A Scene from Mountain Dawn…
"Bridget," Jacob whispered softly, his breath warming her cheek, "if we don't stop now, there'll be no stopping."
She met his gaze evenly, running her tongue over dry, swollen lips. Her breathing ragged, she saw passion darken his eyes and knew there would be no stopping. She'd known it when she'd kissed him. Perhaps she'd known it from that first night on board ship.
"No stopping, Jacob." She nodded slightly and smoothed back his hair from his brow.
He caught her hand in his and ran his thumb across the callused palm. "I can't make you any promises, Bridget.”
"Ah, I know that, Jacob. And I haven't asked for any."
She couldn't promise him that she would still be in Treasure Gap at the end of summer… or that they wouldn't both regret this in the morning. But right now, she knew it was the right thing to do.
"You're sure?"
She leaned down to kiss him again. "I've opened the door, Jacob."
Prologue
St. Louis, Missouri
April 1866
The woman on the narrow bed shivered under the pile of threadbare blankets. Terrible, wrenching coughs tore at her as she fought for breath.
Bridget Dugan laid her crocheted shawl over her mother's chest, then gently smoothed the matted gray hair away from the woman's forehead. Bridget chewed at her lip and blinked back tears as she realized the fever had risen again. She didn't know what to do. Her gaze swept over the tiny room as if looking for the answer to her unspoken question.
Another coughing spasm shook her mother's already frail body, and Bridget could only hold her, swallowing back her fear at the touch of the older woman's hot, dry flesh. She laid her mother back down against the flattened pillow, then stood and walked to the window. Angrily Bridget stuffed yet another rag into the ever widening cracks in the glass and cursed softly at the cold, damp air that seemed to move directly toward her mother.
Bridget's splintered reflection stared back at her… accusing, reproaching her for allowing her gentle mother to suffer so. She spun away.
What could she do? She’d tried to get a doctor. Huh! Rubbing her hand against her eyes, she allowed only a fleeting memory of the good doctor's sneer to flash through her brain. She'd read his mind. To attend a patient who couldn't pay was impractical… to attend just another dying Mick immigrant was a futile waste of time.
Bridget's head snapped up as her mother's painful wheezing gasps increased in volume.
Something. She had to do something. Quickly moving across the room, Bridget reached into the jar behind the tiny statue of Saint Patrick. Counting the few miserable coins in her hand, she sighed heavily and rolled her eyes toward heaven. Seven cents. She felt a tear slide from the corner of her eye and roll down her cheek, but she paid it no heed. Instead, she had a silent conversation with God. The same God who for so long had turned a blind eye to the suffering of her mother.
In an angry whisper Bridget called out her rage. "How can You let this happen? She believes in You. Trusts You. And look at her! For all her faith… her devotion… this is her reward?" She swept her arms out, encompassing the tiny room the two women called home – the holes in the walls and windows, the old dress that Rose Dugan had hung over the glass as a poor attempt at curtains, and the half loaf of hard bread sitting on a small, lopsided pedestal table.
Bridget glanced down again at the coins in her hand. Not enough. Absentmindedly she rubbed at the calluses on her palm. No matter how hard she worked, there was never enough. Quietly she crossed the room to her mother's side and draped the woman's shawl over her. She bent and kissed her mother's forehead.
"I'll be back soon, Mum."
Rose Dugan opened her tired green eyes and stared up at her daughter. "Stay. Bridget… stay… please."
The shortness of breath terrified Bridget. Her mother'd never been this bad before. But she forced a smile when she answered, "I'll be gone just a shake, Mum. I've got to get you some medicine." She ran her fingers lightly over her mother's forehead. "I'll send Mrs. Muldoon over to stay with you till I get back."
“No… Bridget…"
But Bridget was already on her way.
She stood just inside the General Mercantile store, on Cass Avenue, letting the warmth of the place seep into her bones. Mr. Daniels, the proprietor, was deep in conversation with another man. Bridget quietly took advantage of his distraction. Reaching up, she snatched a bottle of Ma Grant's Patent Cough Mixture off the shelf and darted for the door. She heard Mr. Daniels’ shout but ignored it and ran on.
Her feet flew over the road as she hurried down Fourteenth Street toward home. Thief, thief, thief… the word tumbled over and over through her mind. No matter the circumstance, she'd never before resorted to thievery. But surely even her mother would understand that she'd had no choice this time. No choice at all.
She ran through Kerry Patch, a crowded jumble of shacks, home to thousands of Irish immigrants. For the first time the familiar sights and sounds held no comfort. She didn't even hear what the neighbors were calling to her as she ran past shanty after shanty. Her gaze was fixed on the shabby, one-story structure at the end of the street. Every ounce of her concentration was centered there.
Her hurried steps slowed, then stumbled as she recognized Mrs. Muldoon standing outside the Dugan house, her apron to her eyes. Fear swamped Bridget's body, but somehow she managed to stammer, “My mother…?"
Mrs. Muldoon shook her gray head wearily. Her usually dancing blue eyes were awash with tears as she answered softly, "It was God's own mercy, "Bridget, darlin'. He called and she… slipped away."
"Nooooooo…" Bridget pushed past the older woman and forced her wobbly legs to move. The door stood open, and she felt the emptiness even before she entered. Rose Dugan lay still on the bed, her hands folded carefully across her breasts. Bridget crept closer, her movements hushed as though afraid of wakening the seemingly sleeping woman.
But Rose wasn't sleeping. There was no painful gasping. There was no sighing. There was nothing. No spark of life left to comfort Bridget. Nothing. Rose Dugan had left life as quietly as she'd lived it.
Bridget bent down and kissed her mother's still-warm forehead. Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered Rose begging her not to leave. Her mother had needed her. And she'd left her alone. "Oh, Mum," she whispered, "I'm so sorry. I should've been with you. I shouldn't have gone."
Bridget heard the shouting out on the street and could just make out Mrs. Muldoon's and her son Patrick's voices raised in argument with… someone. She turned and looked at the closed door, then glanced down at the unopened bottle of cough mixture. Her fingers tightened around the small brown container. The shouting was closer now. Suddenly Bridget brought her arm up and threw the medicine bottle to the floor. Absently she heard the glass shatter and watched the inky liquid spill out onto the unvarnished floorboards in long, black fingers.
Turning, she pulled a paper-thin blanket up over her mother's face, then swung around to face the shouting men forcing their way inside.
The door crashed open. With tear-filled eyes and a resigned sigh, Bridget straightened her shoulders. Alone and unblinking, she faced Mr. Daniels and the police officer he'd brought with him.
Chapter One
Bridget risked a glance at the judge. He looked tired and sour. She lowered her gaze again and winced when one of the women near her screamed furiously at an indifferent jailer.
Breathing deeply and evenly, Bridget fought to remain calm. To rein in the terror that threatened to overtake her. She tried desperately not to be affected by the curses, the shouting, the heavy clouds of cigar smoke. Mostly she tried to ignore the fact that Mr. Daniels was obviously a friend of the cranky judge. She didn't look up again. There
was no need. She knew they were still talking. She could hear their voices, soft, hurried conversation, under the noise and confusion of the crowded courtroom.
She only wished she knew what they were saying.
"John, I'm telling you— I've had enough!"
Judge John Hammond looked wearily at the disgruntled man standing before him. Henry Daniels had always been more trouble than he was worth. The judge rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. It'd been a long day. He'd already had ample problems for one afternoon. Why in hell did Henry have to end up in his courtroom? Today of all days?
"John!" Henry Daniels shook his finger at the silverhaired judge. "Dammit, you're not listening to me'"
"Believe me, Henry, I can hear you." Judge Hammond frowned. "And take your finger out of my face!"
"Oh." Henry looked at his hand as if he didn't recognize it. "Sorry. But dammit, John, I've had enough, I tell you! These damn Irish are robbing me blind. They'll take anything that ain't nailed down. Even things they got no use for!"
"Your point, Henry."
"My point is, I want you to set an example here. Teach these thievin' Micks they can't steal from real Americans and get away with it'"
Judge Hammond glanced at the young woman sitting quietly on a bench across the room. Her auburn hair plaited neatly into a single braid that hung over one shoulder of her plain, threadbare blue dress. The insufficient shawl she held clutched in her lap. Her fair skin and dark, winged eyebrows over startlingly green eyes. He shook his head. "She hardly looks the part of a criminal."
"Don't matter what she looks like. She's a thief. She stole from me."
"Cough mixture. For a dying mother."
“Don't matter. She stole." Henry leaned in closer. “I'm one of those put you in that chair, John. And me and my 'friends' can see to it that you leave it, too."
Hammond's eyes narrowed. He knew all about Henry Daniels and his cohorts. They called themselves the KnowNothings. An appropriate title, in Judge Hammond's opinion. A large group of men joined together by common hatred for anyone Irish or Catholic. Their viciousness and enmity had caused all manner of problems in recent years. None, quite so devastating as the "Election Day Riots" in 1854, when the Know-Nothings had invaded Kerry Patch and tried to prevent the Irish from casting votes. The fighting had lasted almost three days and left ten people dead, thirty-three wounded, and ninety-some buildings damaged.
Oh, yes. Judge Hammond knew all about Henry Daniels and friends, and though he hated to admit it, Henry was right about one thing – with their influence the Know-Nothings could very well cause him to lose his position. Still, it rankled being ordered about by such a toady little man.
"Are you threatening me, Henry?"
"No such thing, John." Henry smiled and ran his fingertips over the polished surface of John's desk. "Just reminding you who your friends are. That's all. Now – you do what you think best – like always. But remember, I want those thievin' Micks taught a lesson." The heavyset man smiled conspiratorially, then turned to take his seat once more.
Judge Hammond was feeling his age. He was very well aware of just what Henry expected. And what he himself had to lose if Henry were disappointed. A judge's life was a comfortable one. He had no complaints beyond the usual overburdened court cases. And he certainly had no desire to go back into a private law practice, competing against much younger, better-trained lawyers.
He looked over at the girl again. It seemed a shame, though. Such a pretty little thing. Ah, well, he told himself, she's young. She'll survive.
"Bridget Dugan."
A burly guard grabbed the girl's arm and pulled her to her feet.
"Miss Dugan. In order to impress upon you and your countrymen the folly of criminal activity, I hereby sentence you to a term of one year and a day, for the crime of theft. Tomorrow you will be taken in a prison wagon to the Missouri State Penitentiary in Jefferson City. There you will pay your debt."
Bridget Dugan raised her gaze to his. The judge stared back for a long minute, then waved at the guard to take her away. Henry Daniels's pleased face, the crowd, the noise, even the stench of the tightly shuttered room faded away. Judge John Hammond breathed a sigh and cursed himself for an old coward. To preserve his own comfort, he'd given in to an unreasonable demand, and now he would have to pay.
He knew he would be seeing Bridget Dugan's huge green, reproach-filled eyes in his sleep for months to come.
#
Jacob Fallon squeezed his four-year-old daughter's hand. No response. He sighed and released his hold. Immediately she clasped her hands together in her lap. Back straight as an arrow, small, narrow shoulders squared, her fragile, heart shaped face obscured by a wide-brimmed bonnet, Jessica Fallon sat in silence.
He breathed deeply and tried to ignore the stab of disappointment that cut through him. It would take time. He knew that. God knew, enough people had told him so over the course of the last few months. He would wait, as long as he had to. If only she would smile again.
Jacob stared out the carriage window, but he wasn't seeing the bustle of St. Louis's crowded riverfront. Instead, his mind conjured up a vision of Jessica only the year before.
He'd gotten a week's leave. A week to escape the heat and noise of battle. To wrap himself up instead in the icy hostility of his wife's company.
Late wife now, he reminded himself.
But then, last year, Helene had been alive. Aloof, disinterested, coldly disapproving – but alive. And Jessica. This sad, silent little girl had been a joyous, sparkling, whirlwind of movement. Vying desperately with what passed for society during the war for her mother's attention, Jessica had danced, talked incessantly, and in general made a nuisance of herself.
A wistful smile touched his lips. How he wished he'd had the sense to enjoy his little daughter then. Instead, he'd allowed Helene's penchant for discord to destroy every moment spent at home.
Now Jacob had no idea how to reach Jessica. He'd never had much experience with children, and looking into his daughter's pale blue, empty eyes left him feeling powerless. Useless.
The hired carriage lurched to a halt opposite one of the fifty or more steamboats docked at the St. Louis levee. Jacob smiled as his gaze swept over the tired-looking ship that would be their home for the next couple of months. The River Belle held none of the elegance her name implied. Its two decks, covered in peeling white paint, were a swarm of activity as her crew hustled up and down the stairways loading and adjusting the freight to be carried upriver. Jacob glanced at the ship docked next to the Belle. A three-decked, graceful-looking side-wheeler called Silver Hope. For just a moment he wished he'd booked passage on the more luxurious ship. Then he reminded himself that luxury and grace wouldn't carry the heavier and clumsier ship over river snags that would mean nothing to the old steam-wheeler,
River Belle.
And who should know better than he that refined grace and beauty were not as important as dependability, trustworthiness.
He stepped down from the carriage and took a deep breath. It would be good for both of them. A new life. Away from all the well-meaning people who knew far too much for comfort. Perhaps Jessica would find peace in a new place, too.
A long, low whistle of appreciation from one of the deckhands made Jacob turn to see its cause. A lovely woman dressed in a fine silk gown of pale yellow strolled along the levee, her arm linked with a much older man. As Jacob watched, she peered out from behind her parasol and gave him a secretive smile – a smile of invitation as well as promise.
Deliberately he turned away. He'd been too long without a woman, but he refused to give in to his body's demands. Not again would he find himself trapped by a lovely smile biding an empty heart.
Reaching into the carriage, he lifted his daughter down and escorted her solemnly to their future.
#
The wagon jolted through a hole in the road, and the four women inside groaned their discomfort. One hand gripping an iron bar, Bridget covertly studied h
er fellow prisoners. Colleen O'Grady, black hair and hard blue eyes, sentenced for stealing. Mary Kate McDonough, brown hair and blue eyes that had seen too much misery, sentenced as an accomplice to a robbery. Frances Cohan, red hair and soft hazel eyes, sentenced for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Bridget knew them all, at least by sight, but she'd never spoken to either Colleen or Mary Kate. For years the two women had run with the troublemakers in the Patch, always getting themselves out of one scrape only to fall into another. They'd scandalized the older, married women and had driven a wedge between themselves and the "decent.” girls they mocked. No one concerned with their own reputations would have anything to do with them, fearful of being painted with a like brush. In fact, Bridget could still hear her mother's voice promising, "The day I see you in the company of the likes of them, I'll take a strap to you!"
She smiled softly. In the weeks since her mother's death Bridget had come to realize the truth of Mrs. Muldoon's statement. It really was God's own mercy that Rose Dugan had slipped away. Bridget believed wholeheartedly that her mother was even now dancing a jig somewhere in heaven and giving the Good Lord suggestions on how to run the place better.
"Did you see himself up there?" Colleen jerked her head, indicating the guard riding shotgun. "He was lookin' at me like I was the last piece of chicken at a pauper's feast!"
Bridget flicked a glance at the guard's broad back and wondered if he'd heard.
"Ah, Colleen" – Mary Kate leaned back and laughed – “give over. You've not been fit for anybody's 'feast' for some time!"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Frances inched back into a corner of the wagon, trying to disappear.
"You bloody well know what it means. You've not had more than crumbs to offer for over five years. And even a pauper ain't interested in crumbs."
"You nasty little bitch!" Colleen flew at her, fingers curled into claws.
Bridget watched the two with disgust. It wasn't enough, being taken to prison. No, they had to snarl at each other as well. She wasn't the least surprised at Colleen's raging temper, but somehow, she'd always thought better of Mary Kate. Though the girl had been the talk of Fourteenth Street, she'd never shown the open contempt for others that had colored Colleen's life so.
Mountain Dawn Page 1
