by E. E. Burke
Prudence draped the white dress on the bed with a reverence that made Charm flinch. White stood for purity and innocence. Charm could claim neither.
“You’re set on it, then,” Pru said softly. “There’s nothing I can say to talk you out of it?”
The die had been cast long ago. Charm knew no other life, nor did she want a different one. She shook her head. “No. Nothing.”
Chapter 3
Patrick woke early the next morning in an optimistic mood. Even the stiffness in his muscles didn’t seem as bad, or maybe it just didn’t bother him as much because his thoughts were occupied with visions of his good luck charm.
That would be a good stage name. He would suggest it when he met with Miss LaBelle to hammer out an agreement. As much as he despised the impersonal nature of contracts, he could see the value. Once word got around about her astonishing talent, the other saloon owners would try to hire her away. Having her signature on a legal document would protect his interests.
Hobbling to the dresser, he picked up a small pill and rolled it between his fingers. Each morning, he’d crush the opium into the bottom of a glass and mix the bitter medicine with sugared whiskey. The stuff would work its magic and he’d be able to move with less pain. But over time, he found he needed more to get the same relief. The more he took, the slower his mind worked.
He put down the pill. He could do without the medicine this morning, and if he made it through tomorrow, he might find he didn’t need it anymore. By the time he dressed and ate his usual breakfast, oat porridge liberally doused with honey, he felt much better.
Before he left his room, he stopped in front of a small statue standing serenely on a shelf beside the door. His mother had tucked the icon into his knapsack before he’d left Ireland, assuring him it would bring him luck. After his brother was killed, he’d put the statue away. Last night, the Virgin Mary had reclaimed her place of honor. He still doubted his prayers reached past the ceiling, and wondered if there was anything more than clouds in the heavens, but he wasn’t so certain that he’d pitch his religion out the window. Indeed, what had happened yesterday was nothing less than a miracle.
He made the sign of the cross. “Blessed Mary, I thank you for bringing me a good luck charm...” He hesitated. Normally, he’d confess to a priest, but there wasn’t one handy, and he felt the need to make amends. “Forgive me for putting you in the sock drawer.”
Patrick took care descending the stairs. For some reason, going down was worse than climbing up. One wrong step would send his back into spasms, or aggravate the pain in his hip. By the time he reached the bottom, he’d broken out in a sweat even though the air felt cool.
The inside of the saloon remained dim, the only light coming through a window in the front. He propped open the door to bring in more light and air the place out, so it didn’t reek. He’d gotten used to the odors, but Miss LaBelle might not like it. On the other hand, she’d strolled in and demanded a job, so the smell must not bother her overmuch.
After he donned his apron, he took a clean rag and wiped down the bar. My, but Charm had astonished him when she’d climbed up and started singing. She possessed beauty, a sweet voice and a rare talent for captivating a crowd. Every man in the room had become her devoted swain.
Including him.
His smile faded. Only a fool would fall for her act. Women who loved to charm men couldn’t be satisfied with just one. Even her name should be a warning. Ruminating on the sobering thought, Patrick dusted bottles on the shelves. A more cheerful prospect, the money he would earn while she worked for him. He could expand the saloon, maybe purchase billiards tables. At the sound of footsteps, he turned, feather duster in hand, ridiculously eager. When he saw who stood in the doorway, his anticipation fled.
“Mr. Hardt. Good morning.”
“The same to you, O’Shea. Though whether it’s good remains to be seen.” Hardt moved toward the bar with purposeful strides. A fair bet the land agent wasn’t here for a drink. He didn’t fraternize with the clientele. Even if he were social, the settlers would dislike him purely on the basis of his association with the railroad and its rich owner, who’d stolen the land out from under them. Being standoffish didn’t help Hardt’s cause, though. The settlers thought he considered himself above them and was out of touch with problems faced by the common man. Hardt didn’t dress like them, either. He wore three-piece suits, black or gray, never opting for trousers in popular stripes or paisley. Today, his black suit fit the look on his face.
Patrick hung the feather duster beside the shelf. He rested his arm on the bar and shifted his weight off his bad leg. “Something I can do for you?” he inquired politely.
“Tell me you didn’t hire Miss LaBelle.”
Hardt acted awfully proprietary about a woman he’d been ready to raffle off.
“’Fraid I can’t do that. She starts today.”
“She has a contract with the railroad.”
“Does she now?” Patrick strove to keep the irritation out of his voice. A signature on a piece of paper was only as good a man’s word—or a woman’s in this case. If Charm didn’t keep her word on the deal she made with the railroad, he had no reason to believe she’d keep her word to him; and to think she had the nerve to ask him to sign something, as if his honor was in question. He’d have a talk with her about this other contract when she showed up.
“Miss LaBelle signed an agreement to be wed. In return, her fare, room and board were covered.” Hardt acted like the inequity of the arrangement had never struck him.
“You bought her that cheap?” Patrick’s quip didn’t elicit a smile. Maybe Hardt didn’t have a sense of humor. Though he’d made a fool out of that stupid hothead Jarvis, who’d wagered away his land. In that instance, the railroad agent demonstrated wisdom and a keen sense of fairness. Pray he would show the same levelheaded thinking in the case of a runaway bride.
“Miss LaBelle will be performing tonight, if you’d like to stop by and see her.” Patrick didn’t mention Charm’s imminent arrival. Wouldn’t want Hardt spoiling his good fortune.
“You cannot hire these women we brought in,” the agent said bluntly.
Patrick’s hackles went up at being told what to do. He’d resented orders while in the army; and he sure as hell didn’t answer to a former Union officer who’d probably bought his post. How else would a southerner get to be a U.S. major? “Last time I checked, it was a free country. We made sure of it when we whipped the Rebs.”
Hardt crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t fight for your right to corrupt decent women.”
The irritation prickling Patrick’s skin became a slow burn. “Mr. Hardt. Yer gettin’ awfully close to insulting me.” His brogue thickened the angrier he got. “Fer the sake of keepin’ the peace, I’ll let it pass this time. Miss LaBelle came in here, she asked for a job, and I gave her one. If you got a complaint, I suggest you take it up with her. But don’t come in here again and try to tell me what I can or can’t do.”
Some emotion flickered in Hardt’s eyes, not anger, more like grudging respect. He dropped the defensive stance. “My intention isn’t to insult you, O’Shea. If you don’t care about the legal implications, then I must ask you, as a gentleman, to consider the consequences of this decision. If you employ that young lady, she might as well announce that she’s entertaining customers.”
Patrick entertained the idea of wrapping his fingers around Hardt’s neck, and would have if the agent had been expressing a singular opinion. He only echoed what society in general believed. “Not all women who sing in saloons and work in dance halls are prostitutes.”
“Try convincing the men who come in here.”
Patrick stiffened with anger. Pain radiated from hip down his right leg. He remained straight through sheer willpower. “Nobody, including you, will abuse Miss LaBelle as long as she’s under my protection.”
“Then I’d suggest you bring her under your protection permanently. Marry her.”
> “Marry her?” Patrick repeated it because he was sure he hadn’t heard right.
Hardt nodded. “It would solve a number of problems.”
And introduce a host of others.
“That’s not possible.”
Disappointment flickered across the agent’s face. “If you won’t make her respectable then let another man have her.”
Patrick refused the bait. He wouldn’t be bullied into marriage. “She knows what she’s getting into.”
“She might. I’m not sure you do.” Hardt withdrew a folded paper from inside his coat. “Are you aware of an earlier claim on this property?”
The agent shouldn’t play poker with such an obvious bluff.
“There’s no one else who can make a legitimate claim on this land and you know it.”
“No one other than the man who built here first.”
“Gilly?” Patrick laughed. Talk about reaching for straws. His friend, an old army chum, had come out here and put up a sod building, but he hadn’t liked living in the wilds and swore he wouldn’t return. “He sold me his place. We shook on it. Gilly wouldn’t go back on his word.”
“Mr. McGill sold you a sod structure. He didn’t own the land beneath it. But he and his brother filed a claim together, and it’s dated before the one you filed. See for yourself.” Hardt unfolded the paper and pushed it across the bar. “Mr. McGill arrived in town yesterday. He’s contesting your ownership and wants me to assign him rights.”
Patrick examined the signatures. He wouldn’t know his friend’s mark, having never seen it. There were two names, two McGills, on the claim. Worry churned in his stomach. He pushed the paper back to Hardt. “Well, there’s a simple solution. Just ask Gilly. He’ll tell you he sold me the soddy and intended that to include the land.”
“Mr. McGill died several months ago and left everything to his brother, who says he knew nothing about the deal.”
Patrick had to pound something, so he pounded his fist on the bar. “Then he’s a liar!”
Hardt didn’t bat an eye. “He’s presented a valid claim that predates the one you filed.”
Furious, Patrick paced. He favored his aching leg, the pain worsening as his anger escalated. He couldn’t lose this place, not now, and not to a cheat. “Gilly’s an honest man. He would’ve given his brother half the proceeds he made on the sale. You ought to realize this. You picked up on a cheater’s lie before with Jarvis, and you did the right thing when he tried to cheat Val. Do the right thing now. Assign the land to me, instead of letting that lying whelp steal it.”
The stone-faced agent seemed to consider his plea, if silence was any indication. “I’m not unsympathetic, but McGill has a valid claim...and he’s a married man. You aren’t. Railroad directives require me to assign claims first to married men.”
The muscles in Patrick’s back clenched. He halted, unable to walk without excruciating pain. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not when it seemed his life had finally taken a turn for the better. He’d put everything he owned into this business. Coming out here to pursue what he’d been sure was a better life had cost him dearly. He refused to give up without a fight.
Only, this fight would end up in court in an expensive battle. Judges always sided with rich men and the railroads. Again, Luck had played a cruel trick on him.
“If you were to marry Miss LaBelle, it would be easier for me to make an argument that you should retain rights to the land, based on your previous agreement and your improvements. Think about it.” Hardt touched his hat brim. “I’ll leave you to your preparations. Good day.”
Think about it.
The agent had offered a solution, and oh, how simple and convenient he made it sound.
Patrick closed his eyes and took deep breaths, trying to relax.
He could keep his saloon if he married Charm.
God, he was tempted.
What rot had crawled into his brain? She had her pick from more than a hundred men, most of them healthier, but she hadn’t come in here looking for a marriage proposal. If she wanted to be wed, she wouldn’t be asking for a job. He’d have no luck on that account.
Pain stabbed his hip and lower back as the abused muscles twisted into knots. He gasped and shifted his stance. That only worsened the spasms. His legs trembled. In minute, he’d be on his knees. Bracing his hands on the bar, he used the strength in his arms to support his weight. Now wasn’t the time for his body to give out. Not when he had a fight to wage against those who would try to take everything away from him.
***
“Mr. O’Shea!” Charm rushed to her new employer’s side. She’d seen the frowning railroad agent exit the saloon and to avoid having to deal with him, she hid behind the side of the building until he crossed the street. When she’d reached the open door, Mr. O’Shea had been hunched over, gasping, clinging to the bar for support.
She wrapped her arms around him, praying she could hold him up long enough to assist him to a chair. “What’s wrong? Did Mr. Hardt attack you?”
He gave a harsh laugh, neither confirmation nor denial. The muscles in his abdomen tensed as he released another labored breath. Hanging his head, he stared downward, seeming to put all his energy into concentrating. If he fell, he’d take her down with him. Regardless, she wouldn’t let go and allow him to crumple.
“Here, I’ll help you to a chair.”
“Leave me be,” he muttered.
What was it about men that made them refuse help when they so obviously needed it? He’d be more embarrassed if he ended up in a heap on the floor.
She moved around to one side and kept her arm about his waist. He felt so strong, so solid. Her heart ached at seeing him trembling in distress. “Please tell me how I can be of assistance.”
He shifted, leaning his weight to one side, away from her. He wasn’t in any condition to push her away, nor did she want him to, oddly enough. She longed to hold him and reassure him.
Where had that come from? She wasn’t a particularly compassionate person. Yet, it wasn’t compassion, exactly, that she felt. Protective? That made no sense, either. She hardly knew him, and the thought of her protecting a big man like Patrick O’Shea was laughable. Maybe that’s why he laughed when she first put her arms around him.
A fine sheen of perspiration glistened on his forehead. His black brows gathered in a fierce frown and pain darkened his eyes.
“You look terrible.”
His throat worked, dark amusement crossed his face. “I feel terrible.”
“Then you need to sit down instead of being bullheaded about accepting my help.”
“I’m not so weak I have to be helped to a chair like an old man.” He reached for an unmarked bottle on a shelf beneath the bar. His hands shook as he poured a measured amount of reddish liquid in a glass.
Charm had grown up with a man who required a drink every morning just to get out of bed. Her father’s tremors came on when he didn’t get his whiskey. Was that what was wrong with Mr. O’Shea?
What did it matter whether he liked his liquor? She would only be working for him. As long as he treated her right and paid her on time, what he did was none of her business.
He downed the drink in one gulp. Afterwards, he stood with his hands braced on the bar, as if waiting for something. In few moments, his breathing slowed. “That’ll help.”
She eyed the glass. “I know whiskey is considered a cure-all, but I’m not convinced.”
He released a heavy breath. “What butter or whiskey does not cure cannot be cured. So say the old folks.”
“Did it help them?”
He shrugged.
At least he seemed more in control. Her father had needed an entire glassful of whiskey in the morning, not just a shot.
As the crisis passed, she became aware she had her hand on her employer’s arm. Warmth seeped through the fabric of his shirt. His body radiated heat. Any woman fortunate enough to curl up beside him at night would never be cold.
Sh
e jerked her hand away, startled by the direction her mind had wandered. She had no desire to curl up beside Mr. O’Shea, or any other man, for that matter.
He straightened, slowly, and was soon back to acting self-confident, although he appeared wrung out. “Better now. Just a wee pain.”
His attempt to downplay the frightening episode was really quite endearing.
“A wee pain? I’d hate to see what a severe pain might do to you.” Without thinking, she withdrew her handkerchief from beneath her sleeve, reached up and mopped the sweat on his brow.
Based on his stunned expression, she’d surprised him—almost as much as she surprised herself. She withdrew her hand. His heat had magically transferred to her face. She focused her attention on folding the handkerchief. “What brought it on, this wee pain?”
He didn’t answer right away.
She lifted her head and their eyes met. The tension in the air fairly crackled, humming energy that started up whenever they were in close proximity.
His gaze became thoughtful. “Mr. Hardt paid me a visit this morning.”
“Did he?” She hesitated, apprehensive. The railroad agent might’ve heard she’d taken a job and tried to thwart her. “What did he want?”
“He mentioned you have a contract. With the railroad. Something you didn’t tell me.” Mr. O’Shea’s tone wasn’t scolding, but she sensed his disappointment nonetheless.
“The paper I signed? That doesn’t mean I’m their slave. They can’t force me to marry.”
He frowned at her response. “No one can force you to do anything you don’t want to.”
Want had nothing to do with it. She longed to find someone to love and to be loved in return. Except, marriage required her to give up control. Having been at the mercy of a man who wasn’t her husband was bad enough. Married, she would have no way out. If she tried to explain her feelings to Mr. O’Shea, he would laugh at her, or think she was crazy.
“Mr. Hardt is worried about losing money. I’ll make restitution from my earnings.”
