***
Later that evening after the last reveler had walked out of the saloon, leaving only the Nugget’s handful of residents, Seamus committed to memory the soft flickering light of the lanterns illuminating the dark walls of the saloon, the rather jubilant expression of the priest’s face as he read the sacred marriage vows. The happiness on the faces of those present to witness the impromptu renewal of their wedding vows. It was simple. In a saloon, by all that was unholy about it. Just the same, sheer joy filled Seamus’s heart as he looked into Norah’s eyes and saw his future. “I’m sorry this isn’t a proper church,” he said quietly.
She smiled at him. “It’s exactly as I always imagined my wedding to be.”
“You may kiss your bride,” Father O’Flanagan said, concluding the simple renewal of their wedding vows.
“Thank you very much, I shall do just that.” Seamus held her sweet face in his hands and kissed her soundly.
Reverend and Felicity Hammond, who had been awakened to join in as witness to the renewal, stood in their bathrobes, hands clasped, grinning from ear-to-ear. “Congratulations you two,” the reverend said. “I’d say it calls for a celebration, but we’ve had one heck of one today already and now I’m taking my wife to bed. Good night, all.”
“Right behind you, Reverend,” Seamus said, grabbing Norah’s hand as he started up the stairs.
“You really need another set of stairs, Seamus.” The reverend glanced over his shoulder. “For goodness sake, go on around us, then.” He pulled his wife aside to allow Seamus and Norah to pass.
Felicity smiled. “I remember someone else being in a hurry to have privacy.”
Reverend Hammond eyed his lovely wife. “And I hope that feeling never goes away.”
***
Seamus had paused at the top of the stairs, a wide grin on his face. “Father, would you be so kind as to blow out the lamps before you come up?”
Could he blame the man for his urgency? The two had been apart for four years. His own wedding night flashed in his memory. How beautiful his Beverly had been. How it had seemed like their whole life lay ahead of them.
He raised his hand. “I’ll take care of everything. Rest well.” He grimaced, realizing the senselessness of the comment. Resting would be the last thing on their minds.
He started blowing out the lamps they’d used for the impromptu ceremony when a knock sounded on the saloon door. “Who in the world could that be at this hour?” he muttered, and picked up a lamp, carrying it to the door.
Cautiously hoping that Noelle was not prone to robberies and such things, he eased open the door and held up the lamp so see who it was.
There in the dark of night, stood one of the most breathtakingly beautiful women he’d seen--the kind that burned the word ‘sin’ in his brain. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I can get the proprietor if you’re needing a room.”
“I’m not interested in a room, Father O’Flanagan,” she said. “I was told by a friend that I could find you here.” Drawing her lush cape around her shoulders, she smiled, and Father Timothy’s insides trembled in reply.
Dear readers,
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading Norah and Seamus’s story. I loved writing about these two and how their sparring was just another means of foreplay. I am a true believer that love—somehow—will always find a way. Its why I love to write romance—it’s infinite possibilities and its utter tenacity to overcome obstacles.
And for fun, I’ve added a recipe for Irish Soda Bread. That I’ve tried and love! Served with a rich Irish stew, (Any soup or stew!!) it’s a delicious, heart-warming addition!!
Traditional Irish Soda Bread
Prep time :5 Minutes/Cook time: 40 minutes/Serves 6
Ingredients:
4 cups of flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 ¾ cups buttermilk
Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Grease and flour a 9-inch round cake pan. In a large bowl, combine the flour, baking soda, and salt. Gradually stir in the buttermilk until the dough comes together to form a slightly sticky ball. Turn dough into floured surface and knead gently a few times. Form the dough into a ball and then press into the prepared pan. The dough should reach the edges of pan, but may spring back a bit. Cut an X into the dough with a sharp knife (an=bout 1.4 inch deep.) Cover dough with another round cake pan turned upside down over it. Bake 30 minutes covered, then remove top pan and bake ten minutes more3 until the crust is a dark golden brown. (From Let’s Dish Recipes/2013 You can learn more at letsdishrecipes.com)
Be sure to watch for more stories in the Brides of Noelle series—Ophelia; A Valentine’s Day Bride by Kit Morgan and Jolie; A Valentine’s day Bride by E.E. Burke and delight in reading read how it all began in the Twelve Days of Christmas Mail-order Brides series out now at Amazon. My story, entitled The Piper; the Eleventh Day, tells the story of Zeke Kinnison and Genevieve Walters, yet another story of second chances, love finding a way, and how they come to be in Noelle~
Here’s a snippet of their story from The Piper (Twelve Days of Christmas Mail Order Brides) *Available at Amazon in both eBook and Print.
Twelve men. Twelve brides. Twelve days to save a town.
Noelle, Colorado is in danger of becoming a ghost town if the railroad decides to bypass the mountaintop mining community. Determined to prove their town is thriving, twelve men commit to ordering brides before the railroad’s deadline. But when the upstanding women arrive, they’re outraged! The uncivilized settlement is nothing like it was portrayed in letters--then again, neither are the brides…
***
Noelle, Colorado December,1876
Genevieve pondered whether to follow them and keep walking until she made it back to Denver. “We can fix this, Penny.”
The woman left at the alter opened her mouth to speak, but Pastor Hammond intervened. “Ladies, it has been a trying morning. Why don’t you take Miss Penelope back to the house and fix her a nice cup of tea? I need to speak with Mrs. Walters.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Penny said over her shoulder.
“I swear to you, Penny that by days end you shall be a bride,” Genevieve called after the departing group. She collapsed at the nearest table, her head propped on her hand.
“I must find her a husband,” she said, trying not to let despair filter into her thoughts. “She is wonderful, warm, and bright. She has so much to offer the right man. It’s finding the right man that has been most difficult for her. I so want to help her find happiness.”
Pastor Hammond sat down beside her. “Here. This will help...some.” He handed her a small glass half full of amber liquid.
“I don’t drink.” She gently pushed it away. “Thank you,” she added as an afterthought.
The preacher slid it back in front of her. “I didn’t either. Trust me. One glass has an interesting way of putting life in perspective. It’s only when you hit four or five that you care less about perspective. At that point, you’re just trying to forget.”
Genevieve eyed the glass, then tilted it to her lips and took a sip. Her eyes watered, her lips burned. It felt like liquid fire sliding down her throat. She covered her mouth as she fell into a fit of coughing.
Pastor Hammond patted her back. “I’m not sure that we can force anyone into marriage if they aren’t willing.”
Genevieve frowned. “Did you see how those men ran over each other as though I was asking them to give up an appendage?” She sighed. “Ten brides, Pastor Hammond--you and Felicity, Culver and Kezia, Woody and Meizhen, Jack and Birdie,” she said, holding up a finger for each couple. “Draven and Pearl—and trust me, I wondered about those two. Storm and Molly—yet another questionable match. Liam and Avis, Cara and Dr. Colin, and then there’s Nacho and Fina, and Hugh and Minnie—all complicated stories to be sure—but turning out happily for all involved.” She sighed. “Ten weddings and only two more to go.” She glanced at the pastor. “I had such high hopes for Penelope, in particul
ar.”
“There, there, Mrs. Walters. Perhaps this is all a misunderstanding. People come and go frequently in Noelle.” He punctuated his comment with a heavy sigh. “Perhaps Silas will have a change of heart,” he said.
“Or he’ll run into hostile Indians and get his just rewards,” she muttered. Eyeing her glass, she took another drink, longer this time, glad for the way it seemed to warm her blood. “I’m sorry, that’s not a kind thing to say. At any rate, I doubt Penelope would be convinced to take him back were he to change his mind.”
“Yes, and well…there is that matter of turning the other cheek,” the pastor said, before sampling his own drink.
She pointed her finger at him. “What we need is to convince the single men left that there is nothing at all to these silly superstitions that Penelope in some way carries an aura of bad luck around her.” She paused. “And you’re just the man to do it, preacher,” she said, poking his shoulder.
He looked at her, his expression skeptical. He shook his head. “I’m not sure we have that much time, Mrs. Walters.”
Not to be defeated just yet, she tossed back the remainder of her drink. This time the burn felt good going down. The pastor had been right. Her perspective was actually becoming clearer. “Well, it seems to me if you can’t convince them, then we must find a man who is not privy to the backgrounds of the women I’ve brought from Denver. Someone who has not been swayed by the rumor mill.” She smiled and lifted her glass. It was a superb idea, really, if she did say so herself. “I find this drink quite amiable once you get used to it. What is it, exactly?”
Pastor Hammond smiled and Genevieve returned it. God was lucky to have a man so charming on His side.
“Well, in times like these I always remember the assurance that God gives us in Matthew 19:26…with God all things are possible.”
“Ah.” Genevieve pointed her glass at him. “But in your case, sir, time is of the essence. Let’s hope that Noelle has had enough chaos today to warrant God’s attention.”
Pastor Hammond smiled. “Don’t lose heart, Mrs. Walters. I firmly believe that when God closes one door, He opens another.”
The saloon door opened and, with a rush of wind, blew in what appeared to be a large, rather deformed grizzly bear carrying a belted stack of fur pelts over one shoulder.
Genevieve’s eyes widened as the fur-laden creature strode in, slamming the door with such force that the remaining ornaments on the tree quaked in the aftermath. Mud and debris left a trail behind the fur boots wrapped snugly around his calves. Her gaze crept slowly upward taking in the muscular thighs covered in doeskin trousers, every firm muscle showing beneath the tight covering as he moved.
Genevieve licked her lips, blinking two or three times to make sure that her sight was not influenced by drink.
He wore a jacket made from what appeared to be a heavy blanket, tethered around his waist, giving greater definition to his broad shoulders. On the belt hung an intricately tooled leather holder, presumably for a large knife that would usually lie against his hip. Perched atop a mass of dark, straw-colored, shoulder-length hair he wore a hood, fashioned from the head and shoulders of a bear. A scraggly beard and moustache covered most of his face.
He tossed the pelts onto the sleek polished mahogany bar and pushed back the ghastly looking hood from his head.
“Them things better not have claws that scratch that wood,” Seamus warned as he approached the man with a bottle and glass in hand. “Mr. Hardt wouldn’t take kindly to his bar getting roughed up.”
The man glanced at Seamus without expression. “Hardt can come see me if he has an issue,” he said quietly.
Seamus raised his brows. “Just trying to keep things peaceful, Kyi-yee.”
He poured a drink and set it on the counter.
“Who…or what…is that?” Genevieve leaned over and whispered to the pastor.
“He is our resident hermit. Goes by the name, Kyi-yee. It means “bear”, so I’m told. The name was given to him by the Ute tribe that he trades with. Most of the Indians have been peaceful to deal with, others not so much. It has been beneficial to have him around when tensions arise. He lives alone somewhere up in the mountains.”
“Does he have a Christian name?” she asked, unable to keep from staring at the way the doeskin stretched over his backside when he leaned forward against the bar. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.
“I’m sure he does. But he was here before I came to Noelle. That is what the townsfolk call him.”
The man hadn’t acknowledged their presence. Instead, he tipped back his head and, in one swallow, emptied the glass.
“Was that what we drank?” she asked in whispered awe.
Preacher leaned close. “That’s Seamus’s special hooch. Well over one hundred-proof, I understand. Kicks like a mule.”
“He doesn’t seem at all affected,” she marveled.
Pastor Hammond seemed to do a double-take. “Mrs. Walters, whatever is going on in that lovely head of yours, I think it best to let it go,” the preacher admonished.
Seamus turned to leave, bottle in hand. The large man reached out without looking up and snatched the bartender’s arm.
“As agreed. Five pelts for a bottle,” he said in a low-timbered voice that sent a shiver skirting down Genevieve’s spine and, lord help her…lower.
Seamus scowled, nodded, and left the bottle. He grabbed the pelts, eyeing them briefly before carrying them through the curtain to the backroom.
The man straightened his shoulders, raked a hand through his unkempt long hair, and poured himself another drink--downing it as quickly as the first. He certainly appeared healthy—exceptional physical health from her observation. Genevieve was surprised by her visceral reaction to the stranger. It had been ages since a man had affected her in such a way. Perhaps it was the alcohol that led her to see his stellar qualities of a desirable companion—self-sufficient, fearless, ruggedly handsome. Probably, beneath all that hair. “I would imagine he is also good with his hands,” she said, more to herself. Upon seeing the pastor’s shocked expression, she realized she’d uttered the words out loud. “Meaning, he’s likely a carpenter as well. Perhaps grows his own food.”
Pastor Hammond raised an impervious brow. “Of course, I thought that’s what you meant.” He turned his face, but not before she saw him grin.
“The truth is, he likely knows nothing about any of the brides or their backgrounds.” She narrowed her gaze, attempting to determine his age—around mid-thirties, she estimated. “This hermit—this mountain man, as you call him--surely, he could use a woman in his life, don’t you think?”
Pastor Hammond shook his head. “No, ma’am,” he said quietly, and turned to face her. “I don’t think that is a good idea.”
The man downed a third glass and Genevieve wondered if he was thirsty or trying to forget—and, if the latter, what could it be?
He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and only then seemed aware there were others in the saloon.
Genevieve was astounded by the fact that she’d been in Noelle all week and had not in all the men she’d encountered found such a fine specimen of rugged male in all the men she’d encountered as this one.
Penelope. This is for Penelope.
The man glanced from the preacher to her, holding her gaze a bit longer--perhaps her imagination—before offering a neighborly nod and turning away.
Duty and determination laced liberally with liquid courage, edged its way into her conscience. She thought of Penelope, of the agreement to save Noelle. And, more importantly, if this venture proved successful, how well it would bode for her and the mission’s future.
Pastor Hammond leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. “I don’t care for that look in your eye, Mrs. Walters. I’m certain there has to be another way.”
Genevieve met his gaze. “I’m not so certain that we have a choice. You’re out of straws and the clock is ticking, Pastor Hammond. Do you wish to save No
elle, or not?”
All at once, the fur-covered man flipped the ghastly hood over his head and strode toward the door, with his gaze unwavering. It was clear he was not interested in being social.
That, however, did not deter Genevieve. This was for Penelope. “Excuse me, sir?” she called to his departing form.
The beast of a man hesitated at the door.
“Oh, lord,” she heard Pastor Hammond mutter.
Genevieve swallowed. She hoped that, living alone somewhere in the woods, living off nuts, berries, and God knows what—that he was still somewhat able to carry on a civil conversation. Nonetheless, she was glad for Pastor Hammond’s presence. “I wonder if Pastor Hammond and I might have a few moments of your time?” She glanced at the pastor who appeared less enthusiastic about the prospect.
“You are familiar with our good Pastor Hammond?” she asked primly folding her hands.
“I am,” he replied, still facing the door.
“Would you be so kind as to please look at me when I address you?”
He straightened then, his height made all the more intimidating by the bear turning to face her. She met the glassy, dark eyes of the bear first and, lowering her gaze, looked directly into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
Her heart stopped. Twelve years had passed since she’d seen such blue-eyed clarity. But of course, that was only a coincidence. She blinked to clear her muddled thoughts. “My name is Mrs. Genevieve Walters.” She cleared her throat, perplexed by the man’s penetrating gaze. “I-I have brought twelve women to Noelle under contract with your mayor and Pastor Hammond--”
Pastor Hammond lifted his hand with a brief smile.
Difficult as it was to get past the eerie memory the strange man’s eye color evoked, she forged ahead. This was about Penny, not ghosts of Genevieve’s past. This was about saving Noelle, not some stolen kiss—now ancient history--nor the man who’d stolen her heart, then left without goodbye. This was about proving herself an exemplary matchmaker. “Mr. Kyi-Yee, we have a proposition to discuss with you. Something that will benefit not only you, but Noelle as well.”
Norah- A St. Patrick's Day Bride Page 10
