Mountain Dawn

by Maureen Child

  "Just a –“

  "I'm not finished." Bridget took a deep breath and glared at him. She'd acted like a wanton in the man's arms the night before, but that didn't give him the right to talk to her as if she were his servant. "She came to me all on her own, so you needn't be lookin' at me like that, with a face to frighten a banshee."

  "A what?"

  "A banshee, man." She snorted. “For heaven's sake. With a fine name like Fallon, you'd think you'd know a few things about the Irish."

  Jacob's brow wrinkled, his eyes narrowed, and he said, "What's my name got to do with knowing about a… a…"

  "Banshee. And Fallon is an Irish name, as if you didn't know. What were your people thinkin', not to tell you the old stories?"

  Hands on hips, he countered, "Whatever Irish is in me is so far back, no one can remember it. And my 'people,' as you called them, taught me many things."

  "Aye," she muttered, "but not the important things."

  "What do you mean, important? And what is this… banshee that I look like?"

  Jessica wriggled back up against Bridget's chest and sighed as the woman's arms closed around her.

  "You're doin' it right now." Bridget waved one finger at him. "That face there. And I didn't say you looked like a banshee. I said that sour expression of yours would frighten a banshee."

  "Are you going to tell me what the devil you're raving about?"

  "A banshee is a spirit, known to take many forms. It comes to cry out the tidings when a death is near."

  "A ghost? I would scare a ghost?"

  "Not a ghost, man!" Bridget shook her head. "A banshee. It's not the same at all. And, yes, you could. Every time you glare at me with that face."

  His chest expanded with the force of his inhaled breath. "I wasn't aware that I was looking at you in any particular way."

  “Well, now you are. And I'll thank you to keep that look to yourself." Bridget touched the girl's cheek lightly, then continued. "Now. I've something to say to you, Jacob Fallon."

  He crossed his arms over his broad chest “What would that be?"

  "I've decided that it's best if you and I stay clear of each other."

  "Oh, you have, have you?"

  "Aye. I have." She looked up at him and silently dared him to challenge her. “This is not a big ship, but surely we should be able to manage to keep apart. I'll take the lower deck. You take the upper. And, except for mealtimes, we shouldn't have to be anywhere near each other."

  She thought she saw a glimmer of amusement in those eyes of his, but she didn't think it likely.

  "And Jessica?"

  The little girl turned her face up to Bridget's.

  Bridget smiled softly. Yes, Jessica. There could be a problem there. After all, he was her father. But she just couldn't bring herself to push the child away.

  "She can come to visit me any time she likes." Bridget tore her gaze away from the child. "Alone. When the visit is over, I’ll take her to the staircase myself."

  “No.”

  Her eyes widened when he continued.

  "I think it best that we end these visits here and now. I have no intention of letting a child her age wander this boat alone." He reached for his daughter.

  Jessica turned quickly and grabbed for Bridget, but she wasn't quick enough.

  Jacob's jaw dropped, yet he stayed firm. He had to do this. For his own sanity. He couldn't allow Bridget O'Dell to become a part of their lives.

  "You're a hard, cold man, Jacob Fallon." Bridget's whispered comment sounded more like a curse.

  "It's a hard world, Bridget O'Dell."

  Chapter Five

  Three days.

  Jacob ran a hand over his face, scratching at the dark stubble that covered his cheeks. Three days without Bridget O'Dell, and Jessica was back in her world of silence. He glanced at his child covertly and sighed in defeat.

  She sat upright on the edge of her bed – exactly where he'd put her half an hour before – hands clasped in her lap, ankles crossed, shoulders straight, and back rigid. He knew she would stay like that until he moved her. Since their last evening with Bridget, Jessica hadn't made a single move on her own.

  He rubbed tired eyes and let his head drop back. It seemed that every muscle in his body screamed with fatigue. There was no use pretending any longer… even to himself. He simply didn't know what to do. He'd tried everything he could think of. Dammit, he'd been so sure that she was coming back.

  Snorting derisively, Jacob told himself that if his men could see him now, they'd probably call it just punishment. All those years in the army, commanding hundreds of troops, his slightest order carried out immediately, and he was completely undone by a four-year-old girl.

  Hell, what was he supposed to do? The sum total of his knowledge of children wouldn't fill a teacup! He'd always had Helene and the servants as buffers between his child and himself. All that had ever been required of him was a pleasant smile at her antics and a good-night kiss on her brow.

  It shouldn't be this way, he fumed silently. He shouldn't have to be both mother and father. He should know what to do, dammit!

  In the army, he'd always known what to do and when to do it. His duty clear, Jacob Fallon would brook no hesitation, no questioning, no doubts. Hadn't his troops referred to him – behind his back of course – as Ol' Stiff and Steady Fallon? And with that same steadiness, hadn't he brought a good many of his men through that god-awful war unscathed?

  Pushing himself to his feet, Jacob walked across the small room, stopping beside a short, round table holding a pitcher and washbowl. An undersized rectangular shaving mirror hanging above the table caught his eye. One look at his reflection convinced him that he looked as beaten as he felt.

  He smothered a reluctant chuckle. If Bridget O'Dell had thought he resembled a death spirit the other night, what would she have to say about him now? He scratched at the dark stubble on his too-thin cheeks.

  "That's it, isn't it?" he asked the image staring back at him. "It's come back to Bridget O'Dell." Deliberately he looked down, picked up the pitcher, and poured some cold water into the white porcelain bowl. He bent over and splashed the icy liquid against his face. Standing again, he reached for his shaving cup and brush and tried to avoid meeting his own eyes in the mirror.

  Jacob needed help and he knew it. But knowing it and asking for it were two different things as far as he was concerned. Never one to sit and wait out a problem, he'd always marched ahead, prepared to do battle with whatever awaited him. He asked no favors of anyone. A man should make his own way. It was one of the rules he'd lived his life by.

  The steady clink of his shaving brush against the mug slowed, then stopped, as he reminded himself that the one time in his life he'd asked something of someone, he'd been betrayed.

  He shook his head and told his reflection sternly, "Helene has nothing to do with this."

  Immediately he swirled the brush again and watched idly as the soap lathered. Raising his gaze to the small mirror, he studied his child. She hadn't moved.

  A wave of love and determination welled up in him. Jacob had faced down and beaten insurmountable odds before in his life. And to give his child every chance, there was nothing he wouldn't do – including swallowing his pride. Resolutely he applied the lather to his cheeks, then picked up the strop to sharpen his razor.

  #

  Bridget shivered when her soaking wet hair touched the flesh of her back like icy fingers. She clamped her jaws tightly to keep her teeth from chattering while her fingers scrubbed at her scalp.

  There had to be a better way to wash your hair, she told herself. Unfortunately, she hadn't thought of one yet, and until she did, she'd have to continue on as she was. She shivered again and lowered her arms. The nights were cold on the river, especially when you wore only a chemise and your head was wet.

  She reached for the bucket of rinse water, grateful that she was nearly finished. So far, she'd been lucky. No one had wandered anywhere near the darkened
corner of the ship where she stood behind a tower of packing crates. Sighing heavily, she thought that was the worst of traveling by boat. There simply was no privacy, nowhere you could go that you wouldn't soon be joined by any number of folks who were also looking for a little solitude.

  A footstep sounded close by, and she froze in place. She was in no condition to be receiving guests.

  “Miss O'Dell?"

  Jacob Fallon? Her eyes widened in surprise. What in heaven did he want? She swung the long, dripping mass of her hair off to the side and picked up a strand that had fallen across her eyes. Then she sucked in a deep breath through clenched teeth and screwed her eyes tightly shut. Bloody hell, she fumed inwardly, as the soap seeped into her eyes. Now she was not only half-dressed but blind as a bat!

  “Miss O'Dell?"

  He was closer. Bridget held her hands out in front of her, stumbled around in a circle, and groped for the top of the crate, where she'd left her shawl. If she could just find it and wipe her eyes…

  "Ow!" She stopped, bent over, and grabbed at the toe she'd just smashed into a heavy wooden box. Hopping up and down with the pain, she chanced opening her eyes to slits, hoping to locate the shawl that kept eluding her.

  “There you are." He came around the corner of the board tower and stopped to stare.

  Wouldn't you know it? Bridget spared him a glare before she snatched her wrap from the crevice where it had fallen. Releasing her grip on her still aching toe, she swung her hair out of the way, threw the shawl over her shoulders and knotted it quickly over her breasts.

  “What is it, Mr. Fallon?" She turned her back to him as she dipped one end of the crocheted stole into the bucket of water. Gingerly she rubbed at her smarting eyes with the somewhat clear river water.

  "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "Aye, I'll likely live." She turned back to him, hands on her hips. "Is that what you came to find out?"

  “No.” He pulled his hat off and held it uneasily in one hand. “I…wanted to speak to you about…"

  Blinking furiously to clear her vision, Bridget tried to get a good look at him. But with the darkness and the film of soap still clouding her sight, it wasn't easy. You'd think he'd get on with it. He'd had no trouble at all speaking his mind a few days ago.

  She shivered and he took a step closer.

  "Are you cold?"

  "Of course I'm cold, man. I'm standin' here in my shimmy, soppin' wet." Her fingers plucked another strand of soap-laden hair out of her face. "If you don't mind, Mr. Fallon, I'll just rinse this soap out now."

  She lifted the bucket and turned to balance it on the railing. Naturally, he would have to show up just when she'd the most difficult part of her task ahead of her. Bending low in front of the pail and tipping the water at just the right angle was hard enough to do alone – but with an audience?

  She'd no sooner started than she felt the weight of the bucket being taken from her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Jacob holding the container high.

  "I, uh… thought you could use a little assistance."

  Bridget stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "I could, thanks."

  She leaned over the railing and gasped when he poured the frigid water over her head. Quickly she ran her fingers through the length of her hair, amazed at how easily the chore was accomplished with his help. In no time she was standing upright again, wringing the excess water out of her tangled mane.

  With short efficient moves, Jacob rinsed the bucket and set it back in its place. Deliberately he kept his eyes averted until she said softly. "You've helped me and I thank you. Now, what was it you wanted?"

  When he stood close to the railing, the moonlight touched his freshly shaven face with enough of a glow that she could see his troubled expression. He didn't look well at all, she thought.

  "Miss O'Dell –“

  She stopped him. "Please, call me Bridget. I think we've known each other long enough for that, don't you?" Besides, she added silently, every time he used that name, she was reminded of her lies and the uneasy situation she was in.

  "Very well. Bridget."

  He looked as though he'd bitten into something sour. Ignoring him, she quickly buttoned up the dark blue shirt she'd had to remove to wash her hair.

  “This isn't easy for me to say. I, uh, don't know where to begin, really."

  She blew at a long wet tendril hanging over her eye. "Shall I see if I can make this any easier for you, then?" Grabbing at her hair, she combed the tangles out with her fingers and said, "I haven't seen hide nor hair of Jessica since we spoke last."

  “No, no, I –“

  "An agreement is an agreement. I still don't think you were right, but –“

  "No, I wasn't," he interrupted her.

  “What?”

  "I said I wasn't right." He slapped the railing with his hat and straightened his shoulders perceptibly. "I was…"

  "Wrong?”

  He looked up and smiled softly. He was wearing that awful banshee face again. After a long moment, though, his features relaxed into a half smile.

  "Yes," he admitted quietly, "I was wrong." A derisive chuckle escaped him. “You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?"

  “Well, now, Jacob-you don't mind if l call you Jacob?”

  He shook his head wearily.

  "Fine. As I was sayin', I have the feeling you're not often wrong. At least in your own mind."

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  "So," she continued, "even if I were to make it 'easy on you,' you'd no doubt think it hard anyway."

  "No doubt."

  Her hair tangle free, Bridget deftly weaved the wet mass into a waist-length braid and tied the knot with a piece of string she pulled from her skirt pocket. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she said quietly, "What is it you want of me, Jacob?"

  He glanced down at his hat, then raised his gaze to hers. "It's Jessica. I don't know what to do." Turning away, he looked out over the river. Bridget had to move up closer to hear his lowered voice. "She's not getting better. I've tried, but she won't talk to me. She doesn't see me." He cleared his throat. "She doesn't… want me."

  All the pain in the world was held in that statement. Bridget's eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back, knowing her pity would be unwelcome. She stood by his side, only inches from him, but kept her gaze safely on the rushing water below. It was all she could do to keep from cradling the man against her as she would a heartbroken child. The strength she'd sensed in him was momentarily shattered as he was faced with an enemy he didn't know how to defeat. And he wouldn't thank her for being witness to what he would consider his weakness.

  "What can I do, Jacob?"

  He inhaled, then blew it out in a rush. "She responds to you, Bridget. I tried to deny it. Tried to pretend that it was something I'd done. Maybe the journey. The new places. The ship. But it isn't." He looked down at her. "It's you."

  "Will you – can you tell me what happened to her? Was she always like this?" She lifted her gaze to his face in time to see a brief wistful smile curve his lips.

  "No." He sighed. “Until a year ago she was a normal little girl. Bright, beautiful."

  "What happened?"

  His shoulders stiffened. Bridget glanced at his hands and saw how tightly he clenched the railing. She almost wished she hadn't asked. But if she was to help, surely she had to know.

  “My wife, Jessica's mother, died a year ago."

  "Ah." She nodded in understanding. "I see. My own mum slipped away just a few weeks past."

  "Slipped away?”

  "Aye. That’s what it was. She'd been sick quite a while, but in the end Mum simply slipped off to join my father."

  "I'm sorry."

  She smiled and shook her head. "It's all right. She's happier with him, anyway. Besides, 'To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.'"

  He sighed and looked back to the black water rushing past. "You're quite a woman, Bridget O'Dell."


  She grinned and tossed his words back at him. “It's quite a world, Jacob Fallon."

  He shook his head slowly, and she knew he remembered. She could feel his body relax, the rigidity had left him, so she ventured to ask, “Losin' her mama, then, is what's done this to Jessica? Does she miss her that much? Were they very close?”

  "Close?" Jacob snorted and tilted his head back. "No, Bridget, they weren't close. In fact, I don't believe Helene was ever close to another person in her life."

  What was he saying? This was his wife they were talking about. "But surely –“

  "No. You don't understand." His jaw clenched. "Maybe it's impossible for someone like you to understand a woman like her." He shook his head. "Anyway, it wasn't just her mother's death. It was the way she died that destroyed Jessica.”

  Though leery of what she would learn. Bridget had to know. She had to know what had not only destroyed the little girl but what had come close to ruining the tall man beside her. '"Tell me.”

  "It was during the war. I was away, serving with my regiment." His voice lowered into a whisper. "Helene and Jessica were alone at the house. Most of the servants had the evening off, the rest were in their quarters at the back of the property. Two men broke in. Scavengers. They belonged to no one's army. Neither North nor South would have men like that. They used the confusion of the times for their own gain. Stealing, killing."

  Bridget took a deep breath, preparing for the worst.

  "Helene was on the stairs when they came through the door, Jessica on the landing behind her. I suppose these men took the trouble to tell Helene exactly what they planned to do to her."

  "Good Lord," Bridget mumbled softly.

  He didn't hear her, just continued on with the story that repeated over and over in his mind almost daily. “Helene had taken to carrying a small derringer in a skirt pocket. Said it made her feel safer. Anyway, as the men climbed the stairs to make good their promises, Helene calmly drew out her pistol, held it to her breast, and fired."

  “Holy Saints," Bridget moaned. "And Jessica? Did the beasts harm her?”

  "No." He shook his head. "At the sound of the gunshot, our butler, who'd been outside, shouted for help. The men heard and ran out. They were never caught."