A Mail-Order Christmas Bride

by Livia J. Washburn

  She studied his face. Amid dark stubble, a quirk teased the ruffian’s lips. Brendan hadn’t changed, not much. He’d learned to speak English, not that garbled Irish mush, but the devil still danced in his eyes.

  A more refined type of cowboy—with the same odd sort of hat, but clean-shaven and wearing a crisp suit—stopped at her captor’s side. A narrowed gaze peered from the shadow of his hat brim. “Everythin’ all right here, ma’am?”

  She opened her mouth, but a squeeze on her wrist stopped the words. Brendan dropped her a detached wink. How well she knew the signal: Not a peep.

  His head turned a bit toward the other man, but he never relinquished her gaze. “My affianced is unsettled after a long trip. She’ll collect herself in a minute.”

  “Ma’am?”

  Another squeeze caused a hitch in her breath. “Thank you for your concern. I’m…just tired.”

  The cowboy lingered a moment, then tipped his hat and clapped Brendan on the shoulder before sauntering away. What sort of male comradeship encouraged a man to abandon a woman in distress?

  “Feeling better, little girl?”

  No, she was not. Nor was she disposed to return rudeness with civility. “I’ll suffer this charade no longer. You may escort me to the nearest hotel.”

  “I didn’t expect you to be so eager.” The cur’s sly grin grew. “I guess the preacher can wait.”

  Her mouth fell open on a gasp. “You despicable lowlife.”

  “This despicable lowlife spent his last dime to save a high-class lady from her own pack of snobs. Not easy being shunned, is it?”

  “How dare you.”

  He tossed a few surreptitious glances, then lowered his voice. “A lady doesn’t cause a scene.”

  “A gentleman—”

  “Wouldn’t carry you out of here over his shoulder…but nobody expects better from a penniless cowhand.” He raised her knuckles to his lips. “Shall we go, beloved?”

  She yanked back her hand. “I’ll go nowhere with the thieving son of an Irish drunkard.”

  The smirk fled his expression in a rush, replaced by a clenched jaw. Without a word or a care for her comfort, he hauled her onto the boardwalk and tossed her at the two battered trunks holding all of her worldly possessions. A staggering step backward landed her on her bustle atop the nearest.

  From low in his throat, a growl overflowed with back-alley brogue. “The thief is no threat to the beggar.”

  Gray clouds lumbered lower, hurling tiny hailstones at the ground. The pellets thudded into the street and bounced off buildings; spilled from her hat and collected in her lap.

  He propped a muddy boot beside her hip, on her skirt. Bracing folded arms across his knee, he leaned close. Peppermint swirled in a smothering billow. She wrinkled her nose to forestall a sneeze.

  An intense gaze that once teased with forbidden desire forced her backward. To keep her balance, she flattened her palms against the trunk. A hard glint in his eyes, he followed until their noses almost touched. “I didn’t bring you here out of love or lust, and I won’t hold you to the contract.” The quiet, even rumble bore no trace of Gaelic mush. “But you’d best get busy making a place for yourself in this town.”

  A chill swept through her veins, putting a shiver in her voice. “This is outra—”

  “We may get snow by Christmas.” A snarl showed his teeth. “Not good weather for sneaking though alleys and begging for scraps.”

  He removed his boot from her skirt and planted worn leather on the platform with a thunk. After raking her with a leer that pawed her breasts through her clothing, he snatched her chin and centered her gaze on the frost in his. “You’re not without options. A high-born lady like you could make a helluva living on the wrong side of these tracks.”

  Chapter Three

  Muscles rippled beneath Finn’s hide as Brend toweled melting ice from the horse’s coat. He shivered too, but the cold in the barn wasn’t to blame. Don’t bare yer teeth until ye can bite, boyo. Da taught him the lesson early and well. He hadn’t intended to bare his teeth at Bets.

  This time, the biter got bitten.

  He checked the hay rack, hung a pail of oats and a bucket of water for Finn, then pulled up the collar of his coat and forced himself into the sleet.

  In the distance, the Clear Fork of the Trinity River ran silent, at low ebb this time of year. Too little sun eked through heavy clouds for the ice on the banks to sparkle.

  Wood smoke spiced the air, but the promise of warmth brought no comfort. Disgust puffed his cheeks as it left his lungs in a long plume.

  “Ye worthless bastard.” He’d discarded the brogue, the pleasure of bruises, torn knuckles, and broken bones, but the feckin’ Mick temper followed him yet. Put silk on a goat and it’s still a goat. He’d always be the Black Irish tough from the backstreets.

  And Bets… She’d always be the spoiled little rich girl. Even after the scandal of divorce left her teetering on the edge of a gutter, she clung to her past like a lifeline.

  Thieving son of an Irish drunkard. He flexed his shoulders inside his coat, rubbing his back against sheep’s wool to ease the sting of old wounds. Both he and Bets could run from the pain in St. Louis, but neither could outrun the scars.

  A stray shaft of sunlight drew his attention. On a nearby hill, the beam kissed a big house, a dream painted yellow with white trim and a green door.

  He released another long breath between chattering teeth and tramped on toward the ramshackle dwellings in the river basin. A volley of ice nuggets punctuated each step until he slammed the shack’s door.

  Boss glanced up from a pot he stirred on the hearth. Smelled good, whatever it was. Stoop-shouldered and snowy-headed, the old man coughed into a tattered kerchief.

  Frustration poked Brend in the ribs. Stubborn coot. Another bout of pneumonia would be the old cowhand’s death.

  Boss squinted around Brend. “Where’s that li’l bride of yourn?”

  “At the damnú hotel.” Brend stripped off his sodden coat, gloves, and hat. One after another, he jammed them onto a dowel hammered into the wall.

  “Warned you ’bout them highfalutin’ women, boy.”

  “I’ll be havin’ none of yer cheek, aul man.”

  “Whoa, Nelly.” Boss grinned and turned back to the pot. “Got your back up somethin’ fierce, judgin’ by the Mick spillin’ outta you.”

  Brend swiped flattened fingers across his lips, then examined his palm. As thick as that manure, it should’ve left a stain.

  He scraped the Irish fuzz from his tongue with his teeth, then cleared his throat.

  The old man nodded at a coffee pot on the hearth. “Grab yourself a cup. It’ll warm your innards.”

  Knowing the tar the grizzled codger brewed… Brend’s innards declined the offer.

  “When you goin’ back to fetch her? Fort Worth ain’t no place—”

  “I know.” Brend raised a hand to fend off the impending lecture. “Paid her keep for a week.” Maybe by then she’d accept an apology from back-alley trash.

  He scrubbed his elbows with his palms. Even the tarpaper on the cabin’s outside and newsprint lining the interior couldn’t block every frigid draft. The building withstood the weather better than makeshift tents under leaky eaves, but the chill wasn’t healthy for Boss’s rheumatism.

  “Ain’t no sense goin’ hungry.” With a flourish, Boss ladled beans laced with lumps of…something…onto a tin plate and handed it over.

  Brend studied the suspicious stew through narrowed eyes. “What’s in this?”

  “Never you mind. Chow’s chow.”

  Probably just as well the ingredients remained a mystery. Whatever Boss had cooked up, he’d put worse in his belly and been thankful.

  The old man limped to the other end of the table, flicking his fork at Brend’s plate. “Dig in, young’un.”

  Young’un. Brend snorted. Any man must look like a young’un to someone twice his age.

  He shoved a bite betwee
n his teeth. The food bit back. His plate clattered to the tabletop as he grabbed for the sludge Boss called coffee. Two big gulps emptied the tin cup.

  Wiping tears from his eyes, he sniffed to clear his sinuses before searching for his voice. A strained croak squeezed past the blisters in his throat. “You feed this to the rest of the boys?” Another sniff brought a dry cough.

  “Yep.” The old wrangler spoke around vigorous chewing. “Nary a one of ’em complained, neither.”

  Hard to complain with your mouth on fire. Boss must’ve singed off his taste buds a long time ago if he couldn’t feel the heat in those peppers.

  At least the cabin didn’t seem so cold anymore.

  Brend bucked up his courage, held his breath, and drew another forkful to his lips. If he could survive Boss’s cooking, he could damn sure live through a mauling the next time he braced a St. Louis debutante.

  ****

  As she backed through the swinging door, a plate in each hand, Elizabeth puffed a soggy curl from her forehead. She couldn’t wait to reach the café’s blessed warmth each morning, but by midday she longed to escape into the cold.

  She glanced through the window. Sunset laid a sparkle on frozen puddles in the street.

  A pack of laughing cowboys shoved through the front door, sweeping a blast of frigid air inside with them. The chill cooled her cheeks. Sighing with relief, she pasted a smile on her face and set heaping servings of turkey, stuffing, and canned peaches in front of two men in cheap suits.

  She nearly choked on their cigar smoke. “Enjoy your meals, gentlemen.”

  When she turned, a smart slap popped her backside. She clenched her teeth to stifle a reprimand. As offensive as the reprobate’s touch, without this job she’d starve.

  A rumble erupted from a table in a shadowy corner. “Apologize to the lady, gents…and keep your mitts to yourselves.”

  The familiar voice yanked up her chin. Shouldn’t Brendan be…doing whatever ranch hands did on Thanksgiving Day? She acknowledged the apologies with a stiff nod and forced her feet not to run for the kitchen.

  While the door finished flapping on squeaky hinges, she propped her shoulders against a wall coated with petrified grease. A hard swallow pushed humiliation down her throat, but pressing both palms to her bosom failed to tame her jumpy heartbeat.

  The cook pointed a stern look over her shoulder. “Get on back out there, gal.” After swiping a wrist across her brow, Matilda returned her attention to the stove. “Them folks is hungry.”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and pulled in a steadying breath. One of these days, she’d develop Matilda’s fortitude. If the rail-thin old woman feared anything, she hid cowardice well.

  Snatching a coffee pot and a chipped crockery mug, Elizabeth plowed through the door and aimed for the table in the corner.

  “How did you find me?” She slammed the cup onto the tabletop. The bang disappeared into the clamor of cutlery and bawdy conversation.

  “News travels fast in this town.” The sincerity scribing his features… As she recalled, he could turn the look on and off as he pleased. “Especially when a woman like you shows up out of nowhere and takes a job in a place like this.” Wrapping the mug with his fingers, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I left you support for a week. What’re you doing here?”

  She’d not be fooled by false concern. If Matilda could face demons head-on, so could she. “Working.”

  He didn’t so much as wince when steaming coffee splashed onto his hand. “Me too.” His gaze strayed to her splattered apron before returning to her face. “Working up the right words to say I’m sorry.”

  If he made one snide remark about the drab borrowed dress bunched at her waist… “You’ll have to eat or leave. Today’s menu—”

  “Ham and turkey, from what I’ve seen. Bring me a plate of each.”

  No one could be that hungry. “Fine.” She pivoted on her heel.

  A gentle grip wrapped her wrist. “Let me take you to the ranch, Bets. You don’t belong here.”

  She spun to face him. “I belong wherever I choose to be, thank you.” Her back, legs, and feet groaned with each step, but she’d go nowhere with a lying snake.

  “Then I’ll escort you to wherever you’re staying when this…” He glanced around. “…establishment…closes.”

  “You’ll eat and go.”

  “Allowing a fine lady to walk alone after dark would be reprehensible.” The composed features, the level gaze, the fancy, cultured words… The thug mocked gentility.

  Her temper boiled over. She flung a stiff-armed point at the door. “Take your counterfeit manners and get out.”

  Still his expression didn’t crack. “I’ll be waitin’ right here for ye, lass, ’til the Divil ’imself come to take me.”

  Chapter Four

  Freezing would be an unpleasant way to die. An hour after Brend stepped outside to wait, the glow in the café’s windows dimmed and then disappeared. Bets and a scrawny old woman slipped through the door. By then, his stiff jaw wouldn’t allow his teeth to chatter. The blood in his veins moved like sludge. When he pushed from the wall, his muscles threatened to shatter.

  He tugged his hands from his pockets, dragged off his hat, and stepped from the shadows. Best not sneak up on anyone in this town. Even the women carried guns. “Bets.”

  She jumped, clapping a palm to the base of her throat.

  Her companion swung to face him with a formidable glare. She took Bets by the elbow. “Come along, Lizzie.”

  Lizzie? Ten years ago, Bets would’ve stung the aging biddy like a wasp.

  “It’s all right, Matilda. He’s…an old acquaintance. I’ll be fine.”

  After glaring a moment longer, the grumpy crone patted Bets’s arm and set a brisk pace down the boardwalk, heels clattering like gunfire. A man willing to risk his life in her dive got the best food in town—he shifted his gaze to Bets—and the prettiest scenery.

  Even when she resembled a pillar of ice. “I thought you’d gone.”

  Sliding his hat onto his head, he stepped into the remnants of her breath. “Divil hasn’t come for me yet.” The heat would’ve been welcome. He dropped the Irish and tossed a glance at the retreating stick figure. “You staying with her?”

  Bets’s lips pinched on a curt nod.

  “She’s frightening.”

  “Good.” Arms folded at her waist, she hugged her elbows and hunched against the cold.

  Had her cape been the proper color, she could’ve been Little Red Riding Hood…except for the shivering. He could draw her to his side and warm them both; salve his conscience a bit in the bargain. His arm came near to enfolding her shoulders before she whirled and hurried away.

  He jammed both fists into his pockets and set about catching up.

  Life goes by as if it had wings, and every Christmas puts another year on yer shoulder. The old Irish proverb echoed off the shabby buildings lining this end of the street. From the other, tinny piano music and raucous voices raised specters from a grave he’d never seal. Too many misspent years. Too many regrets.

  Too many opportunities squandered.

  This one wouldn’t get away. “Bets—”

  “What?” With a single, snappish word, she drew blood.

  He anchored his arms at his sides and fell into step. “Many a man’s mouth broke his nose. Mine may never recover.”

  The glance she lanced upward left porcupine quills in his skin. “Your nose seems none the worse for wear.”

  The grin that had made her laugh in days gone by refused an invitation to his face.

  She quickened her march.

  “Damnú, woman.” He caught up again, snagged a handful of cloak, and spun her to face him. Bejaysus! He jumped back before her glare cut him in half. Her father may have escaped the slums, but he’d passed along his Irish temper. “I’m trying to apologize.”

  “If you hadn’t been so cruel, there’d be no need. How could you bring me here under such mean-spirited pr
etense?”

  Anything he said would stoke her fire. He damn near bit through his lower lip.

  “You lied to me.”

  No amount of contrition would tame that blaze. Where was a bucket of water when he needed one? “At least I didn’t start a brawl at your feet.” Beneath a grimace, he found the grin. “This time.”

  If not for the sudden hint of sparkle in her eyes, he’d have attributed the tiny quirk at her lips to his imagination. She ducked her head and clapped a hand over her mouth.

  A burst of warmth in his chest freed his lungs. The brogue showed up all on its own. “Resist that laugh, why don’t ye? Between the jigs and reels, yer face’ll break.”

  Her gaze rose to the buttons on his jacket. “Irish devil.”

  All right, if she refused to laugh, he’d chuckle for them both. Placing a palm on each of her hips, he waited for her to snap his arms. When she didn’t, he drew her closer. Sage drifted upward, not the roses he remembered. Supper still stretched his belly, yet his mouth watered. “I’ve missed ye, Elizabeth O’Doul.”

  She stared at the front of his coat until he slipped fingertips beneath her chin. A mere touch still filled him with wonder.

  Her head tipped back. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  The words and the moisture glimmering in her lashes struck him harder than any punch.

  ****

  As though she’d slapped him, Brendan shook an odd expression from his face and towed her into the shadows beside the livery. The stockyard stench hanging heavy in the air retreated from the scent of peppermint.

  He swept back the cape’s hood, gaze locking hers with a promise from the past: Someday I’ll be the man ye deserve. When his knuckles wiped a trickle from her cheek, a tingle danced on the back of her neck. “Hey—ye’ll not be cryin’.”

  “I’m not crying.” She sniffled, blinking away tears before any more escaped.

  “If ye told that to an ass, he’d kick ye.” One brow rose above blue that still twinkled with mischief. In her mind, ragged black hair fell into those eyes. Her palm remembered that jaw, her lips remembered those lips…and her ears remembered her father’s curses.