9 Ways to Fall in Love

by Caroline Clemmons

  * * *

  “Oh, my!” Helen fingered the plush maroon velvet curtains in Mr. Smith’s private Pullman car. “I never dreamed that a railroad car could be so luxurious.”

  Charity smiled at the girl’s enthusiasm. “He has magazines in the sitting room, including Godey’s.”

  “I saw that.” Helen sat on the plush sofa and took out her crocheting. This time she wound emerald green yarn around her hook.

  Charity studied the completed portion of the project, a willy-nilly striped affair about eighteen inches wide and a foot long. “What are you making?”

  “I’m not making anything—just re-learning how to go about it.” Helen held her work up and looked at it with a critical eye. “I could make a series of squares, then crochet them together to make a blanket.” Her hook flew as she crocheted a row. “Or I could stop at the next row and start crocheting around what I have. It would make an interesting centerpiece for an afghan, don’t you think?”

  “Very.” Especially if it kept the girl from her constant chatter.

  “And I so look forward to playing the piano if Mr. Smith will let me.”

  Maybe with some direction, Helen’s loose lips could provide some interesting information. “How long have you been playing?”

  “Simply forever. My mother is an accomplished classical pianist. She taught me how to play when I was very small. In fact, I don’t even remember learning how, I started so soon.”

  “Do you play the classics as well?”

  “Yes.” She sighed and studied a missed stitch. “But my true love is popular music.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere, Charity mused. “Your mother doesn’t like popular music?”

  “Heavens, no! I wasn’t allowed to play it in our house.”

  Charity cocked her head as she read the pure joy shining from the girl’s eyes. “If your mother didn’t like the music, where did you get the sheet music?”

  “My allowance. Peter, our butler, bought it for me because he enjoyed listening to the new tunes. He said he couldn’t stand to listen to one more sonata.”

  “It sounds like Peter wanted to make you happy, too. Did you play for him often?”

  “Only when Mother was gone, but otherwise, I had to play elsewhere.”

  “And did you?”

  Helen giggled, then shrugged. “I had the grandest time. My friends would sneak me into the most dreadful establishments, and I could play to my heart’s content—Pop Goes the Weasel, Bob-Bil-Y-Boo and Wol-Ly-Po-Tump, songs like that.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “It was.” Helen scowled. “But it all fell apart when my fiancé’s father happened to visit a bordello where I was playing. There was dreadful fracas over the whole thing. Mother said I disgraced the family and she sent us to live in Colorado while the storm blew over.”

  “ ‘Us’? Meaning your sister and you?”

  “Yes, they sent Lexie, too, to take care of me.” She put down her crochet hook and frowned. “I feel very badly about the whole thing. Lexie so wanted a professorship, but she had to come out west with me.”

  “And what happened to your fiancé’s father?”

  “Nothing that I know of. He’s a well-respected judge. I don’t think anyone’s going to question where he goes or why. And it’s ex-fiancé.” Then she sobered and said, “But don’t think I became engaged without first getting permission from my parents. They finally reckoned that Lexie’s a spinster, and I convinced them that there was no reason why I should end up on the shelf just because Lexie can’t catch a man. So Father gave Robert permission to ask my hand in marriage.”

  “You don’t seem very downhearted about losing him.”

  “I’m not. Oh, I was at first, but then I met Patrick. He’s so dashingly handsome!” She sighed, clutching her crocheting experiment to her breast. “If only I could find him. I know he’ll marry me.”

  “Has he proposed?”

  “In so many words.”

  In other words, he hadn’t. Charity patted the lovesick girl on the shoulder. “You attend to your crocheting while I unpack our things in the bedroom, and when Mr. Smith gets back, maybe you can play all your favorite songs for us.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and maybe he’ll even buy some new sheet music for you if you’d like.”

  In the bedroom, Charity chuckled as she hung her clothes in the armoire. So Lexie couldn’t catch a man, huh? Well, Burke was ripe for the picking. He’d ogled Lexie every chance he got, and Charity was positive that he was more taken with her than any other woman she’d seen him with.

  The mighty would fall, and she’d help chip away at the base.

  * * *

  Lexie snapped the mythology book shut and huffed at the man who could hardly wait to get away from her. Again.

  A slight hint of his bay rum lingered in the air. His kiss had left her shaken and wanting more.

  It hadn’t affected him at all.

  What a fool she was, getting all mushy over a coldhearted, womanizing thoroughbred gambler. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She tossed the book on the bed and stood, glowering out the dingy window. Being stuck in a strange hotel all by herself didn’t constitute a rollicking good time, in her estimation. If the kiss hadn’t meant anything to him, at the very least the poker-faced boor could have asked her to join him while he played cards.

  And to think she’d worried that he’d abandoned her. Not that she intended to sit in the room all afternoon—she was going shopping. Or so Burke would think. A sweep of this small town would surely turn up Abigail somewhere. The twit.

  Lexie threw on a shawl and pinned on her bonnet, not even checking in the mirror before she left. If the hat was crooked, well, so be it. She’d looked at these four walls long enough. Abigail needed to be found, and, even though Lexie’s funds were limited, she wanted to see if she could find a reasonably priced ready-made dress. Cinders and soot had played the very devil on her clothes.

  She pulled on her gloves and picked up her parasol. Out the door, down the stairs, and through the lobby she marched with conviction of purpose. She stepped into the blinding sunshine, then stopped on the boardwalk while her eyes adjusted to the bright midday sun. Two mercantiles, a confectionery, and a hardware store were between the hotel and the depot, she remembered.

  Where could Abigail be? Lexie shrugged off a pang of guilt about losing the girl, but if Abigail had wanted to be found, she wouldn’t have hidden as soon as they’d disembarked from the train. Still, a young girl such as she had no business working in a saloon, and Burke was bound to be upset that Lexie hadn’t succeeded in doing the only thing he’d ever asked of her. She rolled her eyes and took off for the saloon.

  Only two buildings down, the cigar smoke snaked out of the swinging doors. She heard no music, only a bunch of mumbling men and an occasional guffaw as she paused at the entrance, leaning on the hitching post that bordered the boardwalk. Dare she enter?

  Two ladies on the other side of the street sent disapproving glares toward Lexie. Sheltered women leading boring lives. Just as she had.

  Lexie had always been conscientious, planning every detail in her day, but her sister was an impetuous girl, ruled by her fervor for life. Helen had an innate awareness of joy and a whimsical spontaneity, whereas Lexie had never, ever stepped beyond the boundaries of good taste. Had never even been tempted. Until she met the handsome devil named Burke O’Shaughnessy.

  She lifted her chin, took a deep breath, and closed her umbrella. Much as she detested these places, Abigail was her responsibility, and Lexie fully intended to locate the wayward girl before Burke found out the truth.

  As she stepped in, a vile smelling galoot stepped out, catching her in his iron-muscled arms. “Well, well, sweet thing. What have we got here?”

  Lexie had to think fast. “The sheriff’s daughter. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll release me this moment!” With that, she stabbed him in the ribs with her parasol.

  “Ouch!” />
  As he loosed his grip, she ducked out from under his clasp and hurried outside, dodging behind a team trotting down the street pulling a wagon.

  A water wagon.

  Sprinkling water to settle the summer dust.

  In a split second, Lexie found herself caked with dust and mud. Her only halfway decent dress, too. Feigning decorum she in no way felt, she casually walked back to the hotel, glaring at any onlookers daring to think about making a comment.

  “Send a bath to room 212,” she said as she passed the front desk. “Promptly.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And I’ll need someone to take my clothing to the laundry, too.”

  “Jenny, here, will be glad to do that for you.”

  With effort, Lexie climbed the stairs in her heavy, sodden skirts. By the time she made it to her room, she sank into the chair to rest. Near tears from exhaustion and frustration, she picked up a glass and threw it against the wall.

  The shattering glass gave her more peace than she’d felt since the day she first met Mr. Burke O’Shaughnessy. Yes, it was completely illogical, but for the first time in her life, she didn’t even care.

  * * *

  Burke downed the shot of bourbon in one swig and shoved the glass toward the barkeep. “Give me another.”

  The evening had been a total waste.

  He’d made money. Lots of it.

  He’d lost money. Lots of it.

  He’d nearly drunk the hotel lounge dry.

  And still, he couldn’t get the dark-haired, lush-lipped mathematical genius off his mind. Her naïve notion of how the world worked intrigued him. Her luscious body beckoned him.

  It was time to run.

  “Hurry up, barkeep.”

  “Coming.”

  Instead of pouring a drink, the barkeeper slid a full bottle toward Burke. “That’ll be two bucks.”

  Burke swayed as he jangled the change in his coin pouch. He finally realized that he couldn’t pick coins out and still hold himself up with one hand. “Here,” he said as he shoved the pouch at the barkeeper. “Take what you want.”

  Burke dropped his head to the counter in shame. He’d lost all of his money and all of Lexie’s money. He’d never done that before. Hell, he was a thoroughbred. Thoroughbred gamblers didn’t lose money.

  One of the gents who’d been playing faro leaned on the bar beside Burke and motioned for the barkeep to pour him a drink. “Care for a game of euchre?”

  Burke could hardly keep his place at the bar. “Not now, partner.”

  “We need a fourth. I’ll stake you a twenty.”

  Burke upended the shot glass and gulped the fiery bourbon in one swallow. “Well, hell, why not.” Bumping into a few chairs and more than a few patrons on the way, he followed the man to his table.

  After a few rounds, he’d doubled his money so he paid back the original twenty. A few more rounds netted him fifty more. Another hour put him a couple hundred dollars ahead. “Bring another bottle of bourbon,” he shouted at the barkeeper.

  * * *

  After her bath, Lexie put on her nightgown and wrapped herself in Burke’s robe that he’d cast off earlier. Her own was still packed and she was too tired to dig it out of the trunk. Jenny had brought up her traveling suit all cleaned from the laundry, so at least she had that. She picked up the mythology book with every intention of becoming so engrossed in the story that she’d completely forget about the blue-eyed Don Juan who invaded her every thought.

  After a couple of hours of reading the small print, her eyes blurred. She yawned, put the book on the table, and washed her face.

  When she turned down the covers, she heard a faint thump-thump from the hall. She heard it again, louder. Every thump sounded louder than before. Lexie wondered what in the world all that ruckus could be.

  She cocked her head to the side to better hear. A low chant accompanied the thumps. A few seconds later, the chant became intelligible.

  “Two-twelve, two-twelve, that’s my girl.”

  Lexie’s eyebrows shot straight to her hairline. That voice sounded way too familiar. Burke! And he must be wallowing in his cups.

  The door crashed open and smacked against the wall. Lexie jumped at the sound, then saw the hotel’s barkeeper and bouncer carrying a very, very inebriated Burke into her room.

  Lexie stood in the corner, dumbstruck, staring at Burke being held up by two burly men.

  “Where would you like him, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy?” the bartender asked.

  Lexie couldn’t form a coherent thought, let alone answer him.

  Burke turned his head to the barkeep and, with a crooked grin said, “I told you I knew where I was.” Then to everyone within hearing distance he began a new chant. “Two-twelve, two-twelve, that’s my little bit of heaven. And Lexie, she’s mine. She’s my woman.”

  The heavily muscled bouncer looked at Lexie. “He should be passing out anytime now, ma’am, but if’n you’d like me to speed things up a might, I’d be happy to oblige.”

  Lexie’s feet were frozen in place. She was still in shock from not only Burke’s condition, but from his words. Her lips moved but not a sound came out.

  The bartender and the bouncer waited a few seconds for a reply, but with no answer coming forthright, they nodded at each other and unceremoniously dumped Burke on the bed. They left the room without a word.

  At the sound of the door slamming shut, Lexie shook her head. “What in heaven’s name just happened?”

  Thump.

  Lexie looked toward the bed. Where did Burke go? She found him, sound asleep, snoring on the floor on the other side of the bed. “Get up, you disgusting, drunken lout.”

  She pounded on his shoulder. He moaned and she remembered his previous injuries. Why, the poor man—he’d probably drunk too much to dull the pain.

  He opened one eye. “This bed’s too damned hard,” he drawled.

  “That’s the floor.” She picked up his arm, expecting his body to follow, but instead she tugged and he didn’t move a muscle. “Help me get you on the bed.”

  He grinned and opened one eye again. “There’s nothin’ I want more, little lady, than to get into your bed.”

  With that bit of awareness, and a lot of back-straining on her part, she finally got him off the floor and onto the bed. Only he wouldn’t let go.

  “Let me touch your breast, darlin’.”

  “You go too far, even for a drunk, Mr. O’Shaughnessy.”

  “Ah, my prissy Lexie...” and he fell asleep again.

  Exhausted from exertion, Lexie would’ve liked nothing better than to sleep, too, but Burke had her bed. She wondered if he actually felt the way it sounded. Did he really think of her as his woman? A warm glow danced in her heart. Of course, she never would be his woman. Imagine—a college professor married to a thoroughbred gambler. It could never, ever be.

  She sat in the corner chair again and started reading. She read the first paragraph about six times before she could actually comprehend it. Burke haunted her every thought. She hadn’t finished the first page when she heard another thump.

  Wearily, she put the book down and stood. Burke had rolled off the bed again. She couldn’t possibly continue with the back-breaking possibility of getting the big lout into bed every five minutes.

  She stood there a minute or two assessing the situation, and decided to push the bed against the wall. That way, he could only fall out of one side. With a little determination and a lot of struggling, she finally pushed the bed to the wall.

  She flipped an errant lock away from her face, then tackled the problem of getting a very inebriated, very asleep Burke back into the bed. When she couldn’t rouse him, she poured water into his face.

  He spluttered awake. “Damned leaking roof.”

  Before he could slip into another drunken stupor, she grabbed his arm. “Get back into bed and I’ll dry you off.”

  “Ten’ll get you twenty I can beat you to the sack.”

  If that�
��s what it took to convince him to use his own strength, then so be it. “You’re on.”

  Burke lunged toward the bed. Lexie grabbed his legs and lifted them on the bed before their weight pulled him off again. She tucked pillows around him, hoping they’d keep him from rolling over.

  That scenario lasted fifteen minutes. He rolled right over the pillows and crashed onto the plank floor again. The cut on his cheek reopened and started to bleed.

  “Oh, my. Just as I was about to leave you on the hard floor for the night, you start bleeding. That’s not playing fair, Burke O’Shaughnessy.”

  She dabbed at the cut and quashed the bleeding. With the last bit of effort in her, she finally got him on the bed. There wasn’t a way in the world she could get him in bed again. Somehow, she had to put an immovable barrier against him so he wouldn’t roll off again.

  “Lexie,” he murmured in his sleep. “My woman.”

  “Not then, not now, and not in the future, Mr. O’Shaughnessy, but thank you for the compliment.”

  “You make me ache.”

  Lexie rolled her shoulders and stretched her aching back. “You don’t even know how much you make me hurt, you big lout.”

  “Come to bed with me.”

  “Forget it.”

  His eyes fluttered shut. Lexie watched him to make sure he didn’t roll off again. When he started to roll over, she threw her body in the way.

  “Ah, that’s my Lexie girl.”

  A long lock of hair was caught under his shoulder, forcing her face into his chest. He smelled of bay rum and whiskey, but there was another scent intermingled—the one that made her want to kiss him.

  But enough of the daydreaming nonsense. “Go to sleep, Mr. O’Shaughnessy.”

  Chapter 8

  A searing pain shot through Lexie’s neck as she woke. Burke still trapped her hair under his shoulder, and he still had the responsiveness of a two-toed sloth.

  Despite her best efforts to fight exhaustion, Lexie had fallen asleep beside the battered and drunken Burke. Now wide awake, she was keenly aware of his leg draped over her nether parts, and his hand, which gently cupped her left breast.

  And the tingling of that left breast.