The Blessed Bride

by Lynn Winchester

  “Mr. Winslet…if there is nothing else, I’ll be on my way,” he ground out, his voice deeper than he’d expected.

  Mr. Winslet waved off Pete’s words. “Pssh, there’s no need to run off, ‘specially since I still have some questions for you.”

  Miss O’Connor pressed a hand to her cheek. “Oh my. I didn’t mean to interrupt you two. It’s just that Millie said I should come see you. She said you may have some information for me.”

  Pete didn’t miss the glimmer of interest and hope in her wide, expressive eyes. And he certainly didn’t miss the fact that his chest tightened—the breath-catching desire for her, this stranger, to look at him with such interest.

  You’re a fool, Peter Jones. You’ve always been a fool for a pretty face. And he had been…years ago. Back before he’d lost his soul to war. Now, he didn’t dare seek out the life he’d hoped to once have; a wife, children, a house on forty acres. What woman worth her bloomers would want to tie herself to a man with a ruined face, a stone heart, and a bitterness deeper than the marrow in his bones?

  “Peter Jones is a mutilated man…he turns my stomach just to look at him…”

  “Even with the money his father would offer, I wouldn’t marry him…not when he looks like what a bear spat out…”

  “So what if he fought in the Mexican War. He isn’t a hero to me…”

  He’d overheard it all. And he’d swallowed the scorn and the sneers. He’d turned his back on those who cared more for his looks than his service. The wall he’d built around his heart was made of steel, reinforced by the ugly words whispered in glittering ballrooms, and the ugly ruin of his own face. The urge to trace his scar made his fingers twitch.

  Mr. Winslet nodded in response to Miss O’Connor’s words. “I do have information for you,” he said, returning to his seat and indicating she should stand just in front of his desk. Miss O’Connor did as bid without a moment of hesitation.

  “I did some askin’ around this mornin’, and I found a man who said he’d spoken with your pa last week.”

  Miss O’Connor’s eyes widened further, her body stiffening as if preparing to spring forward and shake the man. “What did he say?” Her voice was high, her words rushed from her mouth in a single breath.

  “He said your pa got a gnat in his ear ‘bout workin’ in Sacramento, but that he had no idea what he was gonna do once he got there. The man, Mr. Lou Gaines, a miner on the same shift as your pa, said Liam O’Connor packed up everythin’ he owned and headed to Sacramento on a supply wagon, last week.”

  The pink of Miss O’Connor’s cheeks began to fade. “Sacramento? How far is that?”

  “Ninety-six miles,” Mr. Winslet answered. “But the journey ain’t what you should be worried ‘bout,” he continued.

  Pete watched as her breath hitched. He struggled against the urge to place a hand on her shoulder, to infuse her with a bit of his strength.

  Fool.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, her knuckles turning white where they gripped her carpetbag.

  Mr. Winslet sighed heavily, absently sliding his fingertips over a knot in a slat of his desk crate. “Sacramento is a big town, and big towns mean lots of people. If you don’t know where your pa was headed, it could take you weeks, months to find him…”

  Pete watched as the color drained from Miss O’Connor’s face, as if the meaning of Mr. Winslet’s words were slowly sinking in.

  “But…I don’t have the money to spend weeks or months looking for him,” she muttered, her voice a barren whisper.

  Mr. Winslet remained silent, his expression one of deep thought. Then—“Do you know how to cook, Miss O’Connor?”

  Chapter 7

  He’s daft! “Why do you ask,” she asked, her mind awhirl with other questions. How much money would it cost to rent rooms in Sacramento? How long could she go without a decent meal? How many more days, weeks, months, years would it take to finally catch up to her da?

  “Why, there’s many a man here who’d pay more’n twenty, thirty dollars for a meal cooked by a lovely lady.” Atherton leaned forward in his seat, the chair squeaking as he shifted. “Most of the men have left home, some of them left behind wives or mothers. They haven’t had a home-cooked meal in months. With dried beef, hard biscuits, and whatever Mosier brings into the mercantile, there is a right dearth of good, hearty food.”

  Intrigued by the idea, Pati took a moment to think on it. She could cook, had been making her own meals for years, but nothing one would consider…good. And especially not hearty. Oatmeal, mutton stew, roasted taters…she doubted the mercantile stocked mutton.

  Sighing, she came to a realization. “No. That isn’t an option.” Though the money would have been a Godsend. Twenty or thirty dollars for a single meal? It was unheard of…but she could understand why the men were willing to pay so much for something that would fill their bellies, and bring them a piece of the homes they left behind.

  The dark-eyed man, the one whose mouth never seemed to deviate from a thin line, grunted. With his arms—rather muscular arms, not that she was paying that much attention to him—crossed over his broad chest, he was an imposing figure. Tall, dark, brooding…and he looked at her like she was a skittering pest he’d rather squish than converse with.

  He probably looks at all women like that.

  Atherton sat back in his chair, the chair again squeaking as he moved. “Hmmm…well, if you can’t cook, what can you do?”

  Not totally surprised by his question, she let her gaze flick to the man beside her. His obsidian eyes pinned her, seeming to take her measure. Did he think she wasn’t capable of surviving in his town? Well, she’d show him! She’d crossed oceans, she’d survived the journey west through terrain littered with graves, she’d made it this far with nothing but her will and determination to keep her going. She wouldn’t let her lack of cooking skills—she glared at Pete Jones—or any man keep her from finding her da.

  “I can sew,” she said, lifting her chin in a show of O’Connor women defiance. “I can stitch anything.”

  Mr. Silent and Brooding lifted a black eyebrow, which disappeared under the band of his hat, the same hat he’d put on after she’d seen his ear. Or what was left of it. She hadn’t meant to gasp when she saw it, but it had been a surprise. With as handsome as he was—not that she spent much time looking at his face—she hadn’t expected to find a flaw. Then again, with as mean as he was, there had to be something ugly about him. No man could look that perfect.

  “Well, don’t that beat all!” Atherton crowed, hopping up from his seat and coming around his desk, which was really just four shipping crates stacked atop each other. “We could use a lady with your skills in this town. Just ask my Millie! She’s always goin’ on ‘bout my frayed trousers or my losin’ my buttons. She’s not too good with the needle neither. Not with her hands givin’ her trouble.”

  Pati couldn’t help but smile at the older man’s excitement. “Does that mean you have need of mending, Mr. Winslet?” she asked, teasing. And Lord but it felt good to smile…and to have something to smile about. “I think I can help you with that.”

  Atherton grinned back, the gaps in his toothy smile only making him that much more charming. “It’s Atherton. I’d say you could.” He turned to his desk, picked up a pencil stub, and rifled for a clean sheet of paper. “How much do you charge?”

  Taken aback by his question, she dropped her gaze to her hands. Loosening her hold on her carpetbag, she tapped a finger against the handle. How much should she charge? She’d never been paid for her sewing before; she’d only ever mended her own clothes, and the occasional dress or blouse for the other girls at the deportment school. She’d even mended a few of her da’s socks and trousers—the man could wear a hole through a rock. Whatever she charged, it would need to be enough to keep her fed, help her set up a place to stay, and fund the next leg of her journey.

  Taking a deep breath, she made a shot in the dark. “Fifty cents for mending shirts and
pants, and twenty cents for darning socks. That’s per item.” Shoulders back, heart pounding in her chest, she met Atherton gaze.

  “Deal!” he exclaimed, sticking his weathered hand out for her to shake. Shocked at how easily he agreed, and the reality of what that meant, Pati trembled as she reached out to take his offered hand. His grip was stronger than she expected.

  “Now that that’s done, why don’ cha see Ed there,” he pointed toward the front of the store, “’bout what you’re gonna need to get started. I know he’s got some needles, thread, and scissors somewhere. Then, head on back to Millie. I know she’s got plenty of mendin’ for you to do. I’m not so careful with my duds—much to my Millie’s vexation.”

  It was all moving so fast. She blinked at Atherton, her thoughts tumbling through her mind. She now had the means to find her da, but it would take weeks, even months to save up enough money to search for Da in Sacramento. But at least it was something…and she could hope in that. Shifting, the sound of tinkling coins in her skirt pocket reminded her of a hard truth.

  “Atherton…I don’t have the money for needles, thread, and scissors…” she said, her heart lurching. “I only have enough to buy something to eat at the saloon.” And just barely that.

  He waved off her words. “Ed’ll set you up with store credit. You can pay it off once you get enough business—which won’t take long once word spreads that you’re takin’ in mendin’. I tell you, you’re needed here…and I’m glad to have you.”

  Warmth spread through her, starting in her chest and spreading out in her limbs. Tears pricked her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry, not with Pete Jones standing there, staring obnoxiously. Unable to keep her gaze from his face, her eyes darted to him, and his dark eyes met hers. Her stomach flipped at the intensity. What was it about him that made him so…menacing? So…interesting? He didn’t like her, so what? She didn’t like him, either.

  Tearing her attention from the man she’d rather forget, she offered Atherton an appreciative smile—he’d saved her arse, giving her something she hadn’t expected that morning.

  Purpose. Hope. The chance to continue surviving…alone.

  “Thank you, Mr. Winslet—”

  “Please, call me, Atherton—you’re gonna be mendin’ my breeches, we might as well be friendly.”

  She chuckled. “You’re right…Atherton,” Pati replied, her heart lighter than it had been in ten months. “Again, thank you. You won’t be disappointed, I promise.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t doubt that, my dear.”

  With one more quick glance at Pete Jones, who’d said absolutely nothing during that entire exchange, she turned on her heel and headed back to the front of the mercantile. She just barely stopped herself from breaking into a joyous jig.

  He couldn’t help himself; Pete watched as Miss O’Connor glided away, her steps light. Despite his insistence that she was trouble—and heavens but she was trouble with a capital “T”, he admired her fire, her determination.

  Her smile.

  When she smiled at Mr. Winslet, her whole lovely face lit up, and his chest ached at the sight of it. What was it about her that made his senses stumble—like a man tripping through the darkness and into the light? A blinding light. A warm light. Her smile did things to him he couldn’t explain—would rather not try to explain—and she hadn’t even been smiling at him. What would happen if she’d turned her smile full on him? She’d knock the breath straight out of his body.

  Fool! She’ll never smile at you like that. She’s seen your ear, she’s seen how ugly you are.

  Grinding his teeth together to keep from cursing, he turned back to Mr. Winslet, who was watching him most intently. He fought the urge to duck his face and hide under the brim of his hat. He wasn’t a coward—and he refused to listen to the cackling laugh in his head that told him, without words, that he was lying to himself. Only cowards hid away in the woods, cringing at itty-bitty women with charming accents. Only cowards ran from their family. Only cowards let bad dreams ruin their lives…

  Clearing the guilty bile from his throat, he waited for Mr. Winslet to speak.

  With an easy smile, Mr. Winslet said, “At least you didn’t growl at her.” He cackled. Pete grunted.

  “Why would I do that? I don’t know her from Adam.” But he wanted to, and that was more troubling than bad dreams any day.

  Mr. Winslet tipped his head, his wiry, white hair brushing his right shoulder. “I’d say it didn’t take more’en a minute for you to think you know Miss O’Connor. Took one look at the girl and knew she’d be trouble, dinya?”

  Pete drew his lips into an even thinner line, not too surprised that the old man had read him so easily. Atherton Winslet may look like a wizened old coot, but he was smarter and wilier than any man Pete had ever known. It was one of the things he liked about Mr. Winslet. He’d made Pete feel at ease since he’d been given the position at the mine. But now that Pete had seen a different side of Mr. Winslet’s wiliness, he didn’t like it. The man was up to something…he could smell it—like a skittish horse on the fringes of the battlefield.

  “It’s my job to take the measure of a man in a single glance. It helps keep trouble out of the mines,” Pete remarked, wishing he could just leave the man to cackle all by his lonesome.

  “But she ain’t a man, and she has nothin’ to do with the mines.” Mr. Winslet’s frank hazel eyes danced. “Try again, Son.”

  From what Pete had seen and enjoyed of Miss O’Connor’s form, he knew she wasn’t a man—she was actually one of the more womanly women he’d seen. But that wasn’t what Mr. Winslet was getting at.

  “No, she’s not a man, but I can still tell she’ll bring nothing but trouble to Blessings. Mark my word, Mr. Winslet.” Who was he trying to convince?

  Mr. Winslet seemed to consider Pete’s words, leaning back in his squeaky chair and clasping his thin-fingered hands together over his belly.

  “Tell you what…” he began, his expression serious, his thick, white brows drawn down over his eyes. “Iffin she causes a single moment of trouble for the town, I’ll give her the money she needs to get to Sacramento myself, and send her on her merry way. How does that suit you?”

  He gave the man a curt nod. “Suits me fine.” But it didn’t. Because the very notion of Miss O’Connor heading out of town left him aching. He rubbed at his chest, wondering if the dried beef he ate for breakfast was turning into tar in his gut.

  “So what was it you needed to ask me?” he asked, remembering the old man had spoken of questions, just after Miss O’Connor had arrived.

  Mr. Winslet’s eyes grew wide, confusion in their depths.

  “You said you had some questions for me, which is why I’ve stayed here this long.” His tone held a note of acid, which he could only assume came from the bad beef he ate.

  As if struck by a cast iron frying pan, Mr. Winslet ducked his head, a sheepish grin spreading over his face. “Son, you already answered them.”

  Chapter 8

  Pati coughed, trying her best not to choke on the clouds of dust rising from the floor as she swept it. It had been a week since Atherton had given her the chance she needed to finish this last leg of her journey—and it would be her last. She was determined. Once she saved up enough money mending clothes for the people of Blessings, she’d move along to Sacramento, where she’d spend the last few months of the year looking for her da. If she couldn’t find him by then…well, she hated that she was even considering giving up the search, but she couldn’t look for him forever, not if she ever hoped to live. At least, that’s what she recited to herself every morning, when the will to get up and go on had drained into the hard-packed earthen floor of the shanty she’d been sleeping in. The same shanty her da had slept in before he’d left town.

  And now, she was doing her best to clean out Atherton’s old cabin, just a short walk from the mines. After he’d gotten her on the idea of being the town seamstress, she’d been so excited, she’d plain forgot she
had nowhere to live, let alone work. Millie told Pati about her and Atherton’s old cabin. Millie had offered it to her as a workplace. It was a single room, with plank floors, a barely held together wooden plank door that hung from loose hinges, and a single window. Thankfully, the window was big enough to let in the morning light, because she daren’t light a lantern in there, lest the dust catch fire and the place explode. She’d heard of flour mill fires caused by somewhat the same thing.

  After another two hours of moving furniture—only a table, a large cupboard, and three old shipping crates Atherton must’ve used for his desk—and sweeping, dusting, wiping, and airing out, she was ready to collapse into a heap on the newly-cleaned floor. But she didn’t have the time to lay about, she had a pile of mending to do. She’d brought it with her when she’d come to the cabin and set it out on the small porch so it wouldn’t get covered in dust.

  Stretching her back, she leaned the broom handle against the wall and walked out onto the porch. Her gaze immediately collided with the dark-dressed man striding toward her through the woods.

  The broad shoulders, the trim waist, the proud angle of his head, and the firm set of his lips…it was Pete Jones. What did he want? She huffed a sigh and planted her hands on her hips, waiting for him to get close enough before she greeted him.

  “Mr. Jones. What brings you out here?” And how long before ye leave again? She knew she was being a wee bit hostile but, from the moment she laid eyes on him, he’d invaded nearly every thought, and she didn’t even like the man! She hated that someone who so obviously disliked her would hold such power over her mind…and her body—she willed her heart to cease its pattering and beat a proper tattoo.

  He came to a stop just in front of her, and she crossed her arms. Another thing she hated; the man never failed to put her on alert, like a field mouse waiting for the flap of wings.