“Why deny your daughter when it seems she wants to know me?” He raised an eyebrow, his smile deepening at Fiona’s growing distress.
“She’s never known a harsh word or touch. She believes everyone will be kind to her. I’ll not have her learn the cruelties of this world from you.” She jumped when a soft hand landed on her shoulder before leaning back when she recognized Patrick’s soothing voice in her ear. She spun and thrust Rose into his arms.
Rose gave a crow of delight to be in her father’s arms, the new man forgotten. Patrick watched Samuel with a warning glint in his eyes. “I’d be very careful if I were you,” Patrick murmured. “Please leave.”
Colin stood next to Patrick with Lucas and Genevieve on the other side. The three men glowered at Samuel and formed an impenetrable wall of strength as they faced down Fiona’s nemesis.
Samuel smiled before chuckling. “I wasn’t doing anything. I was merely commenting on the fine day.”
“Of course you weren’t,” Colin murmured. “You prefer to act with stealth and deceit. You’d never be open about the devastation you are about to inflict.”
Samuel smiled his agreement before tipping his hat at Fiona and Genevieve and sauntering away. They watched until he had disappeared from sight. Patrick ran a hand down Fiona’s arm, stuttering out a sigh of relief when she leaned into his side for support. “He’s gone, love. He won’t hurt us.”
“He’s fixated on Rose,” she whispered. “The older she gets, the more interested he becomes.”
“Then we’ll simply be more vigilant,” Patrick said as he nodded to his brother and cousin and walked to his house for Sunday dinner before Colin had to leave.
Fiona moved around her small bedroom and sniffed the offending odor. She paused and closed her eyes, discerning where it came from. When she opened her eyes, she moved to a corner of the room where Patrick had left a small pile of dirty clothes. She lifted his work shirts and pants and then blanched as the stench intensified. The clothes he’d worn for days while working at the mine were at the bottom of the pile.
She lifted the pants between her thumb and forefinger, held them away from her. “Burning’s too good for you,” she muttered at the pants as she glared at the equally offensive shirt on the floor. After taking a deep breath, she slipped her hand into one pocket and then the other. She extracted a slip of paper smudged with dirt and dropped the pants to the floor again as she unfolded the paper to find Patrick’s handwriting.
My Darling Fiona,
I don’t have much time to write, and I’m a horrible correspondent, so I fear you must make do with this letter. Up to now, I’ve had minor mishaps with my helmet and breathing apparatus. Nothing that would lead to any permanent damage.
However, should something happen to me, I want you to know that marrying you was the best thing I ever did. Rose is my greatest joy. I will always be thankful I helped you at the Gardens and that you saw me as more than Sanders’s underling.
If the worst happens, know that I have loved you from the beginning. My love for you has only grown with each day.
Patrick
“Oh my,” she breathed, reaching behind her for the edge of the bed. She perched on it, tracing the words on the scrap of paper. A tear trickled down her cheek, and she wrapped her arms around her middle. After a moment she rose, setting the paper by her bed stand and picked up the offending garments to dispose of. Patrick would be home soon from the pub, after seeing his brother off. Her husband, who had dared death and survived to return to her and Rose. She swiped at her cheeks as she tossed his clothes in the garbage bin and returned to the bathroom to wash and prepare for bed.
That evening after Colin left, Patrick sat on the settee in the living room, staring into space. Rose had been in bed a few hours, and Fiona had retired not long after that. He sighed and rubbed his face before rising and wandering into the bedroom he used to sleep in before Colin’s arrival. He shucked his clothes before tumbling into the small bed.
After tossing and turning for many minutes, he flopped to his back to stare at the ceiling.
“Patrick?” Fiona’s soft voice called out.
He pushed up onto one elbow on his bed. “Fee, what are you doing up? You should be asleep,” he whispered.
“I was waiting for my husband,” she said, glaring at him. “Why are you in here again? I thought we were past that.”
He shook his head, sitting up with the blankets pooled around his waist. “I was sitting on the sofa, and I realized I hadn’t asked you if I should join you tonight or not. I didn’t want to presume …”
She reached out a hand. “I want you next to me every night, Patrick. You don’t have to ask or seek my permission.” She gave him a chagrined smile. “Although I suppose you have it now.” She watched as he remained seated on the bed. “Please.”
“I’m not wearing any clothes, Fee,” he said. “I’ll be in our room in a minute.”
She flushed but met his gaze. “Come. You’re my husband, and our child is fast asleep. You can race across the hall with me without worrying about your dignity.” She extended her hand again and beamed at him as he took it.
He rose, tugging her to him until she was flush against him. He lowered his head and kissed her until they were both breathless. “I want you, darling Fee.”
“Good, because I want you too,” she whispered, backing up a step. Her smile broadened as he followed her.
When they entered their bedroom, he teased the hem of her nightgown up her body and over her head. “Let me love you tonight, Fee.” He kissed her shoulder, the skin above and below her breast and smiled at her groan of frustration.
“Yes, my love, yes,” she whispered.
He met her passion-filled gaze, a slow smile spreading when he saw trust and desire but no fear. “I’ve dreamed of this since I met you.” He smiled fully as she blushed at his words.
She peppered his cheeks and chin with kisses before whispering, “I told myself you were lonely and only wanted a friend.”
He paused and met her gaze as he settled her on the bed and lay beside her. “I did want a friend, but I wanted more too.” At her chuckle he kissed her deeply while his hands roamed over her, calming any of her nerves and provoking her passion.
“Make love with me, husband,” she said as she nipped at his ear.
Soon they were lost to words.
Patrick held a quiet Fiona in his arms and stroked a hand over her hip, to soothe himself as much to soothe her. He took a deep breath and then another as he fought his instinct to speak. When she nuzzled his neck, he kissed the top of her head.
After many minutes, she whispered, “Why won’t you say anything? I’m sorry if I was a disappointment to you.”
He snorted a startled sound, turning to his side so he could face her, to read her guarded expression. “How could you think I’m disappointed?”
Her hands played over his chest and arms, yet her gaze was downcast. “You haven’t said anything.”
At her whispered words, he groaned. “I thought you were upset. I … I wanted you too much, Fee. I’m sorry if you didn’t find the pleasure you could have.”
She frowned as she watched him. “I’ve never felt as cherished and desired as I did when we made love.” She flushed as his eyes darkened at her words. “You’ll never know what it means to me to know you still want me after everything.”
He smiled and kissed her, rolling her on her back. “I’ll want you until they put me in my grave.” He sighed and kissed her gently before leaning away. He frowned as his thumbs traced away tears. “What is it, my love?”
“I found your letter.”
He shook his head in confusion at her words.
“The letter you wrote in case you died in the mine.” She pushed her head against his shoulder, wrapping her arms and legs around him as her tears fell.
“I never meant for you to see that,” he whispered into her ear as she shuddered against him.
She pushed back to trail
her fingertips over his face, her eyes wide with wonder as his cheek moved into her touch. “Do you know what it meant to find that letter? To know your last words to me would have been of love?” She leaned forward and kissed him. She sniffled. “To know I didn’t have to find your letter at the undertakers like so many others?”
“Oh, love,” he murmured into her hair.
“I knew, deep inside, I knew you loved me. You told me how you did last night, but now, for some reason, I believe you.” She met his gaze. “Thank you for never giving up on me.”
His smile bloomed as his palms cupped her cheeks. “I never could. You mean everything to me, Fiona. You and Rose are my world. I will do all I can to protect you and provide for you.”
“Promise me that you won’t work as a helmet man again. I couldn’t bear it.”
He studied her a moment before nodding. “I don’t think I could bear it either.” He tugged her close and stroked his hand over her arm. “You must rest if you’re to keep up with our daughter tomorrow. Let me hold you while we sleep.” His contented sigh filled the room as she fitted her body against his side, and they slipped into a peaceful sleep together.
Chapter 9
Missoula, Montana, June 1917
Araminta walked in the shadows alongside the street in an attempt to remain cool in the long summer evening as she headed away from downtown. Maple trees planted twenty years ago had grown enough to provide some shade, and small flower gardens dozed after the heat of the day as they awaited their daily watering. She waved to a neighbor and continued her loping walk.
She ignored the calls of “Miss!” as she made her way to her new home. She had saved enough money over the years that she was confident in her ability to rent a small set of rooms near downtown Missoula. Although it had dampened her independent spirit, she had needed Gabriel to cosign both her bank account and her lease. Banks and landlords remained reluctant for single women to sign their own contracts, and she was thankful Gabriel had been willing to vouch for her.
However, she finally had a home of her own for the first time in her life. She smiled when she turned the corner for home on Pine Street, anxious to decorate and move furniture around. She gasped when someone grabbed her arm.
Bartholomew Bouchard was out of breath and sweating in the warm evening weather when he said, “Miss!” one last time. When Araminta looked him up and down in confusion, he smiled a toothy grin as though he thought that were charming. “I’ve been calling out to you.”
She stiffened her shoulder and wrenched her arm free. “Do you have a habit of accosting women and then leering at them as though a deranged lunatic?” She huffed out a breath and turned on her heel.
“No, wait!” He reached for her again, only to have his hand slapped away.
“I don’t care to be pawed by you, Mr. Bouchard.” She faced him, her breath coming quickly as though she had been the one racing down the sidewalk. “I bid you a good evening.”
“I had hoped you would be inclined to have supper with me.” He took off his hat and pushed back a piece of hair not shellacked in place by the heavy application of pomade. His eerily light-blue eyes held a beseeching note. “I hate to eat alone.”
“Then I’m afraid you are destined for discomfort,” she snapped. “I’m surprised you can’t find one of your friends or cousins to entertain you.” Her gaze sharpened. “Or is it that you wanted to better acquaint yourself with the cripple?”
“Don’t call yourself that,” he barked. He blushed when he saw the confirmation in her gaze that his acquaintances referred to her as such. “I do not see you in such a way.”
“How refreshing,” she murmured, her sarcasm enhancing his blush. “If you will excuse me, I’ve had a long day.”
He bolted forward as she turned to walk away from him. “Here, let me escort you.” He matched his gait to her uneven lope and peppered her with questions about life in Missoula.
“I’m surprised you’d ask me such questions. Why don’t you ask your family here?” She slowed her frenetic pace upon realizing she would not shake him.
“They are nice enough women but quite opinionated. I’ve decided I’d like to form my own opinions about the residents here, without their decades’ worth of biases clouding my perceptions.”
Araminta slowed further. “How interesting,” she murmured. “Most are quite content to think as their families believe.”
He laughed, causing her to frown as it sounded more cynical than joyful. “I find that I am more apt to survive if I trust my own instincts.”
She paused at the walkway to her building. “Well, thank you for your kind escort.” She smiled shyly at him before walking alone toward the front door of the building.
“Have dinner with me tomorrow,” he said. “Form your own opinion of me, rather than allowing how we met or your views of my family to cloud how you perceive me.”
She turned to study him, his stocky build encased in a fancy maroon suit with matching hat at a jaunty angle. “You look like a peacock,” she murmured, unable to hide a smile.
“Is that a yes?” he asked with a broadening smile.
“I can’t have dinner with you, Mr. Bouchard. I have my reputation in this town to consider.”
He watched her, considering her words a moment. “I should have been more thoughtful. Will you join me on a walk tomorrow evening?”
“Yes, a short one.” She met his triumphant gaze for a moment more and then dashed inside her building. When she closed the door behind her in her small apartment, she shook her head at her racing heart, silently chiding herself for her foolishness.
The following evening, Araminta sat on her front stoop and bit back a smile as Bartholomew walked toward her building. Today he wore a navy blue suit that shimmered in the evening light. She rose from the front porch’s chair and walked to meet him. She stroked the fabric of his suit, blushing at her brazen action. “Forgive me,” she whispered.
He laughed. “You’re the first brave enough to act on your curiosity. It’s some sort of newfangled material my aunt Vaughan saw and thought would be perfect for me. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’d look a fool.”
Araminta bit the inside of her cheek. “I’m uncertain if you’d rather have me agree or disagree,” she murmured.
He watched her and smiled. “I’d rather your real opinion. I have plenty around me who will tell me what I want to hear.” He hooked out his elbow, waiting for her to slide her hand through his arm before turning them toward a residential side street for a stroll.
“I think you should dress how you desire, not as you believe others want you to. You should please yourself.” She ducked her head after she spoke.
“Is that how you live your life? Living life to please yourself?” He nodded to a couple walking with a baby carriage.
“No, of course not. But I don’t allow others to dress me up and make me look like a baboon.”
He laughed. “You must work with children.” At her confused stare, he said, “Your constant references to animals. Last night I was a peacock. Today I’m a baboon. I’m tempted to wear something outrageous tomorrow to see what you’d call me.”
“Now you’re speaking nonsense,” she murmured with a shake of her head. After a few moments of silence, Araminta relaxed in his company. “What do your friends and family think of you walking with me tonight?”
He laughed. “As I don’t inform them of all my activities, I don’t know. Nor do I care. Last I checked, I was out of training trousers.” He saw her pursed lips and frowned. “I am my own man, Miss Araminta.”
They paused at a vacant lot that an industrious resident had turned into a vegetable garden. “What do you think of Montana?” Araminta studied him as his gaze roved over the mountains in the distance, now a rich lavender in the evening light.
“It’s small and boring and lacking in almost all modern conveniences.” He laughed as she bristled at his blunt assessment of her home. “However, the people are friendly.�
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“If you desire adventure, you should move to Butte.” She sniffed in disdain and studied the garden.
“Come, Miss Araminta. We should all have the right to our own opinions and the freedom to express them.” He sighed as she remained tightly wound next to him. “I miss the bustle and energy of a big city.”
“I don’t. I hated the noise and pollution and never-ending commotion as people got from one place to another.” She sighed as she closed her eyes, birdsong battling for supremacy with the sounds of distant traffic. “Montana is paradise to me.”
He chuckled. “You are a romantic if you believe that.”
She turned to face him, her disgruntled glare earning a smile. “Why don’t you return to whatever city you traveled from? We wouldn’t miss you.”
His chuckle transformed into a laugh. “Oh, how you wound my fragile pride.”
A wisp of hair trailed over her blush-reddened cheek, but she met his gaze without a flinch.
“I have no reason to return to San Francisco and every reason to remain here. I have a job and family.” He challenged her with a tilt of his head. “And friends.”
She rolled her eyes and walked on again. “I would think your friends would warn you to stay far away from the Missoula cripple.” She gasped when he grabbed her shoulder, spinning her to face him. Her blush intensified as she saw the anger in his gaze.
“Never refer to yourself in such a way.” His intense gaze speared into hers. “We can’t control how others speak or what they think. But we know the truth. About ourselves and the choices we’ve had to make in our lives. Don’t allow another to write your story.”
“You perplex me, Mr. Bouchard. When I saw you with your friends, I thought you were little more than a man intent on striding around town, puffing out his chest at his own importance. You seemed to enjoy showing off to your friends.” Her brow furrowed as she studied him. “Now, how you speak, you’re a different person. Who are you really?”
Resilient Love: Banished Saga, Book 7 Page 12