought before?” She patted her hair and gave him a side glance. “Two bits.”
“Two dollars.”
Her plump little mouth dropped open. “Two dollars?”
“Per bottle. This is a well-guarded family recipe, darlin’. And don’t tell me you don’t have that kind of money, Felice. We both know who makes the most money in this town next to Hardt.”
She preened a little to that comment, then shrugged.
Seamus was not to be detoured. “Further, you’ll be signing a contract exclusive to me and the Golden Nugget to purchase any and all liquor for your business.” He was thinking by the seat of his pants.
She didn’t look convinced. “What’s in it for me?” she asked.
“I tell you what, if you send me a new client, I’ll take a few bits off your next order.”
“I should be livid with you, Seamus Malone. Why, what you propose is nothing but plain horse-thievin’. You never charged Madam Bonheur such prices.”
“Madam Bonhuer never got any of my whisky,” Seamus said with his most charming smile.
“Well, then,” she said stepping around the bar and pressing herself against him. “If I say yes, maybe together we might find a way to seal our little par
tnership. Maybe have a little fun?” She giggled as she slinked her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his cheek.
Seamus placed his hands on her shoulders, intent on pushing her away. He froze when he heard the sound of a man clearing his throat.
“I’m sorry. Is this the Golden Nugget? The stagecoach experienced a bit of trouble and needed repair, which is why we’re late. It was suggested that here is where our traveling companion might find a Mr. Seamus Malone?”
Seamus heard nothing of what the man said, his words like the drone of a beehive in the back of his brain. He stared at the trio standing in the middle of the saloon, unable to trust his eyes. “Norah? What in bloody blazes are you doing here?”
Chapter Four
Norah could only stare at the scantily dressed woman as she adjusted her frock.
“Well, that’s a fine thank you I get for offering my services, Seamus Malone,” the petite woman blurted indignantly.
Norah felt as though a giant hand had reached in and twisted her stomach. She sensed something pressing her arm and startled turned to look into the concerned face of Libby Rose Campbell. The two had become fast friends on the train from Denver, both equally excited about their adventure and what excitement lay ahead in Noelle. Norah had been all too thrilled to share the praises their kin Genevieve Kinnison had written about her husband. Nothing at all like the man she found in the arms of a painted woman.
“Norah. I can’t believe you’re here. Why didn’t you…write?” Seamus stumbled over his words.
That would have given you ample time to send your tart back to the brothel, she thought. Norah’s toes squished inside her stockings that were sodden with the ice and snow that had seeped through her thin-soled shoes. The stage had broken down not long into their journey and they’d had to stand in the elements while the stage driver made the repairs. Norah took in the tiny beauty, her face painted with rouge in contrast to Norah’s pale skin, her clothes fancy in comparison to Norah’s mud-soaked skirt.
Libby leaned close. “Is this your husband,” she whispered.
Norah was asking herself the same question. Mustering her courage, she focused her attention on Seamus. “I can see you weren’t expecting me.”
At that moment, the saloon door opened and in walked a large man. He wore animal skin britches and leather boots with fringe hanging from them. He glanced at the trio and then at Seamus and, from the look on his face, had sensed immediately the obvious tension in the room.
Deacon Campbell stepped up to the man and greeted him with a handshake. “My name is Deacon Garret Campbell. This”--he turned to Libby-- “is my daughter, Libby Rose. We’re looking for my niece, Mrs. Genevieve Kinnison.”
“I’m…uh, Zeke Kinnison, Deacon. Genevieve sent me up here when we heard the stage had arrived. You’re a little late. Did you have some trouble?” he asked.
The good deacon shifted his belongings and tipped his head to his daughter. “We can talk more about it, Mr. Kinnison. We’d like to see Genevieve, if I might.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve got the wagon out front.” Zeke stepped forward and picked up Libby’s bag. “If you’ll follow me.”
It appeared the deacon and his daughter couldn’t wait to extract themselves from their current situation.
“I’ll call on you tomorrow.” Libby patted Norah’s arm.
Norah straightened her shoulders, her fierce resolve arming her backbone with the idea that she didn’t plan to stay and she’d be on the first stage back to the railroad depot in Junction. “Thank you. I’ll be fine.” She refused to let Seamus think she was going to fall apart due to his indiscretion.
“Libby, Mr. Kinnison is waiting,” her father said quietly.
Norah watched them leave. She turned to find Seamus walking towards her. “Not another step,” she said, stopping him with an upturned hand. He had the audacity to look puzzled. Over his shoulder she noticed the pretty woman helping herself to a glass of whisky. Apparently, she felt at home there in the saloon. “Don’t let me keep you from your guest. I’ll just be needin’ a room for the night. Tomorrow I’ll be takin’ the stage back to Junction depot.”
“What? No.” He followed her gaze. “My guest? Hey, see now. You’ll pay for that,” he pointed at the woman as he walked back to the bar, then promptly turned on his heel. “And no, I wasn’t expecting you. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Norah—it’s been years since I’ve heard a peep--” He glanced over his shoulder as though realizing her thoughts.
“Now, Norah, this is not at all what yer thinkin’,” Seamus held up his hands.
“Given a few more minutes and it very well could have been,” the pretty woman piped up as she raised her glass.
“Shut yer trap, Felice,” Seamus growled.
The woman, whose name reminded Norah of a French ewe, sidled up next to him. She gave Norah a once-over and raised one perfect brow. “This friend of yours doesn’t quite suit your taste in women, honey.”
Norah’s hair, kinked fuller by the cold, wet air, had long since escaped its bindings in an unruly profusion around her head. She wanted nothing more than her dry nightclothes, a warm bed, and a ride tomorrow morning on the next stage out of Noelle. “A room?” Norah held the gaze of the man she once called her husband. The man she thought she knew. It made her wonder what kind of lies he’d written in all the letters he’d sent. Worse, she wondered if her aunt hadn’t been right about him all along.
“Of course, just let me clean up and get rid of Felice.”
“Excuse me?” The woman’s mouth dropped open in surprise as she followed him and leaned against the end of the bar. “Is that any way to start our new partnership?” She offered him a sultry pout.
Norah hugged her bag against her chest, eyeing the woman holding the whisky glass like a queen.
Seamus had the good sense at least to appear chagrined. “Felice and I are business associates. She’s agreed to purchase all liquor from me…er, uh, the Nugget, for her establishment.”
It was Norah’s turn to assess the woman. “I can only imagine what business that might be.”
Felice accepted the challenge. “Oh, so you do have a bit of spit in you.” She grinned. “That will help. Men like fiery women.” She glanced at Seamus. “Don’t they, honey?”
Norah narrowed her gaze. She might not wear fancy clothes or cover her face in rouge and powders, but she could fight as well as any man. And short of wanting to bust a whisky bottle over Seamus’s head, she considered the pleasure she’d have in tugging those golden, halo curls until the woman screamed for mercy.
“And don’t forget, Seamus. You promised me two bottles of your special recipe whisky.” She reached between her ample breasts and pulled out a coin purse. Digging inside, she lay several coins on the bar.
Norah caught the nervous glance Seamus gave her. She watched him stoop over and unlock a cabinet behind the bar.
Felice leaned over the edge and made a throaty sound of appreciation, apparently of her husband’s backside.
“Felice, I’ll kindly ask that you might have a bit more respect for—"
Enough of this malarkey. Regardless of whether she left tomorrow or not, she wasn’t going to stand by and be humiliated by this painted-up tart. Norah faced the woman, reached out and slipped the half-full whisky glass from her hand. “We’ve not been properly introduced, Fleece,” she mispronounced her name and tossed the remainder of the drink at the woman’s face.
Seamus mouth hung open as he realized what had happened.
“The name’s Norah…Norah Francis Malone.”
Sputtering, Felice tugged her soaked camisole from her chest. “You’re his sister?” she said, blinking in surprise.
“Wife,” Norah answered the same time as did Seamus.
Norah’s gaze fell on the clear bottles filled with a honey brown liquor that she recognized a mile away. She’d helped Grand Da too many times to count when he’d bottled his special whisky. The clarity of the whisky was unmistakable. And in the o
ld country among those with fine taste, her grand- da’s whisky was renown. “And what is this?” she asked.
Seamus wrapped a hand around one of the bottles. “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk with you about...I wrote about it in the…never mind. The point is, when I arrived here in Noelle, I made a few bottles of your grand-da’s special recipe. It did well enough, but without the contacts, I put a few bottles in reserve waiting for the right time to be able to get a better distribution. With Felice’s contacts, I believe we can finally make that happen. I even thought about putting your grand da’s name on the label.”
“You’ve been selling whisky from the recipe handed down to me for generations in my family? I entrusted that to you for safekeeping.”
Felice glanced up from dabbing her clothes.
“Entrusted to me to use as I saw fit,” Seamus countered.
“Well, it seems you have found the perfect business partner, one used to living off other people,” she spat back. She searched for something to throw at him, but all she had was her bag. She heaved it with all her might at his head.
“I haven’t been selling it. Not in years, anyway. And further, I sent you the majority of the profits.”
She had indeed rankled him. And so what if his letters had been deflected and she’d never seen one cent until Genevieve’s letter? He’d pilfered her grand-da’s recipe without her consent, but even that paled in comparison to going into business with a whore. “I canna believe I took a train halfway across the country, hoping to surprise you--”
“That would be a fair assessment,” Felice interjected.
Seamus pointed his finger at Felice, then shook his head as he scooted around the bar and nearly bowled Felice over in the process. He stood in front of Norah. “I couldn’t be more--”
“Surprised?” she said. “Yes, I can see that you are. And I’m sorry it seems I walked in on your little business transaction regarding my family’s legacy.” Her heart felt ripped in two. What had she expected after all this time? That he’d have been celibate? The truth didn’t lessen the sting. But her Irish pride refused to let either of them see her pain.
Norah- A St. Patrick's Day Bride Page 4