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The noise was simply astonishing! Bridget rubbed her temples, knowing as she did so that it would do no good. Between the incessant pounding and throbbing of the ship's engine and the shouting people struggling to be heard over the clatter, her head felt as though it were about to burst.
She sighed and looked up, staring unseeing at the activity around her. Only half the morning gone and she was already feeling the frustration of idleness. At home she'd have been busy enough. By now she would have finished her morning's work at the laundry and would be on her way to clean for Mrs. Slater. Bridget's brow furrowed. She suddenly wished she'd had time to say good-bye to the kindly old woman. It was a shame indeed to leave her with no word at all. Ah, well, she told herself, heaven knows there's plenty of people in the Patch who'd be willing to take over her old job. And, she thought hopefully, maybe there was something she could do on the ship. She knew for certain that she wouldn't be able to simply sit for the duration of the two-month trip to Montana.
“What's wrong with you?"
She looked toward the taunting voice.
"I said what's wrong?"
"I know what's wrong – she’s a dummy!"
Two voices, young and scornful, continued their taunting as Bridget pushed herself off the crate and moved toward the sounds. "Yeah. A dummy! A feather-brained dummy!"
"Ha-ha! Dummy! Dummy!" The singsong voices were louder.
She slipped around the corner of the stacked freight and saw two little boys, no more than ten years old. They stood on either side of a tiny girl, her back to Bridget. The child was hunched over as if expecting a blow.
One of the boys reached out and pushed her. She stumbled but caught her balance. Before Bridget could move, the other boy pulled one of the girl's long, honey-blond braids, then gave her a shove. She fell to the deck and made no move to get up.
"Here, now!" Bridget's outraged voice reached the boys a split second before she did. They didn't have time to get away. She grabbed each of them by the ear and turned their heads up to look at her. "Aren't you ashamed? Two fine big boys like yourselves pushin' a girl half your size!"
"We didn't mean nothin'!" The smaller boy squirmed, and Bridget tightened her hold. "Ow! That hurts!"
"Aye. I imagine it does." She gave them each a little shake. "Did you know that boys are born with big ears for this very purpose? It's true. It was God's little way of givin' mothers a place to grab their young rascals." She heard a faint laugh and looked to the girl. Her face was blank.
"Leave go, lady. You ain't my ma!"
She turned on the second boy. "Saints be praised for that small favor!" She pulled him closer. "You should be thankful I'm not. If l was, you'd not be sittin' down any time soon!"
A few of the men on the outskirts of the battle chuckled. Suddenly a harried woman, bonnet askew, rushed up and pulled the second boy from Bridget's grasp.
“What are you doing to my boy?" The woman ran an appraising hand over her son's face. She didn't seem to notice the triumphant grin he flashed at Bridget.
"I was teachin' him some manners."
"What? What do you mean?"
The boy looked worried.
"I mean," Bridget continued, still holding the other boy, "these two – your son and this one – were pushin' and shovin' that little girl."
The woman followed Bridget's gaze, then turned on her son. “Did you?"
"We didn't mean nothin'."
"So you're sayin' you did."
He nodded and lowered his head.
His mother grabbed him by the earlobe.
"What did I tell you about them ears?” Bridget whispered to the boys.
"Hiram" – the woman frowned at the other boy – “you go to your mother."
Bridget let go and Hiram ran, stopping only slightly when his friend's mother promised, "I'll be right along."
"Kevin" – she pulled her son's head up – “get back to the others. I'll settle with you soon enough."
The boy shuffled his feet disgustedly as he moved away.
Finally the woman turned to Bridget and held out her hand. "I'm Marie Turner and I thank you for catching my boy in his dirty work."
"Bridget," she said, shaking the proffered hand. "My pleasure."
"And you, child," Mrs. Turner asked the little girl. "Are you all right?"
No response. In fact, the little girl's solemn blue eyes never left Bridget's face.
"Well, that's odd, I'm sure."
Bridget glanced at the other woman, then back to the girl. There was something in that tiny face that pulled at Bridget's heart. No matter how young she was, her eyes were as old as the hills. She reached down for the child and lifted her easily.
Mumbling, she said, "This little one is fine, aren't you, darlin'?”
"Well, if you're sure…"
"I am," Bridget answered.
Marie Turner walked away then and neither of the two people she left behind noticed.
The little girl's soft blue eyes stared back at her rescuer. Bridget studied the silent child carefully. She had creamy smooth ivory skin, eyebrows and lashes a shade darker than her hair and not a hint of color on her pale cheeks. She was by far too thin, but, Bridget thought, judging by her fine yellow dress, it wasn't for lack of funds.
Bridget smiled and wrapped her arms around the girl's bottom to hold her more securely. "So, then— what's your name, pretty one?”
No response. The girl's expression didn't change.
"You won't tell me?" Bridget shook her head slightly and chuckled. "Well, that's all right. I've a few secrets of me own." She patted the child's back and silently acknowledged that she had far more than she cared to think about.
She carried her new friend back to what she had privately christened her "cabin." After setting her tiny burden down on the crate, Bridget then clambered up beside her. As she straightened the girl's lopsided sunbonnet, she smiled and asked, "Will you tell me where your mama is?"
The child's fingers tugged at the ribbon of her bonnet until it came free of the newly tied bow. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted the damp end to her mouth. Silently her well-shaped pink lips moved as she chewed at the silken material.
"No?” She chucked the girl's chin gently. "My, you're a tough nut to crack, though, aren't you?"
Nothing.
Well, Bridget thought resignedly, there'll be no help from that quarter. She tore her gaze away from the child's steady stare and glanced quickly around the deck. It's not likely the girl belongs to any of the deck passengers, she told herself, she's much too finely dressed. There were a few of the "cabin" passengers-those with money enough to spend three hundred dollars on a private room-strolling around the deck, but Bridget's gaze rested on them only moments before moving on. None of them appeared to be searching for a child.
She glanced back at her new friend and noted without surprise the child's fixed gaze hadn't wavered a bit. Bridget ran one finger lightly down the solemn little jawline. For a moment she could have sworn she saw those features soften, but the sensation passed too quickly to be certain.
"Well, then, darlin', suppose we go see if we can find out where you belong."
Bridget jumped down from the crate, turned to lift the little girl, and stopped at the sound of a frantic voice shouting from somewhere close by.
"Jessica!"
Bridget looked up, her gaze flitting over the milling crowd.
"Jessica!" A tall man, with unruly brown hair, hurriedly paced the length of the ship. His head turning this way and that, he called out again, "Jessica!"
Bridget smiled thoughtfully and looked down at the unmoving girl beside her. “Well, little one. I think we've found your papa."
Chapter Three
"Over here!"
The tall man stopped, turned, and looked directly at Bridget.
She nodded and waved to him. He acknowledged her briefly, then began to push his way through the crowd. Always, though, he kept his gaze locked with hers. As he came
closer, Bridget saw that his eyes were blue, not a deep, dark blue like his daughter's, but a pale, summer-sky blue. She never doubted that he was the child's father, though, even if there hadn't been a strong family resemblance in the shape of their eyes… the winged eyebrows… the perfectly shaped lips.
They shared something else as well – a haunted expression, a tightening of their drawn features – as though the two of them had survived the very fires of hell.
That damned war again, Bridget told herself. Too many were lost, never to find their way again, in that bloody mess. She'd known several young men from the Patch who'd marched proudly off to fight. She could still see them, preening and posturing for the girls in the neighborhood, so proud of their fine new uniforms. Every last one of them was too damn young to realize that they weren't marchin' off to a Sunday school picnic!
Those who came back home, though, they knew. And a lot of them wore the same look about them as this man and his child.
"Jessica." The tall man stepped up beside Bridget and lifted the little girl into his arms. "I've been looking all over this ship for you." He leaned back and cupped her cheek with one hand. "Are you all right?"
"She's fit as a fiddle, she is."
He turned to Bridget. "Who are you? What were you doing with my daughter?"
Bridget stifled a gasp. Lord, she thought, he's a handsome one, with that dark brown hair and those pale eyes set in a face tanned a golden brown. His broad shoulders seemed too big for the black broadcloth jacket he wore, and his long legs were no doubt the reason he towered over her own slight form. But she saw no sign of a loving parent's gratitude on his face. Only suspicion and anger.
Well, she'd had enough of both to last a lifetime. If he didn't have the sense to see that she'd been caring for the child…
"I asked your name, miss."
That voice. So familiar and yet… of course! The man in the shadows. The one whose prayer she'd eavesdropped on. Bridget's gaze flicked to the little girl. She's the reason for his nighttime bargaining with the Almighty.
"Bridget. Bridget O'Dell." Thankfully, she'd already decided to use her mother's family name. After all, there was no sense in taking chances. For all she knew, people had already found out about the prison wagon escape, and she certainly couldn't take the risk of being sent back. Maybe once she reached the safety of Montana, she'd be able to let her guard down and return to her own name. Maybe.
“Well, Miss O'Dell. How did you happen to be in my daughter's company?"
She frowned up at him. You'd think he was talkin' to the queen of England, all stiff and starchy. Bridget decided suddenly to see if she could surprise a reaction from him.
"To tell you the truth, sir, I interrupted a fight."
"A fight?"
"Yes, indeed. Why, your little girl here was a whirlin' dervish of a fighter!"
“What?” His jaw dropped, his eyes were wide.
Pleased with the response she'd received so far, Bridget continued. "Oh, aye. You'd not think it to look at her, I know. But she's a fair demon in a fight, sir! Why, those two young rascals who'd tried their hand at pickin' on her were that sorry, I can tell you."
"Oh, really?"
"Oh, my, yes. Why, she'd no sooner let go of one than she'd start in on the other." Bridget drew her balled fists up before her face and threw short, descriptive punches. She chewed at her lip and sneaked a quick peek at the child. This time she was sure of it. There was a definite softening around her mouth and eyes, almost as if there were a smile in there trying desperately to get out.
"And then what happened. Miss O'Dell?"
“What?” Bridget looked up at the man and saw his lips quirk slightly. “Oh. Well. Nothing happened next. I pulled your little mite off those two big boys and sent them runnin' for their lives back to their mothers." She dropped her fists to her sides and looked him squarely in the eye.
"Well, then," he said softly, "it's lucky for those two that you happened along when you did. I had no idea that Jessica was such a danger to the passengers."
"Aye, well," she offered, "it's always the little ones you have to be careful of."
"I'll remember."
She nodded.
After a moment of silence the tall man finally said, "I should have introduced myself. My name is Jacob Fallon and this – he looked at the girl – “is Jessica. My daughter."
Bridget held out her band. "I guessed as much. She has your look about her."
Jacob's fingers closed around the much smaller band, and he was surprised to find the palm so callused. She'd obviously worked very hard most of her life. And judging by her clean but well-worn, pale green dress, she hadn't much money to show for it, either.
His gaze swept over the outrageous storyteller approvingly. Her skin was creamy, with a faint blush of rose on her cheeks and a few golden freckles dancing across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were as green as a meadow in spring, and her long, thick auburn hair had red and gold lights darting through it. She stood no taller than the middle of his chest and yet, she carried herself as if she were eight feet tall – proud and straight. When her full pink lips curved in a smile, he also noticed her stubborn chin.
A sharp stab of desire hit him with a force he'd never experienced before. Jacob had to fight down an almost irresistible urge to claim her luscious-looking mouth in a hungry kiss.
But, he reminded himself on a deep breath, he had no time for another woman in his life. No matter how tempting she was. Instead, he must concentrate on building a new life for himself and for Jessica. Deliberately then he stood taller and tried to distance himself from the woman with the soft breath of Ireland in her speech.
“Thank you for your assistance, Miss O'Dell. We do appreciate it." He turned away and headed for the staircase.
“Not at all, Mr. Fallon," Bridget countered in her haughtiest voice. She'd no idea why he'd suddenly gone so cold and forbidding, but heaven knew it was just as well. It would be best if she stayed to herself as much as possible on this voyage. But somehow, she just couldn't let him walk away without letting him know that they'd met before… however briefly.
"As I said last night, you didn't disturb me at all."
He stopped. Stiffly he turned and stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. Bridget watched his eyes narrow in thought, and she almost smiled when she saw recognition dawn on his features.
"You,” he whispered.
"Me."
Jacob Fallon looked as though he wanted to say more, but he thought better of it. When he turned away again and continued his parade march across the deck, Bridget swallowed her unreasonable disappointment.
Ignoring the conversations and disjointed fits of laughter from her fellow passengers, she climbed up on her crate. She reached into her food parcel and pulled out one of the apples she'd purchased on the levee before sailing. Rubbing it with the corner of her shawl, she brought the smooth red skin of the fruit to a high shine before biting into it. Then she laid her head back against her wooden pillow and tried not to think about just how alone she really was.
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"Longdon, there is no excuse for this mess."
Harry looked down at the warden, seated behind his wide desk. He fought back the contempt he'd always felt for the self-important little man, knowing he couldn't afford to get on the warden's bad side. Quickly, covertly, Harry's gaze moved around the big room, noting the little luxuries that had been added since the last time he'd been summoned to the office: a crystal pitcher and water glasses, a fine new brass lamp on the edge of the warden's desk, even two comfortable looking chairs. But Harry wasn't asked to sit down. His gaze snapped back to the warden when he started speaking again.
"For God's sake, all you had to do was transport four females to this prison. And not only did you manage to lose your prisoners… but you also allowed a guard to be shot!"
"I was shot, too!" Harry touched the white linen bandage on his forehead. He'd wrapped more than enough over the slight wound, h
oping for a little consideration. He didn't get it.
"So you were." The warden shifted through the pile of papers on his desk until he found what he was looking for. Holding the page aloft, he went on. "But according to James's statement, it was your fault that the wagon was stopped in the middle of nowhere, giving the outlaws the chance they needed to free the prisoners."
Harry looked down at the hat in his beefy hands. Deliberately he crushed the brim between his fingers. When he looked up again, he said as calmly as he could manage, “They was givin' us trouble. I had to talk to 'em a bit."
The warden sneered. "Talk? I've heard about your 'talks' with prisoners, Longdon. This isn't the first time you've overstepped your bounds. According to James, you were so busy swinging that damn club of yours, trying like hell to frighten a bunch of women, that you wouldn't have noticed a band of Indians sneaking up on you!"
That damn kid, Harry thought, you'd think he'd stand by his partner. What'd he do? Start whinin' the minute he woke up? Tryin' to save his own skin by throwin' good old Harry to the wolves. Well, he'd like to tell this old-woman warden exactly what he thought of him. Instead, he mumbled, "James wasn't in no position to see what was goin' on, sir. 'Sides, he's green as grass. He ain't been workin' here but a few months. I been here three years!"
"Yes." The warden set the paper down and folded his hands atop it. Adjusting his wire-frame spectacles, he added, "Three years too long, Harry. But this is the end. I won't have your kind here. It's bad enough with the criminals behind bars. I don't need them carrying clubs and badges as well."
"You sayin' I'm fired?” Harry took a step nearer the desk.
"That's right." The warden pulled open a desk drawer and drew out a pistol. Aiming it negligently in Harry's direction, he continued. "You have one hour to get your things together and get out."
"You can't do that to me!"
"Yes, I can, Harry. I only wish I'd done it sooner."
"Why, you no-good, yellow, traitorous little bas-" He moved quickly in a desperate grab for the man opposite him.
The warden moved a shade faster, leaning back out of reach. At the same time he pulled the hammer of the gun back. "Get out, Harry."
Mountain Dawn Page 3
