by Barbara Metzger, Connie Brockway, Casey Claybourne; Catherine Anderson
Wrinkles? His thumb had found a resting place in the hollow just under her breast, the touch seeming to burn through all three layers of her clothing.
“I fear that I cannot work for you after all, Mr. O’Shannessy. You’ve no wife. I’m a widow. Gossip about such an arrangement would abound.”
At the top of the stairs, he pulled her closer to his side. “Watch your step, darlin’. It’s a long way to the bottom.”
Try as she might, Faith couldn’t bring the treads into clear focus. Terrified of falling, she knotted her right fist on the front of his shirt.
“I’ve got you,” he assured her huskily.
He had her, all right. A hysterical giggle bubbled at the back of Faith’s throat. “I truly can’t stay here,” she told him again.
“If no one else in town needs a housekeeper, what’re your options? There are very few jobs for decent young women in No Name.”
“I shall manage, Mr. O’Shannessy.”
“Right. You’ll end up working on your back to keep food in your daughter’s mouth. Somehow I don’t think you’re cut out for that particular profession.”
“On my back?” They reached the bottom of the stairs, at which point Faith hoped he might release her. Only, of course, he didn’t. “I’m sorry. To what sort of work are you referring?”
“You know damned well what I mean,” he said huskily. “You didn’t find that child under a cabbage plant.”
Scalding heat rushed to Faith’s cheeks. For a moment she yearned to kick him, and then in the next she wanted to kick herself for asking such a stupid question. She was no innocent, fresh from the school-room. She was simply too addlepated at the moment to make sense of what he was saying.
His steely arm still locked around her, he stopped outside a door at the end of the hallway. After giving her a direct, searing look that completely unnerved her, he lowered his voice and said, “Gossip will definitely abound if you’re reduced to that. Seems to me you’ll be a lot better off staying here, the impropriety of it be damned.”
She’d never had the misfortune to meet anyone so plainspoken and crass.
“You wouldn’t last one night at the Golden Slipper,” he went on relentlessly. “A fair half of the men who frequent the place are prospectors—rough, filthy fellows with little or no regard for the unfortunate females who service them. And what of Charity? Will you tuck her away in the armoire while you’re entertaining? That’s no way to raise a child.”
Little black spots danced before Faith’s eyes. Yesterday when she’d looked across the street at the saloon, she hadn’t allowed herself to think beyond the foul-smelling men who swilled liquor inside the establishment. Now Patrick O’Shannessy’s words had drawn a brutally clear picture of what would surely transpire if she returned to No Name and pushed through those swinging doors to seek employment.
“No,” she said shakily. “No, never that.”
“I hope to hell not. Charity’s a sweet little thing. I’ll check around to see if someone else needs a housekeeper. If not, you and the child can stay here.”
He opened the door onto a roomy kitchen that apparently served as the dining area as well.
“Maman!” Charity bounced up from a scarred, hand-hewn table. “Oh, Maman!” The child raced across the room to clamp her thin arms around Faith’s skirts. “I was ever so worried. Paddy promised that you’d come perfectly to rights, but you were so white and still last night when he put you to bed. I was beside myself with worry.”
“Careful, sweetheart,” Patrick warned when Charity hugged Faith’s legs more tightly and swayed to and fro. “Your ma is pretty unsteady on her feet. Did you eat all the flapjacks? I think she’ll feel better once she gets some grub in her belly.”
Charity reared back to beam a smile. “I only ate three.”
“Only three?” Patrick led Faith to a chair and gently lowered her to the seat. Before he released her, he leaned low to search her face. “You steady on, darlin’? I don’t want you toppling off onto the floor.”
Faith grasped the edge of the table to support herself. “I’m fine,” she said, even though her head was still swimming and all her limbs quivered with weakness. Now that she was sitting down, at least her vision had cleared.
He left her to rattle about at the stove. It was an antiquated monstrosity that required wood for fuel. At home, gas ranges were all the rage. Thank goodness it’s not my worry, she thought with some relief. A housekeeper’s duties did not extend into the kitchen, a fortunate thing given the fact that she couldn’t cook.
“How do you take your coffee?” he asked.
Faith generally preferred a nice cup of tea, but at the moment anything hot and wet sounded utterly divine. “With cream and sugar, thank you.”
He came to the table, poured some cream from a small pitcher into a large blue mug, and then set himself to the task of chipping sugar from a block. Faith watched the process with some interest. At home, the sugar arrived at table in a dainty bowl.
“Here you go.” He slid the mug toward her, handed her a spoon for stirring, and presented her with his broad back again as he returned to the stove. “How many eggs?”
Her stomach growled. “One, please.”
He sent her a scolding look over his shoulder. “Ah, come now. Charity tells me you haven’t eaten in days. Two, at least. Don’t worry about running me low. The chickens are laying over a dozen a day right now.”
“Two, then.”
“Flapjacks?” He sent her another inquiring look. “I made a heap. They may not compare to the fancy breakfast fare you’re used to, but they’re delicious drowned in butter and warm honey.”
At home, the pancakes were the size of a silver dollar. And how did he know that she was accustomed to fancier fare? “Six, please.”
His eyebrow shot up. “Six?”
“Yes, please, if you’ve plenty.”
“Let’s start with three,” he suggested. “I know you’re hungry, and I’m happy to feed you, but I don’t want you busting a gut.”
Busting a gut? The expression almost made her shudder. “Does everyone in this vicinity talk the way you do?”
“Mostly. Amazing, isn’t it? We’re from the same country, but we speak different languages.” He retraced his steps to the table, carrying a plate fairly heaped with food. “Here you go. Honey and butter are right in front of you.”
“Oh, my.” Faith stared in startled amazement at the three pancakes, which were nearly the size of the plate and half an inch thick. “I shall never be able to eat all this. The cakes at home are quite small. I had no idea.”
He flipped a chair around and straddled the seat. Folding his arms over the back, he flashed her a slow grin that reminded her of just how handsome he was. “No worries. If you can’t get ’em down, they’ll make great hog slop.”
Hog slop? Back home, such a phrase never would have been uttered at the table. For the moment, however, Faith was far too hungry to mind. With her first bite of flapjack, she nearly moaned. The honey and butter melted over her tongue, warm and sweet. She closed her eyes and went, “Mmm.”
Watching Faith eat made Patrick wish he could have her in his bed, making those low sounds of pleasure. He immediately banished the thought. If there were no other housekeeping positions in No Name, he would have to hire her himself. Being a bachelor, he had physical needs that were rarely satisfied, and Faith was a tempting little swatch of calico, fragilely made but sweetly rounded in all the right places. If he allowed himself to entertain improper thoughts about her, he might eventually find himself trying to charm her out of those fancy bloomers he’d glimpsed last night.
Chapter Four
Faith was too weak to work that first day. Even with the hearty breakfast to rebuild her strength, her head went a little dizzy every time she stood up. After she’d enjoyed her morning repast, Patrick O’Shannessy ushered her to an old horsehair settee in the sitting room and insisted that she stay there.
“I can’t lie ab
out all day, Mr. O’Shannessy,” she protested. “I must make myself useful to repay you for your kindness.”
“We’ll worry about paybacks tomorrow.”
In Faith’s experience, a wise woman never allowed herself to be indebted to a stranger, especially not one so virile and masculine. There was a hungry look in Patrick O’Shannessy’s eyes that made her uneasy whenever his gaze settled on her.
He stepped over to an old cherry bookshelf. While he rummaged through the dusty tomes, Faith took stock of the room. Before the door lay a colorful braided rug that looked handmade. Most of the wall hangings looked handmade as well, dried flowers under glass and pretty ovals of needlepoint. The only exceptions were some family portraits that hung above a table near the hallway door, one of a small, pretty woman and a brawny older man who bore a striking resemblance to her rough-mannered host.
“Your parents?” she ventured.
Patrick glanced over at the likenesses. “My mother, yes.”
“She’s lovely,” Faith said. And then, “Who is the man?”
He took so long to reply that Faith wondered if he had heard her question. “That’s Connor O’Shannessy, my biological sire.”
The cold hatred in his voice sent a chill chasing up Faith’s spine.
“If I had another portrait of my mother,” he added, “I’d burn that one so I’d never have to look at his face again.”
Patrick O’Shannessy would see his father’s face for the rest of his life whenever he looked into a mirror, Faith thought sadly. She trailed her gaze lower, to a portrait of two children—a girl, who looked to be the older, and a little boy with an impish grin and freckles.
“Is the other portrait you and your sister?”
His expression softened. “Yes. I was seven, or thereabouts. Caitlin is two years my senior, so she was about nine, maybe ten.”
The warmth in his voice told Faith that he loved his sister very much. He straightened from the bookshelf and returned to the settee with a thick tome. His stride, Faith noticed, was distinctly masculine, his lean hips and muscular legs working together in an easy, undulating harmony of power and grace.
“Caitlin used to read to me from this book.” He winked at Charity. “Have you ever heard ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes’ or ‘The Ugly Duckling’?”
Charity sat primly on the edge of the settee, tugging at the hem of her borrowed dress to cover her knobby knees. “Yes, but I’d enjoy hearing both again.”
“There you go,” Patrick told Faith as he handed her the collection of fairy tales. “Your day’s work is cut out for you.”
Moments after Patrick left the sitting room, Faith heard him rattling around in the kitchen. She glanced at her daughter. “Was Mr. O’Shannessy kind to you last night?”
“Very kind, Maman. He fixed me fried chicken and spuds for supper, and for dessert he made chocolate gravy over biscuits.”
“The proper term is ‘potatoes,’ dear heart.”
“Paddy calls them ‘spuds.’ ”
“Yes, well, Mr. O’Shannessy speaks like a dock ruffian. And one other thing, sweetie. Proper young ladies don’t address gentlemen outside their family by their given names—or by their nicknames.”
“But, Maman, he asked me to call him Paddy. He says my calling him Mr. O’Shannessy makes him feel older than Methuselah.”
“Nevertheless, it’s improper. Just because we’ve come to Colorado is no sign that we must abandon all semblance of propriety. Do you understand?”
Charity scrunched her nose. “I understand, Maman. It’s just—”
Faith opened the storybook. “It’s just what?”
The child sighed and rolled her eyes. “We’re not in Brooklyn anymore, Maman. People are different here. If we’re going to stay, we must try to be like everyone else. Otherwise, we’ll never fit in.”
Although Faith saw the wisdom in her daughter’s observation, she was not yet prepared to abandon all the social mores drilled into her since childhood.
“Humor me,” she said with a smile. “Perhaps after I’ve been here for a while, I’ll no longer find terms like ‘hog slop’ and ‘busting a gut’ so offensive.”
Charity giggled. It was a wonderful sound to Faith’s ears, one that she hadn’t heard in months. “That’s just the way he talks, Maman. He doesn’t mean to be offensive.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t,” Faith conceded.
“I like him,” Charity added. “He was ever so nice to me last night, and he took very good care of you.”
Her cheeks going warm with embarrassment, Faith ran nervous fingertips down the line of buttons on her bodice.
“I’m glad that we came here,” Charity said fervently. “Not to No Name, but here, to Mr. O’Shannessy’s house.”
“It sounds as if the two of you have become fast friends.” Faith smoothed the yellowed pages of the book. “I do hope you remembered the need for discretion. We’ll be in a fine pickle if your grandfathers somehow learn of our presence here and come to fetch us home.”
Charity bobbed her dark head. “Oh, yes, Maman, I was very discreet. When he asked my last name, I told him I wasn’t allowed to say. He was very understanding when I explained our situation.”
The hair at the nape of Faith’s neck prickled. When she searched her daughter’s big, guileless brown eyes, her heart sank. Unless she missed her guess, Patrick O’Shannessy now knew far too much about them. Faith couldn’t really blame Charity for that. She was an extremely bright child, but she was still only six years old. Children her age trusted a bit too easily and had a tendency to be loose-tongued with adults. And in all fairness, Faith hadn’t been the soul of discretion herself. Yesterday when O’Shannessy had asked where they were from, she should have fabricated a clever lie instead of blurting out the truth.
Faith could only pray that the man could be trusted. Judging by the condition of his home, he was barely scraping out a living on this patch of land. A large monetary reward for information about two runaways might be very attractive to him.
A half hour later, Patrick O’Shannessy returned to the sitting room. His wavy auburn hair looked damp and had been slicked back from his face. He wore what Faith surmised was a dress shirt in these parts, white linen and open at the collar, the cuffed sleeves folded back over his thick, tanned forearms.
“I’ll be taking off for town now,” he informed them. “I put on some stew for supper tonight. The fire is low, but it might be a good idea to keep an eye on it.”
“Of course,” Faith assured him.
He drew a gold watch from his pocket. “I’ll be four hours or so. You feelin’ all right?”
Faith nodded. “Just a bit weak, Mr. O’Shannessy.”
When their host had left the house, Faith and Charity adjourned to the kitchen to stand at the stove. Faith stared nervously at the pot. “I’ve never watched over a stew before.”
Charity lifted her thin shoulders in a bewildered shrug.
Using a dingy pad, Faith removed the lid from the pot and peered in at the slowly bubbling concoction. “Mm, it smells like Cook’s Irish stew.”
“I miss Cook’s stew. Don’t you?”
“I do.” Faith missed many things from home. She resettled the lid on the pot. “It looks fine to me. Here in a bit, perhaps I’ll give it a stir or two.”
“Just so, Maman. I can remember Cook stirring the stew now and again.”
Three and a half hours later, Patrick was headed for home. He had managed to find Faith and Charity’s satchels, which now rode saddlebag fashion behind him over the rump of his horse, but his trip to town had been fruitless otherwise. He’d spoken to the pastor at the community church, and so far as the man knew, no one in No Name was in need of a housekeeper. There were no other respectable positions of employment available for a young woman, either.
It seemed that Patrick had himself a new housekeeper. And wasn’t that a fine kettle of fish? Every time he looked at the woman, his mouth went to watering. She was a beautiful fe
male, make no mistake—one of the prettiest that he’d ever seen. How in the hell was he going to rub elbows with her, day in and day out, and manage to keep his hands to himself?
In his thoughtless and drunken younger years, Patrick would have solved his dilemma with a Saturday-night visit to the upstairs rooms of the saloon, but now that he was older, his conscience bothered him if he even thought about it. That left him only one option: taking lots of midnight swims in the ice-cold creek near his house. Somehow that solution didn’t strike him as being very appealing.
“I hope you fine ladies like stew,” Patrick O’Shannessy said that evening as he ladled up servings from the cast-iron pot that Faith had watched over all afternoon. “It’s one of the few things I can leave unattended for long stretches.”
Faith was just relieved that the concoction wasn’t ruined. She’d stirred it several times over the course of the afternoon, but beyond that, she hadn’t known what to do. As a child, she’d always gotten a scolding when she ventured into the kitchen, and as an adult, she’d trespassed on Cook’s domain only to discuss the weekly menu. As a result, the goings-on in a kitchen were completely beyond her ken.
At her host’s insistence, Faith had taken a seat at the table with her daughter and was waiting to be served. She felt much stronger after resting for several hours. “We quite like Irish stew,” she told him. “At home we often had stew for lunch on cold winter days.”
He chuckled. “I can’t be sayin’ if it’s Irish or not.” With a shrug of his broad shoulders, he added, “Although I suppose that’s a good bet. It’s my grandmother’s recipe, and she was about as Irish as they come.” He sent them a twinkling glance. “Straight from the old country, with fiery red hair and a temper to match.”
“Ah,” Faith said with a smile, “now I know where you got your coloring, Mr. O’Shannessy. Have you her temper as well?”
