The noise of splintering glass, screeching women, and howling men was deafening.
Glancing around, she saw the faces of strangers. Not all the customers lived in Grand Rapids; some were travelers, others hauled goods along the river by wagon.
Suddenly, an unshaven face loomed over her, its bleary,
bloodshot eyes peering into hers. He smiled crookedly at her while the bottle of whiskey he held tipped slightly, spilling into her lap.
Gripping the arms of the chair, Irene pressed back until the wooden spindles imprinted themselves in her skin and her corset cut off her breath. The brim of the small hat she wore became trapped between her head and the wall, flattening the ring of dried flowers until they were no more than dust.
"Now ain't you a purty thing," he said, his words slurring together while his whiskey breath warmed her cheek.
Irene twisted her head away, feeling the painful pull of the hatpins in her hair. She thrust her hands against his loathsome shirt in a desperate attempt to be free.
"Get away." The words, barely a whisper, caught in her throat.
Clumsily, he grasped her hands and pinned them to his chest. "How about a little kiss?"
Around them the conflict grew in noise and intensity. Frantically, she realized that this one small incident was but a ripple in a stormy sea. Nobody would hear her if she screamed. Panicked, she tried shrinking into her chair, hoping to gain enough clearance to land a well-placed kick on her assailant.
Then suddenly he was gone, lifted from her like a heavy sack of soured whiskey mash.
"Leave her alone." Ross held the drunken man by his shirt, anger clearly etched in the lines around his mouth. Then, just as quickly, he released the man, forcing him to stumble to regain his balance. He teetered momentarily, mumbling under his breath, then made his way along the wall toward the front entrance.
Dazed, Irene watched the entire episode as though it were a play and she was the only one to see it. Gradually, as her fear subsided, the ringing in her ears dimmed to a low hum. She stared up at Ross, more grateful than words could say, and just then she had no words at all.
"What the hell are you doing here?" His voice was harsh from anger and fear of what could happen to her, and he knew better than most exactly what could happen. Ross reached out and grabbed her by the hand, uncharitably pulling her to a standing position.
Stunned, Irene wobbled on her feet.
"You shouldn't be here." He thrust an arm in a semicircle to include the entire scene being played out behind him.
She didn't like his tone of voice, and she didn't like what he said. She was sick and tired of being told what to do, how to do it, and when she could do it.
"I don't like your tone of voice," she bristled.
"How can you even hear my tone of voice!" he yelled. Pulling her by the arm, he said, "Come on! You're going home where you belong." He glanced around the saloon, muttering, "Damn women!''
Stubbornly, she held her ground by grasping the chair. "Release me," she warned.
Ross faced her. "All right. Have it your way." In one swift movement, he leaned down and hoisted her over his shoulder.
What breath she had left instantly whooshed from her body. Her arms dangled down his back as her corset cut into her ribs. She tried to struggle, but his arm locked behind her knees, holding her securely.
"Put me down," she wheezed.
"Not until we get out of here."
Mortified, Irene pounded on his back, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment and the sudden rush of blood to her head. So much for her kind thoughts about Ross Hollister, she decided. Oh, how right Clara was!
Outside, the brisk air slapped her in the face, bracing her. She levered herself upward until the blood flowed naturally; she sighed with the relief of it.
"Mr. Hollister!" The words bounced out of her mouth with each jolting step he took. "I insist you put me down this instant."
"Not until I get you home." He kept walking as though she weighed no more than a keg of liquor. "And I've already told you to call me Ross."
Losing her grip on keeping herself somewhat upright, she found herself once more facing his back, upside down.
"How do I hate thee," she mumbled into the rough wool of his jacket. "Just let me count the ways!"
"What's that?"
"I said, put me down. I can barely . . . breathe."
He stopped, considering her obvious discomfort. "Only if you'll promise to do as you're told."
His words seared her. "No!" she replied.
"Then we'll go on." He started up the hill.
If only she could cry, but there wasn't enough air in her lungs to afford such a luxury.
Occasional patches of silver moonlight filtered through the dark sky, lighting up their surroundings and casting their shadows against the white snow. She forced herself not to look at their ridiculous silhouettes.
"I can't believe you're doing this," she gasped.
"And I can't believe you're setting this kind of an example for the children."
"Me!" she sputtered. "What about you, running that saloon!" He was being unfair and impossible. She struggled against his grip, hoping to force him to set her down.
"Hold still! It's slippery enough walking in the snow without you squirming around." He crossed the tracks. "We're almost there."
In one last attempt, noting they'd just walked through the gate in her front yard, she said, "This is uncalled for."
In desperation she struggled once more, and her poor insignificant little hat fell onto the porch. Giving as much of a sigh as her cramped position would allow, she resigned herself to the upcoming confrontation with her mother.
Without knocking, Ross burst into the house, his anger still smoldering. Unceremoniously, he dropped her to her feet.
Winnie and the children sat in stunned surprise, like figures etched in ice.
"Mrs. Barrett. Here is your daughter safe and sound." He turned to Irene. "I suggest you stay at home where you're needed. Good night." Then he stomped out the door, slamming it behind him.
"So he brought you home," Winnie said, a smug smile hovering at the corners of her mouth. A grudging admiration for the man wheedled its way into her thoughts.
Irene blinked when the door banged shut.
"Oh, no you don't, Mr. Hollister," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Now that she stood on both feet and had plenty of air in her lungs, she had a few things to say. He wasn't getting away so easily.
She yanked the door open just in time to see him slam the fragile picket fence gate behind him.
"Mr. Hollister!" Without waiting for him to stop, Irene closed the door, crossed the porch where her hat lay, and hurried down the walk. Angry puffs of breath showed white in the cold air before her.
Ross halted and turned to meet her head on. The full moon escaped the clutches of the dark, scudding clouds, and he saw clearly the lines of determination in her beautiful facethe same face that had been haunting his dreams for weeks.
"I believe you owe me an apology." Now that she stood directly in front of him, she felt her bravado slip. The set of his jaw made him look positively fierce.
"I'm supposed to apologize when you're the one who's busting up my saloon?" He raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
"I didn't break anything. But youyou nearly broke my ribs. I hardly think your behavior" It suddenly seemed absurd to accuse him of ungentlemanly behavior when she'd willingly been a part of that rioting scene at the saloon, exposing an unlady-like behavior herself. And she still would be if he hadn't carted her off. But some newfound defiance reared up and wouldn't allow her to give in.
"Go on," he prodded, still scowling.
"You had no right to handle me in such a fashion." She stood close enough so that Ross could smell the fragrance of roses. Her heavy hair tumbled about her head in disarray, while the thick knot hung over one shoulder. He saw her shiver, but she refused to pull her coat closed.
Expelling a long, exas
perated breath, he pushed his hat back on his head and stared at her. Then he tugged her coat closed and fastened one button.
"You're right," he said. "I'm sorry. It's just that when I heard you were coming, and then I saw you there with the rest . . ."
Even in the dark she could see his blue-gray eyes and thought about sunny summer days and picnics along the river. But there wasn't any humor in those eyes as there had been that day in the woods or when they'd skated on the canal. Now he stared earnestly at her.
"Irene . . ."
Dappled moonlight crossed her face, hiding any signs of her feelings. He tried again. "Irene, I worry about you and the children."
"Worry?" she asked, puzzled. "Why?"
"Don't you understand? Those children respect you and look up to you. If you go off breaking up saloons, how will that affect them?"
"At least we're dealing with the real issue. Saloons!" she said. It was because of that saloon that her mother, Clara, and Polly were after her. Until now, her life had been simple! She used to be able to come and go as she pleased, causing barely a ripple in the grapevine. But now everybody worried about her!
She forced herself to keep calm, but her voice shook anyway. "You have no need to be concerned. I'm quite capable of taking care of myself."
"Really? What about that drunk leering down the front of your dress? Were you going to take care of him?" He didn't want to be angry with her, but she wasn't being sensible.
A slow shudder passed along her spine as she remembered the disgusting man.
Taking her silence for agreement, he stepped forward, placing both hands on her arms. "I just don't want to see you get hurt. I care about you." He pulled her closer.
Irene swallowed hard, her anger extinguished by this new, unfamiliar feeling. Andrew had never held her so tightly, nor had he ever looked so intense. Ross's hands branded two spots on her upper arms, burning through the fabric of her coat and jacket. Then the shadow of his hat descended and she swallowed again.
Tentatively, he touched his lips to hers. When she didn't back away, he slipped both arms around her, cradling her against his chest. She tasted as sweet as she smelled.
Her hands lay still, pinned between them, and her breath hovered in her lungs, trapped. She couldn't seem to expel the air, and her head lightened while her right hand tremulously clutched her left.
Ross lifted his head, smiling into her eyes. "It's all right to breathe, you know," he said, grinning.
She exhaled explosively. Her heart pounded her ribs as his smile slowly faded, the intensity returning.
With one finger beneath her chin, he kissed her lightly, once, twice. But the third time, he wrapped his arms around her, pressing her tight until her knees weakened and she felt grateful for the hold he had on her. She tried to concentrate on breathing, but the butterflies in her stomach were such a distraction. Then his hand came up behind her head and, instinctively, she raised her arms to circle his neck, forgetting all about whether she breathed or not.
Lost. The word murmured through her mind. That's how she felt. Beautifully, wondrously lost. Suspended in time like the ladies and the gallant men of her novels who lived where only love abounded.
Ross cradled her slender figure as the contours of their bodies melded. His fingers lightly touched her neck where he felt her quickened pulse match the thudding of his own heart. Never had he been so affected by a woman.
Gently, he pulled back.
"You're so beautiful, Irene," he said in a voice rich with emotion.
She would have blushed, but all the blood in her body was busy pounding in her ears. Their noses were so close that they almost touched, and his warm breath brushed her lips when he spoke. Barely able to stand, her arms hung listlessly over his shoulders.
"I suppose that's the customary thing to say after . . . after . . . well, after kissing a woman," she whispered.
"I suppose it is," he grinned. "But that doesn't mean it isn't true."
"Then I suppose I should thank you," she said.
"For the kiss?"
"No. For the compliment."
He played with a lock of her hair, wrapping it loosely around his finger. "Why? Didn't you like the kiss?" His gaze locked with hers.
"Well, I . . . yes. I mean . . ." Flustered, she lowered her eyes until they fastened on the soft brush of his mustache. "Should we be discussing this?" she whispered.
"Why not?" he asked with a grin, looking over her shoulder. "Nobody's listening."
She smiled. He had such a way of making her feel at ease. And it did seem as though most of the time she was looking over her shoulder, wondering what someone would say or think about everything she ever did.
"At least, not at the moment." He gave a small jerk of his head toward the saloon. "They're all back there making splinters out of my saloon."
It was a sharp reminder that quickly brought her back to reality. She slid her arms down until he caught her wrists against his chest.
"Irene," he said, feeling her pull away from him.
"I should go in. Mother will be wondering . . ." She tugged lightly to get free, reminding herself that once before she'd succumbed to the charming wiles of a man only to be betrayed and heartbroken.
"Wondering? Does that bother you? What your mother and Clara and the others think?"
He held her firmly. A chilling light wind brought the pungent smell of woodsmoke to her nostrils, clearing her head.
"I really don't want to discuss this." She pulled harder, freeing her hands.
"Were you at the saloon that first night because you wanted to be there or because you were expected to be there?" Frowning, he jammed his hands into his pockets. "And what about tonight?"
"I don't think it is any of your business."
"I think it is."
With surprise and anger, she stared at him through the dimming moonlight. "Why is it that everything I do seems to be everyone's business! I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself!"
"Then why don't you?" he said just a little more sharply than he'd intended.
"I will! If everyone, including you, would give me half a chance."
"I'm willing to give you more than half a chance," he said softly.
"Of course you are! That's why you bodily hauled me out of there tonight."
Ross's jaw tightened. "I told you, that drunk was leering down the front of your dress. What was I supposed to do?"
"I don't believe the only way to save me was to forcibly remove me from the premises!" With that, she turned on her heel and stalked back to the house.
"That's exactly what I'd like to do to every one of those women!" he yelled at her back.
Irene slammed the door with as much force as she could put into it.
Ross whacked his hat against his thigh in agitation. He stared at the darkened porch, then at the lamplit window of the parlor. Maybe she was angry and maybe she would never speak to him again, but he wasn't sorry for a word he'd said. Like it or not, she needed to hear it.
The sound of screams coming from the saloon brought his attention to the current problem. The clamor echoed along Front Street like a knee-high fog. Resolutely, he made his way back, crunching through the snow.
When he arrived at the front door of the Broken Keg, he was greeted by Ben, who escorted two unwilling ladies into the street. Behind him came another man with two more ladies in tow. The shrieking was deafening.
Ben motioned to Ross with his head. "We can't be toleratin' this," he yelled over the noise. "We'll be out of glassesow!" Ben released his hold on her arm to rub his shin. His captive smiled smugly at hitting her mark.
Within five minutes the men had emptied the saloon of all the women, including Clara Wilson. They thronged noisily around the men barricading the door, but they weren't as insistent as before. They had wreaked enough havoc to satisfy them.
"You women go on home now," Ben said, shooing them like a flock of chickens. "You've had your fun, so go on."
Ross
scanned the crowd of women until his eyes came to rest on Clara Wilson. She stared long and hard at him, her eyes unflinching. It was impossible to miss the threat they held. And he wondered if the reason was the saloon or Irene.
Chapter Thirteen
Bright moonlight slipped into Irene's room like an intruder, its searching bluish-white light prodding into the recesses of her thoughts. Then, just as quickly, the light disappeared behind heavily layered clouds, hiding the objects in her room from view.
Wide awake, Irene lay staring at the dark ceiling, her heart heavy and her mind full. With her emotions going up and down like a schoolyard see-saw, she went over each happening of the evening from the buffeting of her body at the saloon to the tender caress in front of her home.
And on the same see-saw, she heard once again the words Ross had said, "Irene, I worry about you and the children. . . . I can't believe you're setting this kind of an example for the children. . . . I heard you were coming. . . ."
Then her own words, "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself!" And his answer, "Then why don't you?" It echoed in her mind. Why don't you? Why don't you? Why don't you?
Instantly, she rolled over, burying her face in her pillow. She triedoh, how she tried! If it weren't for that saloon . . . She pounded the pillow with her fist in the most unlady-like fashion. It was all because of that dratted saloon that her life had become miserable. She punched the pillow again.
And Ross. He was as much, or more, at fault than anything.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed herself not to remember the warmth of his embrace, the concern in his voice when he told her he cared, and she especially didn't want to remember the touch and taste of his lips on hers.
But oh, she did.
In her memory, his fingers grazed her chin and cheek while her heartbeat escalated. Slowly, with her face still buried in her pillow, her fist unclenched and her eyes relaxed. Then, almost as if it were real, she felt the panic rise in her breast as his lips touched hers. Breathless.
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