Mary and the Fighter (Prairie Tales Book 2)

by Kit Morgan

“I’m well aware of what Mrs. Wallace needs,” she said primly and started to walk past.

  Unable to help himself, his hand shot out and gently took her by the arm. “Mary …”

  Her face went pink. “What is it?” She swallowed hard. “Mr. Mulligan…”

  He turned so he could face her. “I… well…”

  “Don’t just stand there, what is it?” Her voice was impatient, but her eyes betrayed her, her lips as well. They parted after her last word and her eyes fixated on his face, as if she wanted to crawl into his very soul.

  “Mary,” he said again, his voice husky. Now he’d been betrayed.

  Her eyes widened. “Mr. Mulligan?” She took a step back. He took a step forward.

  “Mary, he said his voice tender. I want ye to know that you never need be afraid of me or of any other man while yer with me.”

  A tiny gasp escaped her, and he felt the delicate brush of her breath against his face. His body tightened in response.

  He took another step closer, closing the distance between them. “Did ye hear me, Mary O’Brien?”

  She swallowed again. “I… I heard you, Patrick Mulligan,” she said, her voice cracking on his name.

  “But do ye understand what that means?” He shouldn’t have asked it. Should have kept his mouth shut. The words were out before he could stop them.

  Her head cocked slightly to one side. “Ye’ll protect me?”

  His eyes darted to her lips and stayed there. He was on dangerous ground. If not careful, he’d kiss her right here and now.

  She must have sensed it. Her knees buckled, and he had to reach out and grab her to him before she crumpled to the ground. “Mary!”

  She struggled to get her feet under her and stood straight. “I’m fine, let go of me,” she breathed.

  Patrick couldn’t help but smile. She sounded more than fine. She sounded, dare he say, breathless? Had he done that? “Let’s get ye back to the house. Ye look like ye need some water.”

  “Aye,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  Patrick turned his face away and smiled. “I think I do, but there’s no time to talk about it now. We’ve got work to do. Are ye sure yer all right?”

  “I’ll be fine. Just get me back so I can sit a moment, then get back to work.”

  He kept a hand on her arm, just in case, and steered her toward the house. Back in the kitchen he took her straight to the table, pulled out a chair and motioned her to sit. “I’ll get ye some water.”

  Mrs. Wallace came into the kitchen from the dining room. “What’s this? There’s no time to rest, we’ve got work to do.”

  Patrick went to the hutch, pulled out a glass, and turned to the cook. “Mary…” His eyes flicked between the two women. “Stumbled. I helped her back to the house and had her sit. I want to make sure she’s all right before she starts to serve.”

  Mrs. Wallace’s face took on a look of concern. “Are you all right, dear?”

  Mary glanced at him and slowly nodded. “Aye, thanks to Mr. Mulligan.”

  Her tone, he thought, was a little flat. Mrs. Wallace caught it too and eyed her a moment. “Well then, as soon as you’re feeling up to it, which I’m sure will be in a very short while, you can take in the wine. I just put the popovers on the table.”

  She turned to the stove as Patrick made a show of wiping his brow.

  Mary rolled her eyes in response and he smiled. “Best I get that water now, aye?”

  She licked her lips. It almost did him in. “Aye, do that.”

  Patrick nodded and hurried out the back door.

  As soon as he left the kitchen, Mary let go a sigh of relief. Mrs. Wallace turned to her. “What’s this? Are you sick after all?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m not. I’ll be fine.”

  Mrs. Wallace studied her another moment and Mary braced herself. The woman could read her like a book after all. “Yes, you do look fine, don’t you?” She smiled and turned back to the stove.

  Mary did her best not to groan and almost did when Patrick reentered the kitchen. “Mrs. Wallace, why don’t ye keep a pitcher of water on hand in the kitchen?”

  “I do,” she said and tossed her head at one near the dry sink. “And fancy that, it’s full. Maybe if you’d have taken the time to look, you wouldn’t have had to go out to the pump.” She glanced at Mary and smiled again. “But I can see how you might be a little addled right now.”

  He too looked Mary’s way and studied her with more than just a casual perusal. He looked at her, as if looking into her very core. In fact, if she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was taking up quite a bit of space. It was a strange yet comforting feeling, and she didn’t know what to do about it.

  She fidgeted in her chair and took a sip of water. The cool liquid slid down her throat to her belly, giving her some relief from the heat in the room. Or was she the only one hot? She wasn’t sure at this point.

  “On your feet then,” Mrs. Wallace told her. “It’s time to serve the squire and his guests.”

  She stood and went to the worktable. “Where’s the wine?”

  “Did you think to bring it up from the wine cellar earlier?” Mrs. Wallace asked.

  Mary smacked a hand against her forehead. “No, I’m as daft as ye think, Mrs. Wallace. I’ll fetch it right away.”

  “No, stay here. I can get it quicker,” Patrick said.

  Once again he was looking out for her and it warmed her to no end. “All right. Do ye know where it is?”

  “Yes, I’ve been here before.” Before she could say another word, he disappeared through the kitchen door.

  “Well, he’s certainly in a hurry,” Mary commented.

  “Of course he is, don’t you realize what will happen if we begin to serve dinner and the wine isn’t ready?”

  Mary’s eyes rounded. “I’ll be in trouble, won’t I?”

  “You and me both, but mostly you.” She shook her head. “That man has it bad for you.”

  Mary sighed in resignation. “Oh, Mrs. Wallace, what does it matter? There’s nothing to be done about it.”

  “Who says? You told me not an hour ago that you thought you were falling in love. It seems the lad is feeling the same about you. Or at least he has a good start. Why fight it?”

  “Because ye know as well as I do there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “For the moment maybe. But mark my words, don’t deny yourself a chance at happiness.”

  Mary sat, rested her elbows on her knees and put her face in her hands. This was terrible. She recognized her feelings for what they were and now Mrs. Wallace was telling her that Patrick Mulligan felt the same way. How could she be sure? Maybe he was just being protective. Hadn’t she seen him be just as protective over Mrs. Wallace?

  After several more moments of lamenting, Patrick returned to the kitchen, a bottle in his hand. “I hope the squire didn’t want anything specific. I chose what I thought would go with pheasant.”

  “That’s fine,” Mrs. Wallace said. “I trust your judgment.”

  Mary forced herself out of the chair and looked at the bowls of food to be carried to the dining room. She reached for several dishes and picked them up. “Shall we begin?”

  Patrick studied her as he picked up the platter of roasted pheasant. “Aye, best not keep the squire waiting.”

  He went to the door leading to the dining room and gave her a gentle nod. She’d had time to think about what happened on the walk back from the barn and he knew it. Why else would he be looking at her that way? Was he wondering the same thing she was? What was the point?

  He preceded the women into the dining room and didn’t so much as blink at the Ooos and Ahhhs over the roasted pheasant he placed on the table. Mary set her load next followed by Mrs. Wallace. Between the three of them all the food was served at once. She returned to the kitchen for the wine and brought it back to the dining room. Mrs. Wallace returned to the kitchen. Patrick didn’t. He opened the wine for her, something she
should have done in the kitchen, and then waited for her to serve it. No one paid her any mind tonight, and thankfully that awful Mr. Pike wasn’t in attendance. Every time he looked at her she felt like chicken being chased by a fox. But tonight the men talked business, farming, and gossiped. At least while she was in the room. After she left she had no idea what was discussed. Nor did she care. She had more pressing matters on her mind, namely, Patrick Mulligan. What was she going to do, how was she going to forget him? Now that she realized how she felt, she wasn’t sure she could make her feelings turn around. How did one order their heart to backtrack? She had no idea.

  The rest of the evening she watched Patrick watch her. Was he thinking the same thing? Was he pondering how to step away quietly? Mrs. Wallace certainly didn’t help. Every time she looked at either of them she smiled and winked. The woman knew exactly what was going on and didn’t try to hide it. But, she was in love with the squire. Mary and Patrick both knew it. The difference was, she was free. Mary wasn’t.

  “They’re asking for more wine,” Patrick said as he entered the kitchen when the meal was almost over. “Shall I fetch another bottle?”

  “No need,” Mary said as she reached behind her and grabbed the one she’d brought up from the cellar not moments before. “But you can open it for me.”

  He smiled as he took the bottle and proceeded to remove the wax seal. “Ye look pretty tonight, Mary,” he stated.

  She blushed head to toe. “Ye don’t need to say such things to me, Mr. Mulligan.”

  “Because ye know it’s true?” he teased. “Or because ye don’t think I should be saying such things at all?”

  He handed her the bottle. She took it without a word and hurried to the dining room. She stopped short of the door, so she wouldn’t burst through and cause a stir. The last thing she wanted. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and entered as gracefully as possible.

  “And you can have him ready to fight in that short of time?” The squire was saying. Mary stiffened.

  “Of course I can,” one of the men said. He was a stranger to her, but then, they all were. “I’m a professional.”

  “That he is!” Mr. Cromwell said with glee. “That boy is already a champion, after Mr. Freeman is done with him, he’ll be a grand champion!”

  “I just want him to beat the Bruiser,” the squire said. “And show that Mr. Pike a thing or two.”

  “If he wins,” another gentleman said, “this will be one of the biggest stories my paper will have had in months.”

  “Don’t worry Mr. Hurt, you won’t be disappointed,” the squire assured. “This fight will give you plenty to print.”

  Mary’s hands shook as she poured Mr. Hurt his wine. Thankfully he didn’t notice. They were obviously talking about Patrick. But did Patrick know?

  “I’ll contribute to the prize money,” said another. He was large and well dressed. “And of course make a wager or two. What’s this about preliminary fights?”

  Mary finished refilling their glasses and hurried back to the kitchen. She didn’t want to hear anymore. Should she tell Patrick? Or did he already know? Mr. Cromwell didn’t protest, so that meant he probably did. Mary gasped as she entered the kitchen. How could he do it? How could he be such a fool? She glanced around the room, but Patrick was nowhere to be seen. “Where is he?” she asked Mrs. Wallace, her heart in her throat.

  “I sent him up to the barn to fetch the dishes from Mr. Gerber and the lads.”

  “I could have done that.”

  Mrs. Wallace studied her a moment. “Yes, you could have. But wouldn’t you rather wait here for his return?”

  Mary put a hand over her eyes and groaned. “Mrs. Wallace, now is not the time!”

  Mrs. Wallace put one hand on her hip. “What’s happening now?”

  Mary pointed to the door leading to the dining room. “Those men are talking about the fight between Patrick and the Bruiser.”

  Mrs. Wallace threw the spoon in her other hand on the worktable. “What?”

  “Aye, talking about putting it in the papers and everything! How could he go through with it?”

  Mrs. Wallace’s lip curled. “Easy enough when they don’t speak of it in front of him. I’ll wager Patrick hasn’t a clue, as usual.” She rolled up her sleeves, squared her shoulders, and to Mary’s horror, marched into the dining room.

  Chapter 10

  Patrick entered the kitchen to a nervous Mary. She stood, ears straining toward the door leading to the dining room. And no wonder …

  “When are ye going to tell him?” came Mrs. Wallace’s voice.

  “Oh, dear,” Patrick said. “Is she doing what I think she is?”

  “Oh, aye, to be sure,” Mary said. “She cares about ye.”

  “Do ye?” he asked and closed the distance between them. They heard the squire bellow something back followed by the distinct sound of men’s laughter.

  She swallowed hard. “Patrick …”

  Before she could finish, Mrs. Wallace stomped into the kitchen muttering under her breath. “If he goes through with this … why I’ll … not serve him dessert for the rest of his life!”

  Patrick smiled. “Calm yerself. I’ll handle this.” He left the women for the dining room, knowing full well what was going on. He entered to triumphant looks, his eyes going straight to Mr. Cromwell. “Have ye gone and done it then? Ye’ve committed me?”

  Mr. Cromwell sat proudly. “Yes, lad. I have. Ye fight in a few weeks.”

  “What? Weeks!”

  “Ye’ll be fine,” his employer said with a dismissive wave.

  Patrick glanced around the room. “And ye don’t even see fit to introduce me to these men?”

  “Oh, yes,” Mr. Cromwell said and cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, may I introduce Patrick Mulligan, the challenger.”

  “Challenger?” Patrick spat. “I thought I was the one being challenged.”

  “Er, no,” a gentleman to his right commented. “I’m Mr. Hurt, of the New-Yorker. I’m here to cover your story.” He offered Patrick a hand. He didn’t take it.

  “And I’m Mr. Freeman, your trainer,” another gentleman said. He was middle aged, balding, but still lean and capable looking. When he offered his hand, Patrick stared at it a moment, then shook it. “A fine grip, boy. I like that,” the man commented.

  Another man stood. He was large, wearing fine clothes, and sported a grey beard and mustache. “I’m Mr. Yardly. I’m what you might call an investor.” The man grabbed one of Patrick’s hands.

  Patrick shook once and pulled his hand away. He stared at Squire Ferguson. “And what part are ye playing in all of this, Squire?”

  “I think you know. But also know this. You don’t have to accept.”

  Mr. Cromwell choked on his wine. He coughed and sputtered. “What!”

  “You heard me. We shouldn’t force the boy to fight if he doesn’t want to,” the squire reiterated.

  Patrick took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I thank ye.”

  “Don’t mention it,” the squire said. “But also know that we can offer you quite a sum, should you choose to fight. Not to mention a few other incentives.”

  Patrick’s eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

  The squire leaned forward in his chair, clasped his hands in front of him and smiled. “Let’s start with the sum you’ll receive for fighting.”

  Patrick glanced at the other men. “Ye mean yer going to pay me just to step into the ring?”

  “Yes,” the squire said.

  Patrick’s mouth dropped open. He snapped it shut, glanced around the room, then put his hands on his hips. “What are the incentives?”

  Squire Ferguson smiled. “Sit down, lad. And we’ll tell you.”

  Mary didn’t see Patrick the rest of the evening. Mrs. Wallace made her turn in early, said she looked tired. In truth she was. Harboring her growing feelings for Patrick was exhausting. Had he left the manor house? Was he as worn out as she was at this point? Would she ever s
ee him again?

  That was the question that troubled her most of all. This going back and forth of whether he would fight the bruiser or not, was taking its toll on her. There were moments when she didn’t know if she was coming or going. At least in her heart. “Patrick Mulligan, you big dumb ox! How can ye even think of fighting such a man? He stands head and shoulders over ye and would squash ye like a bug.”

  She knew she wasn’t giving Patrick much credit as far as fighting went, but then, she’d never seen him fight. Mrs. Wallace told her he was good, but had she ever seen him in the ring? Mary hadn’t thought to ask, maybe because she was afraid of the answer. If Patrick was as good as Mrs. Wallace said, then he might just consider fighting that brute. He was a man, after all, and did have his pride. To beat someone like Bert the Bruiser would certainly do things for him. For one, he’d probably make a tidy sum of money. “Men! The fools. Why do they have to go around and hit each other to prove themselves?”

  Mary put on her nightclothes, braided her hair and crawled into bed. She couldn’t put Patrick out of her mind no matter how hard she tried. Of course, that wasn’t very hard. She liked thinking about him. She got a funny fluttery feeling in her belly every time she did. And if she really let herself daydream, she’d envision herself in a wedding dress, looking at him from the back of a church. He’d be standing next to Squire Ferguson’s nephew, the Vicar, waiting for her at the altar.

  Her heart began to race just thinking about it. She turned over, threw a pillow over her head, and groaned. “Why do ye torture yerself like this, Mary O’Brien?”

  And it was torture. Foolish torture at that. She had to stop it. She turned over and sat up. “Fine then. Tomorrow I’ll work myself to the bone. If I stay busy I won’t have time to think about him,” she crossed her arms over her chest and nodded to herself. “Take that, Patrick Mulligan. Ye idiot!”

  Though calling him names didn’t make her feel better, the thought of working herself to death did. It would remind her of her place. That, in reality, no matter how Patrick felt about her now, didn’t guarantee he’d feel the same way in a year. Or two or three or four or …