"I suppose you know I don't exactly approve of your business nor do I approve of your . . . consistent appearance at my daughter's home."
He guessed she meant well and he liked her spunk, but he questioned her authority.
"Does Irene feel the same way? I mean, about my . . . appearances at her home?" He already knew Irene didn't much like his saloon; he had the bill for one very large mirror to prove it.
"She hasn't put it in so many words, but as her mother, I know what's best for my daughter," she said, her shoulders squared and her chin leveled.
And obviously she damn well meant to see that her notions were carried out. He suddenly understood Irene's hesitancy.
"How does this turn into a favor for me?" he asked, wondering about her scheme and feeling sure that Irene had no idea what she might be up to.
Winnie glanced around secretively before leaning forward, both hands on the table. Ross leaned forward, too, bracing his forearms on the edge.
"There was a meeting the other night, and I can tell you for a fact that you are about to be attacked again." Winnie sat up straight, waiting for that bit of information to register.
Ross frowned. Could she be right? It had been months since the women of the town had paid him a visit. He thought, or rather hoped, they'd gotten it out of their systems. Apparently not.
"Believe me. I know what I'm saying." Winnie assuaged a small sliver of guilt for having eavesdropped on Emma and Irene only last night, justifying her actions as the rights of a mother. "Of course, you must realize I'm not in favor of vandalism of any sort. I feel that with this information, I can prevent you from incurring any property damage and save Irene from embarrassment." She pierced him with her gaze. "Is it a deal?"
Relaxing back in his chair, Ross studied her. Perhaps he'd misjudged Irene after all. He'd really believed she'd been there the first time against her will. Yet, here was her mother saying she would accompany the raiders again.
"How do you propose to save Irene from embarrassment?"
Without the flicker of an eyelash, she replied, "Two ways. One, she's running the risk of being incarcerated if the local constabulary decides to get involved."
"You mean, if I press charges."
"Exactly. I choose to see that prospect eliminatedwith your help. And two, she's also running the risk of losing her teaching position if you continue to call at the house."
"So I should stay away. Is that the deal?" he regarded her with a mixture of wry humor at her ability to scheme and irritation that she could very well stop him from seeing Irene again.
"Precisely."
"When is this raid to take place?"
"Ahhh," she said quietly tapping her finger on the table. "First you must agree to my terms." She threw him a self-satisfied smile.
Still frowning, he said, "I need some time to think about this."
Winnie gathered her gloves and pulled them on. "Don't take too long, Mr. Hollister." Rising from her seat, she waited for him to stand. "Time is your enemy. Good day."
"Good day," he mumbled to her retreating back. Of all the conniving . . . He should have known. How could he be so surprised when she'd treated him like a leper from the first? Slamming his battered hat on his head, he headed for the door.
He needed a drink.
Outside the sun glared, reflecting off the snow and ice on the river below. Marching ahead of him, Mrs. Barrett's efficient little steps took her all the way to the picketed gate, where she turned in. With long, angry strides he passed the house in time to hear the click of the latch.
Meddling woman, he thought. Then he considered some of the things she'd said. Irene could lose her job. He supposed she could; he hadn't thought about it. But wasn't it her decision to make? To tell him to stay away?
He thought back to the day in the woods at Tilly's cabin and how pleasant it had been for him, and he'd thought it had been for her too. And the day they'd gone skating, she seemed to enjoy herself. And he believed that hadn't happened very often. Now he knew why. If there ever had been any suitors, they probably hadn't lasted long, which would explain why a woman like Irene still wasn't married. Ross shoved open the front door to the saloon, nearly knocking over a man who could hardly stand as it was.
"Excuse me," Ross muttered on his way to the bar. He picked up a bottle of whiskey, glancing around the room, then changed his mind. Drinking never solved anything. One quick look told him that.
In the dim interior sat men of all ages, some laughing,
most hanging over their glasses, looking for answers they'd never find.
"Hell." He walked through the saloon, dodging tables and chairs, then out the back door to stand on the banks of the silent, wintry canal. With his hands jammed in his pockets, he followed the waterway west toward the dam at the head of the rapids.
Cold air hit him squarely in the face but did little to clear his thoughts.
If he disregarded Mrs. Barrett's attempt to protect her daughter, what would the outcome be? His saloon would be smashed again, and he would continue to see Irene when he wanted. But would that lead to her losing her teaching job? Very likely. Then again, would she even consent to seeing him? The way she'd avoided him lately, his prospects of seeing her at all were slim. But slim was better than none.
But more importantly, should he continue spending time with her? He could feel himself becoming more and more involved in her life each time they'd been together. Was that wise? For him or for her? He didn't know the answer to that; he only knew he enjoyed being with her. She made him feel as though life could be good again, that he could put the past behind and start over.
Irene walked home from school beside Lydia, who chattered away about the things she and her friends had discussed. With one ear listening, she nodded at the appropriate times, but her mind lingered on the more serious matter of resolving her predicament. That was how she'd come to view the matter of Ross versus Clara, because that's what it boiled down to in the end.
"What's wrong, Miss Barrett?" Lydia asked quietly, keeping step with her teacher who was so much more than just her teacher.
"Hmm?" Irene glanced at her, her eyes focusing on the present, coming from some place far away.
"Something's bothering you." It was as plain as the red tip of her nose that Miss Barrett was unhappy. And she bet she knew why. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Irene smiled. She wanted more than anything to talk to someone about it, but there wasn't a person in town who seemed to understandnot Clara, not even Emma, and certainly not her mother. She studied Lydia's trusting eyes, which mirrored her heartfelt feelings. With a sudden flood of warmth, Irene reached her arm around Lydia's shoulder and squeezed her tightly.
"Don't worry about me," she said in her most reassuring voice. "I just have a few things to work out, that's all."
They walked in step together for a while, crunching the cold, packed snow beneath their shoes while heavy clouds scudded across the sun.
"I know what Mrs. Wilson wants you to do," Lydia said hesitantly. "I don't think you should do it."
Bringing both of them to halt, Irene asked softly, "Why not?"
"Because I think it would hurt Mr. Hollister's feelings."
Digesting this bit of advice, Irene peered into the small, upturned face, wondering how one so young could be so wise.
"Feelings are important," Lydia went on, her voice as hushed as the snow beginning to fall lightly around them. "Sometimes more important than anything else in the world."
Suddenly needing to comfort this child, Irene wrapped both arms around her and held her close. Surprisingly, it worked both ways, because Irene in turn felt comforted. When she released Lydia, she smiled and said, "I'll keep that in mind."
They walked on in companionable silence, the wood smoke from nearby chimneys filling the heavy air. A fresh layer of snow drifted down gently like feathers from heavenly pillows, covering the older, less-than-white snow.
Irene contemplated the steady snowfall,
each flake unwavering in its destination. If only she could be as single-minded, instead of considering all the possibilities before her.
They arrived at the back door, greeted by the smells of cinnamon buns, baking bread, and spicy beef stew. Winnie had tried every wile known to motherhood to patch the rift in their cooling relationship, yet at the same time she let it be known that she would never give in. Irene shook her head sadly at their stalemate.
Once inside, Lydia unwrapped herself and hung up her things while her stomach rumbled loudly. She loved the warmth and smells of this kitchen, where laughter and happiness had once abounded. But lately there had been only the smells and little of the happiness.
"Oh, Mrs. Barrett!" Lydia sniffed the air dramatically. "Your cinnamon buns are the best!" She poked a finger into the center of one, where the icing was soft and gooey, then popped her finger into her mouth. "Mmmm!" she groaned in ecstasy. "Do I have to wait?"
"Of course you do. You'll ruin your appetite if you eat those sweets now."
"Your cooking could never ruin my appetite."
Winnie secretly smiled, pleased with the young girl's extravagant praise. Lydia's honesty and straightforwardness had gradually warmed her heart, eventually thawing the indifference she'd tried to hold in place.
"Where's Jonathan?" Irene asked, hanging her coat on a peg.
"He's been here and gone. But he'll be back. I made him promise." Winnie stirred the stew, keeping her eyes on the boiling pot.
"He won't want to miss out on those bunsthat's why he'll be back," said Lydia. She took the dishes from the cupboard and set the table, as had been her custom since she'd come into the house.
"Maybe so." Turning to her daughter, Winnie asked, "Would you like some tea? I made your favorite. Mint."
Irene refused to allow herself to be swallowed by the guilt her mother tried heaping on her. She'd seen Winnie use these same tactics on a number of people over the years, but until now she'd never been the victim. It was a most uncomfortable position.
''Yes, thank you," she answered politely, but with an obvious cool reserve. Irene retrieved a cup and saucer, placing them on the table, but before she could move to get the teapot, Winnie was there pouring it for her. Stubbornly, Irene steadied her resolve, refusing to let it be shaken.
"How did your day go?" Winnie asked, turning back to the stove and the stew.
"Fine." But she offered nothing more in order to hold firm.
Finally, Winnie gave up trying. Obviously, she couldn't win her daughter over to her way of thinking. She could only hope Ross Hollister wouldn't take too long to make up his mind. The saloon bashing was only three days away. Glancing over her shoulder at Irene, she prayed that she wouldn't go through with it.
Ross sat at the rear of the saloon nervously drumming his fingers on the table, watching the front door, wondering if tonight was the night. He'd thought long and hard about his decision, even losing sleep over it, but his mind was definitely made up. He would not agree to Winnie Barrett's "deal." Come hell or high water, he'd just have to handle the situation, whatever happened. Somehow, deep in his gut, he knew there was more riding on this than the physical condition of his business. But he refused to label it or even think too seriously about it.
His fingers thrummed the table in a rhythm that matched the jumping of his nerves. Three days had passed. Tonight was the night; he could feel it.
Irene tried tying the tape of her petticoat around her waist for the third time. Her hands shook so badly that she could do little more than secure a knot.
You shouldn't be doing this, she told herself. Jonathan won't understand. Ross won't understand.
Dropping the dark-blue dress over her head, she pulled it into place, tugging it here and there until it lay correctly. With ice-cold fingers, she worked at each of the buttons down the front of the bodice.
She glanced at the clock on her bureau.
Thirty minutes.
A few stray strands of hair escaped from the tight, thick knot at the nape of her neck. She tucked them in. With a few finishing touches to her white collar and placing the most insignificant hat she owned on her head, she sat on the bed to wait.
The clock tick-tocked loudly, but not as loudly as the beating of her heart.
Why do you want to do this? she questioned herself. Can you really walk into that saloon brandishing a club? Then walk right up to Ross, who has done so much to help Jonathan, and break his mirror or his bottles or anything?
Agitated beyond endurance, Irene vaulted from the bed and paced the floor.
She glanced at the clock again.
Twenty minutes.
But she had to consider her job, her place in this town, her future. The children were only temporarily in her charge, a brief although welcome respite from the tedium of her life. With a wrench of her heart, she recognized it only as a postponement, just as Clara had warned her. Logically, she tried to deal with it as such and prepare herself for the return to her old life.
Like it or not, the children weren't a part of her future, and without them, there would be no Ross Hollister to be concerned about.
Still, she was not convinced that Clara was completely right in thinking that vandalism was the best way to handle the problem.
Ten minutes.
Darkness had settled. The lamp from the bureau cast a weak shadow of her figure on the floor before her. She rose from the bed. Each step was a burden, a decision in the making, as she crossed the hall and descended the stairs.
Without a word or even establishing eye contact with Winnie, who sat still as a stone with embroidery in hand, Irene walked through the parlor. The house nearly reverberated with waves of disapproval, so palpable was her mother's opposition. Irene knew she would never understand. In the kitchen she put on her coat and slipped out the back door.
Chapter Twelve
The sound of hymns and the light of a few flickering candles greeted Irene before she could make out the faces of the women standing in front of the Broken Keg Saloon. Soft soprano voices melded into a unified melody, signifying their oneness in this cause.
Irene joined the ranks of the chorus in the street, whose job was to divert the attention of those inside. Blending into the group, her skirts pressed against those nearby. With an effort, she forced the familiar words from her lips while her eyes fastened on the door to Ross's saloon.
With her mind rebelling and her heart racing, she felt the cold hardness of a wooden club slip into her hand. She looked to see who had pushed the object into her grasp, insisting that her fingers hold it tight.
"Hide this in the folds of your skirt," Polly demanded, her eyes bright in the candlelight, daring Irene to refuse.
Irene thrust it back. "I don't want it."
Polly clenched her teeth and snatched at the club, but said nothing.
Turning toward the door once more, Irene waited, staring, thinking. Saloons were an injustice to society, but that didn't mean everyone in the saloon was a wicked person, in spite of Clara's opinion. Surely, Polly's husband could not be completely wicked, or why would she have married him in the first place? And Ross? No, he definitely wasn't a wicked person. She'd seen his kind heart in action with Jonathan and felt his sensitivity to her predicament.
And yet, he did own the Broken Keg. In all honesty, she couldn't condone that. In fact, she'd tried to ignore it, hoping . . .
Hoping what? she wondered.
A series of screams rent the air simultaneously with the splintering of wood from the rear of the saloon. The voices surrounding Irene lifted higher until the melody could no longer be heard and only the words filled the air.
But even that didn't shut out the sounds of destruction.
Polly brushed past Irene, stepping quickly through the crush of women until she stood on the boardwalk, looking over their heads.
"Are we ready?" she yelled, holding her club high in the air.
A soft murmur flowed through the crowd.
Timidly, a voi
ce spoke from the back. "Clara said we were to wait out front for her."
With fists resting on her hips, Polly glared into the soft candlelight before her. "Our sisters need our help! Should we wait out here like a flock of lambs and stand idly by while they do our work?" Her eyes roamed over the group of women. "I say no!"
More screeching reached their ears, but this time it was accompanied by the low roar of angry male voices. Each woman turned her head to search the face next to her for the guilt building in her own breast.
"Well?" Polly called out. "Are you with me?"
A few women started moving toward her, but others held back, still unsure.
Polly pointed an accusing finger. "Where is your husband tonight, Ida? At home with his children?"
Ida dropped her head and slowly made her way forward.
"And you . . ." she pointed into the crowd once more and three other women came to the front.
In amazement, Irene watched as everyone followed Polly's orders. She felt herself jostled and tugged along. She planted both feet firmly, refusing to be swept into the tide of the coming maelstrom. She was not of the same mind as the others. Her reasons for being here were childish. She'd thought she would make her own decisions and not let her mother coerce her. And here she stood, in a group of nearly militant women trying to drag her into a saloon fight.
Reaching out, Polly grabbed Irene's hand with a grip Irene could not break.
"Irene Barrett, you are going in there. And you will show that man you mean business!" Polly clamped her teeth together in determination.
"No!" Irene struggled to free herself, but the surrounding crowd pushed against her in their effort to gain entrance through the front door. Once again, she was swept into the saloon by the pulling and pushing of the others. "No!"
Inside, chaos had already taken hold. A bottle flung through the air crashed at her feet, spraying her skirts with its sickening sweet contents and broken bits of glass. She stepped around the puddle only to be bumped and butted into a row of chairs. Unable to keep her balance, she toppled a teetering table and bounced into a chair which slid into the wall.
Abiding Love Page 15