The Blessed Bride

by Lynn Winchester

  When the wagon train inched its way through the Truckee Pass, she’d joined with a family headed to Culloma, where they’d hoped to settle and find their fortune selling goods to miners. In Culloma, she asked four separate men about her da, and one of them—thank God—had remembered him. He’d pointed her northeast. And so, she’d gone northeast, purchasing a seat on a supplies wagon headed to another gold rush town. And now, she had no idea where she was—all she knew was that she was exhausted, frustrated, angry, weary, wary, and just about ready to call down the wrath of God on her da. Despite all of that, and all she’d endured since her ma’s passing, she wasn’t ready to give up—O’Connor women never gave up. Perseverance—her da called it fierce, stubborn pride—was in her blood. That meant that no matter how far she had to go, no matter how many muddy mining towns with smelly, dirty men she had to trudge through, she would find him, knock some sense into his darned fool head, and make him come home with her.

  Home…that one word in a myriad of thoughts made her breath catch. There was no home to go home to, not in County Cork, anyway. She’d had to sell the cottage and everything in it for the money to follow her da. Everything was gone, and the money she’d gotten for selling all her memories and precious belongings was nearly all spent. She had but a few dollars left.

  Stark fear raced through her, but that didn’t matter now. All that mattered was finding him. After her ma’s death, her da had become inconsolable, as if the very light had been ripped from his soul—and it had been. He and her ma, Dianne, had been the beat and blood of each other’s hearts. It was clear that they loved each other deeply, and when her ma got sick…she’d tried to get home in time to be with her ma before the end, but she hadn’t made it. She swallowed the ball of tears forming in her throat, choking her. There was no point in crying, not now. Not yet.

  If not now, when? When I am lyin’ in a heap, beggin’ ta die? When I am starvin’ and beggin’ in the streets? When I am captured by Indians and slowly peeled like a potato? As if someone cut the ropes holding her upright, the weight of all she’d endured and the realization of the utter hopelessness of her circumstances crashed down on her. The carpetbag in her hand felt like it contained bricks rather than the one dress, her underthings, a brush, and her last remaining keepsakes; a cameo her mother had willed her, and the letter her da had written to her, telling her of his plans.

  His plans to completely uproot his life and lead her on a devastating chase across America.

  She looked up, taking in where she was, and what she was doing. She was in the middle of a muddy street, surrounded by strangers, in a town she’d never seen before, in a place she’d never been before…and she only had two dollars to her name. Tis yer own fault.

  Her breath caught, and she barely held back the sob pleading for escape. What have I done?

  The sound of a woman’s laugh stole through her mind. Startled, Pati couldn’t help but seek out the source of the high, throaty sound. She turned toward a low building on the same side of the street. There, standing outside what looked to be a saloon, chatting with a well-dressed man with a long, white beard, wide smile, and wizened face, was a short, plump woman with the most outrageously-colored red hair Pati had ever seen.

  The building itself was unremarkable; a single wooden sign, painted with red lettering—SALOON. Dark wood slats made up the walls, a single opening stood to the far right of the street-facing wall, and there were two door-sized shutters flush up against the walls on each side of the opening, more than likely a crude security system to keep out the riff-raff during non-business hours. Pati had seen the like in several of the towns she’d passed through. This saloon wasn’t much different from those, either, except those didn’t have that scarlet-haired “lady” standing outside them, gathering looks and surprisingly welcome grins and greetings from passersby.

  Unable to stop staring, Pati walked closer, almost transfixed by the short, scarlet woman. Other than her hair, she appeared respectable enough. Her face didn’t have the usual layers of paint Pati had seen on other saloon “girls”, and she was wearing a wool dress, complete with hoops, in a rich brown that rivaled the color of her da’s favorite whiskey.

  The woman turned, catching Pati staring. But rather than the sneer Pati had been expecting for her rudeness, the woman grinned and waved her over. Curiosity—another O’Connor women trait—reared its potentially dangerous head, and she couldn’t stop her feet from moving in the woman’s direction. Raising her skirts, she stepped up onto the slat-board front stoop, and stopped just in front of the woman and the older man.

  “Pardon me, I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just that I’ve never seen hair quite so red before,” Pati remarked as politely as she could—though, with the woman’s kind smile, it wasn’t all that difficult to be polite.

  The woman’s smile broadened, and the man beside her began to wheeze—no, it was laughter. The man was laughing. Coughing to hide her surprise, Pati met the woman’s gaze.

  “No need to ‘pologize to me. I ain’t never heard an accent like yers before,” the woman replied, her brown eyes sparkling. “Name’s Eleanor, but you can call me, Ellie. I own the best saloon in Blessings.” She laughed, and Pati raised an eyebrow.

  Blessings. That was the name of the town? What an odd choice for such a small town out in the middle of the mountains. Pati looked behind her at the clapboard buildings, the muddy street, the sky overhead, threatening enough rain to flood the place. If this place was called Blessings, she’d hate to see Curses. Surprised at her own mean, awful thoughts, she felt the heat rise into her cheeks. Unfortunately, she couldn’t hide her face and still hold a conversation with these two rather intriguing people. She turned back, seeing the old man’s incredulous expression.

  “You own the only saloon in Blessings, Ellie, and this young lady’s accent is right charmin’,” the old man said, winking, his bright hazel eyes glimmering. “Where you from, young lady, and what brings you here to Blessings?”

  “I’m from Ireland, so my accent is…a bit of a bother to most, I suppose.” Flushed, she bit her lips to keep from apologizing for being Irish. She wasn’t ashamed.

  The old man waved away her words. “You don’t sound like an Irish to me. You sound like one o’ those right snappy Englanders, always goin’ on about us Yanks.” The man’s voice held a note of humor, and Pati found herself smiling.

  “I do suppose I sound like a snappy Englander…I attended school in London,” she offered. She didn’t know why she’d shared even that much about herself.

  “And what brings you from London?” the man asked, saying London as two separate words.

  “I’m looking for my da, Liam O’Connor,” she answered, hoping against hope that this man had heard of her da and that her da was still there.

  The desire to throttle her pater was nigh overwhelming.

  The man arched two white eyebrows in an expression of surprise. “Liam O’Connor, you say?”

  Again, hope fluttered against her ribcage. “Aye. Do ye know him?” She’d easily slipped into her natural accent when she became overly emotional, like now when the possibility of her long, arduous quest coming to an end was within reach. Please, let him be here…

  The woman, Ellie, tsked. “He’s been here,” she said. Pati’s heart flew into her throat, even as tears of relief formed in her eyes.

  “He has? Is he still here?”

  “He has a shanty, just on the other side of town, near the creek that comes down from the river,” the bearded man answered.

  Unable to believe what he’d said, Pati blinked to clear the sudden gathering of mist in her eyes. “He’s here?” Her voice came out in a pained whisper.

  The man nodded. “Far as I know. Come on, I’ll take you to him.” He indicated her bag, and Pati allowed him to take it from her trembling hands.

  Tears burning the back of her eyes, she grinned at the man. “Thank ye,” she said, her voice heavy with meaning, her heart light with a greater hope than she�
��d felt in ten months.

  Chapter 2

  Pete Jones rubbed his head, his fingers grazing the long scar along the left side, over his ruined ear, and down toward the back of his neck. It was a surprisingly thin scar, considering what it represented, and his dark hair, worn long, did a good job of hiding the scar and what remained of his ear—not that he went much of anywhere without his hat.

  Tipping his head back, he stared up at the treetops, swaying in the wind, like long grasses left to the mercy of a coming storm. And the storm was coming. The sky above the trees was a menacing smoke gray, with clouds that looked as angry as they did fierce. Another late spring storm, right before the punishing dry heat of summer settled in. The storm-whipped breeze hit his face, and be breathed it in—the scent of coming rain, the smell of moist earth, and the strange energy he always got when something was on the horizon.

  “Another downpour on the way,” he said, turning to see two of his men, approaching on their horses.

  Ben Baird and his brother, Reuben, dismounted, tying their reins to the post just outside the mine security office, where Pete Jones made his home in a small back room. They would return for their horses after their patrol of the Western Mine. Pete would then ride his own horse, Drifter, to the Brandy Mine, and then on to the Eastern Mine, and finally, the Southern Mine, which was really along the same side of the mountain, just a little lower in elevation.

  “Rain? I guess that means we’ll be eating at Ellie’s tonight,” Reuben said, his brown eyes filling with excitement. For some reason, the fool had a bit of a crush on the saloon-owning, gun-toting, scarlet-haired widow. Didn’t matter to Pete none, though. As long as Reuben’s predilections for brightly-colored “birds” didn’t interfere with his work, Pete didn’t care if Reuben married the woman.

  Ben grunted. “What we need to do is get the stove pipe in our cabin fixed so we don’t have to keep spending our hard-earned money on chipped beef and hard biscuits. Also, I’m getting tired of waking up to wet boots.” For more than a week, the Baird brothers had been complaining about the hole in their stove pipe that let in the rain from the roof, and the smoke from the stove. It would’ve been an easy fix if either of them took the initiative to order the new pipe. While they both agreed the one who broke it should fix it, they couldn’t agree on who’d broken it. Apparently, there’d been a scuffle over a winning hand during a friendly card game between brothers…

  It was Reuben’s turn to grunt. “It ain’t Ellie’s fault her food ain’t good. And besides, just ‘cuz her food ain’t good doesn’t mean I can’t like her company.”

  Ben rolled his eyes and rubbed his face. “Tell you what, you eat at Ellie’s, and Pete and I will see if Missus Millie has a place at her table for us,” he said, his brown eyes dancing just as his brother’s had over Miss Ellie—but for two different reasons. Where Reuben wanted to spend more time with Ellie, Ben just wanted to eat the best food in town—shoot, so did Pete.

  “Well, supper ain’t for another six hours, Ben, Reuben, so I suggest we get back to work and earn whatever food lands in our bellies this evening.” Pete tipped the brim of his hat up as he stepped from the low porch. His boots made no sound as he moved around the back of the two room cabin several dozen yards outside the clearing Atherton Winslet made to separate his mines from the surrounding forest. He said it helped him keep a better eye on his holdings. Also, the trees went to good use in making boards for the buildings and firewood for cooking fires—and for heat when winter settled in and the temperatures came down close to freezing a man to his horse.

  Eager to get back to work after his short lunch of dried beef and biscuits—made by his own hands, thank you very much—he picked up the pace, trying to make the short walk to the Western Mine so he could make his rounds and get on with his day. That just meant more rounds of the other three mines on this side of the river. Stepping around roots, ducking beneath branches heavy with water-logged needles, Pete kept up the pace. Focus. It was what made him tick. It was what helped keep his mind on now and not then. Not then…

  Shaking his head to clear the snail trails of memories from the forefront of his mind, he let out a deep breath and sucked in more of that crisp, storm-charged air. He hoped it would clear his thoughts, letting him push through today. And tomorrow. And the day after.

  Following behind him, the Baird brothers continued to bicker back and forth in low murmurs. Pete didn’t care much about what was said as long as they didn’t come to blows in front of the miners. Pete didn’t tolerate raucous men in his employ, and he especially didn’t appreciate it when the miners took it upon themselves to get rowdy. Mr. Winslet liked a quiet, peaceful town, full of hardworking men and women, just trying to make their own fortunes. The old man had struck it rich, and was now giving other men the opportunity to do the same…for a share of what they found in his mountain, of course. And because Mr. Winslet wanted a peaceful town, it was up to Pete Jones and his small band of five, well-armed, well-trained men to keep the miners in line, and the mines secure. The Bairds were his newest hires; two young, tall, broad-shouldered brothers from Ohio, who heard about gold in California but were more interested in the adventure. So they settled for being mine guards instead of miners. Pete wouldn’t put up with them and their shenanigans if they weren’t two of the best fighters he’d ever seen; quick on their feet, with fists so mean they could make a man’s face crumple in one blow. They were an asset to him and Mr. Winslet’s interests—when they weren’t fighting each other. Though, it didn’t do them any good when he kept having to remind himself of why he kept them around.

  A loud “ow” and an angry hiss sounded from behind him. He looked over his shoulder to find Reuben holding his forehead with the palm of his hand, and Ben trying hard not to laugh. Pete stopped.

  “What’s going on with you two?” he asked, wondering if it was too late to send the men back to the cabin so he could do his rounds without their knuckleheaded antics.

  Ben shrugged. “Reuben here needs to watch where he’s walking. Some of them tree branches got shook loose during the last storm, and are hanging low. Careful, Pete, you might walk right into one, too,” he said, his lips curling in a teasing grin.

  Pete didn’t smile back. “I wish you two would act more like employees of Winslet Mining and less like two babies babbling over dirty nappies.” He knew he was being a tad high-handed, but he just couldn’t help himself with these brothers. They reminded him too much of his own brothers, Simon and Titus, two of the most annoying yet endearing men he’d ever known. At least, that was before he returned home from the war…

  Ben ducked his head, trying to hide the flush that rose into his face. At least he had the mind to feel guilty, whereas Reuben’s chin tipped up and his eyes snapped with fire. “Now see here, Pete, me and Ben are just being brotherly, ain’t no harm in having a little fun while we work.”

  Taking care to keep his hands steady, Pete slipped his hand to the holster on his right hip. His fingers moved with years of instinct to the handle of his Colt, one of two he’d had for more than eight years.

  “Fun? Will it be fun when you’re blindsided by a man looking to rid you of your weapon?” Pete asked, his voice about as heavy as the tension in the air.

  Reuben blinked then narrowed his eyes, his lips thinning. “Ain’t no man ever going to take my weapon,” he snapped.

  Ben stepped forward, his face still flushed, but with anger not embarrassment. “Mine neither,” he added.

  Silently, Pete watched the brothers’ expressions, the fire in their similar brown eyes, the squaring of their jaws, the determined, hard set of their shoulders.

  Arching an eyebrow, he slowly nodded. “Good.” With that, he turned back around and continued on to the first mine on this second patrol of the day.

  “He’s not here…” Pati felt the dirt floor of the tiny shanty shift beneath her feet, and she barely caught herself before she fell into the old man who’d brought her there. “He’s not here…”
She shuddered, her mind running wild. Had he been attacked? Had he wandered off into the forest and gotten lost? Had he died and some blackguard stolen all his belongings?

  Get a hold of yerself, ye ninny! She closed her eyes, willing her galloping mind and heart to rein in. Her da wasn’t there, but that didn’t mean something bad had happened to him. More than likely, he’d been bitten by the urge to move on, had packed up his meager belongings, and went on his way without letting anyone know where to find him. It’s what he’d done in every town since leaving Philadelphia. The only reason she’d known where to follow him was that people everywhere she went gave her information. She’d somehow found the one person in town who’d interacted with her da. It was as if the Lord were leaving bread crumbs for her to follow. Also, her da was a hard man to forget; his accent, his head of wild, red hair, and his penchant for getting into trouble were all beacons that drew attention. She didn’t mind that about him, though. While it was a reason for woe at home in County Cork, it was the very thing that currently kept her moving forward, from town to town.

  Across a country she’d never wanted to experience before, but had now seen more of than any one woman should in her lifetime.

  “Well…” the old man began, and Pati blinked, clearing the fog from her vision and her mind. She turned to meet the man’s apologetic gaze. “Looks like he might’ve hightailed it out of here.”

  Pati lifted her face and let her gaze drift around the tiny, one room shanty where her da had been. She’d heard these shanties were no more than four walls and a roof, but she’d never expected to find absolutely nothing inside one.

  “There’s nothing here. How do you know he even stayed here?” she asked, anger taking hold of her tone. “It doesn’t look like anyone has ever lived here.” The room was barren, not a cot, or shelf, or even a piece of rubbish had been left behind. There was no way her da would have lived in such a desolate place.