Banner O'Brien

by Linda Lael Miller

  Banner frowned. “Most men don’t feel that way, though. Why is that, Adam?”

  He was watching her again. “The issue is linked with prohibition. They probably envision an army of Carrie Nations converging on the polls, hatchets in hand. And when liquor is outlawed, prostitution won’t be far behind.”

  Banner fell silent, and she huddled deeper under the lap rug as a snow-flecked wind howled around the bonnet of the buggy. How dearly men regarded their two favorite pleasures, she thought to herself.

  “Talk to me, O’Brien,” Adam said as they reached the bottom of the hill and turned in the direction of the business district. Banner’s hotel was only about a block ahead.

  “I was just thinking how selfish men can be,” she replied honestly. “Imagine denying adult people simple, basic rights just to drink rum and—”

  Adam laughed and drew the buggy to a stop under a spill of golden light coming from the streetlamp in front of the hotel. “And what?”

  She colored in anger and then realized, too late, how deftly he had baited her. And she had risen to the hook. “You know what!” she hissed.

  Buggy reins draped between his right thumb and index finger, he lifted his hands in comical surrender. “Don’t shoot, O’Brien. Have pity. ‘And what’ seems to come into my mind a lot when I’m around you.”

  Banner hurled back the lap rug and scrambled unceremoniously out of the buggy. “Go home!” she cried.

  “Come with me,” he answered.

  Banner went crimson, whirled, and stormed toward the warm sanction of the hotel, Adam’s laughter following after her.

  * * *

  The snow grew deeper with each passing day until the roofs of houses were groaning under its weight, children were kept home from school, and ships were neither leaving nor arriving in Port Hastings.

  Banner, for all that she was very busy with patients at the hospital and the occasional house call with Adam, felt uneasy. It was as though something was bearing down on her, something that would crush her the way the snow was crushing outhouses and chicken coops.

  By contrast, the mood in the Corbin house was boisterously festive. Secrets were kept, holly boughs and evergreens were gathered, songs were sung. It turned out that Clarence King, the gambler who’d had a knife thrust through his hand, was possessed of a rousing baritone.

  It was to escape this that Banner went to Maggie’s kitchen that stormy afternoon of December twenty-third.

  A sturdy woman with merry eyes and unruly gray hair, Maggie McQuire was rolling out pie dough at a worktable near the fire and humming a yuletide hymn.

  “No smile for old Maggie?” she asked, breaking off her humming to grin at Banner.

  Banner helped herself to coffee at the stove and then went to sit disconsolately on the bench closest to the hearth. The warmth of the crackling, busy fire seemed to exist only on the other side of some invisible barrier. “I’m afraid I don’t feel much like smiling,” she said.

  “Missing your folks?”

  There were no folks to miss; Banner barely remembered her parents, and her grandmother, who had raised her, had died long before her marriage to Sean. “Isn’t it ever going to stop snowing?” she whispered, neatly skirting Maggie’s question and frowning at the white-trimmed windows.

  “Yes,” said Maggie, going on with her work but lending Banner a gruff sort of comfort as she spoke. “It’ll stop and the sun will come out.”

  The double meaning lifted Banner’s spirits a little. “You’ve been cooking for days,” she observed. “Don’t you get tired?”

  “I’m planning to be tired the day after Christmas,” quipped Maggie. “Until then, I don’t dare stop to draw a breath.” Her plump shoulders moved in a shrug. “I kind of like having all of the family around. Wouldn’t be Christmas if I didn’t have to chase one of those boys away from my blackberry cobbler every few minutes.”

  Banner smiled, and it was a real smile, without effort, feeling good on her face. “You love them very much, don’t you?”

  Maggie nodded. “Melissa, too, ‘course. But the boys are real special to me—especially Adam. We’ve had a time with that one right from the first. Near starved to death when he was a baby, Adam did. Guess that’s why I like to cook for him now.”

  “Starved to death?” Banner repeated, staring.

  Maggie nodded. “Mother’s milk didn’t set well with him, and we didn’t think Adam’d last through his first year. Probably wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for old Martha Washington.”

  Martha Washington? Banner was about to voice her confusion when she remembered the custom of giving Indians the names of famous white people. “What did she do?”

  “She came right up to the cabin door one day and said as how she’d heard we had a sick baby. Miss Katie was in tears and Daniel was away somewheres—that’s why I was around so much, though I had myself a husband then—and Adam was squallin’ fit to rouse the dead.

  “Old Martha took him right in hand, she did. Once she found out that he wouldn’t take the breast, she boiled up a batch of fresh clams and gave him the broth. Lived on it until he was ten months old.”

  Banner pictured the small cabin and the beleaguered young mother and thought how much things had changed since then. “Daniel was Mrs. Corbin’s husband?”

  Maggie nodded. “He was a handsome one, if something of a rake, and he had himself a knack for makin’ money. Time Keith was born, Daniel had four ships sailin’ the seas and the beginnings of the boatyard and the mill. They built this house right up around the cabin.”

  Banner was still framing a response when the door leading from the dining room swung open and Adam came in. He spared one grin for his associate and then descended on Maggie’s peach pie filling, one finger curved to dip.

  “You touch that and I’ll whack you!” Maggie threatened, brandishing the floury rolling pin in both hands.

  Adam leaped back in comical alarm and then subsided to sit on the bench, beside Banner. “Shirking again, O’Brien?” he drawled.

  Banner elbowed him in the ribs. “Shirking, is it? I, Dr. Corbin, have been in the hospital all morning, treating patients and cleaning instruments. You, on the other hand—”

  Adam laughed. “It isn’t my fault that Jeff and Keith had to look at every pine between here and Portland before they could agree on a Christmas tree.”

  “Speaking of that,” Maggie broke in, and there was irritation in her face and in the movements of her arms as she rolled out yet another circle of dough. “Are you going to be here tomorrow, or are you going to traipse off by yourself again?”

  Instantly the festive humor was gone from Adam’s eyes. “I’ll leave in the morning, as usual,” he said sharply, rising to his feet and ignoring Banner. “Have the food ready.”

  Maggie’s annoyance seemed to equal his, but she only nodded and vented her anger on the pie dough.

  Adam turned and strode out of the kitchen, leaving Banner to draw her own conclusions about his plans for Christmas.

  When she next encountered him, in the ward, he was examining Clarence King’s hand for infection. Having done this repeatedly herself, Banner knew that the wound was healing cleanly. In fact, now that he was over the shock of being stabbed, Clarence could have been released and sent on his way. Probably Adam was only keeping him because it was Christmas and the young man had nowhere else to go.

  Banner went to the front windows of the ward, which overlooked Port Hastings and the now quiet harbor, too proud to approach Adam and strike up a conversation.

  Francelle and Melissa were in the yard, laughing and flinging balls of snow at each other, and their voices were like songs rising on the wintery air. For all their commotion, Banner barely saw or heard them. She was thinking of the woman Adam would visit tomorrow, the woman he would take food to. Was she beautiful? Did he love her?

  Banner’s eyes stung, and she bit her lower lip. She must be very special, Adam’s woman, whoever she was, if he would leave such a wonderful
home and family at Christmastide to spend time with her.

  In the snowy distance, a steam whistle blew, and the sound mingled with the joyous laughter of Francelle and Melissa, all of it combining to make Banner feel lonesome.

  She lifted her chin, however, and thought of Adam’s woman again. I will take him from you, she vowed. She, Banner O’Brien, who had never wanted another man to come into her life, let alone coveted someone else’s love.

  “Shamrock?”

  She turned, slowly, not wanting to face Adam now but knowing that she must. “How is Clarence’s hand?” she asked, quite unnecessarily.

  Adam grinned and folded his arms across his broad chest, his head tilted to one side. “It’s mending nicely,” he answered, and his dark blue eyes caressed her with a sort of quiet humor. Had he somehow guessed what she was thinking?

  Banner blushed a little, praying that he hadn’t. “It’s still snowing,” she observed with an inanity that made her hate herself before the words were out of her mouth.

  The indigo eyes laughed at her, but gently. “Yes, Shamrock, it is indeed still snowing.” He reached into the inside pocket of his gray silk vest and withdrew an envelope. “Here. It’s a month’s salary.”

  Banner’s eyes widened as she took the envelope; it was thick with currency. “I haven’t worked a month,” she reminded him, but her heart was stirring within her. After all, Christmas was but two days away and she would spend it here with this family and she had been despairing because she couldn’t bring even the smallest remembrance to show her caring for them.

  Adam shrugged. “I think I can trust you not to run off before a month is out, can’t I, O’Brien?”

  Banner tallied the money tucked into the envelope with as much subtlety as possible. There were five twenty-dollar bills—a hundred dollars! Merciful heavens, she’d have been lucky to earn that much in a year working on her own. “Isn’t this rather a lot, just for a month?”

  Adam’s grin eased to a half-smile. “Not really, considering the rigors of a practice like this one. It’s been easy so far, O’Brien, but the first time this ward is filled and we’ve got patients howling in the outer office, you’ll be demanding a raise.”

  Banner looked down at the money and thought of the pretty lace handkerchief she’d seen in the window of the general store—that would be perfect for Mrs. Corbin—and of the beautiful, leatherbound book of days she wanted to buy for Melissa. Suddenly, her low spirits were dispelled.

  “Take a few hours off,” Adam said, and this time she knew that he was reading her mind. “Jeff is around somewhere—I’m sure he could be persuaded to take you down to town.”

  Banner rushed to get her cloak with such eagerness that Adam laughed. She turned at the opening of the walkway leading into the main part of the house, her color high. “Thank you,” she said.

  Adam shrugged and turned away.

  Jeff was in the parlor, supervising the placement of the towering, fragrant Christmas tree. A movement inside the lush boughs indicated the presence of someone else, too—Keith?

  “The windows, damn it—in front of the windows!” barked Katherine Corbin’s second son.

  Deliciously scented pine boughs moved, and Keith’s voice was recognizable, if muffled. “I can’t see the windows!” he retorted. “Will you just say ‘left’ or ‘right’?”

  “Starboard,” instructed Jeff, with terse impatience.

  The twelve-foot tree paused, then sidled a few inches to the right. “Starboard,” muttered the voice within. “This is the parlor, you idiot, not the decks of the Sea Mistress!”

  Banner had been enjoying the scene too much to betray her presence in the doorway, but a giggle escaped her and Jeff turned, grinning, his hands on his hips.

  “Hello, Dr. O’Brien.”

  “Am I in front of the blasted windows or not?” demanded the tree.

  Banner laughed out loud, and her weary spirit soared. Somehow this simple spectacle had brought the joy of the season home to her. “Just a little to the left,” she said.

  Obediently, the massive tree slid to the left, filling the huge, gracious room with its pitchy, festive scent as it went.

  “Now?” implored Keith in baleful tones.

  “Now,” confirmed Banner.

  The tree rustled again as Keith came out, looking rumpled and patently annoyed. At the sight of Banner’s joy-flushed face, however, he flung a grin at Jeff and muttered, “Have you ever noticed that Adam always gets the best presents?”

  Jeff nodded and just for a moment his Corbin-blue eyes were wistful.

  Banner was puzzled by the cryptic exchange, but she didn’t explore the feeling. She wanted nothing to spoil the bright glow of the day. “Your brother told me,” she began, addressing Jeff, “that you might be willing to drive me to town. I want to do some shopping.”

  Jeff executed a sweeping bow. “At your service, milady, I’ll have the carriage brought around.”

  “The buggy would do,” said Banner, who was not accustomed to luxury.

  “Not for you,” replied Jeff in a rumbling vibrato, as he caught her hand and suavely kissed it.

  Keith rolled his eyes and then his gaze swung, warmly mischievous, to Banner. “Excuse my brother, please,” he enjoined her. “You see, Jeff sometimes gets his centuries confused. He changes, before our very eyes, from the captain of a modern ship to a swashbuckling pirate. Some of us even suspect that he swings from the rigging and stands at the end of the gangplank, brandishing a sword.”

  “Go tend to your flock or something,” retorted Jeff out of the side of his mouth, his eyes never leaving Banner’s face. “There is a price, Dr. O’Brien, for my escorting you today.”

  Banner knew better than to be alarmed; there was no danger in this man. At least, not to her. “And what is that?” she asked archly.

  “You must let me buy your supper.”

  “Done,” she agreed.

  Keith elbowed his brother in the ribs as he passed. “I hope you’ve led a long and full life,” he told him mysteriously, and then he was gone.

  Barely a quarter of an hour later, Banner was settled comfortably inside the family carriage, a bright plaid lap rug covering her legs. Jeff sat easily in the seat opposite hers, though the small space should have cramped him, considering his size.

  They went first to Banner’s hotel, where she collected her best dress—a pale blue taffeta that had been packed away too long and needed pressing. When they had dropped the garment off at Wung Lo’s busy establishment, they went on to the general store.

  Guessing, perhaps, that Banner wanted to shop alone, Jeff went off on business of his own.

  The mercantile was well stocked, and heat radiated from a sizable stove in the back. The scents of spices, peppermint candy, saddle soap, and soot filled the place. On the yardage counter were bolts of bright silks mixed in among serviceable woolens, cambrics, and calicos. Enormous green pickles were sold from a barrel near the counter, and elegant dolls with china heads nodded between toy firewagons and tiny wicker baby carriages. Occasionally, a St. Nicholas dressed in the rough-spun clothing of a farmer or a millhand would come in to purchase one or two of the toys.

  Banner explored at her leisure, dropping the planned handkerchief and the book of days into the basket slung over her arm, pondering an array of modestly priced perfumes until she found one she thought Maggie would like. After that, she selected books for Jeff and Keith and, following much study of the stock available, a pretty satin sachet for Jenny.

  That left Adam.

  Banner went back to the books, but none of them seemed right. Besides, she wondered if it was fitting to give Dr. Corbin a gift at all, considering the way she felt about him.

  But she had to, of course, if she was going to buy presents for all the others. Frowning, Banner traversed one aisle and then another, picking things up, putting them down.

  “Problems?” interceded a masculine voice at her side as she paused before a display of toy Indian drums.
>
  Banner turned, still musing, to look into the handsome, smiling face of Temple Royce. “Hello,” she said.

  “Dr. Henderson tells me that you’ve joined Adam Corbin’s practice,” remarked Mr. Royce, and though he was still smiling, something disturbing lurked in the depths of his childlike brown eyes. “I must say, I was surprised to hear that.”

  “Why?” asked Banner distractedly, wondering if a box of chocolates would be too intimate a gift for Adam, given the fact that such presents were usually exchanged by lovers.

  “Adam isn’t an easy man to work with,” supplied Mr. Royce, raising one eyebrow.

  Banner smiled. “No, he certainly isn’t. But he is a very good doctor, and I expect to learn rather a lot from him.”

  A tiny muscle in Royce’s smooth-shaven cheek tightened, relaxed again. “Yes,” he said, after a long and rather unsettling pause. He turned his fine beaver hat in gloved hands and somehow managed to look elegant and uncomfortable, both at once.

  “Is something wrong?” Banner asked.

  There it was again, that discomforting smile. “No—of course not—it’s just that—well—”

  “Yes?”

  Mr. Royce assessed the sleeves of his tailored coat for snowflakes that had long since melted to glistening beads. “I would feel responsible, having brought you to Port Hastings myself, if anything—er—happened.”

  “Such as?” prodded Banner, feeling slightly insulted but not knowing why.

  Before the man could frame any sort of answer, halting or otherwise, Jeff returned, his powerful hands wedged into the pockets of his blue sea-captain coat. His collar was turned up and snow shimmered on his imposing shoulders and his eyes were angrily vigilent as they swept Banner’s companion.

  “Royce,” he said, and whether the word was a greeting or a threat, Banner could not tell.

  Temple smiled nervously. “Jeff,” he replied, with a nod of his head.

  Jeff’s gaze swept to Banner’s face and softened. “Are you finished?” he asked.

  Banner was careful to tilt her shopping basket so that he couldn’t see inside. She wanted his present to be a surprise. “Not yet. Could I have just a minute more?”