Norah: A St. Patrick’s Day Bride
Brides of Noelle, Book 3
By
Amanda McIntyre
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Norah: A St. Patrick’s Day Bride
Brides of Noelle, Book 3
Copyright 2018 by Amanda McIntyre
Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill
Edits by Kristina Cook
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Amanda McIntyre
http://www.amandamcintyresbooks.com
https://www.amazon.com/Amanda-McIntyre/e/B002C1KH2Q
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To the importance of family-past and present, second chances, and gratitude in all things.
Chapter One
Noelle, Co. 1877
Seamus Malone stared at the open bottle of whisky on the table. The potent scent reached his nostrils, luring him, beckoning. He was alone in the Golden Nugget saloon that afternoon. A brisk March wind blew outside, a reminder of the winter cold giving way to a brilliant sunny day—the day he’d first met Norah Francis Mulligan. She’d been shopping at the marketplace. He’d been at his day job, unloading ships on the New York docks. At nights, he tended bars at a local Irish pub in the district. The mere sight of her stormy blue-green eyes and the smattering of freckles across her pert nose had taken his breath away. Her unruly tendrils of cinnamon-colored hair peeked from beneath the bonnet she’d worn. Mesmerized by the Irish beauty, he’d snuck away from his duties risking everything in hope of finding a way to meet her. Then, without warning, heaven found favor on him. She turned and gifted him with a smile that had nearly brought him to his knees.
Seamus caught the shrill whistle of the wind through the cracks around the windows of the saloon. It had been the first and finest in Noelle and was currently used for Sunday services and other religious occasions.
Re-patching the windows with a bit of warm tar, among a host of other improvements, was something he’d been meaning to do once the frigid temperatures subsided.
All was going well in the little mining town that four months ago had teetered on the verge of becoming extinct. It would have, had it not been for the tenacious and enterprising Charlie Hardt and the reverend’s brilliant concept of making the pact with the railroad to build its line through town if a minimum of twelve marriages took place in a given time frame. Reverend Hammond might call it a miracle, but Seamus called it desperation of the men who had suffered long enough in the predominantly all-male population save that of the soiled doves of La Maison des Chats.
Yes, the town was now filled with happily married men and women, for the most part, given that none of them had dissolved. Investments in the resurgence of the mine—now with silver instead of gold—made by the townsfolk had begun to see a small return. And as the marriages had helped to improve Noelle, so, too, had the money being earned through those investments. It was being put back into the little town, progressing it from a handful of crude buildings to a burgeoning community.
For Seamus, however, none of the success from the mine or even the promised railroad line set to begin construction later in the spring was doing him one lick of good.
The festive spirit of the holiday weddings and the romance permeating the town had inspired Seamus to once again send for his wife. But, as before, there’d been no response. He’d sent several letters over the years, many containing his entire earnings asking her to join him in Noelle. Countless times he’d imagined waiting on the train platform in Junction and watching her get off the train and run into his arms. He’d help her into the Red Bird stage, the finest transportation in Noelle, fit for royalty, and take her back to the town where he’d worked his fingers to the bone to become a changed man—the man he wanted to be for her. And then she would shower him with her appreciation in a private reunion that would last well into the next morning.
Dreams. Nothing but dreams.
He stared at the honey-hued liquid. A tangle of emotions warred inside him. Why had he thought this time would be any different? His throat ached for a sip or two—simply to ease the pain, give him some much-needed perspective.
“How’s your day going, Malone?”
The stench of animal hides jabbed his senses even before the lumbering voice of the man issued the greeting. He slowly pulled his gaze from the whisky-mistress attempting to seduce him into one small taste. He found Zeke Kinnison eyeing him with curiosity.
“Hope I didn’t interrupt anything. Looked like you were deep in thought.” Zeke glanced around the empty room, then eyed the whisky bottle.
Seamus was well aware that most everyone in town, including Zeke, knew he had a drinking problem. It had been by the grace of God and Charlie Hardt, who’d found him selling mining wares and homemade whisky from a crude tent and for reasons that still stymied Seamus, had offered him a position as bartender of his newly built saloon--the Golden Nugget.
“I was.” Seamus slapped his palm to the table, blinked away the temptation, and faced his friend. He noticed the bundle of fur pelts slung over the man’s shoulder. “What brings you to town this fine day? The missus take opposition to that smell in her new house?” He let a wry grin curl one corner of his mouth.
A look of chagrin crossed Zeke’s face. “Getting used to being in town. But she suggested I keep the cabin for my hunting trips.”
“Meaning, leave your filthy hides where they won’t make a stench.” Seamus grinned.
Zeke scratched the stubble of his newly shorn beard, kept short since he’d married the love of his life less than three months ago. “Got to admit, still getting used to having a woman’s touch in my home.”
Seamus smiled at the memory of the attic room he and Norah had shared in her great-aunt’s house. He’d hit his head every time he got out of bed. But Norah had found a way to make it seem homey utilizing items that her aunt had stuffed in the rafters and forgotten. Seamus rubbed his hand absentmindedly over his heart and glanced at Zeke. “I suspect that’s true after living alone up there in the mountains for so long.”
The once-reclusive man nodded. “Well, I’ve come to town to check on my earnings from the mine investment. Going to need to get that second room of the new place finished. Found out we have a baby on the way.”
Seamus offered a hearty handshake at the news. “Congratulations, boyo, and blessings to you and Genevieve.”
“She needs ‘em. The morning sickness is doing quite the number on her these days.” He sighed. “And we’ve recently learned her uncle, the deacon who heads the board of the Society of Lost Lambs, is coming here to assess the town for that branch mission Genevieve and Penny Hardt want to build.” He shrugged. “The woman can be running to the outhouse one minute and sketching plans for the new mission in the next. I thought soldiers were tough.”
Seamus shrugged and stared at the whisky bottle. “Women are a mystery to be sure.”
Zeke dropped the bundle of pelts on the bar. “Figure my free days are going to be limited. You open for business?”
The thunk on his precious counter jarred Seamus from his introspection. “Straight away. Drink for the new father, on me, coming up.” He grabbed the bottle, and, walking behind the bar, placed a glass in front of Zeke. “This is t
he finest whisky in the state, family recipe,” he said, then glanced at the pelts. “Jesus, Mary, n’ Joseph, man, what have a told ye about laying yer pelts on me bar?”
Sure, time and use had marred its surface with a few scratches and pockmarks, but that didn’t prevent Seamus from keeping it polished so you’d see your reflection in the dark wood. It was a fine piece of workmanship built by Jack Peregrine, and if all went as planned he would enlist Jack’s help and likely Zeke’s, too, to aid him with expansion of the Nugget. But he hadn’t yet gotten around to drafting his proposal to Charlie Hardt to go into partnership. He’d had other things on his mind.
Seamus shook his head, pulling his thoughts back to the present. He poured the short glass full and licked his lips, the scent of the aged whisky luring him to join Zeke. “To fatherhood,” he said, shoving the glass perhaps a bit hastily into Zeke’s hand.
Zeke shot him a concerned look before raising it to his lips.
Seamus could almost taste the burn on his tongue.
“Any news on the railroad?” Zeke brushed the back of his hand across his mouth.
Grateful for the change in topic, Seamus tapped the cork back in the bottle and placed it in a special cabinet behind the bar. “Only that they were to start sometime in the spring. They aren’t saying when it’ll be ready for use.” He chuckled.
“As well as the silver mine seems to be doing, that’s going to mean more folks coming to Noelle. The male population in town has already doubled since word of the silver discovery got out.” Zeke raised his glass to study the color. “Which makes my sweet wife all the more determined to marry off every man in a fifty-mile radius of Noelle.” He glanced at Seamus. “Present company excluded, of course.”
Seamus cleared his throat. “I’ll just take these to the back.” He lifted the pelt bundle in his arms and started to leave.
“Seamus, wait. Clearly there’s something on your mind. Do you want to talk about it?” his new friend asked--new because it had only been recently that Zeke Kinnison had returned to Noelle, interested in being a part of the community.
Seamus had only been manager of the Nugget a few days when the explosion at the mine had killed Zeke’s younger brother, Clem. Having carried guilt of his own for so long, Seamus had understood the man striking out, becoming a recluse--until, barely escaping death at the jaws of a grizzly, he had been brought back to life by a Ute tribal leader. Zeke was a man of honor, often harder on himself than anyone else could be. But his story and finding his true love after twelve years gave Seamus hope that perhaps not all hope was lost when it came to his own marriage.
“A bit distracted by m’ thoughts, I s’pose. Sure, I’ll be right as rain when the mine starts delivering on my investment.” He offered a quick smile. That much was true. He had plans for his investment in the mine. Big plans to strike a deal for a fifty-fifty partnership with Charlie Hardt, owner of the Golden Nugget. Seamus could see Noelle expanding and he had a vision to bring the Nugget right alongside, starting with the addition of more rooms, finer rooms fit for dignitaries. And maybe a smaller dining room for guests so they wouldn’t have to face adverse weather to go across the street to the diner. And after the success of the Noelle talent show earlier in the year, Seamus had decided to keep the stage, maybe enlarge in order to bring in some of the quality traveling entertainment currently being offered only in the larger cities with opera houses.
“Hazarding a guess here, but I take it you haven’t had word from your wife yet?” Zeke leveled him a solemn look. Apparently, there was little Genevieve hadn’t shared with her new husband. Seamus wasn’t angry--he’d asked for her help. But in December, he’d gotten caught up in all the weddings and gone ahead with writing another note and sending more money—again, to no avail. Now he debated whether he should bother with the good matchmaker’s time in sending a note to his wife on his behalf.
Seamus dropped the pelts and looked at Zeke. “Seems you already know the story. Truth is, it’s you two who give me hope that time won’t diminish what’s meant to be.” He glanced at Zeke. “But no, I’ve heard nothing from her.” He sighed and shook his head. “Perhaps she no longer has need of me.” He picked up the rag and feigned rubbing a spot on the countertop. “Perhaps she’s found someone new.”
Zeke leaned an elbow on the counter. “Now, you listen to me, Malone,” he said, setting down his glass with careful ease. “That’s not the case. She’s scared, is all. Genevieve mentioned she’s living with relatives—I mean, she’s safe, has a warm home, and all she needs. And the two of you hadn’t been married that long before…well…” Zeke paused and looked away.
“Until I walked away,” Seamus filled in the unspoken truth. He shook his head. “She’d have booted me out, eventually. My drinking had become worse. She’d tried, but my stupidity wore her down.” He looked at Zeke. “What an eejit I was.” He shook his head. “I am.”
“You were young.” Zeke said. “Heaven knows we’ve all made choices we wish we hadn’t.”
He looked at the rugged mountain man who’d once served in the Union army in the War Between the States. Zeke and Genevieve’s story was, to those who knew them, the quintessential love story, with fate intervening more than a dozen year after a single kiss that would change their hearts forever. But their current happiness had not come without a heavy price.
“This mistake may not be so well forgiven, boyo.” Seamus chewed his lip in thought, remembering the look in Norah’s eyes the night he came home late, the stench of whisky on his breath, and informed his new bride of barely six months of his new plan to make a new life elsewhere for the two of them, so they could be out from under the clutches of her oppressive great-aunt.
***
“This may well be the break we’ve needed, my love. I’ll not be traveling alone.” Seamus sat on the end of the small bed they shared stuffed into the cramped attic of her great-Aunt Mary-Margaret’s home. A widow now, she’d married a wealthy shipbuilder in her youth and had had the good sense to make sure she was on every purchase paper, every legal document, as an equal partner. It had been unheard of at the time in New York, but few said no to Mary-Margaret. She’d been as philanthropic and charitable as her dead husband, but the charity ended at the now-wealthy widow’s feet.
Norah Francis, his new bride, sighed and shook her head. She was as beautiful as she was strong, unafraid of much—with the exception of her great-aunt who’d threatened to return her to Ireland were she not to save face and marry Seamus instead of continuing to meet him in secret. Seamus admitted he had not been thinking with his brain, but since that smile in the marketplace, he’d lost his heart altogether.
Norah pinned him with a stern look “Ye would think ta just leave me behind, then”--she leaned toward him to fiercely whisper--“with the likes of her?”
“It would only be a few weeks. They say gold runs plentiful. So too opportunity for the discerning man.” He stared into those stormy sea-colored eyes knowing that he was the root of her anger.
“And what of the journey? Where will you go? How will you live? How will you earn enough to eat, to travel?”
Seamus glanced down at his folded hands. He’d not been around much these past few months, his work keeping him away night and day. And once or twice, when things were lean, he’d taken jobs that required dealing with undesirables. past few months. Working day and night to pay the rent for their keep. And, as of late, there’d been dissension among the various immigrant communities. Talk of fighting and the power struggles of the lower-class poor had made New York a dangerous place to make a living, if one was even lucky enough to find work.
Seamus met his wife’s steady gaze, her arms crossed protectively over her gown-covered breasts. Need rose in him every time he looked at her. Passion had drawn them to each other and to the rut in life they now found themselves in. “Norah Francis, my love, I’m doin’ this for you...for us.” He gestured with a sweep of his arm as he spoke. “Do you want to be livin’ forever like this
? Stuffed up here in the attic like one of your great-aunt’s trunks?” He held her gaze, pleading for her to understand. “I want more for us than this.”
She eyed him and he could see her pride warring with her emotions.
Seamus gave her a wicked smile, reaching out to snag her billowy gown and tug her toward him. The filmy cotton felt like silk between his calloused fingers. His heart pounded with the knowledge of the satiny softness that lay beneath.
She snatched the gown from his grasp, batting away his advances. “You’ll not be changing my mind using temptation, Seamus Malone.” She launched him a stern look of warning.
He stood and held her gaze as he drew his shirt over his head and slid his suspenders down his brawny shoulders. The threadbare cotton undershirt he wore gave more than ample view of the solid muscle hewn from hard labor on the docks. “Why don’t we call it a day, my love.” He removed his undershirt, pleased that she hadn’t yet tossed the kerosene lamp at his head. He held out his hand, seeing the evidence of her arousal through her nightdress.
She leaned over and gently blew out the lamp’s flame. Slipping the gown over her shoulders, she let it fall to the floor and took his hand.
***
“Have you considered simply going back to New York to fetch her yourself?”
Seamus was pulled back to the present. His body ached for his wife. He was no saint. On occasion over the last four years he’d succumbed more than once to the services of La Maison, not to mention visiting every frigid mountain lake in the area. But keeping busy with back-breaking physical labor had been the best deterrent to temptation. But without hope, his will against his needs grew weak. “To be sure, I’ve given it a great deal of thought,” Seamus answered, then looked away. After all this time, not knowing what she thought of him now, he had grave reservations. “The truth is, Zeke, I made her a slew of promises. Filled her head with my big dreams and look at me--no matter how you look at it, I’m still just a barkeep working for someone else.” He sighed. “I wanted to give her more—a nice home, respect in the community.”
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