She held out her hand. “Bridget. Bridget O'Dell."
He shook her hand gently. "You know, you're even prettier close up."
The man leaving the store brushed by Bridget and snorted in disgust.
“May I help you?”
Turning quickly toward the counter, Bridget saw an older woman, tail and thin, with jet-black, winged eyebrows, small dark eyes, and a pinched mouth under a beaklike nose. Remembered tales of witches and goblins sped through Bridget's mind, and it was all she could do not to cross herself. Instead, she forced a smile. “That would be kind."
"You're Irish?”
If anything, the woman's mouth tightened more, her eyes narrowed even further, and her nostrils flared as though there were a bad smell in the room.
Bridget ignored the woman's tone and tried once more to be friendly. After all, the woman couldn't help the way she looked. “Yes, I am."
The woman frowned, and one eyebrow lifted like an angry slash of ink against white paper.
Despite her best intentions, Bridget heard herself adding, "You have a good ear, madam. You wouldn't be Irish yourself now, would you?”
"Certainly not!" she said, puffing her chest out like an old hen.
"Ah, well, don't be feelin' too badly." Bridget shook her head and wondered briefly why she was baiting the woman. "We can't all be blessed.”
Cotton snorted and turned around quickly, away from the frozen-faced woman.
Behind the counter the woman drew herself up to her full height, an inch or so shorter than Bridget, and threw a vicious glance at Cotton Drake before turning again to her adversary. “Was there something you wanted?”
Bridget's mouth twitched. What she wanted was to give the nasty old biddy a sharp slap, but that wouldn't do at all. She could just see Jacob's reaction to that! And this suddenly loose tongue of hers was doing no good, either. Bridget felt Jessica's little hand clutch at her skirt and vowed to be polite if it killed her.
“Yes. I'd like some white sugar, if you have it." Her tone was even, but she couldn't quite manage a smile.
"Certainly, we have it." The harpy moved down the length of the counter, grabbed a bag, and began to fill it with sugar. “One pound?”
“Two, if it's all the same to you, please."
The woman huffed but measured it out. "I am Emmaline MacElroy. My husband and I own this store."
"A pleasure. I'm sure," Bridget mumbled.
Emmaline carried the sugar back to Bridget, then stood stiff and straight, smoothing her black dress over her meager hips. "We are the ones who arranged to have Major Fallon become our town marshal."
A sinking feeling came over Bridget, but she waited, sure there was more.
"In a growing town I feel it is important to have the 'right' sort of influence. Major Fallon was a distinguished officer during the late difficulties, he comes from a fine old family, and he is the father of a small child."
Bridget rested her band on Jessica's bead and wished fiercely the child was safely at home instead of facing down this woman's venom.
"However…" Emmaline took a deep breath and leaned toward Bridget. Her voice dropped to a spiteful, scratchy tone. “If I had any idea that he would bring along his tart, the post of marshal would have been rescinded."
Bridget gasped aloud and felt the blood drain from her face. Beside her, Jessica sniffled worriedly. Cotton, though, his face flushed, stepped forward.
Emmaline continued before he could stop her. "Oh, I know all about the so-called governess position you hold, but you don't fool me. I know your kind. Jezebels!" The woman shook her finger in Bridget's pale face. "You don't fool decent citizens one little bit.”
“Now, listen here, you razor-lipped hag…" Cotton bad his bands braced on the counter, ready to vault it and do battle.
"Well, I never!" Emmaline blustered, taking a step back from the enraged deputy.
"Mebbe not. But you're fixin' to,” he warned.
"No," Bridget grabbed his arm and waited for him to face her. “Thank you, Cotton. But no,"
“You sure?” His amiable features were twisted with frustrated rage.
"Yes." Bridget moved her hand to Jessica and cradled the girl up close to her leg.
"Hmmph!" Emmaline sneered. "I should think not! As for you, Deputy Drake, don't think that I will forget what has happened here today. I shall speak to the marshal myself about your behavior."
"You be sure to do that, lady." Cotton shoved his hat back angrily. “You know, Miz MacElroy, in all my life, I ain't never hit no woman." He leaned toward her. "But, ma'am, you come awful close to bein' the first."
Emmaline's eyes widened and her jaw dropped. Cotton turned to Bridget and pointed toward the front door. "You finish up, ma'am. I'll wait right over yonder."
Bridget eyed the old devil for a long moment before saying a word. To give the harpy her due, she was no coward. She stood, chin up, nostrils flaring, awaiting Bridget's response.
Taking a deep breath, Bridget said softly, "What you and your kind have to say about me and mine has all been said before, Mrs. MacElroy." She bent down and lifted Jessica into her inns. “Me father used to say, he couldn't understand why you people were always goin' on about ‘foreigners.' Everyone in this grand country came from somewhere else. Except maybe the Indians."
Jessica laid her head down on Bridget's shoulder and cried softly.
"You called me a tart."
Emmaline stiffened and her face flushed slightly.
"Well. I'm no tart, though I don't expect you or others like you to believe it."
There was a muffled crash as though something had fallen off a shelf. Bridget looked at the storeroom door behind Mrs. MacElroy, but no one opened it. "And I'll tell you somethin’ else." Her voice rose in spite of her best intentions. “It's thanks to people like you that I'm in this miserable excuse for a city right now, instead of safe at home in St. Louis."
Emmaline's mouth opened, but Bridget cut her off. “I'll take your venom because me mum taught me to be kind even to them that don't deserve it." Now she leaned over the counter and stared directly into Emmaline MacElroy's small brown eyes. "But I'll not have you sayin' anything in front of this child. Do you understand?"
The woman nodded stiffly.
"I hope so." Bridget picked up the bag of sugar off the counter, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Because if you ever bring so much as one tear to this child's eyes again, so help me, I'll call so many curses down on your vicious head, you'll live in fear for the rest of your days!"
Emmaline's lips twisted nervously, and beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead.
"Now!" Bridget breathed deeply. "Would you mind handin' me one of those peppermint sticks there?"
The woman moved warily toward the counter, pulled the lid off the nearest jar, and took out one long, red-and-white striped candy. She handed it to Bridget, who immediately gave it to Jessica. “There you are, darlin’.”
Jessica's fingers curled around the candy and she smiled tentatively as Bridget wiped her tears dry.
"Now, why don't we go home and make some cookies for your papa?”
Bridget turned and walked to the door. Just before stepping outside, she called, “Please charge the sugar and candy to the marshal's bill. Good clay, Mrs. MacElroy."
The bell over the front door danced and clanged as the three people left the store, and Emmaline MacElroy immediately flounced to the storeroom door.
It opened before her eyes, and a furious Marshal Fallon stepped through.
Emmaline's hand clutched at her throat. She'd never seen such anger before. The man was veritably steaming. Right behind him came the short, fat figure of her husband. Even his placid features were disturbed.
She decided to tell them both exactly what happened. "I have never been so insulted in all my life," she began, disregarding her husband's frantic head shaking.
“Madam,” Jacob's voice boomed out into the stillness of the store, "before you say another word,
you should know that I heard everything."
“You… heard?” Now she recognized the look of warning on her husband's face. Too late.
"Since you seem to be so concerned with my affairs, allow me to tell you, Mrs. MacElroy" – Jacob stepped closer to the woman, towering over her, his fury almost palpable – “the woman you slandered just now is more of a lady than you, or women like you, will ever realize. If she wasn't, she would have allowed Cotton Drake to do whatever it was he had in mind." Jacob shot a glance at the man behind him. "In fact, if the door to the storeroom hadn't been blocked by so many boxes, I would have been through that door earlier to help him!"
"Good heavens, Marshal," Emmaline puffed nervously, “I only meant to –“
"I am not interested in the slightest in your intentions, woman, I will only say that either you keep that viperous tongue off my family –“
"Your family?" He dared refer to that tart as family?
"My family." Jacob pot both palms on the wall behind the spiteful woman's head and leaned down. "You will leave us alone, madam, or –“
"Or what?" Emmaline had heard enough. Who did he think he was, anyway? She and Herbert had hired him. They would fire him.
“Or,” he ground out slowly, "I will find so many legal reasons to close your store that you will be out of business in a week."
“You can't do that!"
“Don't ever make the mistake of thinking that you will tell me what I can and cannot do, madam."
Herbert MacElroy danced from foot to foot behind Jacob, waving his fat arms, trying desperately to convince his wife to be quiet. It didn't work.
"Now, see here, Marshal," Emmaline said. "We hired you –“
"No, you didn't. You offered me the job. I took it. The town of Treasure Gap hired me."
"But…" Emmaline groped for something more to say. For heaven sake, the man couldn't talk to her like that. What was the matter with Herbert? Why wasn't he defending her?
"This matter is closed, madam." Jacob pushed away from the wall, then looked from the shrewish creature to her husband. “Herbert, I'd advise you to keep an eye on your wife from here on. I meant what I said.”
Herbert MacElroy's round face colored, and he lowered his gaze. Jacob shot the woman another warning glance, then turned and stomped across the floor and out the front door.
Over the jangled noise of the bell Emmaline said angrily, "Herbert, I demand you do something immediately! You can't let that man talk to me like that. What on earth were you thinking, just standing there, waving your arms about, while that man was insulting your wife? Well, what have you to say for yourself, Herbert?"
The short man, bullied for years by his overbearing wife, took a long, deep breath and shouted, “Be silent!"
Emmaline's eyes bugged open and her mouth hung slack as she stared at him, shocked speechless. Herbert snapped his suspenders, turned away, and risked a smile.
Jacob's long strides hurried him down the length of the boardwalk. Dozens of men took one look at his thunderous expression and jumped out of his way, but he didn't notice. He curled his hands into fists at his side, completely absorbed with the murderous thoughts racing through his mind. This was his fault. All of it. He should never have asked her to stay with him. He should have known something like this would happen. Hadn't he been dealing with small-minded people most of his life? God, why hadn't he considered what this situation would do to Bridget?
He leapt off the edge of the boardwalk and continued on, down through the trees, unconsciously following the rippling chuckle of the fast-moving stream below the town.
Was he really that selfish? Did he simply refuse to see that people would talk about her? Insult her?
The hill's incline steepened, and his long steps had to slow. Gusts of cool air rushed past him but did nothing for the fury that gripped him, when he'd heard that vicious old baggage tearing away at Bridget, he'd been gripped by the most violent urges he'd ever experienced. Nothing Helene had done to him, nothing he'd seen in battle, had had that effect on him.
Finally, reaching the rushing stream, Jacob dropped to the ground beside it. He looked out over the water at the pines beyond the streambed and heard again Bridget's quiet voice doing battle with Mrs. MacElroy.
God, he'd been proud of her! She hadn't bothered to defend herself to the old bitch. She hadn't even retaliated for her own sake. No, Bridget's only concern had been for Jessica.
Jacob picked up a small rock and tossed it into the middle of the water. He watched it splash and sink and once more cursed Mrs. MacElroy to the depths of hell. She had no right to hurt Bridget like that.
No, his conscience screamed at him, that right belongs to you! Only that morning he'd barely been civil to her – and after what they'd shared the night before, too. But, he told himself, it had nothing to do with Bridget. At least, not directly.
Dammit! He hadn't planned on caring for her. He hadn't wanted to care for her. And now it was too late. Somehow, Bridget O'Dell had sneaked up on him, made him care when he was sure that those feelings were behind him forever.
He'd never counted on finding a woman like her. In fact, he'd been sure that none existed. She was always so damned honest. A reluctant chuckle rumbled through his chest as he silently admitted that that quality hadn't always pleased him. No one had ever been quite so frank with him about his shortcomings – no one but Bridget.
Jacob pushed himself to his feet. He had to get back to town. He had to see her, to assure himself that she was all right, but he wouldn't let her know that he'd been a witness to the scene in the store. Knowing Bridget, he knew she would only be embarrassed further.
He started the climb back up the slight hill, his mind going over and over the things she'd said to Emmaline. Finally one thing struck him. Bridget had said that it was thanks to people like Mrs. MacElroy that she was in Treasure Gap. His eyes narrowed. What did she mean by that?
And now that he considered it, he realized that she'd never said much at all about her family. He stopped. Except that night on the boat when she'd hesitated over her father's name. He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket, struck a match on the sale of his boot, and took a long, thoughtful pull on the tobacco until the end was glowing.
Now, why would a woman as blatantly honest as Bridget O'Dell stumble over her own name? And why would she tell him so little of her past? Remembering the night before, when she held him as he recounted his own private pains, Jacob realized that she'd said nothing about herself. She'd been concerned only with him.
He started walking again. Wasn't it odd, though, he told himself, that the woman never referred to her life before the riverboat? Clenching the cigar between his teeth, Jacob hurried his steps. Maybe there would be time before supper for a little talk.
#
"Yes, ma'am, the boss surely does have a fine set of books here." Cotton ran his finger along the leather spines, stopping at an occasional familiar title. “Mr. Dickens. He's real good. And Emerson's poetry. I read some of 'em once when I was workin' on a cow ranch in Texas."
"A cow ranch?" Bridget looked up from stirring the pot of soup. A few loose tendrils of hair, damp and curling from the heat, hung over her flushed forehead.
“Oh, yes, ma'am." He grinned suddenly. "Why, I recollect one time there was a fella I was sharin' a campfire with? Turned out he used to be a soldier away over to England?" Cotton shook his head. “You just never know who you're ridin' with. Could be a killer or a schoolteacher."
“That might worry me, I think." Bridget chewed at her lip.
"Aw, heck, no. That's what makes life interestin’.” He turned back to the shelf of books. "And out here books is right hard to come by. They weigh too much to be carried around a lot, so when folks get hold a one, they just naturally hang on to it. Most times, they won't even lend 'em out." He pulled one book free and held it gingerly in his hands. "Well, now. Here's one by that Mr. Dickens I ain't read yet. Oliver Twist." He looked up at Bridget. "You reckon the boss would
let me borra it, if I'm careful?"
"Oh, I don't think Jacob would mind at all." Bridget walked over to Cotton and stopped beside him. She looked longingly at the open pages of the book with its tiny, indecipherable letters. She'd always envied others the comfort of knowin' that they could pick up a Bible, or a newspaper, or a love letter and suddenly not be so alone anymore.
Cotton shut the book gently and smoothed his tanned hand over the cover. His shirt cuff was ripped almost completely off. Honestly, Bridget told herself, it was a wonder the man wasn't down to his drawers, the way he tore clothes.
Then an idea came to her.
"Cotton," she said "I've a proposition for you."
His tanned face split into a wide grin. "What would that be?”
“Well…" She didn't quite know how to say it. It shamed her to admit to anyone that she didn't know how to read, and above all, she didn't want Jacob to hear of it. "I've noticed that your shirt seems to be in dire need of mendin'."
He laughed and tugged at the flap of fabric that used to be his breast pocket. "Not just this one, Bridget. Why, I reckon I go through more shirts than most families."
"I could mend them for you," she offered hesitantly.
"Aw…" He looked away. "You needn't worry about that, ma'am. I'm gettin' used to lookin' kinda shabby."
"No, you don't understand, Cotton." She took a deep breath and said it all at once, before she lost her nerve. "I'd like to mend your clothes in exchange for you teachin' me… how to read."
There was a moment's pause, then Cotton smiled down at her. "I'd be proud to teach ya, Bridget. You don't have to sew up my clothes."
She nodded vigorously. "Aye, I do. That way we both hold our heads up. Do you understand?"
"Sure. Sure I do."
“Well. That's settled then." She turned away, then turned back again quickly. "Cotton, you don't think I'm too old to learn, do you?"
"Heck, no." He rubbed his jaw. "Let's see here. I didn't learn my own self till 'bout five, six years ago, and I was older'n you then." Cotton smiled again softly. "It ain't all that tough, Bridget. Hell, even little children know how to read!"
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