Pioneer Desire: The O’Rourke Family Montana Saga, Book Two

by Ramona Flightner

  She shook her head. “Perhaps you are wrong. This appears to be an auspicious time for me to inform you that I ran a successful café before arriving in Fort Benton. I will need a few days to clean this kitchen and to ensure I have the supplies I need, but soon you will have people clamoring to eat here.”

  “I can’t close for a few days!”

  “You’ll have to, unless you want to poison your customers.” She met his irate glare. “And I’ll need every bit of that time, if you want me to take on the Herculean task of setting this disaster to rights.” She waited as she saw him stare at the kitchen that looked like a tornado had struck.

  “Fine,” he said.

  “One more thing, Mr. Hunt,” she said. “I know you will have great success because of me. I refuse to be paid only a pittance for my work as though I am nothing more than hired help.” She watched as he bristled. “I understand you own the space. However, I imagine its reputation is dubious at present. If you refuse me, I will find a way to open a competing café, and I promise I will steal away all your customers.”

  “What do you want?” he asked as he stared at her, as though she were an exotic creature and not a woman asserting herself.

  “I want us to be equal partners, for you wouldn’t have any income without me.” She met his shocked gaze. “We split the profits.”

  “That’s highway robbery,” he gasped.

  “Think about it, Mr. Hunt. Either 50 percent of a thriving business or 100 percent of next to nothing.” She waved her arm around, indicating the catastrophic state of his kitchen.

  “Fine, but, if you’re a charlatan, I’ll make up what you owe me by selling you to the Bordello.”

  She held out her hand and waited until he grasped hers, shaking it with a firm grip, ignoring his wounded male pride and his sputtering about places called the Bordello. She’d heard it all before and had learned it better to ignore men when their pride had been ruffled.

  When Buford Hunt marched out the front door, she turned to stare at the mess she had to clean up. Releasing her grip from her skirts, she ran a shaking hand through her hair and let out a deep breath. A smile burst forth as she realized she had just bluffed her way into a job in Fort Benton. She only prayed Mr. Hunt kept to his side of their bargain and paid her what she was due. For she had ten dollars to her name and had no idea how she would survive if this endeavor failed.

  Ardan wandered into the warehouse on Main Street to find his brothers Kevin and Declan chatting, as they rearranged merchandise. However, there wasn’t much to do as they waited for another small shipment of goods to arrive from Saint Louis. During times like this, when at least one sibling was not busy, Ardan wondered at his parents’ reluctance to have a few of the brothers establish another store in Saint Louis. Or in Virginia City or Helena. Some other place outside of Fort Benton.

  However, his father was adamant that the family remain together. Ardan knew Da would understand if Ardan had a desire to leave—to travel and to explore and to see some of the world. However, he’d never desired adventure. He closed his eyes, fighting the image of the woman he’d seen today. Of her allure before she spoke disdainfully of his family. Her hair that looked silky soft and shone like a red-gold fire in the sunlight. His fingers twitched as though itching to tease it out of the confining bun she wore. Her eyes, both expressive and full of secrets at the same time. Her subtle scent of lilacs in full bloom.

  “Ardan, lad,” his father called out to him, jerking him from his reverie. “Are you havin’ a wakin’ dream?” Seamus O’Rourke asked. Although in his early fifties, he maintained a youthful vitality, and his blue eyes always sparkled with joy these days. Ever since his first wife, Mary, had returned from the dead the previous month and had reconciled with Seamus, he had exhibited an unfettered delight with the world around him. However, today he seemed slightly less effusive.

  “No, Da.” Ardan approached him and followed him into his office. “Are you well?” he asked, as he sat in the chair across from his father’s desk. He saw the ever-present inventory list for the store that Seamus would need to send downriver soon. “Do you need help determinin’ what else we should order for next year?”

  Seamus sighed as he tapped the list. “’Tisn’t determinin’ what we should order but how much. Will there be more men next year or as many or less?” Seamus raised his hands, as though to say he had no idea. “How are we to know, lad?”

  “Order 20 percent more,” Ardan said. “If we don’t have enough supplies, we’ll raise the prices.” He shrugged. “You can only do so much.” After a moment, where he watched his father scribble on the sheet of paper in front of him, Ardan broke the silence. “Are you certain you don’t want me to return to Saint Louis?”

  Seamus looked up, his pencil stilled, and his alert gaze wholly focused on his son. “I just got you back, Ardan. I don’t want you or any of the lads separated from us again so soon.” He sighed, setting aside his pencil. “’Twould be easier knowin’ you, Kevin, or Declan were there, purchasin’ the quality goods we have become known for.” He rubbed at his temples, an action he always did when he was worried about something.

  “I can return to Saint Louis,” Ardan said. “I survived last winter there.”

  “Aye, but you had Kevin for company. This time, you’d be alone,” Seamus said, as he sat back in his chair, making it creak. “We have a month to six weeks before the last ship will leave to head south. I’ll talk this over with your mother.” He quieted when he saw Ardan’s expression. “What is it, lad?”

  Ardan’s gaze was haunted when he looked at his father. “She made brown bread.”

  Seamus stilled at his son’s whispered words.

  “Aye. For the first time in eighteen years, ’twas like home.”

  Seamus paused as he saw Ardan battling strong emotions. “She’s not leavin’, lad,” he said in a voice as gentle as the one he had used to soothe the younger Ardan of his fears, when the wind had rattled their cottage so loudly that he feared the banshees were keening.

  Bowing his head, Ardan clasped his hands together in front of him. “She’s been back over a month. I should trust that she will remain. But I find that hard. Especially after praying for her and wee Maggie over the last eighteen years.”

  “Time will prove her steadfastness,” Seamus said. “She never wanted to be separated from us.”

  Although Ardan nodded, he couldn’t banish the doubt that remained buried in his soul like a burr. “Today I met a woman who detests us,” he said, unwilling to continue discussing his mother’s return with his father. He knew his father only rejoiced at her reappearance in their life and was unwilling to understand Ardan’s continued trepidation.

  “Ah, Miss Deirdre Finnegan,” Seamus said, as he closed his eyes and shook his head. “Or Mrs. Finnegan. I never quite determined which one.” He chuckled. “A firebrand, that one. Irate that Kevin had married. Said I’d misled her.”

  “How?” Ardan asked.

  “She saw the advertisement I placed in a paper back east for a mail order bride. Came all this way, thinkin’ I was waitin’ for her. Or one of you lads were.” He chuckled. “Should have seen her, her face as flushed as her hair.”

  “I met her at the café. Buford wanted me to meet the new arrivals.” He paused, his gaze confused as he met his father’s. “Her attitude toward me changed the moment she knew who I was. As though the name O’Rourke were akin to the devil himself.”

  Seamus rose and paced the short distance to the window and back again. “There’s nothin’ I could have done to prevent her from travelin’ all this way. I had no notion she planned on arrivin’ on our doorstep until I received a letter from her, once she arrived at Cow Island, just before Kevin’s marriage to Aileen.” He rubbed at his head and frowned. “I wonder how she paid for her ticket?” He exchanged a long look with his son, as the price for a ticket to Fort Benton had risen to exorbitant prices with the gold rush. “Well, ’tisn’t my concern. Unless Declan wants to marry her.�
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  Ardan grimaced. “I’d find it unlikely any man would want to marry that woman.”

  Deirdre stood with her hands on her hips as she stared at the kitchen. The inedible food had been placed in a bucket to be fed to a neighbor who had pigs; other scraps were saved for Mr. Hunt’s chickens, and she had washed more pots than she had thought possible. She still wanted to scrub every surface in the kitchen and the floor, but that would be tomorrow’s work.

  After swiping at her head, she arched her back and groaned at her aching muscles. With a satisfied smile, she relished the burning pain, as it meant she had done an honest day’s work. At the approaching footsteps, she turned toward the door leading to the café’s seating area.

  Mr. Hunt stood staring at the pile of pots and pans drying beside the sink. “Surely you can cook tomorrow,” he said, a note of entreaty in his voice.

  “No,” Deirdre stated. “This entire kitchen needs to be cleaned before I will cook in it. If you help me, there is a slim chance I could prepare something for tomorrow’s evening meal.”

  He sputtered and flushed and jutted out his slight paunch, as though in outrage. “That is not something I am accustomed to.”

  She lifted one shoulder, as though it were no concern of hers. “Well then, you will have to wait another day while I clean. You should have taken more care to prevent your kitchen from sliding into such disarray, Mr. Hunt.” She reached for the lantern hanging from the hook in the center of the ceiling, intent on carrying it to the front door with her as she left for the day. It would be ready for her to light upon her arrival in the wee morning hours.

  She brushed past Buford and exited to the street. Although it was past 8:00 p.m., the sun had yet to set. The soft evening light gave a romantic glow to the river and its cliffs, but she did not pause long to appreciate the natural beauty. Men’s shouts and hollers roused her from her short reverie, and she hurried back to her hotel room, eager for a quick wash and a well-deserved rest.

  Madam Nora stood in the shadows between the café and the laundry next door. Although most women in town seemed fearful of the men’s attentions, Nora knew the men were more afraid of losing her high regard. For, if they did, they would be barred from her establishment, the Bordello. Thus, Nora felt no trepidation as she loitered in the shadows near the café. Tonight, Nora had paused to listen in on the first interesting conversation to be had in over a week, and she gave silent thanks she had felt a need to stretch her legs.

  She watched as the woman she had determined was Buford’s new cook, a Mrs. Finnegan, departed in the direction of the hotel. Moving out of the shadows, Nora looked inside to see Buford with hands on his hips, a look of consternation on his face. “Must be because she outwitted him.” A sly smile spread. “Let’s see if a woman can outwit him twice in one night,” she murmured to herself.

  “Buford,” she called out, as he stepped onto the boardwalk, turned, and locked the front door of the café, failing to hide the cunning in her smile or in her voice. “I hear congratulations are in order at your new chef.”

  “That’s still to be determined,” he said sullenly. “She hasn’t cooked a thing yet and insists the café must close another day so she can clean the kitchen. The insolence of the woman!”

  “Oh, yes, how dreadful of her not to want to sicken half the town,” Nora murmured, humor lighting her gaze. “I saw her scurry away from here a few moments ago. I presume to the hotel?”

  Buford shrugged. “It’s no concern of mine where she spends her evenings.”

  With a tsking sound and a sashay of her hips, Nora approached Buford. A satisfied gleam in her eyes, she noted how he watched her move, and she knew her subtle rose scent would waft around him. “You are a fool, Buford.” When he bristled, she shook her head. “As a businesswoman, I would advise you to keep your employee content.” She glanced to the darkened second story of the café, empty for over a year. “Why wouldn’t you have her live upstairs?”

  He sputtered and glared at her. “Why should I offer her those rooms? She’s a single woman. She doesn’t need so much space.” His gaze turned calculating. “Perhaps I should. I could recoup the money I was tricked into paying her to be my cook.”

  Nora approached Buford, placing a hand on his arm to help soothe his ruffled male pride, as she spoke in a soft, yet forceful voice. “No, Buford, not at a price. For free. For working hard to reestablish your café as a center in town where folk actually want to gather to eat.”

  “Free?” he sputtered.

  She nodded, her gaze serious and brooking no argument. “If she lives upstairs, she never has to worry about men bothering her as she goes to and from work. She will have the time to prepare all manner of delicious food for you to sell, something that has been sorely lacking since the Tompkins family departed. The free board might entice her to remain working with you, long after she discovers the onerous proposition of having you as a partner.”

  “Blasted woman,” he muttered, and he sighed heavily, his gaze distant, as though he were considering all she had said. “Fine, I’ll do it. Although I won’t always countenance your meddling.”

  Nora smiled as she strolled away from him. “Better to accept my meddling rather than being barred from the Bordello.” Her smile broadened when he shuddered at the thought. She walked in the direction of her business, satisfied Mrs. Finnegan would have a greater chance of success, now that she was to live above the café.

  Deirdre stood in the hotel entryway, conversing with the hotel owner, Mr. Foster, as her mind raced with ways she could cut their conversation short. Although friendly, Mr. Foster was too overt in his attentions, and she wished she could escape his flattery, as it made her feel cheap and tawdry rather than pleased.

  “Thank you so much for your kindness, Mr. Foster,” Deirdre blurted out, “but I find myself feeling unwell. If you will excuse me?” She barely heard his exclamations of concern for her as she barreled upstairs. When he called after her to detain her once more, she paused with a sigh on the second-floor landing. “Yes, Mr. Foster?”

  “You have a visitor, ma’am.”

  “Who would call at such a late hour?” she asked, half convinced Mr. Foster had invented someone to entice her downstairs again for more conversation.

  “Get down here now, Mrs. Finnegan. I need a word with you,” Buford hollered up the stairs.

  “Mr. Hunt,” Deirdre sighed with a groan, trudging down the stairs. “Hello, sir.”

  “Finally you show me the respect I deserve,” he snapped, his face ruddy and his eyes glowing with dissatisfaction.

  Frowning, Deirdre looked at him in confusion, as she walked down the stairs. “Is something amiss? Have you found another cook?”

  He glowered at her and shook his head. “You know I haven’t, you saucy woman.” He shook his head as Mr. Foster hissed at him to lower his voice, so as not to bother other hotel guests. However, at the loud cheers and general raucous behavior coming from the adjoining saloon, Buford rolled his eyes, as he knew few would sleep well until the men inside decided to call it a night.

  “I’m tired, Mr. Hunt,” Mrs. Finnegan said. “I’ve had a long day, and I have an even longer day ahead of me tomorrow. If you had any sense, you’d let me rest, so I can put your kitchen to rights, and then I can open the café the day after tomorrow.” Mrs. Finnegan faced him, now on the first floor of the hotel once again, while she leaned against the banister for support.

  “Are you residing here, ma’am?” Buford asked, his voice lowered.

  “Of course I am,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “I’d never wander the hallways of such an establishment if I didn’t.”

  “I have a house nearby,” he said.

  “How nice for you,” she said with a huff, turning to climb the stairs again.

  “No, you misunderstand,” he said, reaching forward to grab her arm. “I have a house nearby that I live in. However, the café building also has rooms above on the second floor that remain empty. If you like, you ma
y move in and consider those rooms the cook’s quarters.”

  “I’m certain they are more expensive than my simple room here. I do not live an extravagant life.” She stared at him impassively.

  “No, you misunderstand,” he repeated, flushing as he noted Mr. Foster watching their exchange with avid interest. “You may live in those rooms for free. It’s where the previous owners and cook lived, and I purchased that property from them, after I already owned my house.”

  “Were the previous owners successful with the café?” she asked.

  He ginned ruefully. “Yes. I hadn’t realized what a wonderful team Harold and Irene made. He sweet-talked the customers, and she cooked simple, yet delicious food. The café was always busy, and I know they made a tidy profit. I thought it would be easy to take over from them.” His fingers tapped at the banister. “Never thought it’d be so hard to find a decent, reliable cook.”

  She smiled at him. “Well, now you have. And I’d be delighted to live upstairs. It’ll make it easier for me to arrive at work to get the bread going early in the morning.” She saw his eyes light up at the prospect of homemade bread. “Now, Mr. Hunt, I believe I’ve earned a rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She watched as Buford left and then turned to Mr. Foster. “Mr. Foster, as I’m certain you overheard”—her voice was filled with wry irony—“I will be vacating my rooms tomorrow. I thank you for your hospitality.” She spun on her heel and ascended the stairs quickly to forestall any further conversation.

  After entering her room, she quickly washed off the day’s grime as best she could in a sponge bath and donned a clean nightgown. With a groan, she collapsed onto her bed. Now that the day’s hectic activity was over, thoughts and impressions of this town nearly overwhelmed her.