Mary and the Fighter (Prairie Tales Book 2)

by Kit Morgan

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Your lunch. I knew that stingy Cromwell wouldn’t feed you before you left the inn. You’ve got to be hungry by now.”

  “And ye’d be right, my dear Mrs. Wallace.”

  “Sit yourself down then and eat.” She turned around. “Mary!”

  Mary jumped to attention. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Take these platters of sandwiches and put them under the tent with the fruit and ale. Be sure you cover them.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Wallace,” she said and hurried to comply.

  Mr. Mulligan looked longingly into the sack, then at Mary. “I’ll just take this with me and help the lass,” he said and stood.

  “You do what you want,” Mrs. Wallace said. “But I suggest you eat that before Squire Ferguson finds something for you to do.”

  He smiled, tucked the sack under his arm, and picked up a platter of sandwiches. He looked at Mary. “Well, shall we?”

  Mary could feel the heat in her cheeks trickle down into her belly. She gave him a shy smile and they were off. Despite the amount of work and her lack of sleep, she suddenly felt invigorated and couldn’t for the life of her figure out why.

  They left the sandwiches with the fruit and ale then turned to gaze at Squire Ferguson’s vast estate. “Miss O’Brien,” Mr. Mulligan said. “Can ye imagine owning all of this?”

  She looked at the green pastures, the stables, the lovely manor house and the long drive that led to it all. Carriages were coming down the lane, and soon she would have to return to work. “I can imagine a lot, Mr. Mulligan. But nothing so lofty as this.”

  He took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and smiled. “I can. In fact, I have no problem with it,” he admitted. “I’ll never be as rich as his Lordship. But I do have plans.”

  She glanced up at him. “Plans?”

  “Oh, aye. I’m going to have an inn one day where I brew my own ale. Just as I’m doing at The Rose and Thorn.”

  She looked away with a hint of indignation. “I’m afraid I don’t abide drinking.” He laughed boisterously, much to her chagrin. “What’s so funny?”

  “Well, I’m afraid it’s part of life, lass. Out here it’s my stock and trade. Mr. Cromwell wouldn’t do as well without me.”

  “I suppose,” she said and looked him up and down.

  “Come now, Miss O’Brien, it’s not as if I’m making whiskey.”

  Her eyes flicked away and back. “No, at least there’s that.”

  He laughed again and shook his head. “Ye’ll see. Maybe ye’ll leave here and come stay.”

  “What?” she asked confusion.

  He gave her a playful smack on the arm. “My inn. Have ye forgotten already what I just told ye?”

  No, she hadn’t, but found herself teasing him for some reason. “Oh, yes, that,” she said with a tiny smile. She then realized that she didn’t feel as shy with Mr. Mulligan as with most people. Maybe because he was so easy to talk to.

  He took his hat off and tossed it in the air a few times. “I’ll have stables in the back, ye see, for the carriages and such. And at least fifteen rooms if I can afford it.”

  “Fifteen?” She looked at the manor house. It had six bedrooms. “Just how big are ye wanting this inn to be?”

  “Big and comfortable too. I’ll put it outside a big city, the last place people stop at before entering, the first after leaving. That will make it memorable.”

  She shrugged. What did she know about such things? “If ye say so, Mr. Mulligan.”

  He smacked her on the arm again. “Aye, I do.”

  She rubbed the spot, smiled, and then watched as Squire Ferguson’s first guests arrived.

  Chapter 3

  Mary watched Patrick Mulligan throughout the afternoon. Every time they passed each other in the ale tent, he would smile and make a teasing remark. But when he was serving the squire’s guests, he was all business. He was cordial and polite and nothing more. A good thing, she reasoned. Some of Squire Ferguson’s guests didn’t look very friendly. One particular fellow looked like he could break a man in half. He was huge! “Who is that man?” she finally asked Mrs. Wallace.

  Mrs. Wallace rolled her eyes. “Which one, you daft girl?”

  “The big one, of course,” Mary shot back. For some reason, she felt bold asking the question.

  “Oh, him,” Mrs. Wallace said. “I’m not sure. He is big though, isn’t he?”

  “As big as a house,” Mary commented.

  Mr. Mulligan stepped beneath the tent cover, a tray of empty ale mugs in his hands. “Mrs. Wallace, we need to refill these.”

  She took a couple off the tray and got to work.

  Mary also took two. “Mr. Mulligan,” she began. “Who is that large man sitting over there at the far table?”

  He glanced over his shoulder and back. “Oh, that’s Bert the …” He snapped his mouth shut.

  “Bert the what?” she asked, curious.

  He shook his head. “Never mind.”

  Mrs. Wallace set the refilled mugs on the tray. “Don’t be a tease,” she said. “Tell us what the man’s name is.”

  “It’s not something ladies need to hear,” he said.

  Mary blushed at his use of the word ‘ladies’. “Why not?”

  “Because…” he shrugged. “The man has a reputation.”

  “A bad one?” Mrs. Wallace asked in shock. “Then what is Squire Ferguson doing inviting the man here?”

  “No, no,” he said. “It’s nothing like that. His name depicts his reputation.”

  Mary and Mrs. Wallace exchanged a quick look. “And what might that reputation be?” Mary asked.

  Mr. Mulligan glanced between them. “Oh, very well. His name is Bert the Bruiser. He’s a fighter.”

  Mary gasped. “A fighter? Merciful Heaven!”

  He stared at her a moment, an odd look on his face. “Come now, it’s not as bad as all that.”

  “Isn’t it?” she snapped and turned away. She was being rude but didn’t care. He’d hit a sore spot. She supposed she should explain. She faced him again. “I apologize, Mr. Mulligan. It’s just that, well, my father boxed ye see. And one fight … his opponent,” she swallowed hard. “He killed him.”

  The other two looked at her in shock. “You poor dear,” Mrs. Wallace said. “I had no idea.”

  “It’s not something I talk about.” She put the refilled mugs on the tray. “After my father died, my mother and I became destitute. It’s why I’m here. I’m hoping to save enough money to bring her over one day.” She looked at Mr. Mulligan. “Like your sister.”

  He looked away and nodded slowly. “Aye, that would be good.” He sighed heavily. “There’s opportunity in this country if ye look for it.” The mugs refilled, he picked up the tray and left the tent.

  “Now why do you suppose he’s got such a long face?” Mrs. Wallace asked.

  “A long face?” Mary said. “Ye don’t think I put it there, do ye?”

  “Perhaps he thinks he’s upset you,” she suggested.

  “Aye,” Mary said. “Yer probably right. Thinking about my da makes me sad, but there’s nothing to be done about it. It is what it is.”

  Mrs. Wallace studied her a moment. “You’ve a stout heart, Mary. That’s a good thing.”

  Mary gave her a tiny smile. “My mother used to tell me I had a stubborn one.”

  “Stout and stubborn, eh? Now there’s a combination to be reckoned with.” She turned with a smile to a tray of sandwiches and picked it up. “Here, serve these.”

  Mary took it and left the tent. What started out as a tea, turned into more of a picnic. But this was the country and not some fancy city. People were more relaxed here, which meant so was the entertaining.

  Mary offered sandwiches to those seated as others began to leave their tables and seek the coolness of the shade trees. She passed Mr. Mulligan on his way back to the ale tent and gave him a shy smile. He smiled back, and her stomach fluttered. She’d caught herse
lf more than once watching him and was going to have to make sure he didn’t catch her at it. She didn’t want to give him the wrong idea.

  She stopped, the empty tray in her hand and thought a moment. So what if she stole a few glances here and there? What difference did it make? Surely a man wouldn’t think a few innocent glances meant she was being flirtatious?

  Mary gasped. “What if he does think it?” she asked herself. Would he judge her?

  “Mary Brigit O’Brien,” she said to herself. “Stop being ridiculous. The man could care less about ye.” She started to march back to the ale tent. “Yer just a lowly indentured servant. He’s too good for the likes of ye anyway.”

  She reached the tent, set the tray down, and noted the pain in her heart. He was too good for the likes of her, wasn’t he?

  With a heavy sigh, she picked up another tray of sandwiches and returned to the squire’s guests.

  So, Mary O’Brien’s father was killed in a fight, Patrick thought as he continued to serve Squire Ferguson’s guests. He glanced at Bert the Bruiser and pondered his presence. As far as he knew, Squire Ferguson didn’t attend the local bareknuckle fights. Perhaps the sport was too brutal for him. But, he also knew the squire was a competitive man. He had some of the fastest horses in the county, prized hunting dogs, and, as most people knew, prided himself on having the best of the best. He glanced at the ale tent and thought of Mary O’Brien. Did that include servants? The squire certainly had the best cook around.

  Patrick smiled at the thought. If the squire were smart he’d marry Mrs. Wallace. It’s what everyone thought anyway. But, perhaps the squire didn’t deem her his equal and didn’t want to ruin his reputation of having the best of the best.

  He glanced at the ale tent and back, then headed for the next table. Did that include Mary O’Brien? She was a funny thing, no doubt about it. Did Squire Ferguson intend to wed her?

  Patrick’s belly went cold at the thought. No, he wouldn’t. She was an indentured servant. That would be going too far.

  “And here’s the lad now!” Mr. Cromwell said jovially.

  Patrick fought against a sigh. He knew where this was going. He glanced at the men around the table, including Bert the Bruiser. Sure enough …

  “He’s a grand fighter!” Cromwell went on to say. “I bet with enough practice, he could even give your Bruiser a run.”

  Bert the Bruiser arched an eyebrow, grunted, and reached for another pastry.

  An older, redheaded man with blue eyes scratched his chin. “A run you say?”

  He looked Patrick up and down, measuring him up. “Maybe…”

  “Mr. Cromwell,” Patrick began. “I don’t think …”

  “No one cares what you think,” Mr. Cromwell said, eyes intent on the red-haired man. “Well?”

  The man’s eyes continued to roam over Patrick. “How soon before he’s fit enough?” he asked. “I wouldn’t want him to go down in the first round. He’ll need to last at least six to make it worth our while.”

  “What?” Patrick said as his brows shot up. He turned to his employer. “Mr. Cromwell. No.”

  “Don’t tell me no, lad,” Mr. Cromwell said. “Besides, you like fighting and you’re good at it.”

  “Be that as it may, I don’t think accepting this man’s offer is wise.”

  The red-haired man laughed. “Since when does your fighter tell you what to do, Cromwell?”

  Mr. Cromwell narrowed his eyes on Patrick. “He doesn’t. He follows my orders and I say that he’ll fight.”

  Patrick looked the Bruiser over. He had to be a half a foot taller than he was and broader too. Cromwell was right, Patrick was a good fighter and he might be able to take the Bruiser. But he would definitely have to train to do it. The man had height and weight. But Patrick had speed and skill. However, he also knew enough about the Bruiser to know he was the better fighter at the moment. One could only do so much damage to a tree. He’d have to figure out the man’s weak spots and lay him out before he had a chance to get in too many punches. Getting hit by a man like that was like getting hit with an anvil.

  Patrick, along with everyone else that knew the Bruiser’s reputation, knew a man didn’t get hit with an anvil and live to tell about it.

  He thought of Mary up in the ale tent. What would she think if she heard this conversation? Would she be appalled? Would she worry for his safety?

  Patrick sighed, gathered more empty mugs and tankards, and turned toward the tent. Mary O’Brien would probably never speak to him again.

  He trudged toward the tent and pondered what to say to Cromwell once he got him alone. Why enter a fight he knew he couldn’t win? Not at the moment, anyway. And even if he did with lots of training, it would be a bloody miracle. From the way the red-haired man talked, Patrick wasn’t any sort of challenge. Merely entertainment. After all, Bert the Bruiser never lost a fight. At least that’s what he’d heard.

  “Do you need those refilled?” Mary asked when he entered.

  Patrick couldn’t help but smile. “Aye. They’re a thirsty lot.”

  Mary peeked past him at the squire’s guests. “And hungry too. Mrs. Wallace is going to make more sandwiches and cut up more pastries. Are they even drinking the tea?”

  “The women are. Does she need any help?”

  “No, she said we’re to serve what’s left and to let the squire’s guests know more is on the way.” She looked at the people milling about under the shade trees, teacups in hand. “They’re not treating this as a proper tea, are they?”

  “No, more like a garden party,” he commented. “Then again, what’s the difference? This is just a way for the squire to conduct business.”

  “Business?”

  He looked at her and his heart sank. He didn’t dare tell her what business he was involved in whether he wanted to be or not. “Aye. Horse trading and selling, dogs, hunting, planting …”

  “Oh,” she said innocently. That didn’t help.

  “It’s a chance for all of them to get caught up too,” he said. “Talk about farming, the weather, that sort of thing.”

  “Ye hear about all of that at the inn, I suppose?”

  He nodded. “Aye, I do. I could fill them all in if I wanted.” He looked at her and smiled. “But there are some things I’d rather keep to myself. People tell me bits and pieces in confidence and I’m not about to betray their trust.” He looked away. Was he betraying hers by not telling her he was a fighter? Especially after she told him about her father?

  “Mrs. Wallace tells me that the squire holds a gathering like this several times a year,” she said, breaking into his thoughts.

  “Aye, every quarter.”

  “How many have you served at?” She began to refill the tankards.

  “This is my third,” he informed her. “And I’ll serve a few more before I’m ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “To build my inn,” he said with a smile. “Or buy one. But I’d rather build.”

  “So ye fancy yerself an innkeeper like Mr. Cromwell?”

  “Of course. The man is good at what he does. I’m lucky to be taught by one of the best.” Not so lucky, however, to be told whom to fight. But what was he going to do? Other than talk his employer out of this particular fight, of course.

  “I think ye’ll make a fine innkeeper,” she said with a smile.

  His chest swelled. “Ye do?” He smiled again. “Perhaps one day ye’ll come work for me?”

  She blushed a deep red. “One never knows.”

  Patrick felt his own cheeks grow hot. “Ye could check the guests in. And help me in the taproom.”

  She gave him a shy look. “Perhaps.”

  His smile broadened as a vision of her working alongside him in his own business flashed through his mind. “Aye,” he said with a nod. “I think I would like that.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Ye would?”

  “Aye, Mary O’Brien. I would.” With that, he grabbed a few mugs and went to refill
them.

  The day after the squire’s tea/garden party/multiple business-meeting-picnic, the manor house was eerily quiet. Mary kept herself busy with the usual household chores but found she didn’t like the sudden solitude. Mrs. Wallace had gone to the market in the village with Squire Ferguson. This left the house with a feeling of abandonment. She didn’t like that feeling. It reminded her too much of when her father died.

  “Ho there, in the house!” came a shout from outside.

  Mary dropped a piece of silver she was polishing with a yelp. “Merciful Heaven, now who can that be?”

  She got up from the kitchen table, went to the window and peeked out. Patrick Mulligan was outside in the yard, a wheelbarrow in his hands. “What on earth is he doing here?” She patted her hair as her heart raced.

  She went outside, shading her eyes against the morning sun. “Mr. Mulligan, did ye forget something?”

  “Aye, I did,” he said and pushed the wheelbarrow in her direction. “Mr. Cromwell purchased some oats from Squire Ferguson for the inn. I hauled them away yesterday, which meant I had to leave a few barrels behind. I borrowed the wheelbarrow from Bobby, so I could get them to the wagon in one trip.”

  She smiled, feeling suddenly bold. “Ye mean to tell me ye can’t balance one on yer head?”

  He closed one eye and looked up with the other. “Wouldn’t that be a sight, me with a barrel under each arm and one on my head?”

  She laughed. It was the first time in a very long time and she hardly recognized the sound. “Aye, ye would.”

  “And I suppose ye’d enjoy seeing that, wouldn’t ye?” he teased.

  She bit her lower lip to keep from laughing. She wasn’t sure if it was appropriate, then suddenly realized what wasn’t. “Ye best be off, Mr. Mulligan. Squire Ferguson and Mrs. Wallace aren’t here.”

  He glanced around. “They’re not?”

  “No, only Bobby and Mr. Gerber, the stable master. I’m the only one here in the house.” Oh dear, should she have told him?

  “Very well then, I’ll be on my way.” He kicked at a tuft of grass. “Though it’s a shame I have to hurry off. But I’ll not sully your reputation.”