Bridget cocked her head and grinned. “That's true enough. Well, good, then. It's a bargain." She held out her hand. As they shook hands on their deal, Bridget added conspiratorially, "And I'd thank you kindly, Cotton, if you wouldn't be mentioning this to Jacob."
The front door swung open, and Jacob stood in a shaft of dying sunlight “Don't tell Jacob what?" he asked.
Chapter Fourteen
He let the door swing shut behind him, and in the suddenly dim light Jacob watched as Cotton Drake and Bridget stepped apart. They looked almost guilty of something, he thought before his mind pushed the notion aside.
"Don't , tell me what?” he asked again in a slightly less congenial tone.
“Uh. .." Cotton stammered.
“Well,” Bridget answered too quickly, "it's too late now, Cotton. There'll be no surprise for him this night."
Cotton's brows drew together.
“What surprise?" Jacob asked as he stepped farther into the room.
"Ah… well," she said, stepping closer to the cookfire, “the pie, of course." She turned and smiled at him. “When I emptied out another barrel of your supplies, I found a bag of dried apples. I made a pie to surprise you, Jacob."
Jacob's gaze flitted from one to the other of them. There might very well be a pie in the cabin, but he was sure that Bridget had just lied to him. She was chewing her lip at a furious pace, and Cotton's features plainly spelled out the man's discomfort.
Something else for him to wonder about.
“I hope you don't mind, Jacob," Bridget was saying, "but I've invited Cotton to stay to supper."
His deputy looked as though he preferred to be anywhere but in the Fallon cabin, but Jacob ignored it. "That's fine, Bridget." He walked over to one of the chairs, pulled it out, turned it around, and straddled it. “Where did you two meet? I had planned to introduce you tomorrow."
Cotton opened his mouth, his cheeks flushing, but Bridget spoke up quickly. "Ah, 'we ran into each other at the general store." She smiled at both men, each in turn. “Wasn't that lucky?"
"Oh, yes," Jacob agreed. He watched as Bridget tried desperately to send a silent message to Cotton. He hadn't planned on mentioning the incident at the store, but now he was curious to see just how far she was going to take this story. "Did you get to meet Mrs. MacElroy, Bridget?"
"Oh, aye." Bridget flashed a glare at Cotton, then turned to the soup pot. "A very helpful woman."
Cotton coughed.
"She seemed a bit upset about somethin', though," Bridget finished.
"Did she?" Jacob asked, gritting his teeth to keep his expression blank. "What do you think was bothering her?"
She slammed the spoon back into the pot and turned on Jacob. "Well, now, how would I know that, d'you suppose? Perhaps it was her husband, askin' too many questions when she was tryin' to get things done."
His brows rose slowly. "Now, why don't you two go and wash up for supper," she said. "And mind you, tell Jessie to come along, too. She's right outside the back door." Bridget started setting the table, slamming the plates into position.
Cotton avoided Jacob's interested stare and walked straight outside to get Jessica.
Jacob stood silently in the corner of the room, his gaze on Bridget's back as she worked in a veritable fever of motion. The woman from whom he'd come to expect forthright honesty had just lied like a Saturday night drunk in church on Sunday.
He wanted to know why.
#
Bridget punched the flat feather pillow, stuffed it behind her, and leaned back against it. Her gaze fixed on the closed bedroom door, she allowed herself a moment to think back on the strained evening she'd just spent.
Saints above, wouldn't you bloody well know that Jacob would walk through the door just as she and Cotton had struck their bargain! And bein' such a stubborn man, she shouldn't have been surprised when he refused to let the matter rest.
She rolled her eyes and sighed. It might have helped the situation some if she’d been able to come up with a better tale to tell him. The minute the words apple pie left her mouth, she knew it wasn't good enough. She'd seen it on his face that he didn't believe a word she was sayin'. She bit into her bottom lip. Why, then, did he continue to pretend he did? And what was the point of all the questions he'd asked about Mrs. MacElroy?
She bolted upright. Surely he hadn't heard about that little ballyhoo already? No. Bridget sank back onto the pillow. Who would tell him? She was fairly certain she'd cowed Mrs. MacElroy sufficiently… at least for a time. Still, the way he'd looked at her all night, one would almost think he'd been a fly on the wall and seen the whole thing.
She heard steps in the other room. Anxiously she watched the door, fixing her gaze on the brass knob, hoping to see it turn. She held her breath for a moment, listening. The creaking of his rope bed ended her hopes.
So. He wouldn't be comin' to her again. Bridget scooted down farther on the bed, turned over, and blew out the lamp. She stared up at the dark, beamed ceiling and ignored the single tear that crept from the corner of her eye.
Her entire body throbbed with a need that he'd created. She yearned to have him with her again, if only for a few hours. To feel his heartbeat beneath her cheek, to lay within the circle of his arms, to pretend that there was more between them than actually existed.
Bridget curled up on her side, her knees drawn up close to her chest. He wasn't coming. He'd taken her, made her care, given her a gift, then tossed her aside. Just as her mother had warned. What a fool she was. She'd let her feelings for Jacob run roughshod over what she knew to be right. Now she would pay.
She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep the sounds of her tears private and told herself that at least this proved Mrs. MacElroy wrong.
Jacob didn't even care enough about her to make her his “tart” for more than one night.
#
Jacob saw the slit of light under her door go out and released his pent-up breath. He took another pull at his cigar and blew the smoke out in a soft gray stream that twitched and curled in the cold night air from the partially opened window on his left.
A sudden breeze whipped through the slight opening, and he welcomed the chill on his bare chest. He would welcome anything that would help to cool the fire racing through his veins. It had taken all his willpower to keep from going to Bridget tonight. Just the thought of her lying on her bed, warm and waiting for him, was enough to drive him mad.
But he couldn't. He couldn't go to her. Not yet. Not until he'd sorted some things out in his own mind. He crooked his left arm behind his head and stared out the window at the moonlit scene beyond. It wasn't only her obvious lie tonight that bothered him, he told himself. It was the sudden realization that he knew practically nothing about her save from the paltry bits of information she'd fed him.
Jacob rolled the cigar between his thumb and forefinger and mentally went over that small list – her name, Bridget O'Dell, no family, and the fact that her former home was in Kerry Patch in St. Louis. Not much.
He took a deep drag on his cigar and exhaled on a sigh. Then, too, he knew that she had deliberately tried to stay away from him and Jessica. She'd tried over and over again on the ship to put distance between them. Of course, he acknowledged, so had he, but what were her reasons? Why was she so fiercely adamant about relying on no one?
He scowled into the darkness as another memory crowded in. Her reaction to the news that he was a marshal had merely seemed odd at the time, but now that he was admitting some doubts about her, that reaction took on a whole new meaning. Could she really have been afraid? Of the law? Of him?
Angrily he reached over and stubbed out his cigar in the dish laying beside his bed. He had to know.
#
Halfway there, Harry told himself. Soon he'd be at the gold fields. Soon he could settle up with Bridget Dugan, lay claim to some riches, and be back on a ship bound for civilization again.
He stared down at the roustabouts, tugging and pulling at the snag
ropes. Damned fools don't know no better than to spend their lives sweatin' and bleedin' for somebody else, he thought. Well, not Harry Longdon. Not when there was a better way.
#
"Blast and damnation!" Bridget crumpled up her third piece of paper and chewed at the end of her pen. "Damned ink spots foulin' up everything. How do they expect a body to do anything right when their bloody pens drip ink?"
Jessica chewed her cookie and watched the woman silently. She had no idea why Bridget was so upset, but it happened every time she tried to put marks down on paper. The little girl picked up her glass of water with both hands and took a sip. She'd never seen her papa shout at paper like Bridget did. Maybe he could help her.
“Bridget?” she asked quietly.
"Yes, darlin'?” Bridget looked up.
"Papa can help."
"Help what?" She looked down at the table. "Oh, Papa could help me with me writin'? Is that what you mean?”
The child nodded, set her glass down, and wiped crumbs from her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Aye, that he could." Bridget sighed, picked up the balled papers, and carried them to the fire. As the flames curled and blackened the edges, she said. "But we won't ask him, all right?"
"Why?”
Why, indeed, Bridget asked herself. Well, she could hardly tell the child that for the last two weeks hardly a word had passed between them except when Jessie was around. She crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself tightly.
Not only had he stayed away from her bed, but Jacob had taken to staying at the marshal's office later and later each night. It was now to the point where Jessica had to be taken to the office for a visit with her own father. For some reason, Jacob was completely withdrawing from her.
Maybe she should ask Jacob for help with this readin' and writin'. Maybe then he'd start talkin' to her again. No, she told herself, no, she'd already decided that she didn't want Jacob knowin' that she couldn't read her own name. It was shameful enough admittin' it to Cotton Drake, though he'd been a dear about the whole thing.
No, it was best to leave things as they were. There had to be a reason for Jacob's behavior and perhaps it was just as well anyway. It would be all the easier to leave the Fallons behind when the time came, if all feeling between them had come to a natural end.
Except for the fact that her feelings hadn't ended. But how she felt didn't matter. She'd let her compassion and affection overrule her good sense once. It wouldn't happen again. Besides, Jacob had made it plain that he wasn't interested in her any longer. His thirst for her quenched, he'd tossed her aside like an empty whiskey bottle.
She ground her teeth together. Two weeks of his silent company was more than enough to convince her that he thought no more of her than he would any other cleaning lady he'd had in to do the work around his home. What she'd given him must have meant nothing to him. He'd never referred to that night they'd spent in each other's arms, and Bridget's anger at being cast aside continued to grow with each passing day. No, any feelings she had for Jacob Fallon she would push down deep inside her until they finally died of neglect.
Bridget glanced at the flames that had devoured her latest effort and told herself that somehow, she had to do what she could to survive. She had to stay with Jacob until she'd earned enough money to take her far away. That was all she would think about – getting away.
"Bridget, why not tell Papa?"
She crossed to the little girl and squatted down beside her chair. Forcing a smile, she said, "Because secrets are fun sometimes, love. And this writin' I'm doin' with Cotton is a secret."
Oh, why did Jessie have to be so important to her? Why couldn't this have been easy?
"Do you understand?"
The child's small mouth twisted as she thought about Bridget's words. Bridget held her breath until Jessie finally nodded and said, "Yes."
"Ah, fine." She leaned in close and kissed both of Jessica's cheeks. "You're a grand girl, Jessie Fallon, and I love ya dearly." The truth of that struck her a hard blow when she realized that once she left Jacob's home, she would never see his daughter again.
Jessie giggled and tucked her head down to avoid more ticklish kisses.
#
"Well," Cotton drawled as he moved for the door, "reckon I'll just walk around town a bit. Check on things."
Jacob looked up from his paperwork and watched his deputy solemnly.
"You know,” Cotton continued, "make sure we ain't got no drunks sleepin' it off on the boardwalks and such."
Jacob nodded.
"Well, then." He grabbed the doorknob and pulled. "Guess I'll be back in an hour or so." The deputy stepped through the open doorway. "So long, boss.”
Jacob waited a moment after the door shut quietly, then stood and crossed the room to one of the front windows. Flattening himself against the wall, he peered out the dirty glass covertly, his gaze fastened on Cotton Drake.
From the first day that Cotton had announced that he would just “Walk around town a bit," Jacob had been suspicious. One reason for that was his deputy had the most guileless face Jacob had ever seen. Every emotion was openly visible on the man's features. He was probably a terrible poker player. The other reason Jacob had was that he noticed, and not for the first time, that Cotton's appearance was different these days. All of the tears in his clothing had been carefully mended. And Jacob was pretty sure he knew by whom! He had that prickly feeling of knowing something was going on, but he was not sure what.
So Jacob had watched Cotton Drake. Every day at about the same time the deputy left the office with the same excuse.
Jacob's gaze followed the man as he crossed the crowded road, raising a hand in greeting to a few of the miners. Every day at about the same time, Jacob watched as Cotton went to the back door of the Fallon cabin and entered. His breath left him in a short hiss of disgust – both at himself and Bridget O'Dell.
What was she thinking? More to the point, what was she doing? As he watched, Jessica slipped through the back door of her home, dropped to the dirt, and began one of her long imaginative games.
Bridget and Cotton were alone again.
Jacob turned away from the window and rubbed a hand across his beard-stubbled jaw. He felt as though he hadn't slept in a week. Every time he closed his eyes, visions of Cotton and Bridget together rose up to taunt him.
Goddammit, how had this happened? How had he allowed himself to care for her? To need her? Every waking moment his body reminded him how much he wanted to go to her, feel his arms close around her, feel her cheek against his chest, her breath on his flesh.
He missed her constant chattering. He missed hearing snatches of old Irish songs as she went about her work. He missed being told one of her father's favorite sayings. He missed Bridget so much it was killing him.
Hell, he hardly dared admit it to himself.
He loved her.
Jacob walked back to his desk and dropped into the chair. He wouldn't embarrass himself by charging over to his own home like a jealous husband. Bridget had obviously made a choice – she preferred Cotton – and Jacob could hardly blame her the way he'd been treating her lately.
But didn't she know how difficult this was for him? No, she doesn't, he answered his own question. How could she? You haven't bothered to tell her what it is that's been eating at you.
And he wouldn't ask either of the two people involved for an explanation of their long, private visits. It wasn't any of his business. At least, not yet.
Jacob set the papers down, got up and walked back to the window. Through grim eyes he stared at his home and wished fervently that he knew what to do.
#
"Ah, Cotton, this is so much better!" Bridget exclaimed as she wiped another mess clean from her new slate. She held the slender slate pencil in her right hand and laboriously wrote out her name. Her first name.
The deputy smiled self-consciously. “Glad you like it, Bridget. I thought this'd work out a sight better than all them
papers you been burnin' up in the last couple a weeks."
"Oh, aye!” Bridget grinned triumphantly down at her handiwork. "And these things I can just tuck in under my mattress to hide." Lord knows, she told herself with an inward sigh, Jacob wouldn't be in her room to find them.
"Y'know, I think ol’ Miz MacElroy was some surprised to find that slate in the storeroom. Reckon they got so much stuff piled up in there, she done forgot what's there and what ain't.”
Her eyes flew up to his. "You didn't say what you wanted it for, did ya?"
Cotton scowled. “Hell, no. I ain't no turncoat. I already promised I wouldn't say nothin', and I won't.”
"Good.” She looked back at the slate.
“But,” he went on, “Bridget, I surely do wish you'd tell the boss about this."
"No.” Bridget shook her head vigorously. "No, Cotton. I can't do that."
"Well, 'scuse me, ma'am" – he scratched his head – “but why the hell not? I swear that man knows somethin'. He's all the time watchin' me… pure gives me the shivers sometimes, the look in those eyes of his."
Bridget knew just what he meant. Sometimes she'd catch Jacob watching her with the same intensity. She'd always hated having to keep secrets, and now she remembered why. The constant pretendin' and sneakin' around could really wear a body down. Besides, keepin' quiet just wasn't in her nature.
She chewed her lip for a moment, deep in thought, then said softly, as much to reassure herself as Cotton, "No. If Jacob Fallon thought you were up to somethin', he'd say so." Glancing at the mantel clock, she gathered up her things. “You'd best be goin' now, Cotton. I've got me chores to see to."
He leapt out of his chair, anxious to be away. No matter what Bridget said, Cotton knew that there had to be a reason the marshal was bein' a mite touchy lately.
Cotton stepped out the back door, sending Jessica inside. He glanced uneasily at the office, and though he couldn't see anything, he had the eerie feeling that he was being watched.
#
Mountain Dawn Page 18
