Jessica slept on, though fitfully. It was amazing, Bridget told herself, that the child had been able to sleep at all. You would have thought that much noise would make it impossible. Shaking her head, Bridget stood and gently laid Jessica down on the mattress, then covered her with the blanket neatly folded at the end of the bed.
Suddenly the cabin door opened. Bridget spun around, ready to do battle with whatever threatened the girl in her charge. But Jacob Fallon stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the late-afternoon sunlight.
"Jessica?" he asked.
"Fine." Bridget stepped to one side, giving him a view of the bed. "She's sleeping."
He nodded and his body seemed to slump with relief.
"And you?" Jacob asked. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, Jacob. Everything is all right."
He only nodded again.
The battle could not have lasted long, though in truth, she had no idea at all just how much time had passed. Yet, he swayed with fatigue as he stood across the room staring at her. His pale blue eyes seemed to be asking her something. Waiting for something.
A tightening in Bridget's chest made breathing difficult. She hadn't expected to feel this surge of joy at first sight of him. It wasn't right, she knew, for what would a fine, educated man like himself want with a poor Irish girl from Kerry Patch – an escaped criminal, no less? But still, Bridget's witless heart refused to listen.
More passengers hurried down the passageway, and Bridget looked to the open doorway, glad for the distraction. She'd welcome anything to stop these wild thoughts racing through her brain.
Her eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat when she saw the Indian arrow deeply imbedded in the cabin door. The very door she'd leaned against when this whole thing started. "Holy Saints preserve us!" she breathed with an anxious glance at Jessica.
He looked in the direction of her gaze and snorted. “I'm afraid that's only one of many now decorating this poor old ship."
“Was it bad, then?”
Jacob sighed, pushed his hat back farther on his head, crossed the room, and eased himself down on the edge of the bed. "Bad enough." He looked down at his sleeping child and absently noticed that her hair had been properly brushed. It looked nice. Glancing over at Bridget again, he saw the concern and worry on her face, but there was no point in lying to her about the short, fierce battle. She'd see the evidence for herself as soon as she went on deck. "We lost several men in the fight."
"Killed?" Her voice was hushed. She could hardly believe this was happening. It was almost as if she were living in one of those dime novels the children in the Patch were always reading.
"Yes, killed." Jacob sucked in a deep breath between clenched teeth and shifted position uncomfortably.
"For the love of God," Bridget groaned softly, "you've been shot!"
He winced as much from the pain in his arm as the concern in her voice. "Not really. More like a burn from a near miss."
“Near miss me eye!" She leaned in closer to get a better look. "You don't lose blood when you've been missed by a bullet."
Jacob glanced down at his torn shirt, and his brows rose as he noticed for the first time the dark red patch covering the sleeve and shoulder. Shaking his head, he said softly, "It can't be too bad. I didn't even notice it till you said something."
"I'm not surprised." Bridget stood up and poked at the tear in the shirt. He shifted, trying to move away. “Most men I've known wouldn't notice a house if it landed on 'em."
He glanced up. Her face was far too close to his. "Is that right?"
"Aye. That's right." She turned to face him and tried to steady her hushed voice as she looked deeply into his eyes. Quickly she looked away and said brusquely, “Take your shirt off. I'll tend to it at once."
“That won't be necessary." He batted at her probing fingers. "I'll take care of it later."
"We'll do it now." Bridget straightened and, hands on hips, glared at him, daring him to defy her.
His gaze met hers and held it for a long minute before he sighed heavily and admitted, "Hell, I'm too tired to fight Indians and you. Just do it quickly."
"I'll do it right, no matter how long it takes me." Bridget walked to the small table in the corner and lifted the empty pitcher. "I'm goin' for some water. You get that shirt off before I come back, or I'll do it for you."
He scowled at her, but she didn't care. For heaven's sake, she told herself, you'd think the man would know enough to want a wound clean, at least. She hurried out of the cabin and over to the barrel at the far end of the hurricane deck. As she walked, she tried to close her mind to the remainders of the fight they'd just survived, but it was impossible. The walls of the ship were studded with bullet holes, and the crewmen were busy digging arrows out of the wood with knives.
Several people were in line ahead of her, waiting for water, and she tapped her foot impatiently. Shot! She'd never realized that Indians would have guns. She'd always pictured them with only bows and arrows, though God knew, they did enough damage with them.
Resolutely she looked away from the body of a man lying too near the water barrel. She wished the crowd wasn't thinning. She didn't want to see the poor fellow with the feathered arrow in his chest again.
When her pitcher was filled, she made her way back down the passageway. The afternoon sun was warm on her clammy skin, and she had only a moment to realize just how frightened she'd really been. Never in her life would she have imagined surviving an Indian fight. Of course, she never expected to be sentenced to prison, either.
The cabin door still stood open, and Bridget forced her gaze away from the arrow. Jessica still slept. The poor dear's terror must have exhausted her. Jacob was perched on the edge of the bed, waiting for Bridget's return.
His chest was bare.
Her footsteps slowed and her heartbeat quickened as she admired the fine, strong set of shoulders on the man. Briefly she allowed herself to remember the strength of him when he'd held her in the moonlight, and the look in his eyes not five minutes before. She swallowed heavily and tightened her grip on the plain white pitcher. No time for this, she told herself firmly. Get on with it. The man's injured.
She stepped in front of him, and it was all she could do not to sigh her approval. His head hung forward, his forearms rested on his thighs, but Bridget saw enough of his chest to know it was finely muscled and covered with a thick mat of dark, curly hair that trailed down over his flat abdomen and disappeared under the band of his pants.
Jacob looked up then, and she saw in his eyes that he knew exactly what she'd been doing… and, no doubt, what she'd been thinking as well. It was suddenly very warm in the small cabin. Bridget ran her tongue over her lips and noticed that his gaze followed the slight movement.
Bridget Mary Dugan, she screamed silently, get your mind up out of the quilts and concentrate on what you started out to do! She shook herself and set the pitcher down on the floor. Then she grabbed one of the paper-thin towels off the nearby rack and knelt down in front of Jacob.
He sat up straight as she soaked the towel. Bridget tried desperately to ignore the fact that he was half-naked and to focus instead on the wound that needed tending. It wasn't easy.
Her fingers shook when she touched his flesh. She felt his gaze on her face and tried to disregard it. Gently, tenderly, she touched the soaking towel to the torn skin of his shoulder. He'd been right. It wasn't a deep injury, and the bleeding had almost stopped. Still, it looked as though it would give him some pain for the next few days. Bridget bit down on her bottom lip as she ran the towel down the length of his arm, wiping clean the traces of blood.
“Do I make you nervous?" he whispered.
She jumped, then shook her head. "No."
“Then why are you chewing at your lip, Bridget?"
She stopped and darted a quick glance at him. He was altogether too close. His face only inches from her own, she felt his breath on her cheek and her own breath suddenly became labored. Th
ose pale summer eyes of his seemed to draw her closer. And for some reason she couldn't look away.
His fingers closed over her hand, and she dropped the towel. Jacob's thumb drew soft patterns on her palm, and she felt the movement down to her soul.
Stop this now, her brain warned, before it's too late. But it was already too late. The need to touch him – even if only to reassure herself of his survival – was too great to be ignored. She wasn't sure just how the man had come to mean so much to her, but there it was. And though nothing could come of it, surely, she reasoned, a moment of closeness, stolen after battle, wasn't wrong.
She looked into his eyes again, and all thought stopped.
She lifted her free hand to his face, then ran her palm tenderly over his cheek, down his neck, and onto the wide expanse of his chest. He took a deep, harsh breath when her fingertips curled through the coarse, dark hair that covered his tanned body. Bridget couldn't bear his labored breathing over the roaring in her ears. The warmth of his skin, the pounding of his heart under her hand, all came together to jumble her already reeling emotions.
His grip on her hand tightened as he drew her closer. Bridget's free hand slipped up over his uninjured shoulder and splayed against his back. When his hand moved up the length of her arm and cupped the back of her neck, she just managed to keep from moaning with the pleasure of his fingertips at her nape.
His gaze moved over her features, as if committing them to memory. "Ah, Bridget," he said, sighing softly, "I didn't mean for this to happen."
Her eyes closed and she moved her head against his palm. "Ah, Jacob," she answered, "neither did I."
A tiny smile touched his lips as he moved slowly, almost reverently, to claim her lips.
"Papa?"
They froze. As one, Jacob and Bridget turned their heads slowly to look at the child. Eyes wide, the little girl was sitting up straight against the pillows, her small mouth curved in a smile. Jacob stared at the child, dumbstruck.
"She spoke," he whispered, his voice hushed.
"Yes," Bridget answered quietly.
He released his hold on Bridget and scooted closer to his daughter. Leaning toward her, Jacob said, "Jessica, did you say something to Papa?"
The little blond head bent low. Her hands curled into fists as she struggled to repeat her achievement. Bridget swallowed past the lump in her throat and tried to loan the child all the strength she had.
"Jessica?" Jacob asked again, his voice strained.
The little girl raised her head and looked at her father. Tears of frustration formed in her eyes, her mouth worked silently and her little body shook with the force of her will. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she said it again. "Papa."
Jacob's body hunched over as though he'd been struck a blow. He took a deep gulp of air, snatched his daughter off the pillows, and cradled her against his bare chest
Bridget's breath caught, and tears rolled down her cheeks. She stretched out a hand to them both but backed away before she could touch either of them. No, she told herself, she must leave. This was a moment to be shared by only the two of them. She had no right to stay. They weren't her family. She didn't belong.
Quietly she stood and moved toward the door, but she couldn't resist one last look at the man and girl. Jacob's broad shoulders shook, and Bridget heard the muffled sounds of his weeping. His strong, tender hands cupped his daughter's head as he rained kisses down on the soft blond crown.
Bridget's tears flowed harder, though, when she noticed Jessica's tiny hand patting her father's shoulder in comfort.
#
“It weren't much of a fight," Tom said as he stirred the pot of chicken soup, “but it was better than nothin'."
Bridget looked up from the potato she was peeling. Her eyes wide with astonishment, she said, "You can't mean to say you enjoyed it?" Since the Indian fight the day before, people had talked of nothing else. Horror, fright, regret for attempting this foolish trip in the first place had been discussed in full by everyone on board, but this was the first time Bridget had heard anyone claim to have enjoyed it!
"Hell, yes, girl." Tom turned to her and tugged at his mustache. "Fightin's a part of life out here. You best get used to it."
She shook her head solemnly. Memories of the four men buried alongside the lonely riverbank pushed into her mind. She could still see the graves, dark and fresh, as the ship sailed on, leaving them behind. She heard in memory two newly made widows, sobbing both with grief and an allconsuming fear of a future without their men.
No, she told herself, she'd never get used to it. Though heaven knew, she was no stranger to pain and death— she'd seen enough of both in Kerry Patch to last a lifetime— she'd never be able to simply accept such ugliness.
"Gettin' used to it is a far cry from bein' pleased with it!" she finally answered.
His eyebrows shot straight up into his wild gray hair. "Didn't say I was pleased with it, missy. Said it was better than nothin'."
She slammed the paring knife down onto the table. "Isn't it the same blessed thing?"
"No" – Tom frowned – “it ain't. I'm pleased with a cool beer, a hot poker hand, and some friendly comp'ny. I'm used to fightin'. And when I say that puny little war was better than nothin', I mean just that." He wiped his work-worn hands on the none-too-clean apron around his middle, then stepped closer to Bridget. He continued in a more patient tone. "See, you got to keep on your toes out here. There's always somethin' ready to sting ya, bite ya, poison ya, or shoot ya. So, a little scuffle ever' once in a while keeps ya sharp. A fella don't stay sharp, he'll stay dead. 'Sides, there's somethin' about a little shootin' war that gets a man's juices to flowin'."
Bridget's brow wrinkled.
"Ya know what I mean." He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Like a drink or two will loosen your tongue and a pretty woman will loosen up other things…”
She smiled in spite of herself.
The old man rubbed his jaw, unsure of how to say what he wanted to. “Well, a good scrape now and again loosens up a man's instincts. Makes him work easier. Keeps him sharp. Makes him remember all he's ever learned about how to survive." He shook a finger at her. "And missy, out here, he'll do best to remember that."
Bridget knew he was right. After all, he'd lived most of his life in the western country. Who would know better than Tom what a person needed to get by? She glanced up. The old man had moved back to his stove. Of course he would know what the country could do to a man. But what about women? What did this wild country do to them?
She picked up the knife and went to work again on the potatoes. Would she be expected to know how to fire a gun? Would she, too, have to learn to kill? Would there come a time for her when a battle like they'd survived the day before would be nothing more than a minor inconvenience?
Heaven help her, what had she started by stealing a bottle of medicine?
"How come I ain't trippin' over them young uns that's always followin' you around?"
Bridget looked up at Tom and shrugged.
"I ain't seen hide nor hair of them since before the set-to yesterday."
"Maybe their mothers are holding them close today. Perhaps they're still fearful." Thankfully, Tom seemed to accept that explanation. In truth, Bridget had no idea where the two little boys were. But she thought she knew why Jessica hadn't been to see her all day.
It was him. Jacob. Deep in her bones, Bridget knew that he was deliberately avoiding her. No doubt he was once again regretting getting too close to her.
She snorted. And this time he hadn't even actually gotten around to kissing her. No, this time, he'd been saved from making a fool of himself by his daughter.
Bridget's eyes filled. She lowered her lids and saw again the tender scene she'd walked out on. She wished she'd been able to speak to the girl, to tell her how pleased she was. How proud.
She sniffed and shook her head. No, all was well now with the Fallons. They didn't need her anymore. And she couldn't afford to need them,
either.
Chapter Seven
St. Louis
"That's it, then,” Eamon said as he looked around his now empty room. “The neighbors took what they wanted, and what clothes I'll need are in me pack."
"I still don't understand why you're leavin'," Dermot said. “Is it because of Colleen?”
"Ah, no." Eamon picked up his pack and swung it over his shoulder. “I'm sorry for her, goin' the way she did, but it's nothing to do with this."
“Why, then?”
“I'm ready for somethin' new, man. New places…” He took a playful swing at his younger friend. "New faces. Ever since Bridget Dugan walked onto that boat, I've been thinkin' about this."
Dermot smiled knowingly. "Ah. Now I understand. It's Bridget you want."
"Are you not listenin', Dermot?" Eamon studied the younger man for a moment, then laughed. It clearly was no use trying to explain something that Eamon himself didn't fully understand. “Never mind. I don't think you know what I'm talkin' about yet. But you will. Someday." He walked across the room and stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “I'm off for the levee. There's at least five ships down there gettin' ready to leave in the next few days. I'll find work on one of 'em." He pulled the door open, but before he stepped through, he turned, smiled and said, "Take care now, Dermot. Keep your wits about you."
"Aye, I will, Eamon." Dermot's smile was strained. "And good luck to you!"
The door closed softly behind Eamon Flannagan, and Dermot was alone.
#
Evening brought an unnatural quiet to the crowded ship. The sights, sounds, and smells of yesterday’s battle were still too fresh in everyone's mind to allow for the usual horseplay after a day's journey. In the stillness, broken only by a few tired crickets halfheartedly serenading each other, Bridget heard an occasional muffled sob. She knew they came from the terrified widows and also knew that there was nothing she could do or say to help.
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