Millie paused, then a slow smile spread across her work-flushed face. “I must say, I’ve never heard a man’s belly say more words than his mouth.”
Mr. Winslet chuckled and, just then, Ben and Miss O’Connor came into view. Ben had his hand at Miss O’Connor’s back, and Miss O’Connor looked right out of sorts. Her cheeks were just as flushed as Millie’s but Pete suspected for a wholly different reason.
“Ben,” Pete snapped, his gaze purposely dropping to where Ben’s hand was nestled against the small of the woman’s back. It was unseemly and highly inappropriate for a strange man to take such liberties with a woman…and it rankled that it was Ben taking such liberties, and not him.
Swallowing the curse his mind conjured, he forced himself to leave Ben and the pert Miss O’Connor be. Let the woman handle it. It was none of his business.
Turning from the couple, he made his way to the other side, the further side, of the table and waited for Millie and Miss O’Connor to be seated. Ben and Mr. Winslet soon followed the ladies’ lead, then he sat after that. Scraping his chair across the floor, Mr. Winslet settled in and pinned Ben with a stern look. “Why don’t you say grace, Mr. Baird. Thank the Lord for His provisions and for His mercies, and for His patience with poor, sorry, much too forward louts.” Ben’s face turned a rash-colored red, and Millie sputtered but said nothing. Pete glanced at her to find her eyes dancing behind her expression of faux exasperation.
Curiously drawn to Miss O’Connor, his gaze moved to her, and the look of uncertainty in her emerald eyes made his heart stutter. He rubbed at his chest, uncomfortable with the feelings just looking at this woman could haul up. She dipped her face and clasped her hands, preparing for the meal prayer, but he found he couldn’t move to follow suit. He was too busy watching her face as she slowly closed her eyes. Her lashes were a darker brown than her hair, and her eyebrows were perfect arches over wide eyes. And as Ben cleared his throat and began his prayer, Pete continued to watch the woman seated in between Ben and Mr. Winslet, who sat at the head of the table to Pete’s left. When Ben’s prayer came to a rushed close—though, to be honest, Pete hadn’t heard a word of it—he watched as Miss O’Connor opened her eyes, pinning him to the spot with eyes so lustrous he could have sworn she’d been crying.
Chapter 4
Pati fought the urge to kick the man under the table, though he could do with a swift kick for what he’d said to sweet Ben when he’d first arrived. Despite not knowing Ben for longer than an hour, he’d shown more charm than the other, darker man seemed to have in the whole of him. Whoever that man was, he was trouble. Pati could tell from the swagger with which he walked through the door, the guns at his hips, the length of his black as pitch hair, and the black of his bedeviling eyes. The man was about as hard as Irish granite and about as cold as it, too. But that didn’t stop Pati from sneaking glances at the man from across the table while they all ate the food Mrs. Winslet had prepared.
When he’d first stepped through the entry into the sitting room where she’d been resting and chatting with the newly introduced Benjamin Baird, she couldn’t help but notice how tall he was; his head barely cleared the top of the doorway, and his shoulders nearly filled the opening with their breadth. He was a large man, an imposing man, and his intense black eyes had come to land upon her like a boulder on a bug. Though he’d only glanced at her for a mere moment, she could feel the weight of his dislike in an instant, and she hated him for it. Who took one look at someone and disliked them on the spot? That man did, that’s who. And if she was honest, she’d done the same, but only after he’d glowered at Ben, practically damned her in her seat, and then growled about Ben getting his work done. So, they disliked each other. Inwardly shrugging, she picked up her spoon, scooped up a piece of meat from her bowl of stew, and blew on it. Steaming venison stew was a new meal for her, but she found she liked the gaminess of the meat, the crunch of the carrots and the chew of the potatoes, all of which were luxury items during her trip westward.
“Delicious, Missus Millie,” Ben said, his smile showing his appreciation as a bit of gravy smeared his chin.
“Thank you, Ben. Nothin’ but a bit of venison and some garden veggie-tables Ed had at the mercantile. I’m much too old to be growin’ my own goods, you know.” Millie—as the woman had demanded Pati call her—grinned, pride and humor beaming from her face.
“I’ve always loved your food, Missus Millie,” Ben cooed, spooning another bite of stew into his mouth.
“I can see that, boy. Best pace yourself before you blow your gut,” Mr. Winslet—Atherton—said, a smirk on his face. “And you got a lil’ somethin’ there—” He pointed to the spot on Ben’s chin where his previous bite of stew was still lingering.
Ben’s face flamed red, and he wiped at the spot with his sleeve. “Sorry.”
Throughout the exchange, the other man, who still hadn’t had the polite grace to introduce himself, sat watching everyone. She wasn’t a fool, she knew the man was eyeing her when she wasn’t looking. Then again, she’d been looking at him, too. She couldn’t help it. The man was a rude cur, but he was also the most darkly handsome man she’d ever seen.
Black hair, black eyes, wide lips, square jaw, strong chin…if she was a woman of lesser morals, she’d have eyed him more openly. But that wasn’t her, so she snuck glances.
Yer just short of becomin’ a strumpet, she chided herself, forcing her gaze to remain on the other three at the table. But that man diagonal from her had other ideas.
“Millie, Mr. Winslet, thank you for the meal,” the man said, pushing his chair back as it made a screeching across the floor. He stood, his gaze flicking to her for a moment, before returning to the head of the table.
Atherton began to push his chair back to stand, but the stranger raised a hand to stay him. “No, stay and enjoy your meal. I can see myself out.” He tossed his napkin on the table beside his completely empty bowl, and turned to stride from the room without a backward glance. He was leaving? Just like that?
Good riddance.
“Pete Jones, you get back in here and sit down. It isn’t polite to leave the table afore everyone has finished eatin’. Besides, I haven’t had a chance to introduce you to our guest.”
Pati straightened, suddenly very against that idea. “There’s no need to—”
“Hush, girl. I was so busy makin’ supper, I plain forgot to introduce the two of you proper.” Millie stood, patted Pati on the hand, and floated to where the man stood, glowering at Pati.
She pulled her shoulders back and gave him what she got.
“Now,” Millie said, gripping the man by his elbow and leading him back to the table. “Pete Jones, this is Miss Patience O’Connor from Ireland.” Millie pronounced Ireland as two words. Pati pushed back her chair and stood, as was expectedly polite. She dipped a curtsy, which was more than the man deserved, and extended a hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jones,” she offered in a flat tone that hinted at her actual lack of pleasure.
Mr. Jones quirked an eyebrow. He looked down at her extended hand, slowly reached out, and enveloped her much smaller hand in a strong grip. His fingers were rough and his palm was warm. Pati couldn’t remember ever feeling a hand as…interesting as his. The feel of his rough skin over hers made her hand tremble in his. To hide her shame, she pulled her hand away as quickly as she could, but not before the callused pad of his thumb slid over hers. Was that her imagination or had the man actually tightened his grip just before letting her pull her hand away?
“Pleased to meet you, Miss O’Connor,” Mr. Jones drawled, his voice like the rumble of a river rushing for the edge of a cliff. His words said one thing, but the glint of steel in his eyes said the opposite. Again, Pati was struck by the man’s animosity toward her—and she’d hadn’t said more than six words to him!
No matter. His issues with ye are not yer issues with him. Leave him be, and make the most of the evenin’, she told herself. So, she rubbed the hand he touc
hed against her thigh and turned back to sit down at the table again. She hadn’t finished her stew and, after long weeks of picking at the scraps of other people’s meals, she was eager to taste something good and fill her belly. She was determined to worry about tomorrow in the morning, when tomorrow could no longer be denied.
Millie, unaware of Pati’s determination to forget the man, continued the introduction. “Mr. Jones here is the man in charge of mine security. Also, he’s been known to toss a drunk or two outta the saloon for Miss Ellie—you met her earlier, I hear.” Pati remembered the brightly-colored woman, and nodded.
“Yes, I did. She is…difficult to forget,” she replied, grinning slightly.
Atherton cackled, slapping the table. “You can say that again!” Ben and Millie joined in on the laughter. Pati watched as Mr. Jones stiffened, his gaze avoiding every other person in the room. It was almost as if he were holding himself apart, while still being present. What was his problem with people? If he was in charge of mine security, certainly Atherton trusted him enough to do the work. From what she’d gathered during the earlier confrontation, she knew that Ben worked for him. So, if Mr. Jones was capable enough to hold Atherton’s trust, why did it seem like he couldn’t trust himself?
Pati cleared her throat, hoping to snag Mr. Jones’ attention, if even for a moment. She didn’t know why, but she needed to see into his eyes, to see what lay behind that granite expression and jet-colored gaze. When her noise did little more than make him flinch, she sighed and reached for the glass of water in front of her bowl. She sipped the water and, while she did, she listened as Mr. Jones inched closer to the door.
He didn’t make it far before Millie noticed. “If you’re gonna go, go,” she said, sighing. “I just wish you’d spend a lil’ more time in town. You don’t get many visitors out there at the mine.”
Mr. Jones raised an eyebrow and met Millie’s gaze. “I don’t live at the mine. Besides that, I like not having many visitors. I like the quiet.”
Making a disgusted noise, Ben stood. “Well, if you’re going to leave, I guess I should, too.” Ben came around the table and took Pati’s hand in his. His hands were rough and warm, too. But they did nothing to excite her nerves…not like Mr. Jones’ had. “Miss O’Connor, I pray you’ll get some rest and that you’ll find time to let me come and visit with you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? She blinked, unsure how to answer. She had no idea what she was going to do tomorrow. She supposed she could ask around more about her da, perhaps find someone who knew where he’d gone. And then…then what? She’d pack up her one other dress, her brush and bar of soap, and try to find her way to wherever it was her da had run off to? She couldn’t keep chasing after him, not without money. She was nearly a pauper, exhausted. But for the first time in months, she wasn’t starving. Tomorrow, she’d still be nearly penniless, she’d hopefully be less exhausted, and Lord knew whether or not she’d find a thing to eat that didn’t come from these much too generous people. For certain, she wouldn’t impose on the Winslets again. She couldn’t expect them to feed her and house her for as long as she was in Blessings—however long that would be. Perhaps she could find a way to lease her da’s shanty from Atherton. No…tomorrow, she’d be too busy trying to figure out her own survival to spend any time with Benjamin Baird.
“Mr. Baird, I’m afraid I have much to do tomorrow,” was all she said, and she hoped he left it at that. She didn’t need to share more of her business with these virtual strangers. She’d already told Atherton too much, though, he did seem the trustworthy type.
Offering her the semblance of a hurt puppy’s expression, Ben nodded. “I’ll see you around town then.”
Her gaze flicked to Mr. Jones, standing in the entryway waiting for Ben…staring at her. She barely held back a grunt of disapproval. “Mr. Jones…goodnight.”
He tipped his head to her and disappeared, a frowning Ben following after him.
“Well, I don’t know if that man has a friend in the world,” Millie said the moment the door shut on her two other guests.
Atherton sighed heavily, and Pati moved to the edge of her seat. Her mind was on Mr. Jones and all that had transpired during this short, tense visit. She had to agree with Millie…Mr. Jones didn’t seem the friendly type.
“I don’t think he wants ‘em, dear,” Atherton replied, then spooned another bite of stew into his mouth. He chewed silently, slowly, as if he were chewing his thoughts as well.
“I’m sorry if my presence was a bother to him,” Pati said honestly. She never liked to stir the pot, as her da would often say. She much preferred to sit on the outside and look in, which was one reason she’d taken up sewing. Yes, most women sewed, but she had a particular affinity for it. She could stitch the most difficult seam, could make her own stitches disappear into the fabric, and she could sew even the most elaborate dress designs without a single mistake. Also, when one sewed dresses, they rarely had to speak with anyone. Which was probably, if she were really honest with herself, why she was having such a problem now. Had she said something to Mr. Jones that he’d construed as insulting? Thinking back, she couldn’t remember saying a word to the man, though she had spoken to Ben, bringing him back into their conversation as a way to defuse the tension growing between the two men at Mr. Jones’ instigation.
Millie dipped a bit of bread into her stew and took a bite, seeming to ignore Pati’s words.
“You didn’t bother him, dear. Pete Jones has always been a quiet, hard man—at least as long as I’ve known him.” Atherton’s usually sharp gaze became hazy, his eyes looking faraway. “But I have a feelin’ he’s been battlin’ somethin’ for a long while. Dunno what it is, and I don’t think it would do much good to pick at him ‘bout it.”
Wise words, Pati agreed to herself.
“Well, now that you’ve had a taste of my stew, what do you think?” Millie asked. She completely took Pati from her thoughts with a turn of the topic.
Swallowing her last bite of stew, Pati wiped at her mouth and smiled. “It was just as delicious as Ben said it was. I’ve never had venison before. In Ireland and much of England, we ate quite a lot of mutton. If it wasn’t prepared right, it would become chewy and tough.”
Millie nodded. “Sounds like venison. I tenderize the meat with some salt wash, then I fry it in a sizzlin’ hot pan before I cut it up and put it into the stew pot.”
“Yep. My Millie is the best cook in these parts,” Atherton said, beaming at his wife, who beamed right back.
Now that the meal was over, Pati didn’t know what to do. The Winslets had given her a room upstairs, where Atherton had taken her carpetbag, but Pati didn’t want to leave the two like Mr. Jones and Ben had. According to Mistress Eloise, one didn’t leave the table until given express permission by one’s hosts. And since neither Millie nor Atherton looked ready to leave the table, Pati felt stuck.
“Dear, I think we should let Miss O’Connor get upstairs and rest,” Millie said, her keen eyes telling Pati that the other woman had sensed Pati’s dilemma. Thanking her with a brief smile, Pati stood and excused herself before turning and leaving the room. She made her way through the small kitchen and into the main hall—really a small entryway—where the stairs were situated. But where was her room located? Gripping the bridge of her nose, she groaned. Why hadn’t she thought to ask that before leaving the dining room?
“Second door on the right,” Millie called from the other side of the house, again sensing Pati’s dilemma.
Smiling to herself, Pati lit a lamp and made her way up the stairs, which were sanded and stained wood. The bannister was a stained wood that gleamed in the lamplight. Pati opened the door and entered a small yet comfortable room. The bed was about as wide a one and a half people, and it was covered with a tremendously comfortable looking white counterpane. Other than the bed, the room held a small desk, a single chair, and a chest of drawers with a small vanity mirror sitting atop it. She noticed her carpetbag on the floor, leaning ag
ainst a bedside table where a single lantern sat, burning low enough to cast light without burning through the oil too quickly.
She moved further into the room, doused the lamp in her hands. Pati then turned and slowly, quietly shut the door.
As if the door held back the weight of her troubles, the click of the latch brought with it a wearying revelation: tonight, she had a warm bed and a full belly, but tomorrow…she’d be as she had been for months; homeless, uncertain, and hungry.
But at least I still have hope, a faint, and ever fainter, voice said, as the prickle of tears stung her eyes. Oh, Da…
Chapter 5
Pati drew her less dirty dress, the only other dress she owned, on over her stays and chemise, and finished buttoning the bodice. The dress, a Merino wool in dark blue, was close to its last days. The hem was so tattered from wear and mud and walking over rough plains that, if she were to turn the hem, again, there would be barely any fabric left there to cover her ankles. The sleeves were little better. The bottoms were ragged from where they’d snagged on the wood she’d gathered for kindling, and stained from the piles of buffalo and oxen chips she’d had to gather for fire fuel. There were a few times the “chips” weren’t completely dry, which meant she’d get the wet, smelly mess on her clothes. Not that any of the other women doing the same thing complained about it. So, she didn’t either. She knew her survival depended on the group. And though she’d paid more than one hundred American dollars to ride along with the train in one of the supply wagons, she was expected to pull her own weight. And that meant gathering wood, “chips”, and water. It was back-breaking, spirit-killing work, but it meant that she was that much closer to her da. Every day, every mile…she was that much closer to the end of her travails.
At least, that’s what she’d told herself to keep herself going on those excruciatingly hot days, where the water they’d collected had been drank, and the hunting was scarce, and the food they’d brought along didn’t stretch as far. It was hard, grueling, and lonely…but she knew she’d do it all over again if it meant finding her wayward da.
The Blessed Bride Page 4