Resilient Love: Banished Saga, Book 7

by Ramona Flightner

  “And a cripple,” another muttered as he noted his friend’s interest.

  Araminta stood as tall as possible on her good leg and raised her head while thrusting her shoulders back—an imitation of what Clarissa did numerous times when scrutinized. “If you’d please give me my list and let me pass?” She waved her hand up and down once in front of her.

  “Aren’t you curious who we are?” the man called Bart asked. He wore a navy pinstriped suit with its matching waistcoat and a cream-colored tie. “We are much more genteel than those McLeods.” He snorted a laugh as he glanced toward his friends.

  Araminta remained silent with no trace of amusement reaching her eyes as she studied him and his friends. She moved forward to push past them but was forced to halt when they blocked her path, stumbling as she stopped on her bad leg.

  “You really are … damaged,” Bart murmured with a frown. At her mutinous gaze, he held up his hands. “I’d never call you crippled as you seem to move around fine.” He puffed out his chest as though that consideration merited him her regard. “I’m Bartholomew Bouchard, of the San Francisco Bouchards. This is my cousin, Vernon Vaughan, and our friend, Lionel Toomey.”

  “I’m sure your family is delighted to have you visit,” Araminta said as she leaned forward to nudge him out of her way.

  “Oh, I’m not visiting. I’ve come here to help run the bank Uncle obtained a few years ago. I’ve had substantial training in San Francisco.” He hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat as he arched his back. When this failed to impress her, he frowned as though flummoxed.

  During his confusion, Araminta dropped one shoulder and pushed her way past him. “Nice to meet you. Welcome to Missoula.” She raised an arm in farewell as she moved down the boardwalk, entering the first store she could find. “Blast,” she whispered when she remembered she didn’t have her list, although she was thankful to have entered the grocers.

  “Miss Araminta, are you unwell?” the shopgirl asked as Araminta leaned against one of the displays.

  Araminta stood tall and smiled. “Of course not. Merely a bit winded. Many are about today, and the boardwalk is crowded.” She moved toward the girl, her fingers tapping the top of the glass counter. “Would you mind writing down my order? I seem to have misplaced my list.”

  Afterward Araminta moved to a small stool in the corner and sat while she waited for her order to be filled. She looked out the store window and saw the woman causing such discord sashaying down the boardwalk. Instinctively she glared at the woman, resenting her ability to cause turmoil in Clarissa’s and Savannah’s lives.

  Araminta looked to her hands, clasped on her lap, when the woman turned into the grocers. Araminta attempted to blend into the corner, becoming part of the shelves, but Mrs. Smythe’s keen gaze landed on her. After a perfunctory greeting to the woman filling Araminta’s order, Mrs. Smythe moved around the small store until she’d sidled up to the case near Araminta’s corner.

  “It’s lovely to see you again, dear, and away from such horrid relations,” Mrs. Smythe said in her sugary voice, supposedly a whisper, but her voice became louder and caused the workers in the room to lean in their direction to better overhear. When Mrs. Smythe noted their actions, she smiled in triumph. “I must say, I was dumbfounded to realize my stepdaughter and niece could act in such a shameful way to you.”

  “They have only ever treated me with kindness and caring.” Araminta cleared her throat and glared at the shopgirl who watched their interaction with drop-jawed interest.

  “Oh, but to use one such as you as they do.” Mrs. Smythe sighed as she looked at Araminta with blatant pity and tsked. “I’d think they could find someone else for the hard labor.”

  “I am able to do the work that is required of me.”

  Mrs. Smythe’s smile appeared benevolent, although malicious joy lit her gaze. She tapped at one of the frilly pieces of lace kept under lock and key in a case under her fingers. “Isn’t this a lovely piece?” she asked no one in particular. “It must have taken so long to tat. Although I always find hand-sewn lace to have at least one deformity. Machine-sewn lace is almost always perfect. Isn’t it a joy that machines can now create most of what we need and do it so much better, with little risk of such imperfections?”

  She shot a look at Araminta. “I’m afraid it’s the same for people. A man would never want a crippled wife, not when he knows there are healthy options. Those who are, well, less, due to deformities, will no longer be needed.” She sighed as though she were mournful for her believed fact.

  Araminta stiffened and rose. “The differences, the deformities as you call them, are what make us unique and interesting. Nothing in this life is perfect, and your obsession with obtaining a perfect life, a perfect family and a perfect home will only lead you to loneliness and ruin.” She glanced at the shopgirl, whose previous amused interest was now one of disdain and distrust as she beheld Mrs. Smythe. The shopgirl nodded to Araminta that her order was ready. “If you will excuse me?”

  Mrs. Smythe’s mocking smile at Araminta’s loping walk provoked a glower from Araminta, but she pushed past the woman to collect her basketful of goods. “I wish you a good day,” Araminta whispered to the shopgirl. She turned, glared at Mrs. Smythe and walked out of the grocers with her head held high.

  When she had walked a short distance down the boardwalk, she paused and set her basket down. A tremor went through her, and she took a deep breath before she firmed her jaw and resumed her journey to Clarissa’s house.

  Araminta slammed a pot onto the stove, causing the other cast iron pots on top to rattle. “What’s got you so riled?” Colin asked as he entered Clarissa’s kitchen. He approached the icebox and pulled out a pitcher of cold water. When Araminta refused to answer his question, he sat at the small table in the center of the room.

  “Well, rather than me leaving after obtaining my glass of water, I’ll sit here now and bother you.” His smile faltered as she spun and glared at him. He choked down a sip of water and rapped his fingers on the tabletop.

  “Heard about your interesting run-in today with that Bouchard buzzard,” he said with a chuckle. When that earned a kick to the stove and a thwack to a kettle with a metal spoon that would have broken a wooden one, Colin raised an eyebrow. “I see you’re intrigued by the man.”

  Araminta spun with her hands on her hip as she glowered at Colin.

  Her hair was knotted loosely at the back of her head, and, although no strands were coming free, the loose hairstyle softened her features. Colin’s breath hitched a moment as he looked at her before she spoke.

  “Intrigued? I wouldn’t be intrigued by that man if …” She moved to the counter and lifted a knife.

  Colin rose with alacrity and placed a hand over hers, preventing her from cutting anything and potentially harming herself while so angry. “What did he and his friends say, Ari?” At her stare, he lowered his hand, leaving the knife in hers and gripped the side of his pants to stop himself from caressing her face. He backed away a step so as not to lean forward and kiss her forehead.

  “They called me the McLeod cripple.” She hacked a carrot in half, then set down the knife and took a deep breath.

  Any thoughts of romance fled as Colin gripped her shoulders. “Did they hurt you?” His angry gaze bored into her momentarily shocked one. He gentled his grip on her shoulders, but the anger rippled through him.

  “No, it was just words. And they kept my list.” She bit her lip. “I think he, that Mr. Bouchard from San Francisco, thought he was quite important and seemed surprised when I didn’t show him the reaction he expected.”

  “Bloody buffoon,” Colin muttered. “You are well?” He forced himself to drop his hands away as she backed off under the pretense of stirring the pot on the stove.

  “I’m fine. Angry at what they called me. Angrier at the fact their name-calling could rouse such a response in me.” She closed her eyes. “I should be used to it by now.” She looked toward Colin as a growl emerged
from him.

  “You aren’t crippled, Ari. You have a bad leg and walk with a limp. That doesn’t make you crippled. You do more in a day than most women in a week.” He clamped his mouth shut as though he wanted to say more but forced himself to stop. “I’m thankful you are not unduly affected after your meeting with them.”

  “I also saw your stepmother again. She spouted a variation of the same theme during her visit to the grocers.” Araminta cut the carrot into small pieces, dropping them all into the pot.

  “Miserable woman. Her greatest delight is to discover your sensitive spot and then poke a knife into it. She’s always disappointed she doesn’t watch you bleed to death from one of her jabs.” He raised his hand and made the motion as though he were stroking her back but kept his fingers raised a few inches, never touching her. “I’m sorry you had to suffer any further interaction with her.”

  Araminta sighed. “So am I. I loathe that woman.”

  “I can guarantee, Ari, that whatever she said was a lie. I’d never trust anything from her lips.”

  She turned to watch him a moment, a deep hurt visible in her gaze that she generally kept hidden from him. “There’s always truth amid the madness, Colin.” She broke away from his searching gaze and moved toward the cutting board.

  He watched her move with her own gracefulness, her gait uneven but fluid as she flitted from the stove to the cutting board and back. “Forgive me for intruding on you. I know my company is never desired.” He waited a moment for her to contradict him and then nodded to himself at her silent agreement. He grabbed his glass of water and pushed through the swinging door to the rest of the house, leaving Araminta behind in the kitchen.

  The screened door on the front porch slammed shut after him, and he winced at the loud noise.

  “Are you all right?” Clarissa asked as he joined her on the wide front porch. The children were playing in the small front yard rather than the spacious backyard, and she was keeping an eye on them. She rocked little Colin, now sixteen months old, in his rocker next to her as he slept.

  Colin traced a very gentle touch down little Colin’s back and sat next to his sister. “I’m fine.” When he met her doubting gaze, he rolled his eyes. “Some men downtown today made Ari feel bad. Called her a cripple.”

  Clarissa frowned and then sighed. “I’m afraid that’s not the first, nor the last, time anyone will call her that.”

  “I know.” Colin smiled as he watched his nieces and nephew play. “She also had a run-in with Mrs. Smythe. I don’t know the details, but I also don’t need them to know it must have been a singularly unpleasant interaction.” He took a long sip of water.

  “There’s nothing we can do to make Mrs. Smythe leave,” Clarissa snapped. She huffed out a breath when Colin placed a hand on her arm. “I hate that she’s here. That she’s invaded this place that was a haven from her and her vileness. I fear she’ll stir up gossip that’s better off dead.”

  “She’ll try, and she’ll succeed with some. But you and Gabe are well-liked. Those who are your true friends will listen, because people are curious, and we need to hear about something other than the war and goings on in Butte. But they also won’t give her much credence.” Colin shrugged. “It’s the nature of things, Rissa.”

  “I hate when you’re rational. I want you to rail against things like I do.” She relaxed at his amused laugh.

  They sat for long minutes, watching the children play. Neighbors passed in front of the house, short greetings exchanged or a wave as they passed by. A warm breeze blew the blooming trees. Colin sat with his legs stretched in front of him with his feet crossed at the ankles. “I hate that she won’t talk with me,” Colin whispered.

  Clarissa paused, studying Colin a moment and the abrupt change in topic before nodding her understanding. “We’ve discussed this, Col. You expect everything to go back to how it was before you almost kissed Araminta. Some things can’t be undone. Not for most women.” She watched him with fondness and worry mixed in her gaze. “Have you ever talked to her about that night?”

  Colin squirmed in his chair. “I try, and the wrong thing always comes out. I thought I’d attempt again today, and instead we talked about what happened to her when she went shopping.” His characteristic upbeat nature seemed deflated. “It’s as though I don’t want to talk with her about what really concerns me.”

  “That’s not like you, Col.” Clarissa stroked a hand over her son’s head. “I’d expect my son’s namesake to be a better role model,” she teased.

  “I still can’t believe you named him after me,” he whispered, his voice thickened with wonder as he ran a finger over the whispery down on his nephew’s head. “I bet he’ll be a hellion, like me.”

  “I knew I should have named him Lucas,” Clarissa said. She laughed softly as Colin acted affronted.

  “How are you really, Rissa? I know you’ve spoken with Sav.” Colin smiled as he watched his niece Geraldine command her siblings as though she were a little general.

  He turned to see Clarissa swiping at her cheek. “Heartbroken.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “When I think we had welcomed Patrick back here, with open arms, and he hid this? He had to have known that she would come here. That she would cause havoc. He left us unprepared for her attack.”

  “I think it’s why he was shocked we’d welcomed him.” Colin sighed as he stretched his legs a little farther to rest on the banister in front of him. “Do you remember when you were afraid to tell Gabe about Cameron?” He watched as she froze a moment before she continued her rocking. “Why were you reticent?”

  She raised angry eyes to him. “You know darned well it was because I was terrified he’d no longer want me.”

  Colin nodded his head. “Yeah. I think the same could be said of Patrick. After discovering his family didn’t hate him, even though we didn’t know the whole truth, I imagine he was as terrified as you’d been that we’d reject him once the full story was out. And he’d spent over a decade alone, Rissa.”

  She closed her eyes, and a few more tears trickled out. “I hate that any further injustice could be done to our family due to that woman.”

  Colin rocked in companionable silence a few minutes. “I agree. I have to remain hopeful that the worst damage has already been wrought, and now we have to minimize the aftereffects.” He dropped his feet with a soft thud and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees as he looked at her. “I’ve thought a lot about it, Rissa, and I agree with you. I’ll travel to Butte tomorrow. I need to hear from Patrick what happened. We’ve only heard her side of the story, and you know she’s as reliable as a sack of cow manure.”

  Clarissa clasped his hand. “Tell him … Tell him, no matter what, I still love him.”

  Colin gave her hand a squeeze before rising and joining his nieces and nephew on the lawn.

  Chapter 7

  Colin sat in the waiting room of the North Butte Mining Company, half watching as men scurried in and out of offices. A group of men sat at desks in a far corner, although a few of the desks were empty. Colin absently read a newspaper, and, after catching up on the recent developments on the Granite Mountain Mine disaster, he focused on a story chronicling the recent uptick in antidraft activity in Butte in recent weeks.

  He frowned as he read about two recent Irish immigrants who had been arrested for distributing antidraft material. A few days after their arrest, the Pearse-Connelly group had provoked a small riot in the streets of Butte as they led an antidraft protest. The condemnation of all such activities had been swift and harsh. Colin set aside the paper as a conference room door opened, and a large number of men exited, including Patrick. Colin watched as a secretary pointed in his direction.

  Patrick spun to see his brother, delight then concern flashing across his face. “Col!” he called out as he approached, holding out his hand.

  Colin rose, shook his hand and gave him a quick slap on his back.

  “What brings you to Butte?”

  �
�How long until you’re done with your day’s work, Pat?” Colin asked, adroitly dodging his question. “I must speak with you but privately before you head home.”

  Patrick nodded. “Give me a couple minutes to wrap up a few things.” He walked toward his desk, and Colin watched as his older brother shuffled papers and spoke with a few of the men nearest him. Soon Patrick headed toward Colin again.

  When they exited onto the street, Colin glanced around before steering them toward a pub for a drink. “How are things since the fire?”

  Patrick shook his head. “That’s a mild way to describe what happened. It’s a disaster through and through. Over 160 men are dead from that fire at the Granite last weekend. And now the men are on strike.”

  They entered a saloon, crowded with patrons as electricians had walked out in solidarity with the miners and were also on strike. Colin and Patrick purchased glasses of beer and moved to a corner, where they could speak privately. “How many miners aren’t working?” Colin asked around a sip of beer. “The papers claim that the men aren’t in the mine to attend funerals.”

  “Well, that’s partly true. It’s also true that, even without funerals, they aren’t returning to the mine. They want the rustling card system gone, an increase in wages and an eight-hour day.” He nodded when Colin whistled at the demands. “They also want the right to a union. Many fear another tragedy could strike at any moment.”

  “So how many aren’t working?”

  “Fifteen thousand miners out of sixteen thousand have walked out, last I heard,” Patrick murmured.

  “That’s a lot of men not working,” Colin murmured as he glanced around the crowded pub. “And we need copper for the war effort.”

  Patrick nodded. “I know. If they are united, the miners might obtain most of what they desire. But I worry too many are influenced by the likes of the IWW. The Anaconda Company will never bargain with such radicals.”