Alana had already donned her dress but hadn’t managed all the buttons down her back. She stood in front of a mirror hanging above a chest of drawers, braiding her hair. She smiled, her face reflecting back to Bridget. “Such a lovely big mirror.” She deftly looped the braid over her head, tucking in hairpins. Reddish tendrils escaped to curl around her cheeks.
Out of long habit, Bridget walked over to her sister, buttoning the middle section and noting how loose the dress hung. But she said nothing. Over the past weeks, she’d nagged at Alana to eat more, to no avail.
They heard the distant sound of doors opening and closing, voices, and footsteps. The window reflected candlelight from the lamp on the dresser, with only darkness beyond.
“The children must be home. They would have had a long cold ride today with the snow so deep.” Bridget slipped on her own gown and turned so her twin could button up the back. She used the hairbrush and then started to braid her hair. As the unruly mass dried, the curls tightened but were still slightly damp underneath. She coiled her braid into a bun at her nape and stabbed in the hairpins. Like Alana’s hair, some wisps near her face sprang free. The two of them would never present an elegant appearance.
“When ye leave ye should take the brush with ye, and I’ll be keeping the comb. Unless ye’d prefer the comb?”
“We won’t be sharing for a while. At least I don’t need to worry about ye stealing a fresh shirtwaist and returning it to me crumpled and smelling of the stable.” She adjusted Bridget’s lace, pretending seriousness. “Ye will have to wash and iron yer own clothes more often now.”
This time, Bridget wrinkled her nose at her sister. Aside from the heated discussions over immigrating to America, in the past they’d only argued about Bridget’s tendency to borrow Alana’s clothing. Well, aside from Alana’s frustration when the mess on Bridget’s side of their small bedroom spilled into her one area.
With a playful smile, Alana tilted her head so both sisters could see themselves in the mirror.
With the contrast of their two faces before her, Bridget could see the hollows in her sister’s cheeks and the shadows under her eyes. Guilt stabbed her. “Shall we wear our collars?” Their mother had crocheted them for the twins’ eighteen birthday. The sisters only wore them for church and other special occasions.
Her sister nodded. “I think we should look our best for our hosts as well as meeting the handsome cowboys.” She walked over to the bed, reached into her satchel for the little roll of pink crocheted lace, and fastened the collar around her neck.
Her words, uttered in a placid tone, shocked Bridget, for the statement was so unlike her demure sister.
She secured her own collar, similar to Alana’s except hers was white and had points to make it different from the rounded edges of her sister’s. If she’s preening for the men, perhaps she’s over Timkin Walsh, Bridget thought with a surge of hope. “I thought both James Whitson and Patrick Gallagher seemed fine men.” She made her tone as matter-of-fact as her twin’s.
“Horsemen, both. Ye have a lot in common.”
“Most men out here are sure to own a horse, Alana,” Bridget pointed out, disappointed that her sister wasn’t interested for herself.
“But they don’t all make their living with horses.”
Bridget opened her mouth to retort, then pressed her lips together. Trying to push Alana into the arms of any man, much less a cowboy, would only result in her usually docile sister digging in her heels.
But still…horsemen or not, perhaps one will captivate her enough to forget Timkin Walsh.
“Mrs. Toffels says we’re to go to the parlor.” Bridget leaned over and pinched her sister’s cheeks. “There. Now ye have some color.”
“Silly,” Alana chided. “Ye know it won’t last.” She followed Bridget out the door, down the stairs, and around a corner to the hall.
Bridget walked into a parlor filled with several rose velvet chairs with high backs and a matching settee that held pillows embroidered with flowers. An enormous fireplace took up the far wall. A portrait of a blonde woman in a flowing pink gown hung above a mantle carved from dark wood. “A beautiful room,” she murmured.
At first, she didn’t see James crouching in front of the hearth, feeding a log to the fire.
He stood, and his eyes brightened. “Miss O’Donnell, you look…you look…” His ears reddened.
“Clean,” Bridget teased, holding out her skirt.
“I was searching for the best form of the word beautiful,” he said with mock stiffness, the crook of his mouth and his dimples betraying he was teasing her in return.
Alana entered and stepped to the side of the doorway.
James swept her a small bow. “Miss O’Donnell, how lovely you look.” This time, there wasn’t a hint of discomfort in his manner.
How come he’s so courtly with her? Bridget suppressed a spark of jealousy.
Alana’s cheeks, still slightly flushed from the pinches, pinked becomingly, and her shy smile at James was the widest Bridget had seen in a long while.
Alana and James would make a good match. He’s a kind man, and that’s what she needs in a husband. Bridget ignored how her stomach churned at the idea. To make her sister happy, she’d give up any interest in James Whitson.
She heard the clatter of feet and turned to see a group of children flood into the room. Upon closer inspection, she narrowed the count to five—four boys and a girl. But surely they couldn’t be siblings? Except for two of the brown-haired, green-eyed boys, who looked even more identical than her and Alana, none of the children resembled each other.
The girl was the image of the woman in the portrait over the fireplace. She looked about nine or ten.
Bridget recognized Samantha’s blue eyes in the youngest boy, who appeared to be about ten. But his dark hair, golden skin, and slanting eyebrows looked nothing like his mother’s.
The oldest boy’s skin was even browner than the youngest one, and he had black hair in a long tail down his back. He caught her looking at him and gazed back with dark solemn eyes.
The rest of the children halted in front of the twins and stared at the two women, eyes wide.
The young boy hopped a step closer, and his eyebrows winged upward. “I’m Daniel. Are you twins like Jack and Tim?” Without waiting for an answer he rushed on. “I’ve never seen girl twins before. Too bad you’re so old, or you could marry Tim and Jack. They’re twelve.” His wide grin showed his delight with the idea.
Old? I supposed twenty-two seems old to him. Bridget’s eyes met Alana’s, and they both burst out laughing. How good it feels to once again laugh with my sister! Although giggles continued to bubble in her chest, she sobered her expression lest she hurt the boy’s feelings.
But instead of looking abashed, Daniel watched them with an irrepressible grin.
Little imp, she thought, liking the boy right away. She’d never had a brother but had befriended the stable lads at the squire’s. She suppressed a pang from missing them.
Daniel’s comment caused one twin to roll his eyes.
The other elbowed Daniel in his side. “Don’t mind him. We try not to. When he goes on like that, usually we just sit on him.” He jabbed Daniel again. “I’m Jack, that’s Hunter—” he indicated the dark-skin oldest boy, who looked about fourteen “—and my quiet twin over there is Tim. He’ll talk with you when he knows you better.”
Tim gave the two of them a shy smile and a slight nod, before his gaze slid away.
“I know what ye mean,” Bridget said to Jack in a mournful tone, all the better to get in the friendly dig at her twin. “Alana’s the same way. Do you find ye have to talk for him?”
Alana nudged her, acting as if they, too, were children. “Sure and I can speak for meself, thank ye very much,” she said, playfully thickening her Gaelic accent. She turned to address the girl. “I’m Alana. And my sister who talks too much is Bridget.”
“I’m Christine.” The girl tilted her head and stu
died Alana. “I like the way you talk. Sounds pretty.”
“We’re from Ireland, dear one. That’s how everyone speaks there. In fact, we have our own language called Gaelic.”
Samantha Thompson walked into the parlor on the arm of a man who must be her husband.
Mr. Thompson was tall and dark-haired, with high-cheekbones, a slightly aquiline nose, and a formidable expression. His gray shirt made his dark eyes gleam like pewter.
Mrs. Thompson wore a pale blue dress with a rose pattern, well cut, but not fancy.
Bridget doubted the woman was wearing her best. She probably hadn’t wanted the twins to feel out of place in their simple gowns.
With a wide smile, Mrs. Thompson tugged her husband over to them. “Alana, Bridget, my dears. You must meet Wyatt.”
“Mr. Thompson, I must thank ye for allowing us to be guests at yer ranch.”
He raised his eyebrows at his wife, and his eyes twinkled, softening his intimidating expression. “I doubt I had anything to do with it. So save your thanks. And please, call us Wyatt and Samantha. You’ll find we don’t stand on ceremony around here.” He gestured to the children. “I see you’ve met our brood.”
“They are darlings.”
Daniel and Christine giggled.
He threw his head back and laughed. “When you know them better, you might not think so. Why, I could tell you stories—”
His wife elbowed him.
The gesture was so much like Jack’s to Daniel that Bridget burst out laughing. “I see where yer sons get it.” She mimicked the flying elbow.
Wyatt sent Samantha a smug look. “See. Miss Bridget agrees with me. All the mischievous qualities of our offspring are on your account.”
Her face glowing, Samantha cast a loving look at her children. A smile played about her lips. “I’m afraid I can’t take all the credit.” She shot Bridget an amused glance. “You’ve probably wondered at our assortment.”
Not sure what to say, Bridget settled for a simple nod.
“This is Wyatt’s and my second marriage. Christine is his from his first wife.” She waved toward the portrait over the mantel. “Daniel is mine. His father was Argentine. The other boys are our adopted sons.”
“That settles my curiosity.” Although it didn’t, really. Bridget wanted to learn more about them, hear stories of how the couple met and married and about their children. There’ll be time enough for that. The thought gave her satisfaction—a feeling of putting down roots in this community.
Alana drifted a few feet away to talk to Tim.
The O’Hanlons entered. Sally, leaning on Harry’s arm, came over to them. She looked refreshed after her nap.
In the light of the bigger room, Bridget could see her cousin’s dress was the same navy blue as hers, although more stylishly made with balloon sleeves.
Sally looked from Bridget’s dress to Alana’s and held out a fold of her gown. “I’d say we all like the same color. This dress was a wedding gift from Harry.” She stared at her husband with adoring eyes. “He thought I needed warmer garments than the dresses I had.”
He reddened and shifted, then gestured from Alana to Bridget to Sally. “Not hard to discern why you’re dressed alike. You all have the same eye color.”
“You’re right, Harry.” Samantha agreed. “The family resemblance is strong. Navy is the perfect hue for the O’Donnell ladies, even if one is now an O’Hanlon.”
In the pause, Bridget heard the slow tread of boots from the hallway.
Wyatt pointed his chin to a space by the settee. “Let’s make way for the new arrivals. Harry, you can tell me how the leather repairs went.” He guided his wife away, and Harry followed with Sally.
Bridget turned to see Patrick striding through the door as if he owned the place, followed by two men she hadn’t met. One was about the stud owner’s height, although not as broad. He had a shock of curly brown hair, hazel eyes, and a long nose over a wide mouth, which stretched into an appealing grin. The other was short, with blunt features, light blue eyes, and pale blond hair and eyelashes.
The two men jostled each other in a friendly way, trying to be the first to reach her side.
Patrick let them by, one eyebrow cocked indulgently.
The tall one arrived first. “I’m Moss. Have I the honor of addressing Miss Bridget or Miss Alana?”
“I’m Bridget, Mr. Moss.”
“No, ma’am, not Mr. Moss,” he corrected. “Moss Callahan.
The stocky man edged around him. “I’m Buck Skold.”
Bridget smiled at their eagerness. “Is that a nickname, or do ye have another Christian name, then, Mr. Skold?”
“Yes, ma’am. Buchanan.” He shrugged. “Could be worse. But I prefer Buck.”
“Aye. And ye, Moss?”
“I do have a real name, Miss Bridget. But since my sainted mother isn’t here to object to me using a nickname, I’ll tell you only that I’m called Moss.”
“Aye, for your eye color, then.”
His smile widened.
James joined them in time to hear the last comments. He nudged Moss with his shoulder. “No, for rolling stone. As in no moss grows under his feet. Our Moss isn’t one to stick around one place for too long.”
She raised an eyebrow. “A gypsy are ye, then?”
Moss nodded, an expression of regret in his eyes as he looked at her, although his smile didn’t dim. “I’m afraid I have itchy feet, Miss Bridget. But perhaps a lady such as yourself could tempt me to plant myself in Sweetwater Springs.”
Bridget laughed, not believing him for a moment but amused by his flirtation. She wondered what might have caused his wandering ways.
The shorter man, who was stout enough to at least hoist a bale without effort, turned to James. “You read last week’s paper yet?” Buck asked. “President Cleveland made another darn fool statement.” From that comment, the conversation drifted into politics.
Normally, Bridget would have paid attention to the discussion, but they were speaking of American politics, and she hadn’t the least idea what was going on. She kept an expression of interest on her face and covertly surveyed the rest of the people crowded into the room.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Toffels hasten to Samantha’s side. Although she didn’t move away from the men, Bridget was close enough to overhear.
“The rest of the hands are waiting in the kitchen. Shall I tell them to come in here first to meet the young ladies before they sit themselves at the table?”
Wyatt slanted a grin at his housekeeper. “I wonder how many of our shy cowboys would take you up on that offer?”
“A few, perhaps.” Mrs. Toffels smiled, wrinkles fanning out over her face. “But I suspect, there’s a couple like Sid who still haven’t recovered from you bringing home a beautiful wife.”
Wyatt laughed. “Sid will adjust…in about five years or so.”
Samantha darted a speculative glance at Alana. “Our guests are very pretty. I’d like to keep them.”
Wyatt grinned at Samantha. “My darling, at this rate, we’re going to be sprouting cabins like mushrooms.”
His wife laughed. “How wonderful that would be, Wyatt. In a few short weeks, Sally O’Hanlon has become a friend, and I’d love to have more women nearby. I’m sure Mrs. Toffels agrees.” With a raised eyebrow, she glanced at the housekeeper.
The older woman nodded, and her two chins quivered. “I’d be delighted if Miss Bridget chose our James, and they settled down here.”
Bridget found herself coloring, but she dared not look over to see if James overheard.
Wyatt shook his head. “I won’t ask why you’ve settled on James for Bridget or who you have in mind for Alana. I’m staying far away from female matchmaking.”
As much as she wanted to hear the reply, Bridget knew this conversation wasn’t meant for her ears. With a smile she excused herself from the political discussion and moved toward Alana.
Her sister was teaching Tim some Gaelic words.<
br />
The young man gazed at her with an infatuated expression.
Bridget halted a few feet away. She couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the two shy twins engrossed in conversation. Even better was the animation on Alana’s face. In thankfulness, she placed a hand on her chest and exhaled a breath of relief.
Perhaps I can stop worrying after all.
But as she looked at Alana’s thinness, doubt still niggled at her.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning in the O’Hanlon’s cabin, the three women prepared for Alana’s departure. The night before, they’d done their best with a damp sponge to clean the wool gowns they’d worn for traveling, then left the dresses and their coats hanging outside in hopes the wind would blow away any lingering sooty smell from the train. After breakfast at the big house, the twins retrieved their dried undergarments and rolled up all of Alana’s things for tight packing.
Now, well-fed, clean in body and attire, Bridget should have felt a sense of well-being and gratitude. And she really did. But a tight band of unshed tears squeezed her chest.
We’ve never been parted for more than a single day.
Bridget and Alana donned their coats, hats, and mittens, as well as the new scarves their cousin had given them as welcome presents. Sally knitted scarves for the mercantile to earn extra money, and she’d allowed them to choose from several colors. They’d both selected dark-blue.
Sally had insisted on getting up and helping even though the pale cast to her skin indicated what the movement cost her. She still wore a robe over her nightgown and hadn’t gone to breakfast with them. “If only I’d felt better, I’d have prepared meals to send along.” She fussed with loading supplies onto the top of the table.
“Don’t worry,” Bridget assured her. “Alana is a fine cook, and Mrs. Toffels is sending food with her.”
Sally frowned in obvious distress. “Harry and I were showered with foodstuffs as wedding gifts, and I want to share with them. Portions of rice, beans, coffee.” She tapped each sack. “A jar of huckleberry jam, a hank of salt pork, and a canister of tea.” As she spoke, she picked up each item and tucked it into a round basket with a curved handle.
A Valentine's Choice: A Montana Sky Series Holiday Novella (The Montana Sky Series) Page 4