Harry Longdon stood looking down at the man he'd always secretly despised as a weakling. He'd laughed at the warden's high-handed notions of treating prisoners fairly. And now the little bastard was having the last laugh on Harry. The big blond knew that, hand to hand, he would have no difficulty in beating his employer to a bloody pulp. But be had no intention of going against a pistol pointed at his middle.
His fingers tightened, curling the hat brim into his palms. He wanted to hit something. Hurt something. But there was nothing he could do here. His breath came fast and furious as he reminded himself that the warden wasn't the cause of his trouble. It was all the fault of those damn Irish bitches.
Hadn't they teased him? Tormented him? They had forced him to stop the wagon so their friends could rescue them. They'd laughed at Harry Longdon! And they'd taken his money. Money it had taken three years to earn. Three years of listening to crying complaints, begging, and all manner of nonsense. Three years of accepting "gifts" from prisoners' families in exchange for better treatment
Gone. All of it gone. He looked down at the warden again and breathed deeply. Never mind about the sanctimonious weasel. He was nothing. Besides, he wasn't going anywhere. If need be, Harry could always come back and pay the warden a little nighttime visit.
"I'll be leavin', then," Harry said softly.
The warden nodded but didn't put his gun down.
Outside the office Harry leaned back against the closed door and shut his eyes. Now what? No job. No money. He'd had a real easy time of it the last three years, with plenty of food, a place to sleep, and women when he wanted 'em. Now there was nothing. Well, goddammit, he would take care of those responsible for ruining him. He'd find those damn females if it was the last thing he ever did.
And he would make them pay.
#
Jacob leaned on the railing of the hurricane deck and stared down at the ever-moving river two decks below. He took another long pull at his cigar and blew the pale gray smoke out in a rush. It dissipated quickly in the cold night air, leaving him once again with an unimpeded view of the lamplit water.
With the River Belle tied up for the night, the surrounding silence was a blessing. During the day he’d become accustomed to the clanging and roar of the engines. It was as familiar and steady as the beating of his heart. But the moment the commotion died away, the resulting silence was greeted with sighs of pleasure from all over the ship.
Jacob squinted against the curling smoke and dragged again at the almost-gone cigar. As he exhaled, he tossed the stub away and watched the still-glowing end until it was swallowed by the river.
Running his fingers through his hair, he found his thoughts returning again to the woman who was just one deck below him. Bridget O'Dell. He shouldn't have been surprised to find out that she was the one who'd overheard his prayer. He should have recognized the voice – soft and deep with just the slightest hint of a brogue.
Jacob shook his head. Truth to tell, her voice had intrigued him even that first night. If he hadn't been so damned embarrassed to be caught pleading with God, he might have told her so. His hands clenched around the railing. The first time in his life he'd gone begging to heaven, and someone is witness to it! That should teach him something. And why her of all people?
He could still see her as she'd been just a few hours ago, throwing playful punches at an invisible foe. She'd obviously made up the entire story. Why would she bother? Why didn't she just answer his question about how she'd found Jessica? Why invent such a ridiculous tale? It could hardly have been for Jessica's sake.
He grimaced. The child showed no response to anything… or anyone. Did this O'Dell woman simply enjoy flustering others? Well, if so, she'd picked the wrong man to try it on. There was enough in his life as it was that disconcerted him. He'd no need to go looking for more. No matter how seductive her voice sounded in the darkness, or how much her green eyes sparkled and danced, or how his own body ached whenever he saw her, he wouldn't allow another woman to become part of his life. Not again.
Her smiling image flashed through his brain once more, and he felt his body tighten in response. Jacob breathed deeply of the cold, damp air and tried to ignore the rush of blood to his groin. He had to put thoughts of Bridget O'Dell out of his mind and concentrate instead on the future awaiting him in Montana.
Straightening the fit of his jacket, Jacob threw his shoulders back and tossed a quick glance at the clear night sky. Whatever Jessica needed, he would provide. Somehow he would find a way to reach the hiding child. And when he did, they would build a new life together. Without anyone else's help. Including Miss Bridget O'Dell.
#
"Well…" – the old man spit a wad of tobacco juice out the open doorway and over the ship's railing – “I'll say this for ya, you're a helluva – s’cuse me. Heckuva worker!"
"I'm surely no stranger to it, that's for certain." Bridget laughed and splayed her hands across the small of her back. Moaning softly, she stretched her aching muscles.
"Ordinarily, I don't allow no womenfolks in my kitchen, y'understand. Howsomever… in your case I'm willin'. If you're still interested." He looked at her from the corner of his eyes. “Like I said before now, cain't pay you much, but you're welcome to eat all you want."
She studied his lined, seamed face, tanned to the color and texture of old leather. His bushy white mustache was twirled up over both sides of his mouth, but she saw the smile it couldn't quite hide.
Bridget held her hand out and grinned. "Mr. Benson, I'm willin' if you are."
He grabbed her hand in a grip that belied his obviously advanced age. "You got a deal, lady. Only don't go callin' me Mr. Makes me feel like I ought to be wearin' a Sunday suit or some such nonsense. The name's Tom. Won't answer to nothin' else."
"All right, Tom."
“There ain't nothin' else to do for a while. Why don't you go on out and cool off some. I'll give a holler when I'm ready for you again." The old man turned back to his stove and busied himself with the stacks of pans and pots.
Bridget sighed gratefully and stepped out of the small kitchen area onto the wide hurricane deck. A slight breeze lifted her hair off her neck and she faced into it, reveling in the cool dampness. Now she knew the two-month voyage would pass much more quickly. At last she had something to do! And thank heaven, she'd have more to eat than apples, dried beef, and canned beans!
She'd had enough of simply sitting and staring at the passing river. She really didn't have anyone to sit and chat with. The married women on board were kept busy by the hordes of children swarming over the ship day and night, and the two other "ladies" kept pretty much to themselves… except for their evening callers.
Bridget hadn't even seen the little girl, Jessica, in two days. She frowned and chewed at her lip. Heaven knew, the child was not her worry. But somehow, she couldn't forget about her. Or her father.
She straightened abruptly and looked guiltily around as if her fellow passengers could read her mind. It was none of her business if the aggravating tyrant of a man shut the child up in her cabin. But to be fair, Bridget reminded herself that the only one he seemed to warm up to at all was his daughter. Surely he wouldn't be locking her up? No.
She shook her head. Still, it was curious to say the least. Such a fine, handsome man as that, traveling alone with only his child for company. He had to be alone. Certainly, if there was a wife, Bridget would have seen her by this time.
Leaning her forearms on the peeling white paint of the railing, she stared out at the flat, open land they were passing. She had to stop this. He's nothing to you, she told herself firmly. Neither is the child. They're but strangers who happened to be traveling the same way as you. It'd only been a few days since they'd left St. Louis behind. She had to stay quiet and unnoticed. Otherwise, she just might find herself heading back for prison.
So, she thought as she straightened up, she had to decide what it was going to be – protect herself by disappearing into the woodwork of
the old ship or try to help the child and risk discovery.
"What's on your mind, girl, that's givin' you such a worried look?"
She snapped around and smiled nervously at Tom. "Oh, I was just thinkin' about an old sayin' my father used to mumble."
“What's that?"
"'It's difficult to choose between two blind goats.' "
He squinted thoughtfully and pulled at his mustache, "Hmmm. I'll have to think on that one some."
"Aye, Tom. As will I." She took a deep breath and asked, "Are you ready to get supper goin'?"
"Hmmm?" He looked up. “Oh. Oh, yeah. That's why I come out here."
"Well, we'd best be gettin' on with it, then, hadn't we?" She walked back into the kitchen, and Tom followed, still tugging at his mustache.
#
With the boat safely moored for the night, the cabin passengers began filing in for their evening meal. Seating themselves around the long plank table, the twenty or so people, creating noise enough for twice their number, started reaching for the bowls of food.
Bridget walked down the length of the room, holding the battered tin coffeepot. Checking for empty cups, she watched as the "ladies and gentlemen" wolfed down their food, hardly bothering to taste it. She shook her head. She'd seen better table manners in saloons!
Ah, well, it was none of her business. Her only concern was to see that there was plenty of food at the ready and to look out for latecomers to make sure they got their share. Bridget hid a smile as she thought that anyone late for this table would like as not go away just as hungry as he arrived.
The far door opened, and she glanced over her shoulder to see how many more places she'd have to set.
Him.
Now, wouldn't you bleedin' well know it, she groaned inwardly. Just when you convinced yourself to push him out of your thoughts, in he walks as big as life. Her gaze left the stiffly walking man and slipped down to the child at his side. Poor thing, she looks terrified. And would you look at her hair. Now Bridget was sure there was no wife. The little girl's hair looked as if it had been brushed with a pitchfork.
When Jacob Fallon came to a stop beside the table, Bridget followed his harsh gaze. It was only then that she noticed the silence. Everyone had stopped talking. They were staring at the child.
Well, if looks could kill, Mr. Fallon would have had them all dead and buried. His pale blue eyes were absolutely frosty as he glared at his fellow passengers until they looked guiltily away.
Bridget hurried over to them and helped Jessica into a chair. Gently, quickly, she smoothed the honey-blond hair and pushed it back over the girl's narrow shoulders.
“There you are, darlin'. I'll just be off and gettin' you some nice, hot soup. Would you like that?" She turned to go but didn't take a step. Instead, holding her breath, she looked down at her hand and the five small fingers curled around it. For the first time the little girl had actually touched her. Responded. It was as if her tiny hand had wrapped itself around Bridget's heart.
Instinctively her other hand moved to cover the child's. Patting it softly, she murmured, "It's all right, darlin'. I'll be right back. I promise."
The little girl's steady stare wavered for a moment, then she seemed to accept Bridget's statement and released her grip.
Jacob Fallon dropped into the seat beside his daughter. He stared unblinking at the child, his mouth agape. His shock evident, he seemed to be speechless. Bridget ignored him and hurried off to get the soup she'd promised. By the time she returned, he'd recovered and fixed a plate for his daughter and himself.
Setting the bowl of soup in front of the little girl, Bridget smiled at her one last time, then picked up the coffeepot again.
Slowly she walked around the table, trying to keep one eye on the child. Quiet spots of conversation had started up among the diners, but Bridget paid no attention until a particularly shrill voice commented, "I tell you again, Ira. The child's addled. Such a pity!"
Shocked silence filled the room as the people tried desperately not to look toward the subject of the woman's statement.
Bridget did, though. And she watched in growing anger as the humiliated little girl dropped her fork onto her plate and stared blankly at the wall opposite her. Wasn't it the way, though? Bridget thought. A body takes a tiny step forward, and there's always some creature ready to push you back two! Rage swept over Bridget. She felt the flames of it as surely as if her dress were on fire.
She looked down at the cruel, thoughtless, fat woman. She noted the too-many rings on her aging, plump hands, the iron-gray hair dressed in a style meant for simpering young ladies. Incredibly, the fool woman seemed to have no idea what she'd said, for she'd already continued.
"Something should be done for the-"
Bridget held the coffeepot high and very calmly tilted it, letting the steaming hot brew pour out onto the woman's lap.
She screamed and jumped up, brushing ineffectually at the spreading liquid. Turning on Bridget, she accused, "You did that purposely, didn't you?"
Her hand to her breast, eyes wide, Bridget gasped, "Oh, no, madam. How could you think that? Why, I feel absolutely awful about it. I'll just go get a towel. We'll have you all straightened out in two shakes."
"Don't come near me!" the woman screeched. She held her sodden skirt with one hand and kept the other outstretched, warning her assailant off.
Little snorts of laughter began to grow and build. Desperately Bridget fought to keep a straight face. The fat woman's already-flushed face turned scarlet when one of the men at the table released a pent-up breath and exploded into hearty laughter. She gave her too-quiet husband a glare, then swept past Bridget and moved quickly for the door.
Her husband stood, gave Bridget a slight smile of understanding, then followed his wife.
As soon as they were gone, the convulsing diners gave full rein to their amusement. The uneasy embarrassment caused by the unthinking woman dissolved, and friendly conversations began again.
Bridget looked down at the table, ignored the surprised glint in Jacob Fallon's eyes, and stared directly at Jessica. Their gazes locked, the child picked up her fallen fork.
Bridget took a deep breath, smiled, and winked. Her choice was made.
Chapter Four
Jacob watched her silently. Alone at the back of the ship, her slender hands gripping the railing, she was leaning out over the river at an impossible angle. Her head thrown back, she stared up at the night sky, unmindful of the image she made in the pale lamplight.
His gaze traveled over her small form appreciatively. The threadbare gown she wore clung to her body, defining her ample curves. The graceful line of her throat drew his gaze down to the swell of her breasts, and Jacob again felt the flash of desire her nearness never failed to inspire. Her long, lovely auburn hair was still in the braid she'd worn at dinner, and he had an overwhelming urge to untie the string that held it and rake his fingers through the heavy mass until it curled around them both.
He took a step nearer, then stopped. Her lips were moving. He didn't hear anything, but her lips were definitely moving. No one was near. Who could she be talking to? Someone on the upper deck, perhaps? It would explain why she was so eagerly hanging her body out over the railing.
But why bother to have an assignation at all if you're both going to remain on separate decks? Miss O'Dell certainly hadn't struck him as a particularly shy woman. He dragged a hand through his hair and tried to rein in his stampeding imagination. It was nothing to him if she had a man courting her. Courting? Thunderation, where did that come from?
Jacob shook his head wearily. Best to just say what you came to say, he told himself. Get it over with, then stay as far away from the woman as possible on the damnably small ship.
What on earth was it about the woman that not only he responded to, but that Jessica did as well? He smiled and felt an unaccustomed dampness in his eyes. He still couldn't believe it! When Jessica grabbed the woman's hand, it was all he could do not to shout i
n triumph. He'd been right after all. The journey, the new faces and places, had done their magic. Satisfaction filled him as he remembered all the naysayers back in Illinois. They'd all predicted that Jessica would never regain her senses, that that one horrible night would mark her forever.
But he'd known they were wrong. Deep inside, he’d felt it. And now he'd done it. She was coming back to him. Soon she'd be talking, laughing, dancing again. All because of this journey. He looked up at the woman still oblivious to his presence. Certainly she'd helped. Jacob nodded to himself, acknowledging her contribution. Somehow, Bridget O'Dell had stimulated Jessica. She'd given the child the push she'd needed to begin her return to the world. And he'd always be grateful.
But he would do the rest himself. Just he and Jessica.
His resolve strengthened, Jacob walked quietly to her side. As he came closer, he heard the soft distinct rhythm of a song. His lips quirked. Hanging out over the edge of a ship whispering a song to herself. Somehow, he wasn't surprised. She didn't even notice him until he'd cleared his throat. Then, startled, she teetered uneasily over the railing. Quickly he grabbed her around the waist and gently lowered her to the deck.
She turned, still in his grip, to face him. An embarrassed smile curved her lips as, hands on his arms, she said, "You startled me!"
Jacob looked down at her, and everything he'd planned to say disappeared from his mind. In the soft golden lamplight the red tones in her hair shone like copper. The freckles across her small nose looked like gold dust, and her green eyes caught the light and magnified it. Under his hands he felt the warmth of her and her slightly quickened breathing. His gaze moved from her eyes to her mouth and noted absently that she chewed her bottom lip when nervous. And she was nervous. He was sure of it. Though she made no move to pull away from him.
He knew that he should let go. Step back. As a muted reminder that they were not entirely alone, he heard snatches of distant conversations, but he ignored them. Instead, he listened to the river lapping at the hull of the ship, crickets serenading each other, and the sound of Bridget's uneasy breathing.
Mountain Dawn Page 4