Love's Silver Lining (Silver Lining Ranch Series Book 1)

by Julie Lessman

  Rising slowly, Finn shook Aiden’s hand, a flicker of a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Forgave you long ago, Aiden, after Pastor Poppy hammered it into my hard head that I needed to—and I quote—‘forgive that stubborn old coot’ if I wanted blessing in my life.”

  Aiden chuckled, more color burning in his face as he scrubbed the back of his head with a sheepish smile. “God bless Pastor Poppy. The poor man was fit to be tied when he found out what I planned to do.”

  “Yeah, he was,” Finn said as he resumed his seat. Gratitude swelled in his chest for the friend and mentor who’d not only married Libby and him, but provided years of comfort and counsel over the damage Aiden O’Shea had caused. Settling back in his chair with a relaxed fold of arms, Finn propped his legs on the end of Aiden’s bed, studying his father-in-law through curious eyes. “You said you had a number of reasons …”

  “Ah, yes,” Aiden said, mirroring Finn’s posture with an easy fold of burly arms. “Two other reasons. The first?” His chin rose in a rigid bent Finn remembered all too well. “Much as I hate to admit it, my daughter is as stubborn as her father, hell-bent on doing things her way. I’ve already seen the damage that has done in my life, and I don’t want that to happen to her.”

  His gaze wandered a bit as his mouth gummed into a tight line. “She’s not happy, no matter how much she claims to be, not with some namby-pamby professor cow-towing to her every whim.” His gaze thinned as he looked up at Finn. “She needs a man who won’t let her push him around. Somebody she can respect. Somebody like you, Finn, that she won’t ride roughshod over.” A heavy sigh blasted from Aiden’s lips as he sank back against his pillow. “Back when you two got hitched, I was too blamed thick-headed to see you were perfect for her, but now I realize the error of my ways and I believe Libby will, too—eventually.”

  Finn issued a dubious grunt. “And how do you propose we do that? The woman has avoided me like the plague for seventeen years now. You and I both know she’ll hightail it back to that job in New York and her namby-pamby fiancé as soon as she can.”

  “Not if she doesn’t have a job in New York,” Aiden said with a satisfied look, hands clasped on his stomach in gloating fashion. “Keep in mind that I was the one who got her that job in the first place. Pulled a few favors from an old school chum who’s risen pretty high in the academic community, so I’m confident I can yank it just as well. And when Maeve’s sister—who Libby lived with before Vassar gave her room and board—discovers that Maeve and I need Libby at home for a season to help us get past the trauma of the fire, my stubborn girl won’t have a home either.” He winked. “Conspiracy can be a wonderful thing, my boy, especially in the name of love.”

  Finn’s mouth took a slant as he rubbed a scar on his forehead. “Well, I never stopped loving the woman, and that’s a cold, hard fact, Aiden. But I sure didn’t see a whole lot of that returned the day she clipped me with a flying teapot before walking out on our marriage.” He cocked his head, assessing Aiden with more than a little skepticism. “What makes you think she has any feelings left for me after seventeen years?”

  The gleam in Aiden’s eyes worked its way into a gloat. “Because she’s worked too blasted hard to stay away, that’s why. A woman doesn’t up and leave her parents with little more than covert fly-by-night visits here and there unless she’s trying pretty darn hard to forget something or someone. Nor does she just up and forget to sign papers that will cut her loose from a man she doesn’t love.”

  He shifted as if to get comfortable, the smirk on his face implying he held all the cards. “No siree, I’d lay odds that stubborn daughter of mine still has feelings for you, Finn. Now it’s up to you to make ’em grow when she moves into your house along with me, Maeve, and Gert for the six months we’re rebuilding.”

  A slow grin eased across Finn’s face. “Is it now? Well, God willing and the creek don’t rise, I just may be able to do that.” He paused, eyes in a squint. “And your final reason?”

  Aiden issued a grunt, adjusting the covers over his portly frame. “Not only am I’m just plumb sick and tired of hospital food,” he said in a huff, the mock scowl on his face belied by the glint of tease in his eyes, “but the chef at The Gold Hill Hotel can’t cook to save her soul.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “You’re a brave, brave woman, Maggie Mullaney.” Ida Mae Rafferty, head cook for St. Mary Louise’s prep kitchen, ladled stew into a bowl and plopped it down on a dining tray along with a crusty roll, cookie, and a cup of coffee. “Volunteering to take that crotchety old man his last supper.” She gave a grunt that could rival any in the Ponderosa Saloon, her portly frame as intimidating as any man in that saloon. “Last supper, humph! Reckon even Jesus would balk at that.” She wagged the ladle in Maggie’s face, her scowl softening into a near smile. “Just make sure the last supper is his and not yours, missy!”

  Maggie grinned. She repinned the nurses cap on her disheveled chignon that now sported wisps of stray curls from a morning of running meals and meds up and down four flights of stairs. “Oh, he’s not so bad if you ignore the grouch in him,” she said with a firm tug of her skirt-length pinafore apron before smoothing it down over her white cotton skirt. She carefully picked up the tray and headed for the kitchen door, tossing a return wink over her shoulder. “A tip I learned from Aunt Libby, who has valuable experience with her grump of a father.”

  Ida Mae grunted. “Aye, and God bless the woman’s soul. I hear she’s to be canonized.”

  Chuckling, Maggie made a beeline for the stairs, understanding her godmother’s keen desire to move as far away from her father’s tight rein of control as possible. Mr. O’Shea had not been an easy patient over the last few weeks, and Maggie could well imagine how dominant such a gentleman could be with a daughter. And yet, Maggie was more than a little surprised that she was sorry to see him go.

  “Hope whatever you’re toting there tastes better than the last slop you served, missy,” he’d groused the second morning she’d brought his lunch. His cantankerous tone confirmed every snide adjective coined by the staff, from curt and crabby, to cross and crusty. So, as the newest employee in the hospital, it was no surprise Maggie had been appointed as Mr. O’Shea’s personal nurse throughout the rest of his stay.

  She’d had to weather a fair amount of snarls and growls, certainly, before she’d finally detected the beat of a heart in Aiden O’Shea’s chest. But after persistent smiles and even more persistent games of cards or chess, she’d also detected someone who deeply regretted the kind of person he’d been and wanted to change. The poor man just didn’t know how.

  Maggie’s heart constricted, recalling the one conversation they’d had where he had all but bared his soul. Right then and there she’d made up her mind to medicate Aiden O’Shea with the one thing he needed more than anything: The love of God. A smile tiptoed across her lips. The only balm Maggie knew firsthand that could heal scars way beyond third-degree burns. Humming on her way down the hall, the savory aroma of stew reminded her she’d skipped lunch to play one last game of chess with the old crank.

  “Excuse me, Miss, but can you direct me to Mr. O’Shea’s room?”

  Maggie froze, the sound of that voice chilling both her and the stew as she whirled around, sloshing coffee into Mr. O’Shea’s saucer.

  “You!” It was a rough whisper from the lips of the one man she’d hoped to never see again. Blaze Donovan’s blue-green eyes narrowed as he nudged his Stetson up, unleashing a mop of errant golden-brown curls. “Figures you work here now—you fit right in with Sister Fred.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr. …?” She countered with a rise of her chin, completely peeved that this scalawag could parch her mouth dryer than the infamous bed sheet.

  “Donovan, Blaze Donovan,” he stressed in a clipped tone that flickered a nerve in his jaw, apparently testy that any woman would actually forget his name.

  She gave a slow nod, her tone as sweet as the sugar cookie on Mr. O’
Shea’s tray. “Oh, yes, Mr. Donovan, I’m so sorry—I didn’t recognize you without your sheet.”

  A rash of red crawled up his neck as that hypnotic gaze thinned to a blade of grass. “And I didn’t recognize you without the fire in your cheeks.”

  Said fire promptly flamed, igniting her cheeks along with her temper. “Yes, well that tends to happen when near-naked men parade the halls swaddled in as much cotton as they have between their ears.”

  His jaw began to grind. “Look, lady, I came here for Mr. O’Shea, not for insults.”

  Maggie arched a brow, fighting the crack of a smile. “Yes, well, with Mr. O’Shea, I’m afraid it’s one and the same, Mr. Donovan. I’m on my way up to the fourth floor to deliver his lunch right now, so if you’ll just follow me …” Turning on her heel, Maggie hurried down the hall, a wee bit surprised when the rake beat her to the door to hold it open. “Thank you,” she said, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

  “Even near-naked men have manners,” he muttered, passing her to scale the steps two at a time, his comment kindling more warmth at the memory.

  She was breathing hard by the time she reached the fourth floor. Her face instantly pulsed with more heat when she spied him standing there with the door propped, arms casually crossed and a veiled smirk on his handsome face. “Thank you,” she said again, annoyed when a musky citrus scent fluttered her stomach as she passed. Head high, she swished by with a death grip on the tray, limbs rattling as much as Mr. O’Shea’s dishes.

  “All righty now, Mr. O’Shea, here you go.” She rushed into her patient’s room, spurred on by the heavy sound of footsteps behind.

  “About dad-burned time. A body can starve to death before anybody feeds 'em around here.” Aiden O’Shea lumbered up to sit in his bed, handlebar moustache drooping more than usual. “About ready to gnaw on this infernal cast-iron bed.”

  “And good afternoon to you, too,” Maggie said in a light, breezy tone, setting the tray down to adjust the grouch’s pillow. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if you had partaken of a little cast iron, sir, with all the nails you’re spitting today.”

  “You’d be spitting nails, too, if you were holed up in this confounded goose-flappin’ jail.” Aiden snatched the spoon from the tray Maggie laid in his lap and started shoveling stew.

  Maggie laughed and opened the curtains to Mr. O’Shea’s windows, allowing sunshine to stream into the dark room before she returned to the other side of his bed. “Well no, I wouldn’t mind that, actually, because then I could sell them to the mercantile on the side to make a little extra money. But, alas—I don’t spit nails.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, ma’am.” Mr. Donovan strolled in with a one-sided smile, hat in hand while he moved to the other side of Aiden’s bed. “Your tongue is mighty sharp and straight to the point. Howdy, Mr. O’Shea. This little lady giving you trouble?”

  Spoon midway to his mouth, Aiden actually smiled, dropping Maggie’s jaw so wide, she could have stored a box of those blasted nails inside. “Blaze, good to see you again, my boy! And call me Aiden, please. Any man who risked his life to save my wife, cook, and ferret deserves no less than a first-name basis.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Blaze said with a ready handshake that Aiden pumped harder than a dry well in the desert.

  Maggie blinked. His boy?

  “Just dropped by to see how you’re doing, sir. And to let you know we’re looking forward to hosting you, Mrs. O’Shea, Gert, and your daughter at the Silver Lining Ranch.” He slid Maggie a tight smile. “And Miss Mullaney, of course.”

  Maggie almost dropped the thermometer in her hand. “The Silver Lining Ranch?” She blinked at Mr. O’Shea. “Excuse me, sir, but I thought you were planning on staying at The Gold Hill Hotel until your house was rebuilt?”

  Aiden chuckled as he tucked into his stew. “Not when Finn McShane and his strapping nephew here are willing to put Maeve, me, Libby, and you up at the finest, fanciest ranch house in all of Virginia City.” He gave Maggie a wink, which prompted a second slack of her jaw. “Till I rebuild mine, that is.”

  “But … but … Aunt Libby told me we were all staying at The Gold Hill during the building process, sir, unless she could convince you to sell your land and move back to New York with her.”

  “Sell?” Aiden whirled to stare at her like she’d just spit in his stew, which given the news he’d just unloaded, she was mighty tempted to do. “Thunderation, woman, you’re as daft as my daughter. I’m not selling and that’s—”

  Maggie shoved the thermometer in Aiden’s mouth, cutting him off. “Aunt Libby and I are not moving to any fancy ranch house, Mr. O’Shea, so you can just put that in your pipe and smoke it.”

  Aiden whipped the thermometer out to glare, shaking it in her face. “For your information, missy, Sister Fred confiscated my pipe the first day, so you can just put that in your stew and stir it.”

  Maggie snatched the thermometer from his hand and laid it on his tray before confiscating both to remove his stew with a thrust of her chin. “No temperature, no stew,” she said, holding his lunch as far away as she could. “The choice is yours, Mr. O’Shea.”

  “Is that so?” He flipped the sheet back and gingerly inched off the bed, his burns slowing him down considerably. “Well, then, I’ll just get dressed and bust out of this goose-flappin’ prison with Blaze’s help.”

  “Oh, yes, do that please, Mr. O’Shea,” Maggie said with a chuckle as she and the tray headed toward the door. She turned halfway to award both men a bright smile. “In fact, Mr. Donovan is the perfect person to help you don your sheet since your clothes are locked in the closet down the hall. He’s quite adept, you know.” The smirk on Blaze’s face withered along with the humor in his eyes as she turned on her heel. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  “Confound it, missy—you bring that stew back here right now! It’s getting cold.”

  She tossed a glance over her shoulder, smile twitching. “Certainly, Mr. O’Shea. After I take your temperature.”

  A swear word sizzled the air as Aiden whirled to glare at Blaze. “Blue thunder, Donovan, don’t just stand there—do something!”

  “Yes, Mr. Donovan,” she said with a challenge in her tone, “please do, but you’ll want to grab a sheet first so your clothes aren’t covered in stew.”

  Blaze took a step back with palms in the air and a flicker of a smile. “Sorry, sir, but I’ve tangled with this filly before, and I’m not hankerin’ for another kick in the head.”

  Maggie arched a brow. “So, what’s it going to be, Mr. O’Shea—cold stew or hot humiliation?”

  “Humph, not sure I want to eat that stew after all. Probably poisoned it,” he muttered with an abrupt swing of stubby legs back into the bed. “Bring that dad-burned temperature poke over here, missy, afore I croak from malnutrition.”

  “Nope, no poison in the stew, Mr. O’Shea,” Maggie said with a satisfied smile, sweeping the tray back onto his lap with great fanfare before waving the thermometer an inch from his nose. “This time.” She prodded the “poke” in his mouth with enough force to squeeze past the clamp of his lips. “But I can’t vouch for the coffee, sir.” She tapped her toe as she studied the watch pinned to her apron. “There’s a pretty little plant on Ida Mae’s windowsill that looks suspiciously like hemlock, which should give you”—her lashes flipped up to singe Mr. Donovan with a pointed look—“and anyone else—pause for causing trouble.”

  Blaze afforded her a heated squint before turning his back to stare out the window. “Surprised you’re still drawin’ air, then,” he said under his breath, his mumble almost inaudible.

  Almost.

  “I heard that, Mr. Donovan.” She plucked the thermometer from Aiden’s mouth and read it with an off-center smile. “At least I don’t parade around in bed sheets, sir.” She swabbed the thermometer with alcohol and shook it down. “Good, it’s normal.” Tucking it into her apron pocket, she proceeded to fluff his pillow. “Your temperature, that is. But
your grumpy behavior?” She scrunched her nose while she took his pulse, halting the rise of his wrist as he clutched a roll in his hand. “Not so much.” She dropped it, and his fisted roll hit the tray with a clunk. “Well, looks like Ida Mae’s prayers have been answered, Mr. O’Shea, along with those of Sister Fred and every other nurse and nun in this building. “You’re going home.”

  “And not a moment too soon with the likes of you pushing and prodding all day long, I can tell you that.” His bushy brows bunched in a frown as he paused, coffee cup midway to his mouth. “Thunderation, you aren’t going to be this bossy at the Silver Lining Ranch, I hope.”

  “Nope.” Maggie recorded his vitals on the chart hanging at the end of his bed, ignoring the heat of Blaze Donovan’s glare as he perched on the windowsill with arms in a tight fold. She glanced up at Aiden with a hike of her chin. “Because I won’t be there, Mr. O’Shea, and neither will Aunt Libby.”

  “Care to lay odds on that, Miss Mullaney?” Blaze Donovan’s drawl held just a touch of humor, as did the barest crook of his mouth.

  “I don’t gamble, Mr. Donovan,” she said with a firm jut of her jaw. She quirked a brow at the smug, fully dressed cowboy, determined to keep the good-looking rogue on his side of the fence. “But my, my. A near-naked cowboy who does. What a surprise.”

  “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.