Love's Silver Lining

by Julie Lessman

  Blaze nodded his head toward the basket of rolls in front of Shaylee. “Hey, Short Stuff, pass the rolls this way please.”

  “Sure thing, Blaze,” Shaylee said, promptly firing a couple of rolls over the table.

  “Shaylee Ann Donovan,” Finn said with a heft of his chin, “dinner is not a ballgame, young lady, so I suggest you mind your manners and pass the basket next time.”

  “Yeah, Squirt,” Dash said with a grin while an entire biscuit rolled around in his mouth, “anybody would think you’ve been raised in a barn.”

  Finn grilled Dash with a feigned glare that spurred a titter of laughter around the table. “And you should know, Dashiell Robert, talking with food in your mouth.”

  Blaze chuckled as he reached over Sheridan to grab the butter. “Yeah, he makes a cow chewing its cud look downright mannerly.”

  “You should talk.” Dash aimed a pea at Blaze, eyes in a squint as if looking through the site of a rifle. “I would have taken a bite out of your arm if you reached over me like you did Sher.”

  The pea bounced off Blaze’s nose, and he didn’t miss a beat flinging it right back with a grin. “And I would have kicked your kie—”

  “Brendan Zachery!” Finn’s look could have fried the potatoes—again. “I’m hard-pressed to say who wins the prize for the most offensive manners—Dash or you.”

  “Wait—there’s a prize?” Dash grinned and tossed the pea in the air, catching it with his teeth.

  Cauterizing his nephews with a silent warning, Finn returned his attention to Maeve as he sipped his coffee. “Libby is not a child, Maeve, no matter how much she acts like it at times.”

  Maeve’s mouth took a twist as she spooned sugar into her tea, slipping both Blaze and Dash a knowing smile. “Neither are your nephews, Finn, but you seem to keep them in line just fine.”

  It was Finn’s turn to grunt. “I lost her the first time by trying to ‘keep her in line,’ Maeve, remember?” He stabbed at his beef, torn in two over what he should do to win the blasted woman back. She was out of control, and if her parents couldn’t rein her in, how could he?

  “Maeve’s right,” Aiden said, buttering a roll, “it’s your house, and she’s your guest whether she wants to be or not, so you need to march up there and tell her how it’s gonna be.”

  “Yeah, and you saw how well that worked for me last time.” Mouth tight, Finn sawed at his meat, just as tired of tiptoeing around Libby as the rest of them. Dash it all, this was his house and his wife, confound it, and he’d have walloped Blaze or Dash if they ever disrespected him like this.

  “Uh, I don’t know if this will be of any help or not,” Maggie said with a nervous grate of her lip, “but Aunt Libby was Mama’s best friend and even Mama would get aggravated with her stubbornness from time to time, Finn. In fact, I remember more than once hearing Mama say that what Libby needed was a strong man to stand up to her because nobody else ever would, even Mama.”

  Finn stared, his mouth curving into a slow smile at Maggie’s words. “Not even her fiancé?”

  Maggie put a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Goodness, Finn, especially not Professor Pipp, at least according to Mama. She claimed the only reason Aunt Libby liked him in the first place was because he would do whatever she wanted.”

  Finn’s smile bloomed into a grin. “Your mama sounds like she was a very wise woman, Maggie, because that’s the same feeling I’ve always had about your Aunt Libby.” His brows angled low as he studied her, lines fanning on either side of his eyes. “Why didn’t your mother stand up to her? You know, tell her the truth?”

  “Believe me, she tried—over and over again, but, well …” She gave a small lift of her shoulders. “You know Aunt Libby.”

  Finn’s smile went flat. Yes, he knew Aunt Libby. All too well.

  “And to be honest, Finn”—Maggie’s face softened in sympathy—“I think Mama was too afraid Aunt Libby would leave and never come back.”

  “I know the feeling,” Finn muttered, staring at his half-eaten food while his gaze trailed into a hard stare. “I haven’t pushed because I hoped with time she’d come to her senses.”

  “Humph.” Aiden drained his cup of tea. “That presupposes one has sense in the first place.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Aiden. One does not rise to the ranks of teacher at an institution like Vassar if they have no sense, even with the influence of her father.” Maeve brushed a biscuit crumb from her husband’s moustache with her napkin.

  Aiden slapped his wife’s hand away. “Thunderation, woman, don’t coddle me like you coddled our daughter. And I’m not talking about noggin sense; I’m talking about the heart kind. Libby is as bright as a shiny new penny, but the girl never did have a lick of sense when it comes to truly giving of herself.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Maeve’s hand—now holding a fork laden with potatoes—dropped back to her plate. “Why, Libby gives of herself tirelessly on behalf of her orphans at St. Patrick’s, her students at Vassar, and her volunteer work on behalf of women, with a heart as big as her father’s is stubborn.”

  Aiden’s jaw rose. “Of course she does, Maeve, but it’s not the size of the heart in question here, it’s the sense of it. Between your coddling and pushing her into women’s rights—”

  Maeve arched a dangerous brow.

  “And me bullying her and trying to push her into what I wanted, the girl never learned to give her heart to the most important things first.”

  “Such as …?” Maeve’s jaw was now even with her husband’s.

  Aiden blinked, all bluster fading as he cupped a gentle hand to her face. “Such as family, Mrs. O’Shea—her parents, her spouse, her friends …” His Adam’s apple hitched in his throat. “Her God.”

  Maeve stared back, her shock crumpling into a sheen of moisture. “Oh, Aiden, she hasn’t, has she?” she whispered, eyelids squeezing closed as she pressed her hand over his on her cheek.

  Finn watched as the hardest, gruffest man he’d ever known wrapped tender arms around his wife. “Libby loves us, Maeve, of that I have no doubt, but I’m afraid we’ve done her a grave disservice when it comes to priorities. Because as my heart attack taught me all too well, the deepest, purest love thrives in the soil of faith. And not just any faith, mind you, but that which is nourished by trust and respect. First for God, then for family, and finally for whatever cause or calling the Lord so ordains.”

  Maeve sniffed. “Oh, Aiden, what are we going to do?” she whispered, blotting her eyes with her napkin.

  Aiden’s husky chuckle broke the gloom of silence that had hovered over the table. “Other than pray, my dear, we’re not going to do a single thing.” He turned to deliver a resolute smile in Finn’s direction, raising his water glass in a confident toast. “Finn is.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “So, what’s it gonna be—the best lemon meringue pie you ever et or”—Gert coughed with a fist to her mouth—“plain ol’ cobbler?” She propped the swinging kitchen door open with a bony hip, her drab gray calico dress hanging on her frame like a scarecrow and complemented by dusty cowhide boots as wrinkled as the frown on her face.

  “It’s not ‘plain ol’ cobbler.’” Angus pushed past her with several bowls of cobbler in his hands, the smell taunting Finn’s stomach. “It’s cinnamon apple, missy, and I done told you before—my family loves cobbler.”

  “And mine loves lemon meringue, old man, so why don’t we just let them decide?” The two of them stared each other down before eyeing everyone at the table, daring them to pick the other’s dessert.

  Finn huffed out a sigh, about as tired of Angus and Gert battling in the kitchen as he was of Libby hiding away in her room. “One of each for me, please, but I’m warning you two right now—this is the last night for two desserts, you hear? Gert—you can make dessert on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and Angus—you get Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, no arguments. The other ladies will cook and bake on Sunday as usual to g
ive you two a day off, understood?”

  “Yes’um, Boss.” Angus set the two cobblers down in front of the O’Shea’s with a smirk and headed back to the kitchen about the time Gert let the swinging door fly. It goosed Angus in the backside but good, and Finn had to stifle a smile.

  With a smug look on her face, Gert began to collect Libby’s unused plate and utensils. “Pie coming right—”

  “Leave it,” Finn ordered with a stiff smile, and Gert paused midway, squinting across the table at Finn like he was Angus. He crooked a smile to show her he wasn’t. “Libby will be down shortly, Gert, so she’ll need her plate and utensils.”

  “Well, it’s about bloomin’ time.” Aiden pushed his empty plate away and glanced at Gert. “But I’m finished, so you can take my plate away.” His eyes narrowed. “And where the devil is your uniform?” he snapped, touching on a sore subject for Gert according to Maeve—the “Frenchie” black and white uniform Aiden insisted she wear.

  Gert turned her death stare on him, mumbling something under her breath that made Sheridan and Shaylee giggle. “Flapping on the wash line,” she said, snatching up Maggie’s and Blaze’s empty plates, her barely audible mutter obviously not meant for Aiden. “Where you should be.” She all but stomped over to Aiden’s side of the table to snatch his plate, pert near nipping his nose in the process.

  Shaking his head, Finn rose and tugged the sleeves of his pinstripe shirt down, then adjusted his tan leather vest. “A fresh pot of coffee, if you don’t mind, Gert, because I do believe we’re going to need it.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly drink to that,” Aiden said with a lift of his cup, “and with coffee this time, not tea.”

  “What if she won’t come down?” Maeve offered a solemn gaze that matched the face of everyone in the room.”

  “Oh, she’ll come.” Finn’s smile firmed into a straight line.

  “Darn tootin’ she will.” Aiden lifted his tea, aiming it at Finn. “Like I always say— respect is a steel palm in a velvet glove, Finn.” He upended his cup. “And I have faith in you, boy, so you bet she’ll come down.”

  “But what if she doesn’t, Uncle Finn?” Shaylee asked, a crimp in her brow that was probably dirt. “You can’t send her to her room like you do with us because she’s already there.”

  “She’ll be down, Shay, guaranteed.” He pushed in his chair and gave her a mysterious smile. “I have a secret weapon.”

  “Oh, do tell, Uncle Finn—what is it?” Sheridan asked, a gleam in her eyes as she propped elbows on the table and chin in her hands.

  “Sorry, Sher, it’s only a secret weapon if it stays a secret.” He tossed her a wink on his way into the foyer. “Wish me luck.”

  “How about we pray for you instead?” Maggie called, and Finn couldn’t help but grin on his way up the stairs. Even better.

  He strode down the upstairs hallway to Libby and Maggie’s room, determined that Liberty Margaret O’Shea would not only follow his rules in his house, but by gum, she would like it.

  Eventually.

  Pausing in front of her room, Finn sent up a quick prayer for wisdom and strength, then tapped on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Finn.” Palm to the frame, he hung his head, wondering how on earth to reach a woman like Libby.

  Respect is a steel palm in a velvet glove.

  Finn blew out a long, withering sigh. Oddly enough, that wasn’t his style, at least not anymore. He’d done a lot of changing since Libby had left—drawn closer to God, which in turn had tamed most of the temper and stubborn streak that had damaged his marriage. Without question, years of raising four children had matured and mellowed him into a man far more patient and humble than he ever believed he could be. Unfortunately, those same years appeared to have hardened Libby, souring the sweet nature and gentle heart he fell in love with. And most importantly, dimming that fire and passion he’d so loved in her eyes.

  Oh, the fire was still there, no doubt about that. But now it was aimed square at him, scorching him every single chance she could get. Just like Pastor Poppy had once said.

  “It’s my belief, son, that when people are truly wounded, they stop growing from the point of impact, growing a hard, calloused scar over that part of their heart.”

  Finn issued a silent grunt. Words of wisdom from long ago that certainly rang true when it came to Libby. Which meant that for all her indifference and indignation, he had deeply wounded the woman he loved. And love her he did, whether he wanted to or not. Because for some reason, the good Lord had chosen to stoke the fire burning inside of him for the mule-headed woman on the other side of that door, making darn sure Finn had never married another.

  For some reason?

  He pinched the bridge of his nose with a faint smile.

  And the two will become one flesh. So, they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore, what God has joined together, let no man separate.

  Which is what Libby and he were—one flesh in God’s eyes. And if Finn had his way—one flesh in Libby’s eyes too, God willing. He huffed out a loud sigh. “We need to talk, Libby—now.”

  “I’m sorry, Finn, but I don’t feel well, and I’m in bed.” Her tone was lethargic at best.

  A tic flickered in his jaw. “Well, then, you best get out, darlin’, because we are going to talk—face-to-face.”

  “For the love of decency, Finn,” she said loudly, not sounding a bit under the weather, “I’m not even dressed!”

  Smile twitching, Finn shifted, convinced that Aiden was right. Respect with a woman like Libby would only be won with a steel palm in a velvet glove. Because she would never love him if she didn’t respect him. And as God is my witness, this woman will respect me, if nothing else. His smile went flat. “Decent or indecent, we’re going to talk, Libby, so either you open up or I’m coming in.”

  He heard the bed squeal as she mumbled, then grinned when the closet door slammed. Bare feet stomping across the room, she lashed the door open, pinching her lavender wraparound satin robe closed at the hollow of her neck. “All right, Finn. You wanted to talk? Talk.”

  “Not in the hallway,” he said, pushing past to enter.

  “Good heavens—have you no modesty? I told you I’m not dressed.” She glared, one hand safeguarding her robe while the other gripped the doorknob like a weapon.

  His eyes roamed from the wild russet hair tumbling over her shoulders, down the tightly cinched robe that showcased a body far more endowed than he remembered. Trailing back up, he delivered the lazy smile she’d once told him drove her crazy. One side of his mouth kicked up. Good. Now they were even.

  “Well, that’s an easy fix, Mrs. McShane,” he said, nodding toward a sliver of scarlet plaid skirt peeking out above her bare feet. “Just take off your robe.”

  “Oh, you are impossible!” she said with a jerk of her robe, her face as red as her skirt. She tossed the wrapper onto the bed and crossed her arms over a lace-trimmed shirtwaist. “All right, I’m listening.”

  Leisurely reaching for a spindle-back chair at the desk, he turned it around and straddled it with hands loose over the back. He gave a short nod toward the door. “Uh, you may want to close it, Libby,” he said with a patient smile, “unless you want everybody knowing our business.”

  “We have no business, Mr. McShane,” she said, her voice a testy whisper, “we have incarceration! And if you’ll remember, the last time the door was closed, you pinned me to the bed.”

  He ducked his head to idly scratch the back of his neck, a grin stealing over his lips. “Yeah, pretty hard to forget that,” he said, meeting her fiery gaze with a chuckle, “although I seem to remember a moan or two of pleasure from that will of yours, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Oh, you are incorrigible, Finn McShane!” A pretty shade of rose flooded her cheeks.

  “That may be, darlin’, but I’m also your husband and this is my ranch, so I have a few house rules for you to abide by.”

  “Such as?” Her chin lash
ed up.

  “Well, for starters, not only will you eat dinner with the family every night and join in on parlour games after, but while you’re here, the only time you’re to be in your room is for bedtime, a short nap, or if you’re sick.”

  “I am sick!” she shouted.

  “Yes, I know, Libby, sick of me, but that doesn’t count. I don’t want any complaining or long faces when you’re around me or the family, is that clear? Act like you like us for pity’s sake.”

  “That I can do,” she said with a stiff smile, “with them. It’s you I have a problem with.”

  He pierced her with a pointed look. “Then-fake-it, Libby,” he bit out, determined her sour attitude would end right here, right now. “I would rather have kind fabrication than nasty reality.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he didn’t give her the chance. “On Sundays, you will not only go to church with either your parents at St. Mary’s or with us at First Presbyterian, but you will set aside time to tutor Shaylee and Sheridan. May as well share some of those fancy things you learned in that finishing school you went to and make yourself useful while you’re here.”

  “Fair enough.” Eyes averted, she fixed her gaze out the window. “Is that all?”

  Expelling a weary sigh, he studied her intently, hands loosely clasped. “No, that’s not all. This is a happy home, Libby, and you will do your part to continue that, including helping to cook and bake dinner every Sunday with the rest of the ladies.”

  “What?” Her gaze shot to his in a full-fledged gape. “But I don’t cook!”

  “High time you learn, then, darlin’, because everybody on this ranch carries part of the load, understood?”

  “But—”

  “Finally,” he said, cutting her off with a firm tone that matched the determined look in his eyes, “you will—no ifs, ands, or buts—spend time alone with me every Saturday night beginning this Saturday.

  “What?!”

  He silenced her with a palm in the air. “Be it dinner at The Gold Hill Hotel, a picnic supper by the river, or either dancing or seeing a show at Piper’s Opera House. Lillie Langtry maybe, or John Philip Sousa, whatever. But you and I are going to spend time together, Libby, whether you like it or not, so you may as well make the best of it, understood?”