Chapter Four
"What the hell are you doin’ on the docks, Daniel McCormick?"
Saran’s body was snatched upright and she whirled to face her savior—or captor. She wasn’t sure which. Brady McCormick’s stormy gray eyes met hers.
"You should watch where you step, miss."
She swallowed, recuperating from the shock of the near fall, telling herself that her inability to catch her breath had everything to do with her recent scare and nothing at all to do with the large hands clamped firmly around her waist. "I was—" She paused to regain her senses.
"Da, I was helping Miss Reichardt."
Brady McCormick’s attention was fully on his son and not on the fact that he still held her. His dark brows furrowed in question.
Saran found her tongue." And you should watch where you place your hands, Mr. McCormick."
McCormick’s gaze shot back to hers as though he tried to process the barrage of information assaulting him. Saran fought with the secret hope that he’d take a moment longer before he removed his hands. "It’s true, Mr. McCormick. I saw him down here near the trees, and I simply asked his thoughts on choosing the right tree."
***
Brady raised his brow, acutely aware of how nicely her curves fit his hands.
"How to choose a tree?" Brady was having a bit of trouble assimilating all of the surprises life had thrown at him in the last twenty-four hours.
"Yes, he’s really quite knowledgeable on the subject."
"I suggest you unhand Miss Reichardt immediately, sir, or I shall be forced to contact the authorities." An older man batted at Brady’s hands.
"Old friends, Thomas,” both Daniel and Miss Reichardt spoke in unison, and then laughed as though sharing a secret.
"Hey, McCormick, the boss is going to wonder where we went. Besides, I think we’re causing problems for customers."
Brady pulled away his hands as though the woman was ablaze. "My son should be at home." Brady shook his head, his thoughts confused. "I mean—he should be where we’re staying."
"A relative, wasn’t it?"
She regarded him with a curious look. "Yes, an uncle. I must get back to work, Miss Reichardt." He turned his attention to Daniel. "You get back to the house, young man. We’ll talk when I get home." Keeping what control he had in a very out-of-control situation, Brady stepped around the woman who’d clearly managed to capture the heart of his son.
"Mr. McCormick?"
Her gentle voice could have easily been a two-by-four to his scattered emotions. Brady sighed and stopped, keeping his gaze affixed to his son. It was much easier than speculating how his hands would feel on other parts of Miss Reichardt.
Daniel stared round-eyed at him, his gaze bouncing from his father to the woman behind him.
"I’d like to hire your son for the afternoon."
"What? Woman, if you think—" He spun on his heel to face her, not realizing until it was too late that she’d stepped up right behind him.
Her blue-violet gaze held his in a firm resilience. "Do you deny that you need someone to watch out for him while you’re at work?"
"He needs no one to baby him, Miss—"
"Oh, so you approve that he runs wild in the streets?"
"I didn’t say that."
"Then you’ll agree he needs something to occupy his time until you can return for him?”
"He can wait for me at the house."
"Or he could earn an honest wage at mine."
"He’s not for hire."
"My gracious, aren’t you the stubborn, willful sort, Mr. McCormick?"
Brady’s mouth gaped in shock. Who was this strange woman, and why was she trying to tell him how to raise his son?
"Do you have children, Miss—"
"I am not married, sir." Her cheeks blushed crimson as she held his gaze firmly. "But I know a child shouldn’t be out on the streets alone."
Brady pursed his lips, resolved not to allow his anger to get the best of him.
"You are correct, miss. Which is why I’m taking Daniel back home." He clamped a large hand on Daniel’s shoulder and gently prodded him toward the wagon.
"I’m not sure the detour is wise on your first day, McCormick,” Nickelby called out his suggestion from the wagon.
Brady heaved a great sigh. He pulled off his cap, frustrated with his lack of choices.
"Mr. McCormick, if I may suggest an alternative?"
He knew the moment she was near--already the scent of her was infused in his brain.
"I need help with decorating my tree, and it appears Daniel needs something to do this afternoon."
He did need to go back to work. Brady met the woman’s thoughtful gaze.
"Come on, McCormick, let the kid decorate a tree. What harm is there in that?" Nickleby hollered.
Brady wasn’t keen on being pressured. Mary Margaret used to say he needed to see the blessings right under his nose, instead of getting frustrated with what he couldn’t have.
"Perhaps our meeting is a blessing in disguise, Mr. McCormick. You need help, and so do I."
She held out her palms in an open gesture of honesty and reason. Brady scratched the back of his neck, unsure about many things at the moment.
"You can pick him up after work, or I can bring him home."
"Can I go, Da? I promise to watch my manners, I will."
Brady sighed as he glanced from a fidgeting coworker to the hopeful pairs of eyes of both the woman and his son.
"I’ll stop by to get him myself after work. But only for today." He turned and poked a finger at his son’s nose. "And we’ll still be having that talk, young man." The boy’s smile faded, but only for a moment, returning to a full-scale grin when Daniel looked past him at Saran. Brady followed his son’s gaze, caught like a fly in a web by the sheer joy on her face.
"Thank you, Mr. McCormick. Now, you’d best be getting back to your duties, and I’ll get back to mine." She motioned for Thomas and pointed to Daniel where to pick up the other end of the tree.
In an instant, he felt like he was watching a play being acted out before him. The pain of loneliness not only for himself, but also for Daniel, twisted another notch in his gut.
Saran Reichardt climbed into the carriage and then turned back to look at him.
"I give you my word that he’ll be well cared for, Mr. McCormick. We’ll see you when you get home."
The carriage rattled off, and Brady was struck numb wondering if the woman realized the words she’d just spoken.
***
"Another cookie, Daniel?" Saran passed the half-full plate around the edge of the tree. They'd spent the afternoon rummaging through the attic, sorting out what ornaments to use. Together they fashioned new ornaments from colored papers—red star garlands and elaborate angels. Estelle had brought them slices of apples and oranges to hang.
"I’ve had three, Miss Reichardt. I’ll be in a world of trouble if I spoil my dinner." He smiled as he placed an angel ornament on the tree.
"May I ask where your mother is, Daniel? Are you saving up to bring her over later?" Saran bit her bottom lip when she saw his expression fall. "I’m sorry, it’s none of my business, really." She brushed her hand over his head full of dark curls. "I’m very sorry."
The small boy shrugged. "No harm done, miss." He smiled thoughtfully. "Ma is in heaven." He fingered the wings on the angel he’d just hung.
Saran’s heart now understood the look of longing in the young boy’s eyes.
"I’m so sorry, Daniel."
He glanced at her. "It’s okay. Do you have a ma?"
Saran smiled. "Well, yes...I did. She passed away a long time ago. I was maybe just a little older than you."
"I’m sorry too, then--for you."
Saran gave the young boy a smile as she hooked a peppermint cane over an evergreen branch. "We seem to have a great many things in common, Daniel. Do you remember when we met? I asked how you celebrated Christmas in Ireland."
"Aye." D
aniel hung a slice of orange on a branch as high as his arm could reach.
"Tell me what it’s like…Christmas in Ireland. Do you remember?"
His expression got a far away look and he smiled. "I can remember some things my ma did."
Saran took his hand and led him to a seat in front of the blazing fire. She picked up his cocoa and handed it to him. “Tell me about your traditions, the things that you and your mother used to do.”
Chapter Five
Brady’s heart twisted as he walked up the cobblestone path. The grand home exuded charm, character, and wealth. But it was not the finely carved woodwork, nor the beveled glass donning the front door that stopped his heart. It was the single candle glimmering softly in the front window and, framed by the lace curtains, one of the most beautiful Christmas trees he’d ever seen. Brady stood for a moment and remembered how insistent Mary Margaret was about certain Gaelic traditions. The irony that the candle in the window symbolized welcome to the weary traveler brought a sudden lump to his throat. His feet would not move. A swatch of light blinded him for an instant as the front door opened wide. Daniel ran out, bounding down the front steps with utter jubilance.
"Look, Da! Look! It’s how we did things at home. Do you remember, Da?"
Daniel tugged on his coat sleeve. Aye, he remembered and with the memory came enormous, gut-wrenching sorrow. A silhouette paused at the door. Her features were unclear in the dusky evening, but her shape was unmistakable. Saran stepped into the chilled night air, wrapping a soft blue shawl around her shoulders.
"Listen, Da. I’ve been teachin’ her all afternoon." Daniel turned toward the woman, his face radiating pride and excitement.
Saran seemed suddenly shy—not like the woman who’d nearly browbeaten him earlier.
"I’m not sure, Daniel. Your father looks very tired."
"Och, Miss Reichardt, come on, you’ve been practicing all day."
Somewhere between Daniel’s enthusiasm and the candlelit window, Brady found his voice. "What have you been practicing?" He was a bit fearful of finding out what the two had been devising all day—without him.
She grinned in a bashful, schoolgirl manner. "I’m not very good yet, I’m afraid."
For some bizarre reason, Brady had a flash of desire to find that out on his own.
"Go ahead. You’ve got it pretty good." Daniel wiggled his fingers.
She sighed and offered a feeble smile.
"Okay…Mr. McCormick, Nollaig Shona Duit."
Saran bit her lip as Brady tried for the second time in one day to figure out the woman in front of him.
"Da?" Daniel tugged on his sleeve. His expression prodded him to respond.
Brady smiled at her attempt at the traditional Gaelic holiday greeting. "Happy Christmas to you as well, Miss Reichardt."
Brady turned to his son. "We best go. We've an early day tomorrow. Run along, get your coat."
He followed Daniel up the steps and waited on the porch. For a moment he allowed himself the luxury of looking at her beautiful face in the glow of the light inside before he cleared his throat and checked over her shoulder for Daniel.
"I asked him to tell me about his Christmases in Ireland."
Brady gave a quiet chuckle, glancing at her and then at the tree sparkling from behind the lace curtains. "I’m surprised he remembered. He wasn’t very old when—" He stopped himself short, unable to finish with the lump forming in his throat.
"Did you notice the candle?" She followed his gaze to the tree and he noticed how she wore her hair down, cascading in soft ebony waves over her shoulders. His attraction to her physically was much stronger than Brady was prepared for. Many women had come to him in the months after Mary Margaret’s death to offer him comfort, but none of them had captured his interest—not until now. He looked at his feet, crumpling his tweed cap between his hands. These feelings scared the hell out of him. He didn’t want to forget his lovely wife. Nor did he want Daniel to forget his ma. It would be best to put a stop to any notions otherwise.
"What are you doing, Miss Reichardt?" Brady had to set down the rules.
She turned to him, her surprise no more hidden than his direct question.
"I’ve no idea what you mean."
"You’ve taken my son for one day and I’m beholden to you for that. But then—this…" He waved a hand toward the candle. "And then to learn Gaelic—it’s not…"
She regarded him, her beautiful eyes narrowing. "It’s not what, Mr. McCormick?" She straightened her shoulders, her brow raised as she held his gaze.
Another place, another time, he’d have cupped that face and kissed her senseless. "I’m afraid that it’s not wise…not proper to feed his imagination with silly notions." Was he talking about himself or the boy? This was not coming out the way he thought it should.
"Not wise? Why on earth isn’t it wise?"
He searched her face, illuminated by the open door.
"Look, it’s not wise…he’s a boy—"
"I can see that, Mr. McCormick."
Brady sought the right words. "It’s not wise, because you aren’t his mother and—"
He realized he’d almost stuffed his entire foot—boot and all—in his mouth.
"And I’m not your wife. Is that what you were going to say?" She folded her arms beneath her breasts, a fire blazing in her eyes. "Do you think, Mr. McCormick, that you’re the only person who knows anything about grief? Do you think that no one else has ever lost someone they loved?"
Brady opened his mouth to speak but she stopped him by jabbing her finger at his chest.
"Well, let me tell you that you aren’t alone, Brady McCormick. And there are some of us who are trying our best to muddle through and hold onto the good things we once knew."
Daniel appeared at the door, the elder Mr. Reichardt close behind.
"Daniel wanted me to see his father again." He nodded to Brady as he tousled Daniel’s hair.
"Mr. Reichardt, thank you for having Daniel today. I hope he was no trouble."
Uncomfortable lingering in the presence of the angry woman standing before him, Brady tugged his cap over his head.
"Time to go, Danny."
The boy, oblivious to the adult battle of wills being waged, glanced up with enormous admiration at Saran. "I’ll see you tomorrow, then? We can work on the feather tree."
Saran reached out, but quickly pulled her hand back. "I don’t know if tomorrow is going to work, Danny. I’m sorry." She turned quickly and brushed past her father.
"Come on, Danny." Brady put his arm around the boy’s slumped shoulders. The door shut quietly before they reached the bottom of the steps.
***
Saran sat in the overstuffed chair near the tree, determined she would not shed one single tear over Brady McCormick’s asinine behavior. "Damn proud Irish bull-headed—"
"Saran, my dear. What happened? You and the young McCormick lad had such a delightful afternoon. I deduced you were quite fond of him, and from what I saw the admiration was mutual.”
Saran took a deep breath, clearing her mind of the residual anger regarding the boy’s father, and tried to focus on his son. "Daniel is a sweet boy. He has an imagination and wit like no child I’ve ever seen in my days of teaching."
Her father settled into the wingback chair across from her. "I’ve often thought you should return to teaching. Heaven knows with all these new immigrants, children won’t be far behind."
"Father." Saran straightened in her chair. "You make them sound like rabbits multiplying."
Her father shrugged. "What I know about Catholics I could stuff in a thimble, but it does appear they like big families."
Saran sighed. Were all men so narrow-minded, or only the ones she knew?
"I’m sure Mr. McCormick is not one of those statistics," she snapped as she stared into the flames of the fireplace.
"Oh, we’re back to him? What, pray tell, makes you say that?"
Saran allowed her anger to dissolve before she
answered. Part of her did feel sorry for the man. He was alone in a new land, with no companionship, raising a child alone. Maybe it hadn’t been very long since his wife died. Still, for him to imply she was trying to replace Daniel’s mother…it was absurd, almost as ridiculous as her trying to replace his wife. A shiver of awareness ran up Saran’s spine, causing her to pull in the shawl around her.
"Saran?"
Startled from her reverie, she shook her head. "Because Mr. McCormick had a wife and she had a child—Daniel."
"Ah, I see. And they came here to start a new life?”
"She died. It was before they set to America."
"How dreadful to lose one’s spouse; I can understand his pain. And she must have been so young.”
"Certainly, it must have been, and probably still is, very difficult. But for him to imply that I’m trying to be some sort of replacement for the boy’s mother is preposterous.”
"Ah, I see. Now the matter becomes clearer."
"What is clear? Because his accusations make little sense to me, father." Restless, Saran stood and shifted some of the ornaments on the tree.
"It is clear to me now who was recipient of the name-calling you were engaged in when I came into the room.” He chuckled quietly.
Saran glanced at him, unable to be angry any longer. Her compassion for the pig-headed man--and more so for his sweet-natured son--spilled over in her heart. "The man’s insufferable."
"So I heard." Her father stood, checking his timepiece. He slipped it back into his pocket. "The problem is, Saran, what are you going to do about it?"
The Promise Page 3
