Liam O’Connor, where have ye gone?
Fully dressed, she arched her back, hoping to roll some of the tension from her frame. Every inch of her aching body clamored for her to get back into the bed and sleep. But she couldn’t sleep, hadn’t slept much the night before. Her thoughts in turmoil, her emotions in upheaval, she couldn’t close her eyes without Mr. Jones’ dark eyes appearing in her mind.
Pati hadn’t really spoken to Mr. Jones. And he hadn’t said more than a few words to her. But what he had said—or rather his voice, had stuck with her, sliding through her to bury itself in the midst of her thoughts. The dratted man! She needed her rest, but he’d seen to ruining that by just walking into a room and speaking. What had become of her, that a man could bring her such unease and confusion?
As her thoughts tumbled around in her head, she made use of the quiet morning to repack her few remaining belongings; her dirtier dress, her other set of worn underthings, her brush, her soap—she’d been thankful to have the soap earlier when she washed up for the first time in a week—and her only bonnet. She’d wear it, but it was so thread-worn that it was too floppy to keep the sun off her face. Pati knew she should just throw it out, but…it was one of the last things she’d brought with her from home. It felt like…if she threw it away, she was tossing the last bit of her heritage in the rubbish. She couldn’t do that, even though her own da had. He’d cast aside his family, his ancestral home, his ministry as a respected man in the community, and fled—he ran like the hounds of hell were at his heels, and why? Why did he leave behind everything to run to America? Because he’d sought a fortune. Swearing under her breath, she determined to bring him home, even if it meant giving up everything; giving up her fledgling career as a governess for the daughters of a noble household in London, to endure a Da chase in the American West.
She stared down at her hands gripping the handles of her carpetbag, and the newest wave of uncertainty crashed over her. Where would she go now? What would she do? She didn’t know where her da went next and, even if she did, she didn’t have enough money to feed her belly and pay her way.
The weight of it all…the truth of it all…
I’m stuck here. The reality of her situation, the hideousness of her circumstances, bludgeoned her with an invisible hammer. Gasping, she dropped onto the bed, her legs buckling. The carpetbag slipped from her hands and landed with a thump.
The blood rushed from her face and into her chest, where it pressed down on her heart, squeezing the air from her lungs. She was well and truly stuck in the mountains of California, in a town she’d found by chance. In a town where—from what she’d seen, or not seen—the men outnumbered the women twenty to one. She was a novelty even at the best of times. But now that she was there, in the middle of nowhere, alone…she couldn’t fathom what would become of her.
She sucked in a deep breath and blinked the burning wetness from her eyes. She stared ahead at her reflection in the mirror. Brown waves tucked behind her ears, her hair was as neat as she could make it with as short as it was. She’d shorn it during the journey west because the heat and the pests and the bother had become too much. In London, where long hair was the fashion, and even in Cork where long, dark hair was as common as green grass, she’d relished in her locks—something she’d inherited from her ma. She missed the soft waves that had cascaded over her shoulders, down her back, and to her bottom. It had nearly killed her to cut her hair short, but needs must…
A humorless laugh escaped her lips. Needs must…it’s what her life had been reduced to. And she only had herself to blame. Why didn’t I just let him go? Why couldn’t I just him go? Why didn’t I just go when I first got his letter askin’ me to come home? She beat herself with the questions until the tears burning behind her eyes slipped free. She dashed them away with the back of her hand and shot to her feet.
Crying wouldn’t solve her problems, only she could do that. And…needs must. She had to find someone who’d spoken to her da, someone who knew where he’d gone. Then, she’d worry about getting there. But first, she had to go downstairs, thank her hosts for their hospitality, and walk out of the first place she’d felt safe and comfortable since leaving her small two room flat in London. It couldn’t be helped; the Winslets were wonderful people, but they didn’t need to worry about putting up a complete stranger in their home.
But there wasn’t a hotel or boarding house in Blessings. Her choices were dwindling faster than the sunlight on a winter’s day. The desire to give up and give in flashed through her. But she dug down deep, sucked in a slow, heavy breath, held it, and then pushed up off the bed. She exhaled, expelling the breath and, hopefully, the doubts with it.
Ma didn’t raise a quitter. And her da needed her…and she needed him. He was all she had left. She’d endured so far, she would continue to do so, no matter what it took.
Before she lost her nerve, she opened the bedroom door and made her way down the stairs to the entryway. The house was warm, the air was scented with bread and bacon, and her stomach lurched in hunger.
“Quiet down, you,” she grumbled to her belly. While the scents were tantalizing, the idea of taking food from the mouths of her hosts turned her stomach. She hadn’t been raised to be a parasite, and she wouldn’t start now, not when she still had a few dollars. And she knew from Ben that there was beef and biscuits at the saloon—and she’d already met Ellie, the proprietress. Would it really be so difficult to buy a few pieces of dried beef and hardtack biscuits, and make them last a few days? Weeks? The thought of stretching wee bits of food that long made her heart race, but she refused to let that quell her determination. She’d eaten less on the journey to California—and she’d eaten worse. Cabbage soup came to mind, and she cringed. She hated cabbage with a passion that could burn the clouds from the sky.
The front door, just a few steps away, looked more like the gateway to Perdition than a simple hardwood door. Just beyond that door was doubt, fear, discomfort, loneliness, and possible death. She shuddered, her breath catching. Could she do it? Could she really give up what she’d been given with the Winslets to attempt to make it on her own, again? What if she couldn’t find anyone who knew where her da had gone? What of her da? What of her? She’d die, alone, guilt-ridden, desperate…
“Lawd, child, you look like you’re ‘bout to jump into a ragin’ river—all white-knuckled and stiff as a board,” Millie said, coming to stand beside Pati. Sitting like a numb lump in the entryway, Pati hadn’t heard the woman approaching. Millie was wearing a white apron over her simple brown dress. The woman’s faded brown hair was pinned back in two thin braids that circled her head like a coronet. Millie’s hazel eyes were bright, brimming with concern, and boring into her like a needle looking for a finger to prick. “Now, I know you got a lot of thinkin’ and plannin’ to do, but you don’t need to face it like a skittish mare facin’ down a pack of ky-yotes.”
Pati blinked down at the diminutive woman who seemed five feet taller in that moment, and forced herself to relax. She loosened her hold on her carpetbag and let it hang limply from her fingers. “I’ve been doing just fine so far,” Pati said, nearly cringing at the untruth in her words. Had she really done fine? The ache in her belly, the pinch in her shoulders, the weight in her chest—all signs she was just about as worn down as her dress. But she couldn’t just stop. Stopping meant giving up on Da. She wasn’t ready to stop.
“There’s bacon and biscuits in the kitchen, iffin you’re hungry,” Millie said, her gaze dropping to Pati’s belly, probably eyeing her slender frame with pity.
The thought of Millie’s food in her belly was a beautiful thought, but it was also troubling. Pride wrung out her response. “No, thank you, Millie. I’ll head down to the saloon and get something there. I can’t tarry too long, I have a lot of plans to make.” Plans like finding her da, magically conjuring up more money, and finding a way to use that magical money to get her from Blessings to wherever Da had run to. Weariness pressed down on her.
Millie raised a single eyebrow, her eyes narrowing in thought. “I think that afore you go makin’ any plans, you go talk with Winnie. He’s at the mercantile; he’s got a little office set up in the back there. He might have some information for you.”
Millie’s words plucked at something in Pati, and the uncertainty ebbed just a mite.
Nodding, Pati offered Millie a smile. “Thank you, I will.” Before Millie could turn back and head toward the kitchen, Pati halted her with a gentle hand to the old woman’s shoulder. “And thank you for letting me rest for a bit under your roof. I appreciate it more than I could ever tell you.” The Winslets had offered more than just food and a bed, they offered comfort and hope—two things she hadn’t truly felt in a long time.
Millie’s face brightened. “You’re welcome, girl. Be sure to come on back. Don’t be a stranger now that you’re family.” Pati didn’t have time to remark on the woman’s words before Millie hurried away, disappearing through the door at the end of the short hallway.
Stunned and a little chagrined, Pati could only tighten her grip on her carpetbag and open the door—that same door that terrified her moments before didn’t seem so ominous now.
Pati could only hope Atherton had information about her da, but that didn’t solve her other problems. Straightening her shoulders, she stepped through the door and closed it softly behind her.
She’d take the day one problem at a time, just as she took each breath.
Chapter 6
Pete rolled his shoulders, the ache of another night of restless sleep taking its toll on his weary, worn body. His bedroll on the thin cot in the corner of the room off the mine security office wasn’t doing him any favors, but he didn’t need much else. He’d had the soft cotton-filled beds, the silky sheets, and the goose down pillows, and none of that had helped rid him of the nightmares. The coppery taste of blood, the acrid scent of gun powder, the screams of dying men, the boom of cannons, and the shriek of women and children…when the sun set, and his weariness dared turn to slumber, the echoes of the past awoke, rabid, angry, and unforgiving.
Having already completed his first round of patrols, he’d headed into town to see Mr. Winslet. He needed to give his report on the goings-on at the mines that morning, and…well, he needed to apologize for being such a hind end at dinner the night before. He didn’t have an excuse for his actions; his rudeness toward Ben, his dislike of Miss O’Connor, and his criminal lack of appetite for Millie’s food. He’d cleaned his bowl, but he could’ve gone back for seconds of the venison stew if he hadn’t made his own belly fill with bitter acid.
What was wrong with him that he couldn’t sit at a table with polite folks and have a normal conversation? Would it have been so difficult to speak cordially, if a little awkwardly, to Miss O’Connor? No. He’d taken one look at the woman and immediately felt on guard, as if she were a danger to him. Trouble. She was trouble. He didn’t know why his mind had labeled her thus. But by the glint of fire in her eyes when she’d stared him down, his first impression was correct.
Thankfully, he wouldn’t have much to do with her, since she was just passing through. He didn’t want trouble in Blessings…even if she was prettier than any woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Something hot slammed into his gut; longing, desire…things he’d buried with his men at Fort Brown. Things he’d lost after getting shot in the head.
Groaning, rubbing his forehead, he dismounted from Drifter and tied him to the post outside Ed Mosier’s mercantile. One of the first buildings erected in Blessings, it wasn’t much more than a clapboard box, but it was just large enough to carry most of the supplies the townspeople needed, as well as a small space in the back where Mr. Winslet had set up the mining office. A man of little interest in numbers and such, Mr. Winslet didn’t care much for the business side of Winslet Mining Co., but he knew that, in order for the town to flourish and his own fortune to grow, he needed to put some effort into being the “boss”—he’d said as much when he first hired Pete, three years ago. The man just hadn’t gotten around to putting up an official mining office, where he could manage the gold exchange, land leasing for the miners, and land purchasing for anyone interested in planting roots in Blessings. Pete knew Mr. Winslet was planning to bring in a lawyer to deal with the legal end of things, but he’d been putting it off for as long as Pete had been there.
Stepping up into the short boardwalk in front of the mercantile building, Pete removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. The interior of the mercantile was dim, with little light coming in through the single window. His eyes had to adjust to the gloom before he could proceed. In the few seconds he stood in the doorway, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He shuddered, the feeling of encroaching doom running roughshod over his senses. He knew better than to ignore such foreboding. But until he could see the danger, he didn’t know what to do about it. Grunting, he put one boot in front of the other and wound his way around the shelves lined with goods to the very back of the building. There was one more window back here, and Mr. Winslet sat right in front of it, his back hunched, and his head ducked, squinting at something just in front of him on the desk. Made of nothing more than shipping crates nailed together, the boss’ desk wasn’t as imposing or fancy as one would assume the owner of a profitable mining company would use. But, it was just as Pete expected Atherton Winslet’s desk to be: practical, no frills—just like the man himself.
As he strode forward, Mr. Winslet looked up, smiling as he caught sight of Pete.
“Come on over, Pete. I was expectin’ you.” The man pulled the bent spectacles from his face and dropped them on the desk, taking little care to make sure they didn’t break. Another Atherton Winslet trait; carelessness—to a point. He cared much for the people of the quickly growing town, his family, and the men who worked the mines, but he didn’t care much for the little things…like spectacles, mud smudges on his clothes, or formalities. The man was about as formal as Pete was relaxed. He wasn’t. Ever. A man couldn’t be relaxed when he had millions of dollars of gold to protect, men to oversee, and a reputation to keep. And, apparently for Mr. Winslet, a man couldn’t be a stiff-necked, starch-shirt if he wanted to make a “family” from nothing in the wilds of America.
Pete cleared his throat and crossed his arms. “Sir, there’s not much to report. The men at the Western Mine had a little trouble getting Angus hitched to the mine car, but the old mule was happy enough to oblige when I offered him a bit of sandwich from Lyle Dander’s lunch pail.”
Mr. Winslet cackled, slapping his hand on the top of his desk, which was scattered with papers and pencil shavings. “That old mule has been through a lot over the last three years—I got him from a tinkerer, passin’ through. He wanted to put the boy down, on account of him bein’ ornery as…well…you, Pete.” Mr. Winslet winked and Pete fought the urge to grimace. “But I bought the mule and showed him a little kindness, and now he’s one of the best workers in that mine.”
Pete grunted. “It doesn’t hurt that Dander’s wife is a better cook than Ellie,” Pete remarked, the ghost of a smile making his upper lip twitch. But any chance of a smile died when the shiver of foreboding slid up his neck.
Mr. Winslet shot from his seat, a cheek-splitting grin on his well-worn face. “Miss O’Connor!” Mr. Winslet beamed over Pete’s shoulder. Startled, Pete froze in place, refusing to turn and see the woman whose face he’d pictured in his dreams before the nightmares intruded. They were troubling dreams, incited by a troubling woman—they were dreams no man of moral character would ever have. It was no wonder his body warned him of impending danger; she must have been coming into the store, right behind him.
He could feel her, standing there behind him, and he knew he couldn’t just ignore her. At least, he couldn’t when Mr. Winslet had made such a show of greeting her. Holding his breath, he turned, his arms still crossed across his chest, where his heart was beating faster than it was mere moments before.
Her eyes,
bright and brimming with fire, caught him, singeing him, and he lowered his hands to plant them at his waist. It was what he did when he felt…out of place. And under her gaze, he never felt so…unprepared.
“Mr. Jones,” Miss O’Connor said, tipping her head in greeting just before turning a demure smile to Mr. Winslet. “Mr. Winslet, good morning.” She’d directed her “good morning” to the older man, and Pete hated that he felt slighted. Why should he care if she didn’t wish him a good morning? His morning was just fine without her good wishes. He re-crossed his arms and stared down at her, her face growing a lush pink under his inspection.
Her dress was a different one than the faded frock she’d worn the night before, but it was just as worn—even more so, especially about the wrists and hem. What must have once been a becoming shade of blue was now more of a gray, with spots of brown around the bottom. The dress, and the woman, it seemed, had seen better days.
“Miss O’Connor, Pete and I were just discussin’ my mule—hard worker, strong. Usually takes a bit of proddin’ to get him to act nice,” Mr. Winslet said, his gaze snapping to Pete as he spoke. Pete wasn’t a fool, he knew Mr. Winslet was talking about him, but he couldn’t make himself care. He was too busy trying to keep his eyes from dipping to peer at Miss O’Connor’s mouth, where she was biting down on her bottom lip to keep from laughing. Lord, but he’d been right about her being trouble.
Unnerved by his reaction to the woman, he ran his fingers through his hair, dislodging the lock that usually covered the remains of his ear. She noticed; her emerald gaze widening and a tiny gasp escaping the lips he’d admired. Heat rose into his neck, and he grabbed his hat from Mr. Winslet’s desk, where he’d placed it, and slapped it back onto his head.
The Blessed Bride Page 5