Still Close to Heaven

by Maureen Child

  "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

  "I know. I know." Standing tall and straight, he stared at a point somewhere above her head. "’Tis me own fault, of course. But I hadn't a notion of how to talk to you about… well, about lots of things, Sally love."

  "Look, O’Hara."

  "Hush a minute will ya!"

  Sally winced as his voice boomed out around her. From somewhere close by, she heard a window sash lifted.

  "I planned this all out on me ride back from Seattle. If you don't let me say it, I'll make a mosh of it."

  Relenting, she nodded. She was sure that at any moment people were going to come streaming from their homes to find out what Mike was yelling about. "Fine. Say it and be done with it, then."

  Taking a deep breath, he started by mumbling, "Where was I? Ah yes, no notion of how to talk to ya."

  Sally dipped her head to hide a smile.

  "So for some time now, I’ve frequented your laundry."

  "Often," she added.

  "Aye, as often as possible." He glanced at her fondly. "But recently, someone pointed out to me the way of things."

  "Who?" she asked. "What things?"

  He shook his head. "This fella, he told me that workin' ya to death was really not the best way to go about courtin' ya"

  "Courting?" Sally swallowed heavily and looked up at him. But he had shifted his gaze again to stare at nothing. Mike O’Hara? Courting her?

  She needed to sit down.

  "He suggested that I try somethin' different. So I went to Seattle yesterday to do some shoppin’."

  "Shopping?" She knew her voice sounded odd, but she couldn't help it.

  "Aye." Opening the heavy sack, he reached inside and pulled out a bouquet of only slightly wilted and bent yellow roses.

  She sucked in a breath as he gave them to her. Laying one hand briefly on the damaged, forgotten rosebud she'd affixed to her shirt, Sally took his flowers and held them close to her face. Their scent lifted to swirl about her head, making her feel just a bit dizzy.

  "They looked a sight better last night," Mike told her.

  She thought they looked wonderful.

  He reached into the sack again and came up with a huge box of chocolates. Handing it over to her, Mike grinned.

  "You're such a skinny little thing, I'll expect ya to eat every last one of these yourself now, mind."

  She nodded blankly, hugging the box to her chest.

  Next, he drew a forest green, silk shawl from the sack and moved to drape it about her shoulders.

  She looked down, stunned at the contrast between her hand-knitted white wool and the extravagance of silk.

  "As I thought," he murmured. "'Twas made for ya."

  She couldn’t think. Everything was happening so quickly. Sally looked at him, struck speechless by his thoughtfulness. A soft smile creased his features, and the sparkle in his eyes sent wonder skittering through her.

  "Mike, I —"

  "Hush now," he warned gently, "I've not finished."

  "But —"

  In the next few minutes, he presented her with calfskin gloves, silver combs for her hair, and a pair of soft, red dancing slippers.

  When the sack lay empty and forgotten on the dirt between them, Mike reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a tiny box. Cupping it in one hand, he looked at her, inhaled deeply, and said, "Salty love, this last gift I brought with me from Ireland."

  "I don't understand any of this, Mike."

  He reached out and stroked her cheek with his knuckles. "Understand this, then, my love. When I came here to this country I’d no notion of what I'd find. But I brought this with me in the hope of finding you."

  "Me?" Sally's eyes misted, and her arms ached from the burden of offerings she held clutched to her.

  "Aye, girl." He opened the box and took out a small, gold ring.

  Her breath caught, and the tears in her eyes nearly blinded her.

  Holding it out toward her, he said, "I know you'll need some time to think it over, but I was wonderin' if you’d maybe consider marryin' me one day?"

  She sat.

  Her knees gave out, and she plopped onto the dirt.

  He went down on one knee and looked in to her face anxiously. "Is the thought of marryin' me so awful, you’d faint just at the thought of it?"

  She shook her head. Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes and trailed down her cheeks.

  "Ya know," he pointed out, "I'm not nearly so dirty as ya might think. ’Twas harder work than I've ever done, gettin' enough dirty clothes together to come in and see ya."

  A low, broken chuckle escaped her.

  "I promise ya, love. There'll be no more laundry for you once we’re wed — if you'll have me. Me housekeeper already thinks me a fool for takin' me clothes into town for a wash."

  Wed.

  "Filomena, me housekeeper that is," he went on, "will be that glad to have you about. She's long been tellin' me that what I need is a strong woman." Mike grinned and shrugged his broad shoulders. "That woman is you, Sally love."

  Sally's brain was spinning. Just a half an hour ago, she had thought she would spend the rest of her life alone. Now, she was sitting in the middle of Main Street, gifts piled in her lap while a proud, handsome man knelt in front of her to propose marriage.

  "Do ya think ya could get used to the idea of me as a husband?"

  It wouldn't be difficult at all, she realized. She had always enjoyed arguing with him. And she knew what a kind, hardworking soul he was. Mike O'Hara would be a good match for her. Though it was still hard to take in, that this strong, gentle man wanted her. Soul deep pleasure opened up in her chest and flowered like a meadow in spring as she realized with a start that she wanted him, too.

  But there was one thing she still needed to hear.

  Fresh tears welled up in her eyes as her heart filled to overflowing. She came up on her knees, spilling her presents, in to the dirt. Meeting his gaze squarely, she asked one very important question. "Do you love me, O’Hara?"

  He stared at her for a long moment.

  "Mother of Saint Patrick!" he shouted and threw his arms wide. "Isn’t that what I’ve been sayin'?"

  "Not yet, you haven't, O’Hara." she shouted right back at him. It felt good. Right. She would always love arguing with this stubborn, wonderful Irishman. "If you expect to marry me, I'm going to hear the words from you. Often."

  Across the street, another window opened and from the corner of her eye, Sally noted Tessa Horn's interested gaze peering at them from behind the curtains. She didn't care.

  "Well, O’Hara?"

  "If you aren't the most hardheaded female I’ve ever met." He let his head fall back on his neck, and in a voice loud enough to carry into the next world he called out, "I love you, Sally Wiley!"

  Straightening again, he looked at her and grinned. "Will that do ya?"

  "For starters," she told him with a delighted laugh, then threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  He gathered her close and this time, he whispered those words she'd waited a lifetime to hear.

  #

  By suppertime, the whole town was talking about Mike O’Hara and Sally Wiley. The burly Irishman had purchased every cigar in stock at the Mercantile and had spent his day handing them out to everyone he met: man, woman, and child.

  Rachel turned the "Closed" sign in the window and locked the front door. Safe to say, she told herself wryly, that the Spinster Society had come to an abrupt end. Jackson Tate’s arrival in Stillwater had affected so much more than just her own life.

  Startled, she jumped at a knock on the door behind her.

  Lifting the edge of the window shade, she peered outside. Her stomach churned when Noble Lynch smiled at her and tipped his hat.

  "We’re closed," she said.

  "Five minutes of your time," he countered. "No more."

  If it was anyone else, she wouldn’t have thought twice.

  But then, a
week or two ago, she wouldn't have been bothered by the gambler, either.

  It was different, now. She knew him for what he was. Every time she looked at him, she saw Jackson dying.

  Pulling a deep steadying breath into her lungs, Rachel flipped the latch and opened the door. She moved back as he entered, left the door standing open, and crossed the room quickly. Stepping through the gate in the counter, she hurried to keep the questionable safety of that barrier between them.

  "What can I get for you, Mister Lynch?" she asked.

  He gave her a winning smile that did nothing to warm the coldness in his eyes. "I had hoped that we were close to enjoying a first name friendship, Rachel."

  Her stomach tightened, but she forced a smile in return. Easier to be friendly, sell him whatever it was he wanted, and get him out of the store before Jackson arrived.

  "Certainly." She paused, swallowed, then added. "Noble."

  He dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Now, what can I do for you?"

  "All I need right now is a small can of gun oil," he replied.

  "Gun oil?"

  "Yes." He smoothed his jacket lapels. "My gun needs cleaning badly."

  It would, she thought, remembering the crack of gunfire the night before. She shuddered as she recalled the look in Jackson's eyes when he discovered that his murderer had just killed another man.

  Keep breathing, she told herself. She walked along the counter until she reached the section that held gun supplies. Reaching up, Rachel pulled a small tin of gun oil off the shelf and carried it back to the gambler. She set it down on the counter in front of him. "That’s one dollar and ten cents."

  One dark eyebrow lifted and the corner of his mouth quirked as though he were amused at her stiffness. Dipping into his pants pocket, Noble pulled out a handful of change and began to count out the right amount.

  Rachel’s breath caught, her throat tightened, and a heavy fist seemed to grab at her heart, squeezing painfully. Her gaze locked on the telltale gleam of gold in Noble' s palm. The missing golden coin.

  She lifted her gaze briefly to study Noble Lynch's profile. A small voice in the back of her mind insisted that the gambler could have come upon that coin in any number of ways. He might have won it in a card game. Received it in change for a purchase. Or he could simply have found it.

  But she didn’t believe any of it.

  As Jackson had suspected, Noble Lynch had stolen it from him.

  "That's an unusual coin," she said, amazed that she had been able to force her voice to work.

  "Hmm?" He glanced at her, smiled and shrugged. "Indeed. It's a family heirloom, you might say. A good luck piece."

  "Really?"

  His dark eyes sharpened slightly, but his smile remained fixed as he handed her the correct amount of money.

  "May I see it?" she asked.

  A moment's hesitation. "Of course."

  He handed her the gold coin, and Rachel's fingers smoothed over the familiar etched wing and star. She hadn't been mistaken. It was a perfect match to the coin Jackson had given her in case of emergency.

  Picking up the gun oil, he asked. "Could I interest you in taking supper with me tonight, Rachel?"

  "I don’t think so." Her words came clipped, stiff. It was all she could do to stand quietly talking to the man who had killed Jackson.

  Glancing down at the can in his hand, he said quietly, "This is about last night, isn't it?"

  "I don’t know what you mean."

  "Your rather chilly reception of me," he countered. "I do hope you realize that the incident last night was not my doing."

  Amazed, she blurted, "Incident? You shot a man, Noble."

  He winced as if deeply hurt. "Yes, I did, though it pains me to admit it."

  "You killed him." And Jackson, she wanted to shout. "In self-defense."

  "Small consolation to the man’s widow."

  "I abhor violence, Rachel," he said and reached toward her, intent on patting her hand.

  She pulled back her fingers clenched tightly around the gold coin.

  Another small smile curved his lips and left his eyes untouched. "If the man had given me any other choice, I would have taken it." He spoke so calmly, with such quiet assuredness, he might have convinced her… if she hadn’t known Jackson.

  Thinking of him and how much pain this gambler had caused to so many people, she asked, "How many others have left you no choice, Noble?"

  "Madam," he said, apparently horrified. "You wound me. I can truthfully say that I have never before taken a life over a card table."

  Her expression must have mirrored her feelings because he straightened and swore solemnly, "May lightning strike me dead if I'm lying."

  She knew he was lying and still, she nearly believed him.

  "You know, Rachel," he said quietly, "before your cousin's untimely arrival in Stillwater, I had hoped that we could become… better acquainted."

  "I don't know what to say."

  He nodded, as if in complete understanding. "There is no need to say anything right away. I only ask that you consider the possibility of our… friendship."

  Rachel had once seen a rabbit, held motionless by the hypnotic stare of a snake. The poor creature had been unable to move, though it must have known its only chance for survival lay in escape. Trapped in place, the rabbit had stared helplessly into the snake's black eyes until it struck, killing the rabbit instantly with a venomous bite.

  Horrified at the time, she hadn’t understood the power of that snake's gaze.

  Until this moment.

  Frowning slightly, Noble broke the spell holding her and asked, "My good luck charm?"

  She pulled in a deep breath, then reluctantly dropped the golden coin into his open palm. She couldn’t very well demand to keep it. To do that, she would have to call him a liar and then prove her point with him. At the moment, she was more interested in getting him out of the store before Jackson arrived.

  Glancing out the front windows, she noted that afternoon was quickly fading into twilight. Soon, he would be returning from work on the new house.

  "I'm sorry to have troubled you," Noble said, giving her a half bow before turning for the door.

  "No trouble," she lied and followed along behind him in an effort to hurry him along.

  But it was already too late.

  She heard Jackson's steps on the boardwalk. Saw his shadow from the corner of her eye. Then he was there.

  Standing in the open doorway, his gaze locked on the man who had killed him. The air in the room suddenly seemed heavy. Charged with desperation and fury.

  Stepping around the gambler, Rachel went to Jackson's side. "Noble was just leaving," she said.

  It was as if he didn’t see her. Hear her. His voice a hard, grating sound, Jackson demanded," What are you doing here?"

  "Not that it's any of your concern," Noble answered, his tone overly patient. "But I was making a small purchase."

  Jackson’s gaze flicked to the can of gun oil. "I told you to stay the hell away from Rachel."

  "Since hers is the only store in town, I hardly think that a reasonable request."

  "Jackson —"

  He ignored her. This close to the man who had ruined everything for him, Jackson was beyond her reach. "That was no request, mister."

  Noble’s entire body stiffened. His cool mask slipped a notch as he reacted to Jackson’s insulting manner. "I don’t know who you are," he said, his words quiet, deadly. "But if you think to give me orders, you are mistaken."

  "You don’t remember me, do you?" Jackson asked. Stupid question. Of course he didn't remember. Why should he? Why would one dead carpenter stand out among the others this man had probably left in his wake?

  "Please," Rachel whispered.

  He heard the worry in her voice, felt the tension shimmering around her. But he couldn’t let this go.

  "I’ve never seen you before," the gambler countered, though the expression on his face clearly showed that he was busi
ly sorting through his memories, looking for an explanation for the other man's fury.

  "Fifteen years ago," Jackson said, prodding him. "The Black Hound saloon." Even the name of the place made him want to cringe.

  "Fifteen years!" Noble snorted a derisive laugh. "You expect me to recall something that happened fifteen years ago?"

  The sneer in his voice stabbed at Jackson. "You killed a man in that saloon."

  Noble's gaze flicked to Rachel, then back to Jackson. His eyes narrowed into slits. His fingers tightened around the can of oil. "You’re mistaken. As I have just assured your cousin, last night was the first time that I've had to do something so unpleasant as take another life."

  "You’re lying."

  The quiet in the room deepened.

  A dark scarlet color flooded the gambler' s neck and cheeks. His lips thinned into a grim slash across his face. The rigid set of his shoulders and the spasmodic tic in his tightly clenched jaw barely m asked the deadly rage coursing through him.

  "Who is this person," he whispered, "that I am supposed to have killed?"

  "Me —" Jackson caught himself and finished haltingly. "My brother."

  Rachel grabbed his forearm, felt the tightness in his muscles, and knew it would be useless to try to stop him. Instead, she turned to Noble.

  "Perhaps it would be best if you left now."

  Several long moments passed before the man glanced at her and nodded. "Of course. For your sake, Rachel."

  Jackson snarled, shrugged off her restraining hand, and took a single step forward. "You do nothing for Rachel’s sake. You understand me?" Swinging his right arm in a wide circle, he slammed his fist into Noble Lynch's jaw.

  It happened so quickly. Rachel hardly saw him move.

  The gambler staggered, but kept his feet under him. His right hand shot toward his inside breast pocket before he caught himself. Moving slowly, carefully, he reached into the front pocket of his well tailored suit instead and withdrew a snowy white handkerchief. Gently, he blotted the fabric against his split lip.

  Before crumpling the handkerchief, he glanced at the droplets of blood staining the once pristine material. His eyes lifted to Rachel's face, and she almost took a step back — away from the shining emptiness she saw there.

  "If you’ll excuse me, Rachel?"