by E. E. Burke
“O’Shea! What’s a man gotta do to get a drink around here?” The shout came from a man in dusty denims standing at the bar. Rather, weaving. He didn’t need another drink.
The owner turned with an imploring look. “See here, Miss. This isn’t a place for the likes of nice young ladies like you. I’m sure you’ll find yourself a husband without having to entertain anybody...and I need to get back to my customers, so...” He took a step backwards and made a shooing motion with his hands before he turned and strode away, leaving her standing there, slack-jawed.
The finest theaters from San Francisco to St. Louis had clamored for her to appear, and this uncouth Irishman running a shabby saloon out in the middle of nowhere had just shooed her away like he would a stray cat.
Seething, she followed him and spoke to his back as he reached for a bottle on one of the lower shelves behind the bar. “You did not answer my question, sir.”
He spun at her remark. That she’d startled him was evidenced by the way he fumbled the bottle, just catching it before it dropped. He set it on the counter with a thud.
The impatient customer stared at her without recognition.
O’Shea didn’t recognize her, either, which was a good thing. She’d changed her name, and it seemed unlikely the men out here on the edge of nowhere would’ve seen her perform.
“What sort of entertainer do you require?” she repeated.
The owner propped his hands on his hips, frowning. “I need dancers. Singers. Saloon girls.” He emphasized the last to make sure she understood.
She didn’t appreciate being treated like she was dimwitted. “I can sing and dance, and I play the banjo. I’m also a good actress and can put on skits. If you hire me, I assure you, your customers will be entertained...and you won’t need any saloon girls.”
Charm hesitated, looking around. There were no other servers. She’d better clarify. “Unless you need to hire women to serve drinks. I don’t do that.”
The sandy-haired farmer slammed his hat on the surface on the bar and dust went flying. “I say, hire the gal.”
O’Shea poured a drink and held out his hand. The customer slapped a coin into his palm. “Thank you, Mr. McLaughlin, for your informed opinion.”
“Glad to be of service—” The bleary-eyed patron let out a loud burp. He grinned at her. “S’cuse me miss. I should introduce myself. Bill McLaughlin, head organizer for the Land League.”
O’Shea put his hand on the bar in between her and McLaughlin. The gesture appeared strangely protective. “If you would give us a moment...”
“Oh, sure...” Mr. McLaughlin touched his fingers to his forehead in a drunken salute and staggered back to a table where the other men clapped him on the back. Perhaps he’d been put up to the interruption.
The owner turned to her with a frown. “Look, miss...”
“Labelle.” He hadn’t bothered to ask.
“Miss Labelle. I’m sure you sing pretty, but what I’m looking for is...” He droned on with a tedious repetition. There would be no convincing him by listing her qualifications. A try-out would be easier if his establishment had a stage, but she could manage without.
She hoisted herself up on the bar. Fortunately, her acrobatic training had made her strong and agile.
“What are you doing?” He swiped at her skirts. She hopped out of his way, to the end of the bar. Fortunately, he wasn’t quick. In fact, he appeared to have a limp. That wouldn’t stop him from dragging her off the bar if she didn’t do something to impress him.
Facing the crowd, she broke out in a rousing song she suspected Mr. O’Shea had heard before, if he hadn’t sung it himself.
“My name is Tim McDonald, I'm a native of the Isle,
I was born among old Erin's bogs when I was but a child.
My father fought in 'Ninety-eight for liberty so dear;
He fell upon old Vinegar Hill, like an Irish volunteer.
Then raise the harp of Erin, boys, the flag we all revere—
We'll fight and fall beneath its folds, like Irish volunteers!”
The customers, after staring at her for a moment, began to clap along. A few men leapt up and joined in, singing. One man even climbed on a table. He held out his arms to her, as if he wanted a hug.
A thrill shot through her and her spirits soared, the feeling she always experienced when bathed in the adulation of a crowd. Warming to the role, she bent down, took an empty glass from a surprised customer and held it high, doing a jig while she sang.
“When I was driven from my home by an oppressor's hand,
I cut my sticks and greased my brogues, and came o'er to this land.
I found a home and many friends, and some that I love dear.
Be jabbers! I'll stick to them like bricks and an Irish volunteer.
Then fill your glasses up, me boys, and drink a hearty cheer,
To the land of our adoption and the Irish volunteer!”
The men cheered and stomped as she sang. The man on the table began to do the jig along with her. When she finished, she took a flourishing bow, and then hopped off the bar—right into Mr. O’Shea’s arms.
Her heart, already pounding, sped up. She stared at him, more surprised by her shivering response than by his quick reflexes. This hadn’t been part of the plan. She wouldn’t willingly jump into any man’s arms, much less a stranger’s.
The men cheered louder. Coins plinked on the bar as they threw money and yelled for another song.
Her skin grew warm and the thrill heightened, a physical response due to the crowd’s enthusiastic response, of course. Not the result of being cradled in the arms of a surly Irish saloonkeeper with eyes that reminded her of the sea on a sunny day.
What was she thinking? She didn’t care about the color of his eyes. The impromptu ending had worked out perfectly. She would continue the act to its conclusion. Looping her arms around his neck, she put on a big smile. “I think that qualifies as entertainment, don’t you?”
Chapter 2
Patrick breathed heavily, and it wasn’t due to exertion. The little singer in his arms weighed less than a cask of cider, and sure didn’t feel like one. He’d feared she might hurt herself when she jumped off the bar, but even that didn’t account for the pounding excitement in his chest.
The song, that’s what caused this reaction. The Irish Volunteer was the last song he and his brother sang together, while marching through the mud on the way to Fredericksburg. Hearing it again in a strong, beautiful voice had shaken him to the core.
“When do I start?” Miss LaBelle asked breathlessly.
Patrick looked into her flushed, smiling face, and the words needed to send her on her way stuck in his throat. When she had finished singing and then leapt as if she expected him to catch her, he’d reacted instinctively. She might’ve planned for this, thinking to manipulate him into doing her bidding. That was something Kathleen would’ve done.
By the auld sod! He wouldn’t be twisted around another woman’s little finger.
He dropped his right arm and Miss Labelle’s feet hit the floor. He kept his left arm around her until he was certain she had her balance. Then he stepped back.
A coin struck the side of his head and bounced off. He sought the culprit with a scowl.
Every man was on his feet.
“Let her sing, dummkopf!” a Dutchman shouted.
“Hire the girl, you fool!” McLaughlin heaved another coin. Patrick raised his hand and caught this one.
“Sing for us, darlin’!” a drunken railroad worker howled.
They loved her. They loved her so much they were throwing money. Patrick came to his senses. He’d be a fool to send her away. The odds of finding another woman who could sing and dance like this one were nil. This was the break in the clouds he’d been waiting for, even if he couldn’t quite believe his...
No, he wouldn’t call it luck. That would jinx him for sure.
He leaned over and whispered. “You can start right now.”<
br />
Her lips curved into a pleased smile.
“What’s your given name, Miss LaBelle?”
“Charm.”
His breath caught somewhere just above his pounding heart. It was a sign so obvious even he couldn’t miss it. Finally, the day had come. Luck was smiling on him.
If he hired this girl and customers kept throwing money, he could soon afford to fix up the place. O’Shea’s would become known as the best spot in the Neutral Lands for entertainment. He would be rich and successful, like he’d dreamed when he first stepped off the boat in America, before he got lured into fighting a war that wasn’t his and his life had gone to hell. Some higher power—God, Fate, Luck, maybe they were all one and the same—had decided he’d suffered enough and had granted him a charm.
He reached over, grasped her hand and held it up. Turning to the crowd, he shouted. “Meet Miss Charm LaBelle, O’Shea’s new entertainer!”
Enthusiastic cheers went up.
She glanced over with approval shining in her eyes, and his heart melted like warm butter.
Alarmed at her affect on him, he let go of her hand.
Charm sashayed around to the front of the bar and began to croon a familiar ballad that Patrick had heard around crackling campfires in the loneliest hours of the night. More than five years had passed since those hellish times, but hearing Lorena brought it all back in a rush.
By the time she started the second verse, there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.
“A hundred months have passed, Lorena,
Since last I held that hand in mine,
And felt the pulse beat fast, Lorena,
Though mine beat faster far than thine.
A hundred months, 'twas flowery May,
When up the hilly slope we climbed,
To watch the dying of the day,
And hear the distant church bells chime.
We loved each other then, Lorena,
Far more than we ever dared to tell...”
As she sang, she wove her way through the saloon, passing by each table, lightly touching men’s shoulders, acknowledging them with a sympathetic nod. Kindness and empathy flowed out of her in a cool, pure stream.
The men gazed upon her, enthralled, and none more so than Patrick. The yearning ache in his chest intensified, his vision blurred. What an unexpected treasure. An angel, come to life...and to think she had leapt into his arms. Every man in the room had fallen in love with her, but she belonged to him. His Charm.
Patrick shook his head to clear the absurd daydream. His? She was no more his than the bright blue sky or the warm sunshine or the sweet smells of spring. Whether or not she’d been sent to help him, he couldn’t be so brainless as to let his emotions drag him into another heartbreak; and Charm was heartbreak personified. She hadn’t shown any man, including him, particular interest, yet she’d woven a spell that made them all believe they were special.
He turned his back on her and the haunting strains of the song, fighting to regain his composure. Working with her, seeing her daily, held more danger than a forest filled with wily Rebs. She wouldn’t kill him. But if he let himself fall for her, she’d make him wish he were dead.
After she finished singing, she returned behind the bar. She held out her skirt to carry more coins the men had given her. “I’d suggest putting a jar on the counter...unless you want to keep catching the money they throw.”
Her cheeky remark amused him. She was good and she knew it. Her rightful pride in a job well done made her all the more appealing.
Patrick resisted the urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her soundly. Instead, he fished an empty jar from behind the bar. In the meantime, Charm stacked the coins. Her take for two songs included several silver dollars. He did a quick calculation of what they could make in a week, and his mouth went dry. When Lady Luck decided to pay up, she did so in abundance.
“I’ll take half,” she announced.
“This time.” He corrected her to let her know she wouldn’t be driving the bargain. “We still need to discuss the financial arrangements.”
Her brow furrowed. What he said displeased her. Even if she ended up with half, he couldn’t let her have it without serious negotiation, or he’d be seen as namby-pamby.
“All right. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving?” He hoped to have her perform tonight.
She scraped coins into a small purse attached by a decorative chain to a belt around her tiny waist. “I didn’t come prepared to start right away.”
Already negotiating. Better not seem too eager and lose any advantage he might have. “That’s fine. You can come and go as you please, so long as you aren’t late for your performances.”
She didn’t break eye contact, which for some reason thrilled him. He could lose himself in those big brown eyes.
“You ain’t leavin’ us now, are you Charm?” McLaughlin’s mournful query broke the trance.
Patrick blinked, at the same time Charm jerked her attention to the men leaning on the bar, gazing at her like hopeful puppies. She’d won their utter devotion with two sentimental songs. A fact that was both humorous and sobering.
She eyed her adoring fans warily. McLaughlin puckered up and blew her a kiss. Something akin to fear flickered across her face before she shuttered it behind a polite smile. Odd, how she could dance and sing and parade around in front of these men, but when they got up close, she grew skittish.
“Roll in your tongues, boys...” Patrick took a moment to refill the men’s drinks. She needn’t worry. He wouldn’t let anyone near enough to hurt her. “Miss LaBelle will be back. I’ll post a schedule so everybody can see when she’s performing.”
As she turned to leave, he caught her arm. Didn’t want her getting away without confirming when she’d return. “Be back early, so we can talk before I open up.”
She stared at his grip with surprise, and then pulled away, hugging the spot where his hand had been. He hadn’t grabbed her tight enough to hurt her. Perhaps she found his touch offensive. Odd that she would decide that now.
“How early?” she asked.
“Eight.”
“I’ll be here by ten. That should give us sufficient time to discuss a fair arrangement.” She hesitated. “We should probably draw up an agreement.”
In other words, a handshake wasn’t sufficient.
“You mean, write it down? We don’t need that. If I make a deal, I’ll honor it.”
The hesitation, there it was again. “Yes, I’m sure your word is good. But, I don’t know you well enough to trust what you will or won’t do.”
She’d trusted him enough to leap into his arms. It was on the tip of his tongue to say so, except he wasn’t so unwise as to insult her like she had insulted him. At least knowing she didn’t welcome his attentions would make it easier to keep his hands to himself.
“Fine, then. I don’t know you, either. So we’ll put everything in writing.
She took a step backwards. Her uncertainty or dislike or fear, or whatever it was, annoyed him. He’d done nothing more than offer her a job.
“Until tomorrow, then.”
“No later than ten,” he reminded her. “Maybe we ought to put that in writing, too.”
“I’ll be here.” Wounded reproach flashed across her fact an instant before she turned with a swirl of skirts and left.
He considered going after her to apologize for his unkind remark. Better not to get off on the wrong foot. Then again, he couldn’t allow her to lead him in a merry dance, or he would lose what little advantage he had. She would be back because she wanted the job. They would come to some agreeable compromise, and then he would sign her blasted agreement. It would serve as a constant reminder of the danger of becoming too attached to a good luck charm.
***
Charm left the saloon more flustered and uncertain than when she had arrived. She’d blamed the thrill she’d experienced on the excitement brought about by the crowd’s enthusiasti
c response. When the Irishman touched her arm, the same thing happened again. She couldn’t blame that on the crowd.
Her unexpected attraction to the saloon owner confused and frightened her. Having managed to escape the proverbial frying pan, jumping into the fire with Mr. O’Shea would be foolish indeed. For one, she didn’t know him. He might expect favors as part of their deal. Or was she reading him wrong? She hated it, this uncertainty. All her life she had worked in places where men gathered and hadn’t feared them. Not before Simon had given her a reason to be afraid.
She should heed her misgivings and not return. What did it matter if she didn’t show up? Mr. O’Shea would just think she had changed her mind.
Crossing the street was fraught with the usual dangers—ruts deep enough to swallow her to her kneecaps in slick mud, interspersed with piles of pungent manure. She hurried past a flat bed loaded with building materials, and ignored the catcalls and whistles from men who wanted to get her attention. The town and surrounding area had upwards of four hundred inhabitants, most of them male, and most of those the coarse variety, the sort of men she had entertained when she was young. Not the sort she dallied with...or married.
By the time she reached the boarding house—she refused to give it so grand a name as hotel, which is what the owners called it—she still hadn’t come to a firm conclusion about her next steps. In a town with more saloons than stores, she had few options.
Four women who’d arrived with her on the bride train were gathered in the front parlor, engaged in what appeared to be a somber discussion.
She hesitated by the door, imagining their reaction to her rather spontaneous decision to seek employment in a saloon. That wasn’t her first choice, but she wasn’t qualified for the usual jobs reserved for women, even if any were available. She could perform operas and quote Shakespeare, but she couldn’t cook and didn’t sew well enough to be a seamstress. In the traditional sense, she was inferior which was why it surprised her that the other women had accepted her so readily. They didn’t know about her career. As soon as they found out, they would shun her. If she didn’t go back to O’Shea’s, she wouldn’t have to tell them.
