The old man scratched at his stark white beard, his eyebrows making a V in concentration mingled with a bit of offense. “I knew your father was here ‘cuz he worked in the mines. Came to town four weeks ago, lookin’ for a way to make livin’ wage. He was hired on at the mine, and given the plot to build a cabin. Looks like he didn’t do much of anythin’ with the place.” He kicked at the dirt floor and whistled. “I don’t know why any man would settle for a shanty when he coulda hired a few men from the mine to build him a proper cabin. That’s what the land was for.”
Startled by what the man was saying, Pati rubbed at her forehead, the weariness of the past ten months thinning her blood and pressing down on her back. Tired. She was so tired. “So, he bought the land? How is that possible? He’s been drifting from town to town. When did he find time to make that much money?”
The old man shook his head. “Nah, he leased it from Winslet Minin’. As part of the labor contract, he can work under the mountain for any ten-hour shift, and the company will supply him with a plot of land where he can build himself a cabin.”
“He leased it?” she asked, trying to clarify what the man was saying as a way to keep herself from realizing the truth.
The man nodded again. “Each man leases the plot for a month at a time and when he’s done workin’ he can either wait out the lease, leave the lease to expire, or he can buy the plot when he makes enough and decides to make a home here.”
Make a home…of course, her da didn’t want to stay. This place wasn’t home. With Ma gone, no place was home for him.
And now, no place was home for her. Stark anguish pushed through her, reaching into her chest to strangle her heart. She choked on a sob. She’d failed. She’d come so close, once again, only to miss him. How long ago had he left? How close had she come this time?
This time…anger forced the anguish aside and, for a moment, her guilt didn’t have a grip on her heart. For the hundredth time in her life, her da had failed her. He’d spent his life working, leaving her and her ma alone for weeks at a time to sell wool in the larger towns. When her ma died, he’d gone and done the most selfish thing a father could do…he abandoned his daughter—the only family he had left in the world—to go find some “fortune” in America!
What fool notion was that? What was he so hungry for that required him to sacrifice everything he had left to come searching for it in the wilds of America? And why had she given up her life, her home—everything she held dear—to chase after him? The guilt rushed back like a tidal wave—she’d chased him because he was all she had left.
I’m as much of a fool as he is…and she knew this wasn’t the end. Not for her da, and not for her. Not yet.
The old man cleared his throat, pulling her attention back to him. He offered her a gentle smile. “It looks like you might need a place to stay. There’s no hotel in Blessings, but there is a nice house up on the top of the hill. The missus there is hospitable and prolly the best cook in the territory.”
A warm place to sleep? A meal that she didn’t have to cook over a fire fueled by ox droppings? It sounded like heaven.
“I wouldn’t want to be a bother,” she said, reaching for her carpetbag, which the man was still holding.
He pulled the bag back, smiling down at her. “Not a bother at all. I know she’ll welcome the ladylike company.” Pati stared up into the man’s kind, surprisingly intelligent hazel eyes. She couldn’t help but reply with a grin.
“I’m grateful. Thank you.”
With a single nod, the old man started out the door. Pati stopped him with a hand on his elbow. “Wait. I never got your name. I’m Patience O’Connor.”
He chuckled, which came out like the crackling of a blazing fire. He pulled the hat off his head, revealing a crown of thick white hair, a little long over his ears. Bowing with a flair of his arms, he dipped his head. “Good to meet you, Patience O’Connor,” he began, his eyes twinkling devilishly. “I’m Atherton Winslet. Welcome to Blessings.”
Chapter 3
Pete tied Drifter to the post outside Winslet House and tugged nervously on the collar of his button-down cotton shirt—the nicest shirt he owned. He’d rather have come in his more comfortable duds, the same ones he’d worn that day. But after meeting Millie at the mercantile where she was buying coffee and flour, she’d told him that if he wanted to come for supper, he had to wear his best. He scratched his head at that, asking her about the occasion, and she’d hedged, looking a bit sly, and answered, “Winnie invited a guest. So, look nice, and be sure to practice your best smile.” Guest? Pete wasn’t one to do much socializing in town, but he couldn’t think of anyone the Winslet’s would invite to supper that would require him to smile. He didn’t do that much, neither. Growing up in Baltimore, he’d had it up to his forehead with social gatherings and the like. When he’d given all that up to enlist and fight in the Mexican War, he’d realized how pointless it all was. When Death came for you, it didn’t matter how many dances you’d danced, or how many hearts you’d captured, or how much money you had. The only thing that mattered was if you’d made peace with yourself.
And he hadn’t. And he never would.
So, there he stood on the porch of Winslet House, in his best shirt and least dirty trousers, and knocked on the door. Waiting for the door to open, Pete ran his fingers through his freshly-washed hair, making sure the black locks covered the scar and his ear. He’d been glad to be invited to supper and while he didn’t care much for visitors, he didn’t want to scare off any guests the Winslets had cared enough to share a meal with.
Muffled voices sounded from the other side, then footsteps, and the door opened to Millie’s smiling face.
“Mr. Jones, come on in. Supper’s almost ready,” she said, her voice louder than Pete thought necessary for a simple greeting. Nodding, Pete waited for Millie to step aside, and then he walked inside. The heat of the wood burning stove and the smell of baking bread hit him like a long-desired welcome. He nearly groaned, the need to taste Millie’s freshly-baked bread making his mouth water—as it always did.
Across the threshold, Pete turned and shut the door behind him, then turned again to take in the room. Winslet House was the biggest house in Blessings. As the owners of the mines and the land around them, the Winslets were wealthy people—but you wouldn’t know that from the humble home they kept. Though large, the house was comfortable inside and simple outside. The two-story building boasted of a wraparound porch covered with a slanted roof. Framed with oak but covered in white pine boards, the house easily picked up the mud on rainy days and red clay dust on dry days, but, otherwise, it was well maintained. A single red door welcomed guests. Two windows, one on each side of the front of the house, allowed the Winslets to watch over their town from up on their private hill. Pete knew there was a small two horse stable out back, but the Winslets only owned a single horse, a mare named Sweet Wind. She was a gift from the neighboring Miwok tribe, a people who’d been in that area of the Sierra Nevadas since before white men ever set foot in America. Though Atherton bought the land through legitimate means, he understood that the native people didn’t believe land could be owned. Since he didn’t want bad blood between him, future settlers, and the tribe, he offered to keep his operations on the south side of the river. Which meant that the mine on the north side of the river was left to the Miwoks, who could use the gold or leave it. That also meant that, as the mine security man, it was up to him to make sure no wayward miners, looking to score under Winslet’s nose, trespassed on the Miwok’s mine and stole what belonged to the tribe. Thankfully, Pete wasn’t alone in the work, though he wasn’t sure he could be all that appreciative of the Bairds, one of which was sitting on a chair just inside the sitting room off the entryway.
Ben was smiling like a fool, dressed to the nines, and talking animatedly with someone Pete couldn’t see from where he was standing. Though he’d only known him for five months, Pete had never seen Ben so…cheerful before—and he’d seen the
man drunk, as happy as a loopy mule, and grinning ear to ear about nothing at all.
“You go on in. I’m just finishin’ up supper,” Millie said before spinning on her heel—which was rather spritely for a woman of her age, though he didn’t know how old Millie was—and disappeared through a swinging door into the kitchen. The scents of cooking game, fresh bread, and something else drifted through the door and to his nose just as the door shut behind her. Long without a proper meal, aside from the biscuits and dried beef he’d made, his stomach chose that moment to cry out in its distress.
The conversation in the other room stopped immediately. Ben turned to look at him, the grin dying on his face. “Well, I shoulda known that growling noise could only come from Pete Jones,” he said, his lips forming a sneer. It was a look Pete had never seen on the man before.
Pinning the upstart with a narrow-eyed glare, he clenched his fists and strode through the entryway into the small sitting room, which held more chairs than people. Three overstuffed chairs were shoved into corners, and three more chairs were placed in a semi-circle around the potbellied stove which was installed in the wall toward the middle of the room so that the whole of the space could be heated in the cold winter months.
Once inside the room, Pete could finally see what had turned Ben from the playful man of a second before into the snarling bear. A woman. And not just any woman, a troublesome one. She hadn’t even opened her mouth to speak yet, and he already knew she would be a thorn in his side. Her bright yet soft green eyes, shone with intelligence and curiosity. Her light brown hair was worn much too short for his liking, coming down to barely brush against the bottoms of her ears. It was loose, falling in soft waves like a crown around her head. Her nose was much too long and much too sharp, like an arrow pointing straight down to two of the prettiest lips he’d ever seen.
Yup. Trouble.
“Ben, I trust you finished your rounds before coming here,” Pete said, chaffing at the way the woman was looking at him so frankly. She didn’t even try to hide the fact that she was staring.
Ben stood, glaring at him, pride and arrogance written in the way he held his shoulders and thinned his lips. “Course I did. It’s my job, ain’t it?”
Pete held up a hand. “It is. And my job is to make sure you do your job, Mr. Baird.” Pete didn’t like the boy’s tone, especially when there was someone there to witness the flat insubordination. And he told himself it didn’t matter if that someone was a pretty woman. His men should know better than to speak to him with such familiarity when there were civilians present.
You aren’t in the army any more, a scratchy voice in his head reminded him. But no matter the reminder—or the thousands of them he’d bludgeoned himself with over the last four years, he couldn’t shake what the army had branded into his heart and mind.
And it was breaking him up, piece by piece. Just like that bullet had…
The tension in the room thickened as Pete and Ben glared at one another. Pete didn’t really know why he was being such a sharp tooth. From the moment he walked through the door of Winslet House, he’d felt on edge, as if he needed to guard himself against a coming danger. Except, the only dangerous things in the room were the guns on his hips. Guns he never went without.
The unknown woman cleared her throat and offered Ben a smile. “Mr. Baird, I believe you were telling me about your trip west,” the woman said, her voice a husky caress of silk over his ears. Her accent was one he’d heard back east, but he knew she was from much farther away than that.
Millie appeared beside him, wiping her hands on the white apron she’d donned since leaving him before. “Well, looks like supper is ready. Pete, why don’t you come and help an old woman get the food to the table?” Pete knew better than to assume Millie Winslet was asking. So, without a glance at either the bothersome Ben or the intriguing woman, he turned and followed Millie through the door into the kitchen.
Before he could even take a deep, bread-scented breath, Millie was on him like white on a doe’s tail. “Pete Jones, what’s gotten into you, walkin’ into my house and makin’ my guests feel like the mud on the heel of your boots?” Millie had planted her small hands on her wide hips, and her eyes were flashing up at him from her not quite five-foot frame. “I didn’t let you come to supper so you could turn my evenin’ into a wrestlin’ match over that young woman.”
Startled at the direction of Millie’s thoughts, he stepped back, holding his hands up as if in surrender. “Whoa there, Millie. I have no intention of wrestling anyone for that woman. I don’t even know her name let alone find myself nursing some interest in her,” he said, though he didn’t know how true that statement was. That fancy-accented woman was interesting, but not that interesting. Certainly not interesting enough to make him want to dirty up his best shirt getting into a scuffle with Benjamin Baird.
Millie’s expression turned piercing, her nose scrunching up as it often did when she was looking at something she didn’t like. He stood there, waiting for her to swallow whatever had put that bad taste into her mouth. When she finally heaved a heavy sigh and shrugged, he relaxed. But only a little.
“Here.” Millie pointed to the cast iron pot on the cook stove, then tossed him two rough linen towels. “Carry that pot there into the dinin’ room and put it on the table. I’ll just cut up the bread and bring that in right behind you.” He didn’t need any prodding to get the work done, especially if there was Millie’s bread as an incentive. Wrapping the towels around the pot handles, he easily lifted the pot and carried it into the dining room, which was really an alcove off the kitchen. There was an oblong table, about five feet long, and six chairs, all pushed in real close together. It was apparent that the table wasn’t meant for so many people, but Millie was determined to make it work.
He bent and placed the pot on the center of the table, but not before maneuvering one of the towels beneath it so it wouldn’t scorch the top of the lovingly polished, dark wood table.
The sound of the front door opening made Pete turn toward the front of the house. The dining room wasn’t connected to the entry or the sitting room, one had to walk all the way through the kitchen to get there. The back door was there, on the other side of the table, beside a short table that held what looked like unfinished knitting.
“Ho!” A voice Pete recognized as Mr. Winslet’s called through the house. The loud greeting was followed by softer, more pleasant tones. But from where Pete was in the house, he couldn’t make out what was being said. Mr. Winslet was probably welcoming Ben and that strange woman, and giving Millie a kiss on her cheek. And Pete felt like a round peg in the square hole, utterly out of his element and trying not to let the sense of home and warmth and family chip away at the fortified wall in his cold, empty chest.
I can’t hide here forever, he thought, though what he really wanted to do was pocket some of Millie’s bread and make his way back to the security office to check on Travis Markham, Billy Westland, and the newest hire, Brandon Fickus, an infantry man, used to battle, but not so good at making small talk. Just like Pete. He’d known he liked and trusted the man on first sight, but he’d be shot dead before he’d admit that to anyone.
The sound of boots coming down hallway to the kitchen finally presented Atherton Winslet’s smiling face and glimmering eyes. Did the man ever not grin? Pete supposed he’d never stop smiling either if he lived atop a mountain of his own gold. Not that Pete cared much for gold, but the ease of living one could find with piles of gold to spend was certainly appealing. He’d buy his own land further up in the mountains, and he’d never have to work another day for anyone else.
It was a good dream, a dream he was determined to fulfill once he’d made enough working for Mr. Winslet.
“Why’re you hidin’ back here? I figured you’d be in the sittin’ room with Ben and Miss O’Connor.” O’Connor? So, the troublesome woman had a last name…not that it mattered to him any.
“Millie asked me to help her get supper on the t
able,” Pete said, indicating the pot. “I just didn’t see a point to go back in there when in here was much less…”
“Uncomfortable?” Mr. Winslet offered, his white eyebrows arched.
Pete shook his head, ready to disagree with the man, but what was the point? He was right. “Yes. Ben was acting not himself, and you know I don’t do well with…guests.” That was an understatement if he’d ever spoken one. Pete never had guests, never spoke a word to another townsperson who wasn’t directly related to his current task, and never spent more time in town than absolutely necessary. He preferred his privacy. And there was nothing wrong with it…except when it made him so awkward around pretty women that he turned into a growling beast in his employer’s home.
“I don’t s’pose you could be persuaded to be charmin’ tonight?” Mr. Winslet asked, his gaze turning from playful to serious in an instant. It was a look Pete had learned well, one he respected.
But could he be charming? Not likely. But for Mr. Winslet, he’d sure try. “I suppose I could be less…”
“Grumbly,” Mr. Winslet volunteered, and Pete nodded. Mr. Winslet grinned again and, this time, Pete was forced to reply in kind, pulling his own rusty smile out of his bag of facial expressions. Mr. Winslet grimaced. “Hoo, Son, did you eat somethin’ sour?”
Letting out a rush of air, Pete rubbed at the bridge of his nose. So, he wasn’t all that good at smiling, at least not forced smiling. At least not any more. “That’s the best I got,” Pete replied, feeling a mite humiliated at his lack of a simple, polite expression.
“What’re you two yammerin’ about in here?” Millie came through the door into the dining alcove with a basket of bread in her hands. The small cotton towel over the top of it to keep it warm did nothing to stymy the wafting scents as they carried across the small room. His stomach gurgled, eager to lay waste to that delicious smelling offering.
The Blessed Bride Page 3