by Barbara Metzger, Connie Brockway, Casey Claybourne; Catherine Anderson
It was a promise Patrick felt he could keep, not because he considered himself to be the soul of discretion but because nothing untoward ever would occur between them. He’d told Faith yesterday morning that he’d never claimed to be a gentleman, and that was true. But he did have standards that he lived by, one of them being to treat women with respect. He’d broken that rule many times in his younger days, the crowning glory being two years ago when he had gotten too cozy with a whiskey jug. Carrying the guilt of that with him to the grave was, in his estimation, burden enough for any man to bear.
“I accept your proposal, Mr. O’Shannessy.” Acutely conscious of how greatly it pained her to say those words, Patrick searched her pale face, nodded, and moved away from the door. In as jovial a voice as he could muster, he rubbed his hands together and said, “Well, then!” She jumped as if he’d poked her with a pin. “Let’s begin this arrangement with a cooking lesson, why don’t we?”
All that day, Faith’s stomach felt like a wet rag that gigantic hands were wringing out. While learning to mix flapjack batter, she could barely attend Patrick’s instructions. Later, when he led her to the henhouse, she was so distracted that she barely even noticed the pecks of the chickens or the horrid green yuck on the eggs. When the hogs clambered into their trough as she poured slop from a bucket into their feeding chute, she didn’t even flinch. In that moment, she almost wished the horrid beasts would break through the wire and trample her to death.
Faith’s employer kindly excused her from the milking that morning, saying she might be overwhelmed if he threw too much at her the first day. As a result, she was left to tidy the kitchen while he went to the barn. She managed to heat water on the stove, and then she and Charity experienced for the first time the joys of washing, rinsing, and drying dishes.
“This isn’t so bad, Maman.”
Faith had to agree. Under any other circumstances, she might have found the task relaxing. As it was, she could think of little else but the coming night. Once she visited Patrick’s bedchamber, there would be no turning back.
What have I done? In her wildest imaginings, Faith had never dreamed she might come to this. She was a kept woman now, the lowest of the low. Patrick O’-Shannessy would expect her to warm his bed tonight, and rightly so. That was their bargain, after all. And no matter how she circled it, she knew she was extremely fortunate that he’d made the offer. Better to suffer the attentions of one man than dozens.
I’m lucky, she kept telling herself. He was a handsome man, and he kept himself clean, donning fresh clothes each morning and washing up several times a day. His breath wouldn’t smell of tobacco and whiskey, there was no grime under his fingernails, and for all his rough manners, he seemed to be a kind man.
In her present circumstances, she should be grateful that he even wanted her in his bed. She had it on good authority from her late husband that she lacked the voluptuous curves that pleased a man’s eye. Harold had also given her poor marks as a lover, often chiding her for an unsatisfactory performance. As awful as that had been, she had lived through it.
And she would live through this as well, she assured herself. After Charity fell asleep each night, she would visit her employer’s bedchamber, allow him to do his business, and then creep back to her own room. Charity need never know, and perhaps one day, when Faith had put this place far behind her, she herself would be able to forget.
Chapter Six
That evening, after hearing Charity’s prayers and reading the child to sleep, Faith crept down the hall to prepare for her last and most distasteful duty of the day. By the soft glow of a lantern and with shaking hands, she ran a cool cloth over her nude body. Waves of sick dread washed through her when she thought of Patrick O’Shannessy’s hands following the path of the cloth, touching her in places only a husband should. Oh, God. She squeezed her eyes closed and prayed for strength.
It’ll be over with quickly, she assured herself repeatedly as she pulled on a nightgown, spent an inordinate amount of time brushing out her hair, and dabbed perfume behind her ears. She would simply tap on his door, slip inside the dark room, and join him in his bed. When he’d grunted his last grunt and collapsed beside her in a pool of sweat, she would be able to return to her own room and hopefully find oblivion in sleep.
She could do this. For her daughter’s sake, she would do this.
Patrick had just stripped off his shirt and loosened the top button of his Levi’s when he heard a light tap on his bedroom door. Bewildered, he stepped across the room and cracked open the portal to find Faith in the hallway. Without a word, she pushed her way inside, cast a disgruntled look at the lighted lantern, and softly closed the door behind her.
In that moment, Patrick knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever clapped eyes on. Her hair fell almost to her waist in wavy ripples of sable. Her sleeveless shift, though modestly made, revealed just enough flawless ivory skin to make his heart pound like a sledgehammer.
Her lovely eyes almost black with shame, she whispered, “I am here.”
For an instant, Patrick was sorely tempted to take what she offered. Only a strong sense of decency forestalled him. He retreated a step to put her beyond easy reach, rubbed a hand over his bare chest, and managed to choke out, “I’m sorry, honey, but I’m flat tuckered.” He feigned a yawn. “Maybe tomorrow night.”
She fixed him with an incredulous gaze. After staring up at him for several tense seconds, her eyes filled with tears. “It was never your intention to carry through with this, was it?”
“Shh,” he countered. “Don’t talk so loud. You’ll be waking Charity.”
Her chin started to quiver, and her mouth twisted. “It was a ruse to keep me here, nothing more.”
The way Patrick saw it, he had two choices, either confessing the truth or taking her to bed. “You’re not leaving,” he warned, his voice still pitched low. “If that’s what you’re thinking, get it straight out of your head. If I have to tie you to the bedpost, you and that child are staying right here.”
She cupped her slender hands over her face, and her shoulders started to jerk. For an instant, Patrick thought she was laughing. Then, to his horror, she dragged in a taut breath, making a sound like the shrill intake of a donkey right before it brayed. Awful sobs followed, the eruptions coming from so deep within her that he feared she would damage her insides.
“Faith,” he tried. Then, “Sweetheart?” Jesus H. Christ, she was going to wake Charity. “Faith? Hey?”
She made the donkey sound again, more loudly this time.
“Shh,” Patrick tried, to no avail. Not knowing what else to do, he gathered her into his arms and pressed her face against his chest to muffle the noise.
To his surprise, she went limp against him and continued to sob her heart out. Patrick had held his sister a few times while she cried, so he was no stranger to the ritual. He ran his hand into Faith’s hair, tightened his hold on her, and whispered nonsensical words of comfort while swaying to and fro. She felt right in his arms, he realized, as if she’d been made to fit, her head hitting him at the hollow of his shoulder, her breasts nestling sweetly just under his ribs.
When she finally quieted, she gave an exhausted sigh, turned her head to press her damp cheek over his heart, and closed her eyes.
“You lied to me, Mr. O’Shannessy,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry. It seemed like the thing to do at the time.”
“No, no, I don’t mean about that. You told me”—her voice went thin and shaky again—“that you weren’t a gentleman.”
Patrick mentally circled that. Before he could collect his thoughts to reply, she added, “You are, without question, a gentleman, sir—the finest that I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet.”
Patrick didn’t much care about how he stacked up as a gentleman. “Just say you’ll stay here, Faith.”
“It’s unfair to you,” she squeaked. “I’m completely useless, even”—brok
en sob—“at this.”
“At this?” Patrick wasn’t sure what she meant.
“Yes. You know.” She flapped a hand at the bed. “I’m not fleshy the way men like, and I am completely inept as a lover. Harold said so.”
“Harold?”
“My late husband,” she said with a sniff, prompting Patrick to fish in his pocket for a handkerchief.
“Here, sweetheart.” When she took the square of cloth and gave it a peering look, he quickly added, “It’s clean.”
She blew her nose with far more daintiness than she had exhibited while crying, which made him smile. Of all the sounds he might have expected this lady to make, last on the list was the first half of a donkey bray.
After dabbing under her eyes, she hauled in a shaky breath, gulped, and cut him an embarrassed glance with tear-swollen eyes. “You must think me a complete flibbertigibbet.”
“Nah.” He thought she was far too beautiful for her own good, and possibly his as well. “I think you’ve been through a hell of a time and finally just sprang a leak. Everybody needs a good cry sometimes.”
As he spoke, he led her over to sit on the edge of his bed. To his surprise, she slumped onto the mattress, let her head fall back, and sighed wearily as she closed her eyes. She was so lovely, even with swollen eyes and a puffy mouth, that it took all of his control not to touch her again.
“Everyone should have at least one talent,” she whispered. “What is mine?”
Patrick curled his hands over his knees and bit down hard on his back teeth. He could think of several things she might be good at, but he refrained from naming them. “You helped make butter today. And you gathered eggs and slopped the hogs.”
She smiled, straightened, and lifted her long, wet lashes to give him a wondering look that made his bones feel like pudding. “I did, didn’t I?”
“Before you know it, you’ll be a fine housekeeper.” Forcing his mind to more practical concerns, Patrick considered the situation. “I’ll tell you what. If you’re really that concerned about this arrangement being fair to me, you can work without pay until you’ve learned how to do everything. In the meantime, you’ll be helping out enough around here to earn your room and board.”
Tears sprang to her eyes again.
“Don’t cry.” He’d always felt panicky when women cried. Why, he didn’t know, but there it was.
She shook her head and blinked. “Normally I’m not given to weeping, Mr. O’Shannessy. It’s just that you’re such a surprise.”
“Not a dock ruffian, after all?”
She smiled tremulously. “No, not a dock ruffian. How will I ever repay you for your kindness?”
Again, he could think of several ways, which he immediately banished from his mind. He had asked her to remain here to save her from lechery, not to subject her to it. “You can start by calling me Patrick. I don’t much like my surname.”
“Why ever not? It’s a lovely surname.”
The question sobered him and helped to get his mind off the way her breasts thrust against her shift. “It came from my father, and he was a bastard.”
“There’s so much pain in your voice when you speak of him. Whatever did he do to make you hate him so?”
Patrick chucked her under the chin and pushed up from the bed. “We can tell each other our life stories another time. It’s late.” He gave her a slow grin. “When there is time to talk, I’ll be particularly interested to hear how you ended up married to a blind man.”
“Harold wasn’t blind.”
“Oh, yes, he was, darlin’, stone blind, and stupid to boot.”
In the not so distant past, Faith never would have thought it possible for her to become friends with a man like Patrick O’Shannessy. But that was exactly what transpired over the next month. They met before dawn in the kitchen each morning to prepare breakfast, he the teacher, she the student, and always, always, the lessons were fun. Patrick showed her how to crack an egg using only one hand, a feat that she never mastered. He also tried to show her how to flip a flapjack high into the air. When Faith tried to do it, everyone dived for cover.
“Darlin’,” he said after retrieving a half-cooked flapjack from the kitchen floor and tossing it into the slop bucket, “the idea is to land it in the skillet.”
Faith wondered how he could expect her to learn much of anything when he always looked so distractingly wonderful. Freshly scrubbed and shaven, in clean jeans and a work shirt, with his wavy hair still damp from the washbasin, Patrick O’Shannessy was enough to make any female’s heart skip beats. Sometimes when their hands accidentally touched, Faith’s fingertips felt electrified. At other times, the husky timbre of his voice near her ear set her heart to pounding so loudly that she felt certain he might hear it.
After breakfast each morning, they adjourned outdoors, where Faith learned about the goings-on in a barnyard. Charity was not excluded during Faith’s training.
“Someday, sweetheart, you’ll need to know how to milk a cow,” Patrick pronounced, and the next thing Faith knew, her little girl was sitting on a tripod. “Excellent!” Patrick said when Charity succeeded at the task. “I’ll make a country girl out of you yet.”
It was Faith who proved to be a slow learner. Unlike her daughter, city ways had been ingrained in her for a full twenty-two years. She trembled with fright the first few times she went near a cow. Eggs covered with green excrement made her gorge rise. The hogs intimidated her. And, after encountering a snake one afternoon, she ran into the house and refused to come out again.
“Honey, it was only a harmless garden snake,” Patrick assured her.
“A snake is a snake is a snake!”
Faith couldn’t gather the courage to go back outdoors until evening, whereupon Patrick schooled her in identifying serpents while they milked the cows. “The only dangerous snakes we have in these parts are rattlesnakes,” he assured her, “and they’re real good about warning you before they bite. Also bear in mind that they’re more scared of you than you are of them.”
Faith seriously doubted that. Even so, she found herself falling in love, not only with the man but with his ranch as well. Living with Patrick was like being released from prison. Back east, she’d had to concern herself with appearances her every waking moment. Ladies dressed in a certain way. Ladies walked in a certain way. Ladies spoke in a certain way. Rules governed every occasion.
In Colorado, Faith could forget all that, and she felt gloriously free for the first time in her life. She could go for long walks with her daughter to pick wildflowers in the heat of the day, unconcerned about the sweat that filmed her brow or the freckles that might appear on her nose. She could snort when she laughed. She could yell when she grew angry. She could even strip off her shoes and stockings to go wading in a stream without fear of reprisal.
To her surprise, she didn’t mind the hard work that came with her newfound freedom. She felt a wonderful sense of accomplishment when each day was done. She actually liked to cook, once she got the hang of it. Making butter and cheese proved to be easy. She soon grew relaxed around the barnyard animals. And there was nothing so satisfying as to stand inside Patrick’s home, feeling proud as punch because every room was sparkling clean.
That wasn’t to say that she never made mistakes. One morning Patrick entered the kitchen in a shirt that hung from his torso in tatters. “Stub your toe when you were putting in the lye?” he asked.
Faith was horrified. She rushed across the kitchen, gathered some of the shirt material in her fingers, and gasped in dismay when it fell apart at her touch. “Oh, Patrick, I’m ever so sorry.”
“No matter. I needed new shirts, anyway.” He gave her a mischievous grin. “Tomorrow we’ll go into town and buy some yardage.” He glanced down at her threadbare dress, his gaze lingering overlong on the bodice. “It’s high time that you and Charity had some decent dresses, as well.”
“But I can’t sew!”
“You can learn.”
True
to his word, Patrick hitched up the wagon the next afternoon, and off the three of them went to town. En route, his arm frequently grazed Faith’s, scrambling her thoughts and making her acutely aware of him on the seat beside her. Though she tried to keep her gaze fixed straight ahead, she found herself admiring his muscular forearms, displayed to best advantage by his rolled-back shirtsleeves, his thick, masculine wrists, and his large, capable hands.
What would it be like, she wondered, to have those hands touching her?
“It’s a gorgeous day, isn’t it?”
Faith jumped with a guilty start and blinked the countryside back into focus. “Yes, it’s lovely,” she agreed.
He slipped her an amused glance that made her wonder if he could somehow read her mind. The very thought made her cheeks go hot with mortification. Taking herself firmly in hand, she forced her mind onto the shopping trip that lay ahead.
After purchasing the fabric, Patrick took Faith and Charity for ice cream, a treat that Faith had despaired of ever enjoying again.
“Yum!” Charity said as she licked her spoon. “I could eat this all day.”
Faith couldn’t help but smile. “It is delicious. Thank you, Patrick.”
He glanced over just as she touched her tongue to the ice cream perched on her spoon, and his eyes, normally a deep, twinkling azure, went as hot as the blue base of a flame. “You’re welcome,” he replied in a gravelly voice.
Faith quickly broke visual contact, but not before her hands went suddenly clumsy, causing her to drop her spoon on the floor. When she bent to retrieve it, Patrick did as well, and their heads bumped, making white stars flash before her eyes.
“Oh, damn, I’m sorry.” He reached out to steady her, his hand curling over her upper arm. Faith jumped at his touch as if it had burned her. “Are you all right?”
