“Only on a sure thing, ma’am,” he said softly, those penetrating blue-green eyes stirring both her and her temper.
She marched over to snap her patient’s empty tray up, indifferent to the cup Aiden still held in his hand. “The only sure thing here, Mr. Donovan, is that Aunt Libby and I would rather be trussed up in tar and turkey feathers before setting foot on any ranch occupied by you and your uncle.”
“A sight more unseemly than a bed sheet, ma’am, if I may be so bold.” His voice edged toward husky.
Fire singed her cheeks, prompting a chuckle from Aiden. “Tar and turkey feathers notwithstanding, missy, you can tell that daughter of mine she’ll be staying at Finn’s ranch nonetheless, as will you, or else.”
Maggie yanked the cup—unfortunately empty—from Aiden’s hand and thumped it on the tray with a clatter before storming toward the door. Reining in her temper, she turned. “Or else what, Mr. O’Shea? You’ll try to bully us like you try to bully everyone in this hospital?” She forced a tight smile. “I think your daughter will have something to say about that, sir.”
Aiden actually chuckled as he brushed breadcrumbs from his striped nightshirt. “I have no doubt she will, for all the good it’ll do.”
Maggie bristled. “Wanna bet?”
“Uh, thought you didn’t gamble, Miss Mullaney?” Blaze’s half-lidded gaze couldn’t hide the smoky tease in his eyes.
She didn’t. But if she did, she’d lay odds the humor in his tone was purely to bait her.
When steers fly. Her lips quirked. Or near-naked cowboys.
“It’s not a gamble, Mr. Donovan, but a certainty you can rely on.” She whirled to leave, ignoring both men’s chuckles. “Good day, gentlemen.”
“Oh, Miss Mullaney …”
She stopped long enough to toss a quick glance over her shoulder, the sound of Blaze Donovan’s voice clearly laced with laughter. “If it’s all the same to you, ma’am,” he said with a lazy grin, actually having the audacity to shoot her a wink, “I’ll just keep the tar warm.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“What?” Libby shot out of the velvet, tufted chair in the Victorian parlour of The Gold Hill Hotel, gaping at her father. “Absolutely not!”
Great balls of fire—Finn McShane was the last person she wanted to see! She clenched her shawl in her hands, fists as hard and white as the stones embedded in the fireplace where Papa stood, quite certain the smoke from the fire had injured his brain as well as his body. Maggie had mentioned Papa had threatened the absurd notion of Libby and Maggie staying at Finn McShane’s ranch for a while, but Libby had only laughed, assuring her that a Nevada blizzard would blow through the devil’s kitchen before that would ever happen.
With a deep inhale, she slowly relaxed her fingers, determined to maintain control over both her emotions and her life. After all, she was an educated and independent woman and needed to respond accordingly. She straightened her shoulders, grateful Maggie and Gert were still up in their rooms before dinner to honor Papa’s request for a private conversation with his daughter.
But when his gaze locked on hers in silent threat, it catapulted her years back to her youth when stalemates with Papa were as common as air. The fire in his eyes suddenly sparked hers, and against her will, all hard-earned maturity fled as she notched her chin up with a jerk. “And you can’t make me!”
“I can and I will, young lady,” he said with a menacing look, the jut of his jaw as pronounced as her own despite the fatigue furrowing his pale face. Hand pinched white on the mantle, he puffed furiously on his pipe, the sweat gleaming on his brow a key indicator he wasn’t fully recovered yet.
Guilt tempered her ire as she eased back down, knotting the shawl in her lap. “Papa, please—can’t we talk about this later when you’re feeling better? For goodness sake, Sister Fred just released you barely an hour ago.”
Smoke billowed above him as he took another draw of his pipe, the maple and vanilla scent of his trademark tobacco melting the years away as quickly as her guilt melted her ire. His hand shook as he replaced his pipe on the cast-iron pipe rest on the mantle. “No, we can’t talk about it later, missy, because I don’t want to ruin my dinner.” He yanked a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his face, wobbling enough on his feet to worry her. “Haven’t had a dad-burned decent meal since they took me to that goose-flap farm over a week ago.”
Mama rose to gently take Papa’s arm, the crease of concern in her face identical to that which Libby felt in her own. “Now, Aiden, you’re getting yourself all worked up again, darling, so please sit down.”
“Don’t ‘darlin’’ me, Maeve. This headstrong daughter of yours is going to promise to comply with my wishes or there’ll be perdition to pay.” He waved his wife off. “Besides,” he said with a tighter grip on the mantle, “I’ve been laid out like a corpse for a solid week now, and I want to stand, confound it.”
Mama’s tone stiffened along with her spine as she handed him his cane. “There’s no need for language, Aiden O’Shea, and I am not going to live with a crab when good humor can heal both you and this situation quickly enough.”
He snatched the cane from her hand and aimed it at Libby while her mother reclaimed her seat. “Tell that to your mule of a daughter, who’s bucking me at every turn.”
Libby was back on her feet, shawl slithering to the floor as she held up her ring finger, Harold’s diamond glittering as much as her eyes, no doubt. “For heaven’s sake, Papa, I’m a thirty-nine-year-old woman with a ring on my finger, a career in New York, and a fiancé awaiting my return. I’m a grown woman!”
“Then act like it!” he shouted, banging the cane on the floor. Her Mother started to rise once again, but Papa only cut her off with a raise of his palm. “No, Maeve, you sit right back down and listen to me”—he glowered at Libby with a look that always buckled her knees—“the both of you—now! Seventeen years ago, I made a huge error in judgment, and after cheating St. Peter out of an early retirement, I aim to make it right.”
An error in judgment? Seventeen years ago? Shock stole Libby’s tongue as her stomach took a tumble.
“Aiden, what are you trying to say?” her mother asked, teetering on the edge of a French provincial chair.
“I’m saying you were right, confound it—I should have never tried to annul Libby’s marriage.”
“What?” Libby sprang up so fast, she felt like a blasted marionette, body wobbling as much as the puppet her father obviously wanted her to be. “Well, it’s certainly too late to worry about that now because I am engaged to be married!”
Her father stared her down. “Were engaged, young lady, because unless you join your mother and me at the Silver Lining Ranch for the next six months, there won’t be a wedding.”
Libby was so outraged she wished she were sitting down so she could jump back up. “I won’t do it!” she shouted, hands plunked to the hips of her blue striped satin walking dress. “And if you persist with this ridiculous notion, I will pack my bags this instant and return to New York to marry Harold. Because in case you aren’t aware, Papa, I don’t need your permission.”
Avoiding her gaze, Papa scratched the back of his neck as he retrieved his pipe from the mantle and took a lengthy draw. He blasted the smoke out again on the heels of a ragged cough. Some of his bluster floated away with the fog that slithered across the ceiling like a harbinger of gloom. “Not mine, perhaps, daughter,” he said in a much quieter tone, “but most assuredly the Archbishop’s.”
She blinked as he swabbed his brow once again, his words not making a lick of sense. “Pardon me? What’s that supposed to mean?” Her fury suddenly faded along with his, voice as wispy as the pale puffs of smoke encircling his head like a misplaced halo, drifting away.
Like my courage …
His gaze slowly rose to meet hers, moist with something she had never seen in her father before.
Regret.
Remorse.
Repentance.
“It means,
” he said, his weighty tone a portent of woe, “that Finn McShane is still your husband.”
All she could do was gasp. Other than that, the only thing on her body that moved were her lids, which flickered several times while she stared, eyes dry sockets of shock.
No pulse.
No air.
No comprehension.
“W-what d-did you s-say?” she finally whispered.
Her mother hurried over to latch an arm to her waist. “Good heavens, Aiden, sit down this instant and tell us what on earth you are babbling about!” Her mother’s arms were shaking as much as Libby’s as the two of them sank onto the flame-stitch sofa, their faces as depleted of blood as Papa’s.
Without further argument, Papa put his pipe back on the mantle and gingerly sat in his chair with a grimace, sweat now glistening on his cheeks as well as his forehead. “I’m talking about the annulment papers, Maeve—they were never filed.”
“What?” Her mother’s jaw dropped, the tremble in her voice matching that in Libby’s stomach to a quiver. “You said you sent them in, for pity’s sake.”
“And I thought I did, Maeve, I swear.” He fished a handkerchief out of his vest pocket to blot his face.
“Sweet suffering saints, Aiden O’Shea,” Mama shouted, a rarity in and of itself. “How in the name of Providence could this happen?”
“How?” A faint spark of fire lit in her father’s eyes as he squinted at his wife. “You blubbered and carried on if you recall, begging me to wait until Libby was good and settled with Marie in New York before I filed.” His jaw cranked up to go chin to chin with hers. “And then you traipsed off to New York with Libby for six blasted months, woman, leaving me at the mercy of that chuck-wagon chippie while I’m wheezin’ on my deathbed, no doubt poisoned to boot.”
“It was a barely a cold, you bullheaded Irishman, and Libby was so depressed after you bullied her into that annulment, I had no choice but to stay until she was better.”
“Sure, coddle your daughter instead of caring for the man you vowed to love, honor, and obey—”
Mama bolted up, a rare trace of Irish steeling her jaw. “It was because of the ‘love, honor, and obey’ that you’re even alive, Aiden O’Shea. If I hadn’t left, it would have been ‘love, honor, and pray for your sorry soul when I poisoned you myself!”
“Mama, Papa—stop, please!” Libby burst from her chair, her stupor giving way to alarm over her parents fighting, something even rarer than the apology she’d seen in Papa’s eyes. “Can’t we talk calmly and rationally, please?” She shot both of her parents a pleading look, barely able to believe she was the calm and sensible one for once.
“Rational? Your father?” Her mother issued an uncharacteristic grunt as she plopped back onto the sofa. “There was nothing rational about that annulment, Libby, but your mule of a father twisted my arm as well as yours, and I’m not sure I’ve ever quite forgiven him for that.”
Eyes flaring in shock, Papa stared in silence, Adam’s apple hitching hard in his throat. Without a word, he finally lumbered up from his chair and approached the sofa where they sat, a faint groan slipping from his lips as he dropped to his knees. “Maeve,” he whispered, taking her reluctant hand in hers, “I was a fool, darlin’, and I’m askin’ you to forgive me.” His gaze swung to Libby with a sheen of moisture that mirrored her own. “Libby, I did you and Finn a grave injustice, and I don’t know how you can ever forgive me, but I’m askin’ you to, darlin’, because I mean to make amends.”
“Oh, Papa ….” Libby launched into his arms, not sure what shocked her more—Papa’s apology or the tears in his eyes, but either way, she slid to the floor to give him a violent hug. “Finn and I weren’t right for each other, and I know that now, so I’m grateful you saved me from a life of utter domination.” She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, cupping his cheek with a tender smile. “Harold and I have waited this long; we can certainly wait a little longer while you send the papers in, so there’s nothing to forgive.”
He gave her back an awkward pat as he avoided her eyes, a ruddy shade of red creeping up the back of his neck. “Well now, you might want to reserve judgment on that just yet, darlin’, at least till you hear me out.” Squeezing her arm, he attempted to lumber to his feet, prompting both Libby and her mother to assist until they had him settled back into his chair, chest heaving from exertion.
Libby hurried to the mantle to fetch his pipe.
“You see, darlin’ …” A harsh cough rasped from his throat. “You were so upset at the time that you failed to sign the papers.”
She blinked, pipe in hand as she extended it to her father. “No problem, Papa. I can sign them now before you send them in.”
“Well, that’s just it, darlin’,” he said as he peered up, the compassion in his eyes at odds with the hard clamp of his jaw. Her hand froze at the subtle twitch of his moustache, a nervous trait that always accompanied bad news. He reached for his pipe. “It won’t be anytime soon.”
CHAPTER NINE
“Good heavens, what on earth could be taking so long?” Arms in a stiff fold, Maggie paced in Gert’s tiny room, the growl of her stomach almost as loud as that of Maeve’s ferret, Frannie, which lay on the cast-iron bed. The pet’s menacing raccoon-ringed eyes followed Maggie nonstop, obviously as unhappy with her back-and-forth stride as Maggie was waiting to be called for dinner.
“A showdown between a donkey and a mule,” Gert said with a grunt, her gangly body pert near longer than the bed as she leaned against the headboard with her boots on, polishing the ivory-stocked Remington pistol she kept in her apron. Cocking the hammer, she squinted into the barrel with a practiced eye, the bloomin’ gun as clean as a whistle.
And just as empty as my stomach, Maggie silently bemoaned, in tandem with another Frannie growl.
Gert poked the ferret with the toe of her boot. “Hush up, Frannie. I put up with enough growlin’ from that bully I work for; don’t need you addin’ to the mix.” With a final rumble, Frannie plopped her chin on the bed, silently tracking Maggie’s every move.
“But bullets to boots when the smoke clears, only one will be a standin’, and it sure in the devil won’t be Miss Libby.” Pursed lips as skewed as the silver topknot on her head, she scooped up a handful of bullets and loaded the gun, making Maggie more than relieved she and the O’Shea’s crusty cook got along.
Maggie paused mid-stroll, face in a scrunch. “What do you mean? Mrs. O’Shea said Mr. O’Shea just wanted to discuss Aunt Libby’s future, to make sure it was secure.”
The grunt that rolled from Gert’s lips could have come from a gritty-eyed gunslinger as her silver brows slashed low. “That ol’ bullhead wants to ‘secure’ her future all right, trussed up tighter than a piggin’ string on a calf in a hogtying contest.” She spun the gun chamber with precision and notched the safety before slipping it into the pocket of her cotton work dress.
“What?” Maggie could only stare, open-mouthed. “How?”
Gert paused for several seconds, eyes narrowed as if she wasn’t sure she should say. She finally huffed out a sigh. “Might as well spill the beans since you’ll find out soon enough anyway, even though Mrs. Maeve asked me to keep a lid on the pot till after ‘the talk.’”
She leaned in, her smile as flat as her mood. “How? By forcing her to stay at Silver Lining Ranch for the next six months, that’s how, with him, his saint of a wife, me, Frannie and”—she paused as if to underscore her point, a hint of compassion softening her gaze—“you.”
“Me?” Maggie blinked, remembering all too well the confrontation with Aiden O’Shea in his hospital room.
And Blaze Donovan.
Maggie’s mouth went dry at the notion of living under the same roof as that insufferably cocky—she swallowed hard—and regrettably handsome cowboy. Turning to adjust her skirt in the mirror, Maggie stiffened her shoulders, uttering a silent prayer that Aunt Libby wouldn’t succumb to her father’s threats. “Well, Mr. O’Shea may be stubborn,
Gert, but the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree, you know.” She whirled to face the housekeeper, the speed of her action causing Frannie to grumble. “Mama used to say Aunt Libby had a will forged in red-hot steel and a temper to match, so I seriously doubt her father will be able to sway her.”
Gert peered up beneath hooded eyes, her smile zagging sideways. “He will if he has her out on a limb and shakes it hard enough, missy, take my word for it.” A scowl tainted her face as she crossed skinny arms across an even skinnier chest. “I’m mean as a rattlesnake, pert near unbeatable at poker, and carry a gun, but the mule manages to truss me up in a Frenchie getup to serve him his dinner, so you figure it out. Trust me, he’s not just a card sharp with an ace up his sleeve—he’s packin’ the whole bloomin’ deck—and the man cheats like the devil to boot.”
Maggie’s chin shot up, along with her ire. “That may be, but remember—God not only beat the devil, but he gave him the boot to a much warmer clime.”
Gert cackled, the sound rather ominous when joined by Frannie’s growl. “Well, that’s real good, missy, because Mr. ‘Pain-in-the-Posterior’ likes to think he is God in these here parts.”
And Mr. Donovan likes to think he’s God’s gift, but so what? Maggie squelched the urge to let out a Gert-style grunt. “Well, if I were a gambling woman—which I’m not—I’d lay my money on Aunt Libby.”
The tiny bed rocked as Gert’s laughter ricocheted off the walls of the tiny room, jostling Frannie along with it. “Well, if I were a drinkin’ woman—which I am—I’d say you might want to start, missy, because I ain’t ever known Aiden O’Shea to lose a fight.”
Maggie crossed her arms, wondering if she should cross her fingers too. She steeled her jaw instead. “Wanna bet?”
Gert snorted. “Sounds like a gamble to me, young lady, but even if you’re not a gamblin’ woman …” Gert rested her head back on the curly cast-iron headboard as she grinned, a definite gleam in her eyes. “Odds are you darn well better be a prayin’ one.”
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