An overwhelming fear of this unknown man and an unquenchable anger at herself for being pulled into this situation suddenly gripped her.
Defensively, she stepped back two steps and, with every ounce of strength she possessed, swung her club.
Instantly, he lifted his arm and thwarted her attempt. Then, grasping the club tightly in one hand, he yanked it. Caught off guard, she hung on to her weapon and found herself flattened against his chest. His cold eyes bore into hers as his free hand came around her waist.
"Don't you know that nice ladies can get hurt in a place like this?" He spoke the words dangerously low, and she sensed the threat behind them.
Irene struggled to extricate herself from his hold and still retain the club. Even though her fear of him and her surroundings gave her added strength, she could not gain her freedom.
"Let me go!" She gritted the words out between her teeth.
"Let loose of the club and I'll let you go." The words, whispered close to her ear, sent a shiver down her spine.
Trapped, she knew she had no choice. Slowly, she released it. For a moment longer, he held her with her arms still helplessly pinned between them. Her heart pounded hard against her ribs, and her breath came in short gasps.
Around them the noise ebbed until, gradually, the room cleared of most of the women as well as some of the men, leaving behind broken bits of debris, like a shoreline after a storm.
"I think you'd better go," he said. "It looks like you're outnumbered."
Out of the corner of her eye, Irene searched for someone to offer her support. But it appeared that Emma and Lucy had gone.
Suddenly, he released her and she stepped back quickly to regain her balance.
"I suggest that you don't come back here again," he said. Then he cocked his head to one side and added, "I've got half a notion to let you spend the night in jail for disorderly conduct. Not to mention vandalism of my property."
Irene felt herself go white. Jail? What would the superintendent say about that? What would her mother say? If only she had stayed home. If only she were anywhere but standing in front of this man who threatened her with the unthinkable. Suddenly he represented all the people who had ever pushed or pulled her emotions.
Without thinking twice, she turned and jammed the heel of her shoe into the toe of his boot, nailing it to the floor. Then collecting as much of her dignity as was possible under the circumstances, she retreated, leaving him howling in pain.
Outside, her knees banged against each other so badly that she didn't dare stop to lean against one of the posts for a moment to rest and pull herself together. She had to get home where she would be safe and secure.
Irene hurried along the darkened boardwalk, unmindful of what had happened to the other women, and made her way up the hill toward her home.
On the other side of the river a canal packet boat sounded its strange, lonely horn.
Irene shuddered.
She quickened her steps past the cemetery and across the railroad tracks until she stood beside the neat picket fence surrounding her small front yard, where she came to a dead stop. Beyond the lace-curtained window of her parlor floated an ethereal light, bobbing and hovering until, finally, it stilled.
Reminding herself of the impossibility of ghosts, Irene clutched the gate of the fence tightly before pushing it open and proceeded with caution to the single step of her porch. With much trepidation, she crossed to the window, each footfall as silent as Old Te-Na-Beek's grave.
Who would dare to invade her home and privacy? she wondered, peeking through the tightly woven lace.
Inside, through the low flickering light of a small, nearly burned-up candle, she saw that everything was as she'd left it. Then her gaze fell on a small valise. Not many ghosts brought something as substantial as a carpet bag, she thought.
Forcibly stilling the quaking of her knees, she faced the windowless front door, then turned the knob. Slowly, she pushed it open.
Standing before her was a small boy and a young girl.
"Hello," the girl said, her voice timorous.
Irene wilted against the door frame with relief, her lopsided hat failing to the floor.
"We didn't mean to frighten you. We're sorry. We . . . we just got here. Your door was unlocked." She gestured helplessly toward the front door. "And Jonathan was getting scared," the girl finished in a rush.
"I was not!" cried out Jonathan, fervent indignation on his upturned face.
A quiet glare from the girl silenced him, although his chin jutted out in defiance.
"This is my brother Jonathan. My name's Lydia."
Irene pulled herself together.
"Are you alone?" she asked, glancing around at the dark corners of the room.
"Yes."
"Where are your parents?"
"Gone." Lydia stared down at her worn-out shoes.
Irene tried to comprehend the meaning behind that one word. Where had they gone? And just as important, where had these children come from? Their unkempt clothing would almost suggest that they were orphans who had wandered in from the streets. But Grand Rapids was a small town, and this was not a common occurrence.
"What do you mean, gone?" Irene asked softly.
"Our ma and pa died," Lydia replied, unblinking.
The events of the evening had taken their toll, and Irene felt a definite need to sit down. She made her way to the tapestry-covered settee and allowed her legs the luxury of giving way beneath her. The homemade candle the children had obviously brought with them sputtered, and the last of the tallow spilled onto her polished walnut table before plunging them into darkness.
A gasp from Jonathan belied his earlier bravado, and Lydia quietly shushed and soothed him.
Groping in the drawer of the stand for matches, Irene lit a lamp and the room brightened instantly. Then she lit another lamp, and the shadows fled to the corners.
Bravely, Jonathan moved two steps away from Lydia.
"Both of you sit here," Irene said, patting the space on the settee to her right. Once they were seated, she suggested, "Suppose you start at the beginning."
Lydia shrugged her shoulders. "There isn't much to tell. Our folks died about a month ago, and we come up the river looking for our aunt. But we ran out of money and the barge captain threw us off the boat."
Irene's mouth went slack with astonishment. What kind of heartless creature could do such a thing to a couple of obvious orphans? In one glance, she took in their poorly mended clothing and dishevelled appearance. She decided the man must have been an absolute dolt not to recognize that these children were in need of a place to staynot to mention a warm bath and a hot meal.
Yawning, Jonathan leaned heavily against Lydia.
"Well, since I have two spare rooms upstairs, you'll spend the night here, and tomorrow we'll decide what to do next," Irene said.
"Are you sure?" Lydia asked, hope echoing in her voice. "I mean, we broke into your house and you don't even know us."
"First of all, you didn't break in, the door was unlocked as you said. Second, I know that you're Lydia and you're Jonathan," Irene nodded at each in turn, smiling. "And I'm Miss Barrett."
Smiling, Lydia replied, "We truly appreciate your kindness."
The next hour and a half consisted of Irene and Lydia working together to build a fire, heat bath water and almost forcibly subject Jonathan to a complete bath. Then it was Lydia's turn. After that, Irene fixed them warm milk and cold biscuits with jam. By the time everything had been tidied up again, Irene was totally exhausted.
Holding a lamp high, she led them upstairs to the two unused bedrooms, which were always made up as though a visiting friend would be arriving soon, but none ever did.
''This is where you'll stay, Lydia, and Jonathan will be at the front of the hall." Irene indicated the other door. "The one in between is my room."
"I want to stay with Lydia," Jonathan said staunchly.
Irene looked to Lydia for support in her deci
sion.
"He's afraid," Lydia said.
"I am not!" he said, walking in the direction of the room appointed to him, his bare feet slowing down as he reached the limit of light from the lamp.
Lydia followed him, and Irene followed her.
Inside the room, Lydia pulled back the quilt and Jonathan climbed onto the high bed, where he sat, dwarfed by its size.
"I'll leave the door open," Lydia said. "Call me if you need anything."
When they walked away, he called out, "Where's the outhouse?"
"Behind the shed in back," Irene answered.
Satisfied, Jonathan pulled the covers up to his chin. Lydia patted the blankets and brushed the hair from his forehead. Then she leaned down to whisper in his ear. He smiled at her and closed his eyes.
Leaving him, they went back down the hall to Lydia's room and Irene stood in the doorway while she got into bed.
"We'll talk tomorrow," Irene said, her voice hushed. "Get a good night's sleep."
Sleepily, Lydia asked, "When does school begin in this town?"
"Next week."
But this had to be settled before then, Irene thought to herself as she left Lydia and went inside her own room, closing the door.
Setting the lamp on the dresser, Irene stood before her mirror. She gasped in surprise at the absurd reflection staring back at her. The pins which she had carefully put in place earlier no longer securely anchored her nearly waist-length tresses. Long strands of hair not only hung down her neck but projected straight out from her head at crazy angles, while each and every hairpin dangled like so many uprooted fence posts on a string of wire. How absolutely ridiculous she must have looked to Lydia and Jonathan with her dignified manners and her bird's-nest hair! Indeed, she truly looked as if she had been to a saloon, not as a protester but as a patron.
It was too much. She felt herself traveling rapidly from one end of the spectrum of emotions to the other, and she could do nothing to save herself. Clapping a hand over her mouth to contain the overwhelming desire to laugh, she fell across her bed face-down while the events of the evening passed before her mind's eye.
First, at the saloon there had been the frightened, mousy Emma with her small brown eyes, and Lucy, whose tight corset made her look like a flattened pear. An uncontrollable, uncharacteristic giggle erupted as Irene visualized a mouse and a pear floating, swirling into the saloon to stop at the black-booted feet Rolling onto her back, she sobered instantly, thinking of her confrontation with the man who was obviously the new owner of the Broken Keg Saloon.
He had threatened her with jail! She shivered. Well, Irene, she chided herself, you could hardly expect to find a gallant man in a saloon of all places. Grimacing, she realized the words sounded as though they had come straight from her mother's mouth. Even so, she had to acknowledge the truth of the statement. Gallant men were certainly not to be found in saloons.
Although, she mused, he did have a mustache, and under different circumstances that would have been a qualifying factor. Even his cool gray-blue eyes and dark blond hair fit her description of a gallant man. But his actions and profession most certainly did not.
Then, with a sigh for what could never be and a shiver for what might have been, she prepared for bed. And for the first time in years, Irene Barrett went to bed without turning to her novels to dispel the boredom in her life.
Ross Hollister leaned against the bar cradling his injured foot in his hand while he watched the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen stalk away. He shook his head, thinking how unfortunate it was that it was his saloon she'd chosen to smash. And how foolish and dangerous it was for a woman to be in a saloon in the first place.
He limped to a chair, set it aright, and dropped onto the seat. And this was only his first night in town. He groaned.
The bartender walked around the room, setting up tables and crunching glass underfoot as he went. A few of the remaining men helped him stack the broken chairs near the back door.
"Don't let it bother you too much, Ross," the bartender said. "They get all riled up ever so often and come in to blow off a little steam."
Ross glanced around at the wreckage. "A little steam is one thing, Ben, but they seemed more like a runaway train on a downhill grade."
Ben grinned. "It ain't as bad as it looks. Your brother never knew the difference the last time it happened."
"Hey, Ross, whatever happened to your brother? Did he die or something and leave this place to you?" called a man from the opposite end of the bar.
Ross shook his head good-naturedly. "No. He just married a rich woman with big" He held his hands out in front of his shirt. "Dollars."
Those within hearing distance hooted with laughter, and a few slapped him on the back.
Ross recognized the need to show them that the women's revelry would have little effect on business. "Give these boys another drink, Ben," he said, grinning. "On me."
Another round of howling approval rose from those who hadn't been run off. Ross raised his hand in acceptance of the thanks. He didn't mind being generous, especially if it created enough good will to keep them buying.
Actually, it appeared the attack on the saloon had increased business. The front door opened several times as curious patrons entered and ordered a beer.
Ross glanced around at the growing crowd in the small saloon. He had to give his brother credit; Harry sure knew how to pick the best business prospects, not to mention the right women. Of course, he personally wasn't looking for the right woman, or any woman as far as that went, but he didn't mind being the beneficiary of Harry's good fortune. At least for the time being.
He had arrived in town only that morning, traveling all the way from Black Hawk, Colorado, first by train and then by a lethargic canal packet he'd boarded at Cincinnati. When he'd stepped off the crowded little boat, everything had seemed so familiar, and yet not familiar at all. Undoubtedly, he'd been gone too long.
His decision to come back to Grand Rapids had taken all of two minutes. As soon as he'd finished reading Harry's letter telling about his marriage and the saloon he no longer needed, Ross knew this was his chance at a new beginning. He owed Harry a great deal for that. So after five years in prison, he was going home.
As the night wore on, money crossed the bar faster than water down a sluice in spite of the earlier trouble, or maybe even because of it.
Around midnight, Ross checked with Ben about dosing procedures. Assured that he was not needed, Ross stepped outside and deeply inhaled the cold night air to clear his lungs of the stale smoke inside the saloon. Most of the town had long since folded up and put out their lights, leaving him to find his way in the dark. Cursing high-heeled boots, he hobbled along Front Street and headed up the hill to the old inn where he'd reserved a room.
The smell of dried maple leaves crushed beneath his feet and the wood smoke from chimneys brought back memories almost real enough to touch. Had it been sixteen or seventeen years since he'd been here? He wasn't sure. But it was good to be back, to remember the best times of his childhood. Strange, but he never would have believed he'd ever return.
Ross took long strides over the tracks, passing the few houses along the bluff on his way to the edge of town.
As a child he'd spent little time in Grand Rapids. Aunt Tilly had believed it wasn't a fitting place for young boys to go, and she'd kept Ross and Harry close to her side while she made her purchases, bribing them with store-bought hard candy. But with a few added years, he and Harry had made many trips to the river town on their own, some of which Aunt Tilly never found out about.
Now, with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his broadcloth trousers, he smiled at the memory. He hadn't thought of those times in years. He peered into the impinging darkness in the woods at the fringes of the town as though he could see all the way to its core, where her small, secure cabin had stood with its warm, friendly barn nearby. Were the buildings still there?
A gust of wind blew along the top of the limes
tone bluff, pushing at his back and forcing Ross to raise his collar. Winter wasn't far away.
Across the river no lights shone in the night to show where the mill sat on the bank between the river and the canal. The moon had disappeared behind a blanket of clouds, allowing the night to take over completely, except for one small light shining bravely in an upstairs window of the house he now passed.
Lydia lay in the large bed with the thick, warm woolen blanket and soft flannel-backed quilt pulled to her chin. She bounced ever so slightly just to test the mattress beneath her. It didn't make a sound, and it didn't bunch up around the edges of her body like the corn husk filling she was used to. And it smelled like Miss Barrett, clean and flowery. She stared hard into the darkness trying to make out the pictures and decorations on the walls, but the small amount of light reflected from the lamp in Jonathan's room down the hall scarcely made it through her door. She sighed and closed her eyes, deciding she would just have to wait until morning.
But worrisome thoughts of tomorrow and how she would deal with the things she'd told Miss Barrettand more important the things she hadn't toldkept her awake. She rolled onto her side, burying her face into the feather-soft pillow. Lying to Miss Barrett hadn't been easy, but she'd really had no other choice. In a few more years, she'd be old enough to take care of herself and Jonathan; then she wouldn't need to lie anymore.
She climbed out of bed and padded down the hall to check on her brother. The lamp on a table at the front window burned low, casting a warm glow over Jonathan's well-scrubbed face. One arm lay flung out of the covers, exposed to the chill night air. Carefully, she moved it until she could tuck the warm blankets around him. His soft, rhythmic breathing told her he was sound asleep. Now she could blow out the lamp she'd promised him she'd light after Miss Barrett had closed her door.
Tiptoeing back through the dark, she felt her way along the papered wall. This hadn't been their destination, but perhaps they should change their plans. After all, would they ever find a home as nice as this or a lady as kind as Miss Barrett to take care of them?
Abiding Love Page 2