He grabbed a cup and filled it from the cast-iron jug. Luckily the water hadn’t frozen. He’d have to hurry and build a fire. When he handed the cup to her, she murmured her thanks but avoided his gaze.
“I’ll ask my grandsons to help me build a counter for you.” The lambs remained wiggle-free as Gus claimed his seat and sat straight and proud as any patriarch.
Brynmor envied his conviction then drew strength from it. Gus had suffered more than most. He’d survived the War Between the States and the many challenges that followed. A strong heart could carry a person as far as a strong body.
“Thank you, Grandpa,” Lark said between sips of water. “Whatever you make will be exactly what we need.” Her words weren’t a hundred percent true, but close to it.
Gus excelled at woodcarving and leather tooling, but his most recent interest in knitting had produced…interesting results.
“Where’s yer corral for these youngins?” Gus’ question halted Brynmor’s progress toward the stove.
He couldn’t ask Gus to hold Barnum and Bailey much longer, but he also couldn’t risk letting two balls of energy roam the room when it held four men who most likely didn’t care who they stepped on.
Men who finally stopped gaping at Lark and studied their surroundings.
“Forget about those beasts,” one of them ordered. “And that ancient codger too. You should be serving us.”
“Yes! Where are our chairs?” his comrade demanded.
Their leader puffed out his chest. “We can’t possibly stay here. She will continue her show in my railcar.”
“I will continue here or no place at all!” Lark gripped her cup so hard her knuckles turned white.
“Gentlemen.” Ulysses set his crate of whiskey on top of the piano with a resounding thump. “The bar is open.”
While the men clamored for their drinks, Brynmor lowered his voice as he strove to reassure Lark. “If you don’t want to sing, you don’t have to. We’ll find another way to get your sister’s letter.”
“I’m sorry I brought them here. I should’ve gone to their railcar, but—” She shuddered. “I couldn’t bear the thought of singing anywhere but here.”
Other than a single violin performance at Noelle’s Christmas party, he hadn’t heard her do more than hum a song since Cheyenne.
Guilt washed over him for having craved her singing. She’d performed enough to last a lifetime. He shouldn’t want that from her as well as so much more. He should be concentrating on doing something that’d help her, like crafting a plan to get her sister’s letter.
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he said, trying to keep his tone gentle. “We’ll find a way to—”
“But I’m ruining our special place!” Her voice went even huskier, and her eyes glittered with sudden tears.
“You could never do that,” he growled. “Even if the walls collapsed and the roof fell, we could rebuild everything together.” He thrust his fingers deep into her hair and pulled her close enough for their noses to touch. “The only way to ruin anything is for us to lead separate lives.”
Her eyes flared wider than he’d ever seen. He’d gone too far, but he couldn’t put the brakes on the yearning pounding in his heart. He held on to her and waited for her to push him away. Or, more likely, whack the tender part of his arm like he’d seen her do in Cheyenne when anyone got too close.
Heck, he deserved to be kicked in the groin for touching her this way. She should—
She pressed her lips to his. Shock held him frozen. Then the payload of pent-up emotion he’d bottled up for years burst free. He returned her kiss with love, with adoration and amazement, with the hope that all of his dreams were coming true because this particular one had.
Raucous hooting and poorly played out-of-tune piano music made them both flinch. Too late he remembered she had an audience. He released her and moved so the men saw only his back.
Lark fixed her gaze on the few feet of floorboards now separating them. She wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold and trying to cover herself. Or more likely protect herself.
He didn’t blame her. He’d behaved like a ruffian, grabbing her and kissing her so roughly.
When Gus stomped his foot, he chastised himself even more. He’d ruined his adoptive grandfather’s good opinion of him as well.
Gus wasn’t looking at him, however. He scowled at the men across the room. “Those hooligans belong in a pen.”
So do I. He’d vowed he’d be different from the lechers who’d wanted a night with Lark. If he couldn’t control himself, he wasn’t worthy of a lifetime with her.
“That’s the answer.” Gus’ bushy brows soared with inspiration as he surveyed their crates.
“What is?” he asked, glad to hear someone had a solution for something.
“I’ll build you a countertop ’n a gate. If you added it there”—Gus thrust his chin toward the open end of his enclosure—“you’d have a corral fer yer lambs.”
When Brynmor started moving crates to make the gate, or rather a wall, Lark helped him without hesitation. He fought the urge to barricade her inside the temporary enclosure with Gus. If he fenced her in, he’d be as bad as Ulysses.
Her troupe manager kept casting dark glances at them while the railroad men laughed and tormented the piano’s keys. One of them paused to yell, “When do we get another song?”
“How ’bout as soon as you tune that piano?” Gus hollered back.
“I should have learned how to do that,” Lark whispered. “And repair a violin too. Then I could’ve taught Oriole and she wouldn’t have needed to visit Mrs. Fitzpatrick and we might’ve found each other at a different meeting spot and—” She paused to gulp in air. “And I don’t know if I can continue singing without them. Even one song was exhausting.”
She’d never been a solo act. Neither had he.
He grabbed her hand. Idiot. You can’t keep doing this. Let go of her.
Before he could, she clutched his hand in both of hers, like he was a lifeline and she was drowning.
“It’s my fault.”
He doubted that, but she deserved to be heard not hushed. “Tell me what happened.”
She stared at their clasped hands and spoke in a monotone. “Oriole wanted to escape by train, but I worried Ulysses would telegraph his thugs to intercept us at a station. I insisted we stow away in a hay wagon. When the driver found us, he accused us of attempting to steal his moonshine—hidden in the hay as well. We bolted. I should’ve sprinted after Wren and trusted Oriole to follow. Instead, I hesitated and lost sight of both of them as they veered down different paths. I failed them, and I’m all they have. If something happens to me, promise you’ll—”
“No. Nothing will happen.” He couldn’t contemplate a world without her somewhere in it. “I promise I’ll protect you and your sisters.” He pitched his voice as low as he could. “Now tell me how I can help you get Oriole’s letter?”
“Provide a distraction.” Lark spoke as quietly as him, but her voice now resonated with conviction. So did her eyes. She met his gaze head-on. “Like you’re doing with me now.”
Her ability to rally herself amazed him until he realized this was how she’d survived for so long. She’d learned to keep fighting even if she thought it was hopeless.
“What kind of distraction?”
“A big one, so I can pick Ulysses’ pocket.”
She’d have to get dangerously close to the man to do that.
His chest grew tight, rejecting that eventuality. “He’s too savvy to fall for any sleight of hand.”
“He’ll fall for anything if he’s properly discombobulated.” Her voice grew even stronger.
Like him, she found her power in a purpose. They both needed something to reach for.
“Why don’t I knock him completely unconscious?” He frowned at her hand in his. Why did every road ahead lead to him having to let go of her?
“His new friends might object.”
> He heaved a sigh. “We’re outnumbered.”
“And out of time,” Gus muttered. “A storm cloud’s rollin’ our way.”
Ulysses strode across the room. Brynmor released Lark’s hand and braced for the bombardment.
The scoundrel stopped with the crates between them. His expression turned haughty as he tried to stare down his nose at Brynmor, like the railroad bigwig had done to Lark. Even though Brynmor’s height put him well above Ulysses, the cocky so-and-so did a fine job of making him bristle.
The man had seen the kiss he’d shared with Lark. Judging from the hoots and hollers, the whole room had. What vile comments would they make about a kiss Brynmor had dreamed about for years?
Ulysses’ voice dripped with disdain as he said to Lark, “Is your fragile little throat rested? I may tell the rabble otherwise, but I know you can’t hold an audience for long with your voice. You’re not Wren. So, you’d better find an instrument and—”
Gus grabbed a pair of spoons and waved them in Ulysses’ face. “Why don’t you just hand these to the lady ’n stop flappin’ yer gums like some no-talent trout washed up on life’s riverbank?”
Ulysses glared at Gus like he wanted to whack the old-timer with his own offering.
Brynmor suddenly wished they hadn’t built the corral and Gus was still holding the lambs.
Lark pulled Gus as close to her as the crates would allow. “Playing the spoons is an excellent idea. Their lively tune never fails to turn my shortcomings into Ulysses’ windfall.”
Ulysses rubbed his hands together as if the money he craved already caressed his fingertips. His voice boomed as he announced Lark’s next act. As soon as she started, he slunk around the men, soliciting funds for the continuation of the entertainment. The men told him to shut up and wait. When he kept talking, they hastily forked over their payment.
What else would they pay for? Or become even angrier about paying? Brynmor stoked the stove and waited for his cue.
When Lark finished her song, he announced, “This is my cabin.”
It wasn’t, but he now deeply wished it were. Lark had called it their special place. He might not be able to hold on to her, but he could buy this cabin and hold on to it for her.
“If you want to stay here and listen to more songs, you’ll pay me a fee.”
A stunned silence followed his words as everyone gaped at him.
Everyone except Gus. “Charge ’em fer their chairs, too!” he hollered from his corral that now seemed more like a castle on the other side of the room.
That tipped the scales or rather the crates the men had claimed as seats. Roaring with outrage, they swarmed Ulysses. A fine distraction. Except Lark couldn’t reach her target.
Luckily Ulysses didn’t stay put. He slipped free of the men and his unwieldy coat. He dropped it without a backward glance. An unholy light glittered in his eyes as he stared at Brynmor and straightened his tailored waistcoat and ruffled shirt sleeves.
The room was too small to go anywhere, except out the door. He stood his ground. He wasn’t leaving Lark with an unhinged troupe manager and three cranky railroad men who now argued amongst themselves with their backs to everyone else in the room.
A smile curved Ulysses’ lips. “Your meddling days are over.”
A blur swooshing by their heads made them both duck.
Water doused the shoulders of the railroad man standing closest to them. The man’s shriek rose soprano high. The icy spray made Brynmor wince in commiseration.
Lark tossed the now empty water jug at Ulysses, forcing him to catch it or get hit in the face.
The railroaders spun in search of the water’s source.
“Yer bartender did it.” Gus thrust his finger at Ulysses. “He’s holding the evidence.”
“Because she threw it at me.” Ulysses raised the jug as if to hurl it back at Lark.
Brynmor slammed him against the nearest wall. “You’ve finally gone too far.” He took great pleasure in using all of his weight to pin all of his opponent, including his arms, against the logs.
The jug hit the floor with a thud.
“Unhand me,” Ulysses snarled as he struggled to free himself. When he couldn’t, he yelled at the railroaders. “You know it wasn’t me. There wasn’t time to—”
“Yer fast, but I still saw you,” Gus crowed. “Plain as day. Or clear as night. Or both. It was plainly clear.”
“But why would anyone do this?” The leader of the railroad men demanded as he gestured to his drenched friend.
“You’re in the middle of a family squabble.” Lark shoved her palm flat against Brynmor’s chest as if to stop him. “And you’re getting too close.”
Without thinking, he leaned into her touch, eager to savor it. The increasing pressure she applied to his chest made him halt. She was reminding him that he wasn’t helping her cause. There was probably more to it, but right now all that mattered was getting the letter.
He swatted her hand away. He didn’t get a chance to see if his aim succeeded in directing her toward Ulysses’ pocket.
Ulysses lurched forward. The man’s forehead missed his chin by a hair, but his knee struck his groin full force. The pain slammed him back on his heels. Too late he understood Lark’s words, or rather her warning. Ulysses hadn’t survived this long without being a brawler.
“Hit the floor,” Ulysses hollered. “He’s got a gun!”
The only weapon was the one now in Ulysses’ hand. The tiny derringer had finally made an appearance from under his sleeve.
Refusing to give in to the agony gripping his bollocks and crumple to his knees, he fought to stay standing and pin Ulysses’ wrist against the wall again.
“Glory be! I’ve got his weapon.” Ulysses’ smirk was much too gleeful for his surprised act. “I’ll have to shoot him to protect all of youuu!” The gun blasted the ceiling in unison with his last word rising as high as the voice of the man who’d been doused in ice water.
“You,” Ulysses hissed as he cradled his elbow against his chest and glared over Brynmor’s shoulder. “You heathen witch. How dare you keep raising your hand against me?”
“Calm yourself, Uncle. You and your arm will survive even if your pride may not.”
Brynmor stole a glance in the direction of Ulysses’ still-scowling wrath.
Lark backed toward the door with Ulysses’ derringer in her hand. After she’d hit his arm, he’d dropped the gun, and she’d caught it.
His pulse skipped a beat. Glory be and hallelujah. She was the most beautiful and resourceful heathen witch to ever to grace his world.
“Let us all be happy,” Lark said in a quiet but firm tone, “that I’ve taken control of the weapon you were so concerned about.”
“You’ll hang if you kill me.” Ulysses didn’t bother to act as if he were afraid of that outcome. “Then who will protect your sisters?”
Brynmor shoved him harder against the wall. “Stop lying about who’s threatening who. She’s pointing your derringer at the ceiling and not you.”
Or at least she had been when he’d last looked. What if Ulysses had finally pushed her too far?
A gust of frigid air shot up his spine. A chorus of groans and grumbles rose from the floor where Ulysses had told the railroad men to hide. Behind him, the door—that he hadn’t heard open—slammed shut and the breeze terminated.
“The gun and its last bullet have parted ways in distant snowdrifts,” Lark said. “You can release him now.”
Did that mean she’d retrieved the letter?
Ulysses’ brows arched in a haughty and hard-done-by expression. “You’ll both pay for–”
Brynmor kneed him in the groin as he let go and stepped away from the man’s foulness. Ulysses slid down the wall and said no more. The sight made the affront to Brynmor’s manhood a little less painful. They were even for tonight’s abuse but not for the ruin of his eye or every injury Lark and her sisters had suffered at the villain’s hands.
Gus cheered and
clapped. “I agree that we’ve all paid enough.”
“So do I,” Lark said as she went to stand near Gus. “Any more songs that I sing today will be free.”
“And I won’t charge for the venue or the chairs.” Brynmor repositioned himself to remain between her and Ulysses, who either was still incapacitated or playing possum.
“What about the water incident? A free round of whiskey would make for a mighty tasty apology.” Gus smacked his lips.
Brynmor found the nearest blanket and handed it to the railroader whose hands shook as he removed his sodden jacket. “Pour your own drinks. Then gather ’round the stove to warm yourselves while Mr. Stone and the lady rally themselves for the remainder of her performance.” His mind scrambled for a way for Lark to read the letter without being observed. He grabbed the sheet music that’d fallen to the floor beside the piano and gave it to her. "Perhaps you will find your next song in these?”
“Thank you.” She took the sheets and retreated to the farthest corner, away from everyone including him.
She had to be eager to finally read Oriole’s message. The oversized sheets would conceal that activity from view. If she’d the time to retrieve the letter.
He heaved a sigh. If she hadn’t, they’d be in for more clashes but at least no shootings. Unless Ulysses or their audience had other hidden firearms. He’d never owned a gun. Would he be better able to protect Lark if he had one? Her troupe manager would definitely test his commitment to pulling a trigger.
He couldn’t waver. He wouldn’t. His black-hearted opponent wouldn’t either.
Sooner or later, one of them would have to cast a death blow.
Chapter 7
For the second evening, Lark sat on her bedroll beside Brynmor. Together but no longer alone. Gus slept curled up with Barnum and Bailey on the other side of the cabin. The piano concealed him from view but did little to mute his snoring.
They hadn’t made the Noelle-bound train. Gus had consumed too much whiskey and wouldn’t budge. Brynmor had been keen to carry him and their lambs onboard. Mr. Court had been eager as always to help, but the engineer and boilerman had refused. They were still cross about having to make up for the earlier delay caused by stopping and then offloading the caboose. And why stop at all at a junction that didn’t have a working water tower?
A Bride For Brynmor (Songbird Junction Book 1) Page 7