by Lisa Plumley
“Oh. I see.” Daisy pondered that, appearing to consider his revelations. She nodded. “Yes, that does sound pretty bad.”
Despite his purposeful ruination of his own reputation—at least in Daisy’s eyes—Owen felt crestfallen. But he couldn’t allow Daisy to believe he was a better man than he deserved. He nodded in acknowledgment, not yet finished with cataloguing his indiscretions. “It was bad. I’ve worked faro tables for easy money, pickpocketed crowds in Baltimore, had affairs—”
“You already mentioned that one.”
“—with more women than I should have, all in the name of enjoying myself as much as possible.” Still feeling ashamed of that behavior, Owen looked away. “Some of those women, I probably broke their hearts,” he admitted roughly. “That’s what I’m most sorry for. If I could take it back, I would.”
“I’ll bet those women wouldn’t want it that way.” Daisy brushed her fingers over the glossy green leaves of the strawberry plants, her expression full of quixotic dreaminess. “I’ll bet they still treasure whatever time you had together.”
Well, at least he’d never gotten one of those women with child, Owen thought in his own defense. At least he’d never left one of his former paramours to fend for herself, in Daisy’s dire circumstances. Certainly, he’d never abandoned someone he’d cared for—no matter how little time they’d shared together. He’d never purposely hurt anyone, Owen knew. Whatever injured feelings he might have caused had been the result of immaturity and misunderstandings, rather than deliberate unkindness.
He was still doing his best to atone for that immaturity too, even after all these years…and all of Renée’s urgings.
“That’s a romantic view,” Owen said, “but it’s wrong. I made a lot of mistakes, Daisy. I’m still paying for them.”
Silently, Daisy gazed at him. She appeared to be taking in everything he’d said…everything he was. For one cowardly moment, Owen wished he hadn’t had to disillusion her. He wished he truly was the easily forgiven man Daisy seemed to believe he was. But the truth was far harsher than that. Owen could never have the forgiveness he longed for, because Renée was gone.
Renée hadn’t lived to see Owen redeemed. That meant he could never be forgiven…not for any of his youthful mistakes.
Finally Daisy spoke. “You’ve done good things too, Owen. You’ve established a thriving stable business. You’ve earned the respect of your friends and neighbors in Morrow Creek. You’ve raised Élodie all by yourself.” Tenderly, she took his hand. “You’ve taken in a worried young woman and made her happy.”
Owen shook his head. He couldn’t believe it.
“You’re a good man,” Daisy insisted. “I can see it. Élodie can see it. Everyone in town can see it!” With apparent frustration, she squeezed his hand. “Do you think I would have consented to stay with just any man who won that raffle?”
She had him there. “No,” Owen admitted grudgingly.
“See?”
“Just ‘any man’ might not have made such good toast.”
At that, Daisy laughed. The sound of her laughter made Owen’s whole body feel looser. Could Daisy be right? Could she, as an outsider in Morrow Creek, see things that he could not?
Could Daisy see that he wasn’t beyond redemption?
Filled with foolhardy hope, Owen boasted, “I know how much you love my toast. It’s the best in four counties, at least.”
“At least,” Daisy agreed. “And just for the record, I think Élodie was pulling my leg before. Because you’ve smiled at me far too much for me to believe it’s an infrequent occurrence.”
Soberly Owen shook his head. He didn’t want to remember what his daughter had said over breakfast. He didn’t want to admit that it was true. But since he was a former scoundrel, he said, “Élodie believes it. She believes she never sees me smile.”
And I don’t know if it’s true or not. He hoped not.
“Well.” For a long moment, Daisy merely looked at him. Then she said, “If that was true once, it’s not true anymore.”
Owen shook his head. “You’re too kind, Daisy. I hope—”
I hope you’re happy…with Conrad, he intended to say.
Instead, his daughter saved him from making another foolish misstep. From the creek bank, Élodie waved to him and Daisy.
“Oh, come quick!” Élodie yelled, fresh-faced and possessed of muddy skirts. “I think I found a frog! You’ve got to see it!”
Daisy went on looking at him expectantly, obviously waiting for him to tell her what he hoped for. But Owen only shrugged.
“We can’t miss a frog.” He held out his hand for Daisy to grasp, lifted them both to a standing position, then called out to his little girl, “We’re on our way, Élodie! We’ll be right there.” With tardy concern, Owen glanced at Daisy. “Will you be all right? Be very careful on the rocks. Don’t slip.”
“I’ll be fine,” Daisy assured him. She waved to Élodie. She tugged Owen’s hand—this time, apparently, determined to lead him. “I’m not the least bit worried, as long as we’re together.”
For one reckless moment, Owen agreed. Then, before his good sense could return, he led Daisy to the creek, where—exactly as reported—they found a frog. And maybe, Owen couldn’t help hoping, he and Daisy had found a whole lot more, besides…
Chapter Eighteen
Seated snugly in Owen Cooper’s bachelor living quarters, Thomas Walsh gazed at his sister in warm bemusement. When he’d made plans to meet her there, on her seventh day in Morrow Creek, he’d never expected to stumble upon such a scene of domestic bliss. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn that Daisy, Élodie and the laconic Owen Cooper were a proper family.
“I’ve never seen you appear so content!” Marveling at her, Thomas accepted a cup of the lemonade she offered him. “Not even when we were younger, back home in New York City. It seems that tutoring students in the arts of home economics and cookery suits you. Either that,” Thomas elaborated with a grin, “or Mr. Cooper has already worked his magnificent charm on you.”
At his joke—for Thomas could imagine no man less conventionally charming than tough, unsociable Owen Cooper—a peculiar silence fell in the room. Daisy glanced at Owen. The stableman scowled fearsomely at Thomas. Then Élodie grinned.
“I think it must be the second one you mentioned, Mr. Walsh,” Élodie piped up. “Because Papa is ever so charming!”
At her girlish avowal, Daisy seemed to find her voice.
“Yes, he is that, isn’t he, Élodie? Here, Thomas. Have a jumble to go with your lemonade,” she urged him. Appearing flustered, she aimed the plate in his direction. “Élodie and I baked them just this morning, especially for your visit.”
Gratefully, Thomas accepted a cookie. The sweets smelled delicious. They tickled his senses with spices, molasses and dried fruit, proving Daisy’s expertise—and his own wisdom in promoting her skills via his newspaper editorials and raffle.
“Thank you, Daisy. These certainly do look wonderful!” Miss Reardon said as she, too, accepted a cookie. “Look at that! You’ve even arranged the plate so prettily, with a doily.”
“I crochet them,” Daisy explained. “I’d be pleased to show you how to do it. The pattern is a snap of the fingers.”
“Oh, yes, please,” Miss Reardon said. “That would be nice.”
Thomas smiled at her, delighted that his sister and Mellie were getting along so well. Mellie had agreed to accompany him when he’d slipped away from the Pioneer Press offices today. On their way to the Coopers’, he and Mellie had encountered Miss O’Neill too, her arms laden with her customary weekly delivery—two bundles of clean laundry, a set of stiffly starched linens and several jars of her personal specialty: spiced apple butter.
With a natural hostess’s skill, Daisy made the rounds of their assembled company, chatting and offering jumbles. For a few moments, the only sounds heard were moans of gustatory pleasure, including his own. It was, Thomas thought, quite bold to be maki
ng such sounds in mixed company, but he couldn’t help himself. His sister and Élodie’s cookies were just that good.
“Mmm. These are scrumptious, Daisy! And Élodie,” he said.
“Thank you! Papa helped us bake them!” the girl enthused. She directed a broad, proud grin at her father. “He stoned the raisins himself. Then he pounded the nuts with a hammer.”
“With…a hammer?” Thomas blinked. “Truly?”
Owen stiffened. “It seemed expedient,” he growled.
The ladies seemed to consider this revelation, doubtless imagining the stableman clobbering the stuffing out of a pile of nutmeats. Protectively, Thomas moved nearer to Miss Reardon.
“Yes, I had to admire Owen’s…unorthodox approach. It worked a trick, I must say. Lickety-split, too.” Staunchly, Daisy took her place beside Owen, as though to defend him. “Besides, I’m learning that things are done a bit differently out west.”
“Yes, they are.” Owen nodded, seeming—to Thomas’s relief—far less inclined to pound anything else for a while. The stableman gazed up at Daisy. “But your good results can’t be denied. I’ve never tasted a more delectable sweet in my life.”
At his praise, Daisy beamed, her cheeks a delicate pink.
Even more strangely, Owen almost…smiled back at her.
But that couldn’t be, Thomas mused, trading a puzzled glance with Miss Reardon. Everyone knew that taciturn Owen Cooper did not smile. He did not laugh. He did not suffer fools gladly, and he did not—ordinarily—entertain guests in his home.
Evidently, Daisy had changed some, if not all, of those things. After all, there were four of them currently visiting, if Daisy were included among them. That meant that lonesome Owen Cooper was entertaining guests in his home. Not only that, but the man was currently mooning at Daisy, too. The two of them appeared more like cooing lovebirds than tutor and host, Thomas realized. At this rate, Owen Cooper would be attending sociable events on a voluntary basis. But that was laughable. Wasn’t it?
Everyone knew Owen Cooper would rather pluck out his own toenails with blacksmith’s tongs than attend a soiree. He’d muttered something to that effect not two months ago, in fact.
“I hope you’re not finding our customs too strange for your liking, Miss Walsh,” Miss Reardon said, bringing Thomas back to the conversation at hand. “Sometimes our methods aren’t ideal, but that’s what happens when you’re forced to make do. My own family originated from the East, you know. It’s been a challenge, at times, to orient ourselves to the territory.”
“Actually, I like it here, more than I expected,” Daisy said. “If not for…other matters, I could happily settle here.”
Alerted by her odd tone, Thomas wondered what matters she spoke of. As far as he knew, his sister had been eager to leave New York City for other experiences. That’s what she’d written in her letters to him, at least. “You mean if not for your ongoing speaking-engagements tour?” he asked. That must be it. “But that’s easily settled! When your tour is finished, you can come back to Morrow Creek to write your next cookery book.”
“Yes, do!” Miss Reardon agreed. “That’s a lovely idea!”
Smiling, she and Thomas glanced at Miss O’Neill, expecting her to agree. Instead, the laundress gazed at Owen Cooper, her expression dreamy and her soap-roughened hands slack in her lap.
Miss Reardon noticed Miss O’Neill’s expression too. “Isn’t that right, Abbey?” she prompted her friend. “Wouldn’t it be nice if Miss Walsh came back to Morrow Creek sometime soon?”
Miss O’Neill blinked. She frowned. “Indeed. So nice.”
Daisy seemed to notice Miss O’Neill’s distractedness, too. She glanced from Abbey to Owen, then back again. She frowned.
Peculiarly, Daisy glanced down at herself next, seeming displeased. Perhaps that was because she was wearing one of the dresses Miss Reardon had lent her, Thomas decided. Doubtless the garment had looked lovelier when worn by its original owner.
In fact, on Daisy, that dress appeared downright snug, Thomas saw, especially in the midsection. As though conscious of that fact, Daisy rubbed her palm over her belly. She sighed.
But then, perhaps he was biased in Miss Reardon’s favor, Thomas thought with another smile at his companion. If only he knew how to dazzle Miss Reardon with wit, or charm her with masculine allure. But if there were anyone more hopeless than himself in such matters, Thomas didn’t know who it might be.
Even Owen Cooper, for all his intimidating and unsociable ways, had the skill to set the ladies aflutter. Thomas had seen it himself, although he still couldn’t fathom the reason for it.
Perhaps one had to be a woman to discern the stableman’s apparent magic, though. Because Miss O’Neill went directly back to her spoony expression, right on cue. As though in living proof of Cooper’s magnetism, she gazed quite sappily at him—much to Daisy’s continued and obvious displeasure. Could his sister, it occurred to Thomas, possibly be jealous of Abbey O’Neill?
With new curiosity, Thomas examined the interplay between Daisy and Cooper. The two of them did appear uniquely attuned to one another, he observed. When Daisy wanted to set down her plate of jumbles, Cooper seemed to realize her dilemma and moved immediately to relieve her of her burden. Daisy, upon receiving his help, smiled in girlish appreciation. Then, Thomas would be blasted if Owen Cooper didn’t smile at Daisy again.
As though doing so came quite naturally to her, Daisy turned next to Élodie. She fussed with one of the little girl’s braids, adjusted the ribbon that tied it with maternal care, then tickled Élodie beneath her chin. The two females, young and old, traded smiles. Mutual fondness was evident in their gazes.
Thomas gawked, scarcely able to believe his eyes. Was this merely a display of Daisy’s homemaking aplomb? Or had something more…monumental occurred while she’d been boarding with the Coopers? For his money, Thomas believed it was the latter.
What had he unleashed with his raffle now? He understood the power of the press, but this was…ridiculous.
“Well, I’d say you’re a natural fit here in Morrow Creek, Daisy.” Deftly, Miss Reardon steered their conversation in a new direction. “And at Mr. Cooper’s home, of course. I don’t think any of us have seen this place appear cozier or more welcoming. You’ve definitely given it a much-needed woman’s touch.”
“Thank you, Mellie! That’s so kind of you.” Daisy smiled. Casually, she dropped her hand to Owen’s shoulder. She gave him an affectionate squeeze. “I’ve been fortunate, though. I can’t take all the credit. Owen has given me free rein to do whatever I want with his home while I’m here, so I don’t have to limit myself to cooking and speaking, the way I usually do. I can decorate and sew and add little homey touches here and there—”
Daisy went on speaking, describing some embroidery she’d done and spinning a funny yarn about a strawberry pie she’d prepared that had especially pleased Owen Cooper, but Thomas couldn’t listen. All he could see, suddenly, was his sister’s innocent hand resting so familiarly on the stableman’s shoulder. All he could discern was the besotted way she looked at him. All he could hear was… Owen Cooper laughing over Daisy’s humorous tale.
At that incredible sound, everyone stilled. They gawked.
Everyone, that is, except Daisy. She seemed to accept Cooper’s until-now-unheard laughter as an ordinary occurrence.
Flummoxed, Thomas gaped at Miss Reardon. She frowned back at him, seeming as taken aback as he was. Even Miss O’Neill snapped from her reverie at the stableman’s rousing chuckle.
“Well,” she announced in a stilted tone, “all I can say is, Owen must be thrilled to have your expertise for his very own, Daisy! And to think—it’s all because of that raffle drawing.”
Miss O’Neill punctuated those last words by glaring daggers at Miss Reardon. She even tossed a dissatisfied look in Élodie’s direction. Thomas didn’t know what was going on, but it seemed plain that something remained unsaid between them—something to do with his recent and exce
ptionally successful raffle drawing.
“I hope you weren’t longing to win the drawing,” Thomas said, offering the likeliest commiseration he could think of. “I think we’d all agree that you don’t need any lessons, Abbey.”
“I certainly don’t!” Miss O’Neill raised her chin. “Why, my laundry delivery and prizewinning apple butter prove that.”
She gestured at the jars she’d brought with her, which were currently arrayed in a row on the table. Together with Thomas, everyone else looked at those jars, too. Miss Reardon did so politely. Owen did so blandly. Little Élodie did so hungrily.
And Daisy? Well, Daisy gazed at those jars of apple butter as though she wished they would explode and leave Miss O’Neill splattered with sticky sugariness and unsightly bits of apple.
Thomas had never known his sister to be even remotely unkind. Plainly, something had arisen between her and Abbey.
“Yes, thank you for those,” she told Miss O’Neill. “I’m not sure where we’ll put all of them, though. The pantry is already chockablock with apple butter. It’s quite remarkable, in fact.”
Miss O’Neill preened. “Well, I do like to keep Owen happy.”
“Yes.” Warily, Daisy eyed her. “So I’ve gathered.”
“After all,” Miss O’Neill continued, “he’s been on his own for so long now. He needs looking after in the worst way.”
“Well. Then it’s fortunate I’m here now,” Daisy returned ever so sweetly, “so I can make sure Owen has what he needs.”
“Oh, but…aren’t you here to tutor Élodie?”
“Yes, I am. Of course. And we’re having a wonderful time together too, but…” Daisy appeared stymied. She glanced to Owen for help, saw that the man of the house was oblivious to the drama being played out beneath his nose, then tried again. “But of course I want to make sure Owen is satisfied, too.”
