Monk's Bride

by Caroline Clemmons

  Betsie hugged her mother. “Thank you and Himself for giving me this lovely wedding.”

  “Monk’s a good man and I’m thrilled you and Liam will be with him even though I’ll miss having you in the house. At least we can visit often. I know you’ll be happy.”

  “The three of us will be , Mam. We’ll have a good life.”

  Grandpa appeared at the door. “Folks are wondering when we’ll start this show. I think they’re eager for the reception’s food.”

  Betsie laughed at Grandpa’s cynical remark when she knew how sweet he was. “Let’s not keep them waiting longer.” She tucked her arm with Grandpa’s and let Fiona get ahead of them.

  At the entrance to the sanctuary, Liam and Parker waited to be ring bearers, with a bevy of young girl cousins as flower girls. As best man, Nate waited beside Monk at the front with Father Patrick.

  Fiona was Betsie’s matron of honor and Grandpa was giving her away. Pearl and Sarah directed the flower girls.

  Pearl shook a finger at the girls. “Remember, no fighting, no matter what happens.”

  The music swelled and the procession began. The sanctuary was filled. She was grateful Grandpa steadied her as they walked up the aisle. She concentrated on Monk. His beautiful blue eyes shone with love.

  She’d heard about the brawl the flower girls had at Katie and Gabe’s wedding. Today, the girl cousins behaved themselves. That is, if you didn’t count the fact they were overly generous with rose petals and showered the first three people on every pew they passed.

  Liam and Parker each carried a white pillow with a wedding ring loosely tied with blue ribbon sewn to the pillow’s center. On the way to the front, each boy acted proud of his duty. Not long into the ceremony, Parker almost dropped his pillow and the two boys giggled.

  That started some of the flower girls giggling while others shushed. Betsie glanced at Monk, who returned her gaze with mirth sparkling in his deep blue eyes. He laid a hand on Liam’s shoulder and she laid one on Parker’s. The boys settled down.

  Betsie fought to listen to Father Patrick’s words of instruction and his reading from the Bible but her mind was whirling on a million things. The light shining through the stained glass windows was glorious. Mam looked younger than her years. Betsie was now part of a wonderful extended family.

  She and Monk knelt to receive the sacraments. When they stood, Father Patrick announced to those gathered, “May I introduce Mr. and Mrs. Michael Magonagle.”

  Her son patted his chest with one hand. “And Liam Magle.”

  Chuckling, Father Patrick announced, “A reception follows at the home of Judge and Mrs. Robert Kincaid.”

  Monk lifted Liam and carried him. He laughed aloud as he took Betsie’s hand and they rushed down the aisle and out of the church. People followed, throwing rose petals at them as Dudley helped Betsie into the buggy. Monk set Liam on the seat and climbed aboard. With a click of the reins, they were on their way to the reception.

  Betsie linked her arm with Monk’s. “I never expected to be this happy.”

  “Nor did I, my wonderful wife. If I have my way, you’ll always be happy.”

  “As long as we’re together, I will be.”

  She savored this day and her loving husband. Surely, no other woman had ever been as fortunate as she.

  For a peek at the first book of the McClintock series, The Texan’s Irish Bride, please keep reading:

  Chapter One

  Texas Hill Country, March 1885

  Dallas McClintock sprawled on the ground, three rifle barrels pointed at his chest. He reckoned his luck had run out, but damned if he knew why.

  “Don’t bother begging for pity, you son o’ Satan.” The eldest man leaned over him. “You’re at our mercy, and we might well decide to shoot you where you lie.”

  Pain seared Dallas’s left shoulder. His head threatened to explode. He fought the haze that clouded his mind and swallowed against the taste of dust and his own fear.

  Shot. He’d been shot. But not in the head. What had happened there? No time to think it through. If he didn’t talk fast he’d soon be six feet under.

  “Wait—” The iron of a rifle barrel slammed against his throat and interrupted him.

  “No!” a woman cried.

  Dallas caught flurried movement at the edge of the deadly trio who surrounded him. Twin angels wavered before him, and he braced himself for death. No doubt, they’d come to take him to his Maker, and he’d yet to see his twenty-seventh birthday.

  He focused, and the heavenly beings merged. Not two spirits, but one living woman. He frowned. A woman? Where had he seen her? Pain jumbled his thoughts and fuzzied his memory.

  The angel woman ran toward him, clutching something to her. Her dark red hair tumbled down her shoulders. Tears and a fresh hand-sized bruise stained her cheeks.

  She rushed forward, her hand outstretched. “No, Da, don't shoot. It was him saved me.”

  Her voice sounded melodious to Dallas’s ears, as if she sang the words rather than spoke them.

  “What do you mean, Cenora lass?” The eldest of the three men turned toward her. “And wasn't he one o’ them what had his hands on you?”

  The girl pushed aside the rifles with one slender hand. “Aye, but only clothing me with his very own shirt from his saddle bag. He rode up and saved me from those two devils who stole me.”

  The older man loomed ominously and nudged his toe into Dallas’s ribs. “You’re telling me this one shot those other two to save you?” He snorted in disbelief. “Weel now, are you so sure he didn’t get rid o’ them to have you hisself?”

  Dallas wanted to protest. Weariness consumed him, and his voice dried up. Blood. Must be losing blood. He feared he’d pass out before he defended himself.

  The angel woman placed a hand on the older man’s arm. “Da, he acted fiercely brave when he heard me screams. Take a look for yourself. He’s been shot in the back for his trouble, then he whirled fast as lightning and shot those blackguards. He fetched me his shirt afore he passed out and fell.”

  The dark-haired man of the trio knelt and laid his rifle beside him. He turned Dallas by the shoulders. Pain almost defeated Dallas. He couldn’t stifle the moan that escaped, but he clung to consciousness’ edge.

  Dark Hair said, “Mayhap ‘tis true, Da. He's bleeding like a stuck pig. Yeow, and a lump on his head the size o’ a goose egg.”

  The dark haired young man released Dallas’s shoulder. Dallas exhaled, but the whoosh of relief came out a groan.

  Dark Hair nodded at the red-haired young man who leaned over Dallas’s other side. “Sure and he's a big fellow. Mac, help me here. If it’s saving our sister put him in this fix, we'll get him to the wagon and Ma'll patch him.”

  Dallas wondered at these people’s strangely accented speech. It reminded him of something he should know, but his head throbbed too much to think clearly, and fire seared his chest and shoulder. He fought the blackness until the men lifted him, and then he surrendered to the mercy of unconsciousness.

  ****

  Dallas awoke confused and in unfamiliar surroundings. His head ached like hell. Unsure if this place represented more danger, he lay immobile. And wary. With the hope he appeared asleep, he opened his eyes to slits and scanned around him.

  He figured he must be inside a wagon, but like none he’d ever seen. Storage areas occupied every flat surface of what appeared a compact living space. A patchwork of paint in cheerful red, green, and blue decorated every inch. Yellow striped the edges of red cabinet doors and drawer fronts of blue or green.

  Except for the bright colors, this wagon reminded him of stories from seafaring men of a ship’s cabin. The bed on which he lay forced him to bend his knees and press his feet against the side of the cabinets that surrounded the short bunk.

  A high window across from his bed let in air that carried the scent of boiling cabbage and a campfire’s smoke. A horse whinnied, and he thought his big roan, Red, called to him. Other horses stampe
d and blew, so he knew Red was not alone. From outside, he heard children’s laughter. Voices ebbed and flowed, and he tried without success to understand their conversations.

  He sensed someone nearby and braced himself. Did friend or foe approach? How could he defend himself?

  The swish of a woman’s skirt alerted him before she spoke. “Top o’ the morning to you, sir.”

  He turned his head. The small movement sent waves of agony radiating through his body. Though he tried to speak, no words came from his dust-dry mouth.

  A frail woman reached forward and held his head while she dribbled an ill-tasting concoction on his swollen tongue. Dressed in gray, her clothes matched her sickly pallor, and dark circles shadowed her pale blue eyes.

  “I'm Aoife O'Neill. It was me daughter you saved, and I'll be thanking you for that.”

  The potion she offered soothed his parched throat. He opened his mouth for more and she complied, but he wondered how this fragile woman served as his nurse when she looked more like a patient.

  After he had taken several more sips, she lowered his head back on the pillow. “Best wait a bit before I give you more. ‘Tis a honeyed tisane for your throat.”

  He rasped, “Wh—where... am... I?”

  “You're in one o’ our wagons. We'll be setting out soon. Likely that won't be easy for you, what with your wounds being jostled. We dare not stay anywhere long, not after you shot those two devils, lest they have folks thinking to seek revenge.”

  Mrs. O’Neill leaned forward and smoothed his bandage with her thin hand. “Me daughter told us how you were wounded throwing yourself in front o’ her. It was a fine, courageous thing you did.”

  The memory washed across him. Screams from a ravine. Two men had attacked a beautiful young woman who fought them. He shouted and rushed into the fight. Then the men shot at the girl.

  “She all right?” His words came easier now but still in a croak.

  The young woman edged in front of her mother. “Aye, I'm right as rain, and I'll be thanking you meself.”

  Her dark red hair, subdued in a thick braid, fell over one shoulder to point at a tiny waist. Emerald eyes glistened like jewels in a bright light. Her faint fragrance of roses drifted to him. Even with the mottled bruise on her cheek, she called to mind the delicate French dolls his cousin Rebecca had loved. But this living doll surpassed any of Rebecca’s make-believe beauties.

  He recognized this young woman from his ride through the town of Hotaka Gap. At the Town Square, he’d seen a dozen or more odd barrel-shaped wagons in bright colors—red with cheerful yellow wheels and green trim. Dallas had recognized them to be a band of the gypsy-like tinkers.

  Tinkers were handy with repairs of pots and such and usually had interesting odds and ends for sale, but Dallas had avoided them. Beside many of the wagons that day, goods had been spread for the townspeople. He knew the tinkers’ reputation as apt to be light fingered with other folks’ belongings. Although he’d never had anything stolen by them, he’d had no need for their skills or their fripperies that day.

  Beside one of the unusual wagons, this girl had performed for the crowd while two or three from the group played music. Dallas had paused to hear the lilting song from her rosebud mouth and then tarried a bit longer to watch the way her feet flew as she danced. Fascinated but never comfortable in a crowd and with business waiting, he’d pushed himself on to deliver his horses as he’d promised.

  And here she stood, talking to him and looking even prettier up close, like a doll come alive or maybe an angel. Yes, a real angel, come to earth. An unfamiliar pang grabbed at his heart.

  Fever’s heat seared his body. She met his gaze as she moistened the cloth in a pan of water, wrung it out, and worked on his shoulders and chest. In spite of the refreshing chill of the rag, her touch sent heat pumping to his loins.

  With gentle hands she comforted him, and his eyes drifted closed. He inhaled and wondered had any other woman ever smelled so sweet? Her rose scent recalled his Aunt Kathryn’s garden on a warm summer night, but the soft touch of this angel’s hands brought other, more intimate thoughts to mind.

  Her voice startled him. “You have a fever from the wounds.”

  He opened his eyes. Wounds? How many? He remembered the two men who had laughed as they shot at her. They called her terrible names and said if they couldn’t have her, no one would. Dallas wondered how many bullets hit their mark.

  “Bad?” He figured they must be for him to feel this stove up.

  She nodded. “A fierce lump on your head, too. Your noggin hit a rock when you fell, but your thick hair cushioned the blow.” A smile sent sparkles to her eyes. “Or mayhap your skull is harder than the rock.”

  “Were you shot?”

  She shook her head. “No, when you threw yourself in front o’ me, the devils missed me and hit you. Ma dug the bullets out o’ your back, but they made fearsome holes. I helped her sew them up. You’re a big one, and it took us all to hold you down.”

  And another glimmer wavered at the edge of his mind, one of firing his pistol. “Men...I shot?” Dallas feared the answer, for he knew his own skill. Wasn’t he the best shot in McClintock County? Hadn’t that skill brought him enough trouble already?

  “Both dead.” She smoothed a hand across his brow. “Don’t look so sorrowful. Sure and it was awful, and I’ll not soon forget the terror, but praise be it was them instead o’ you and me.”

  Apparently she didn’t understand the burden of killing, even in self-defense.

  The angel wrung out a cloth again then laid the folded rag on his forehead. “We worried what to do with the two dead devils, curse their black souls. Da and me brothers took them to the sheriff in Hotaka Gap, going in late at night so none o’ the townspeople would see.”

  Dallas could only stare at her, letting the information sift through his fuzzy brain. He frowned in concentration, and she continued her explanation.

  “The sheriff came back with Da to question you, but you weren’t fit to speak. He couldn’t find papers with your name on them, though he looked in your saddlebags and your britches. He asked us questions a plenty, I can tell you. Our leader wanted to send you back with the sheriff, but we feared you were too weak and might die.”

  Dear Lord, did his life depend on a bunch of tinkers? “How long... here?”

  “Going on three days now.”

  Three days? What would his hands think? And by now his family would be worried. He needed to go home, to get away from these people. Now.

  “Gonna leave.” He tried to rise, but his body betrayed him, and he sank back against the pillow.

  “Ma says the fever’ll likely break today or the next. Da says ‘twill be weeks afore you’ll ride a horse.”

  With all his remaining strength, he sought to explain, “No. Gotta go back. Ranch. Horses.”

  “If you mean the fine roan you rode, me brothers are watching him. He’s fed, and your saddle’s in the wagon.”

  Dallas moved his hand to his waist. No gunbelt. And, Good Lord, he’d lost the money belt with the cash he’d received for the prime brood mares he’d sold - money he needed as operating capital for the next few months.

  Her hand covered his. “Don’t be fashing yourself about your fortune. Sure and it was a wondrous sum, but you shouldn’t have been carrying it all with you. ‘Tis tucked away in the cupboard for safe keeping, and your guns are there as well.”

  She chewed her lip a few seconds, then cleared her throat. “Ma and me think mayhap it’s best you don’t mention the treasure to anyone else while you’re here.”

  “Those other men... the ones with rifles... who wanted... to shoot me?” Were they thieves then and this girl and her mother protecting him?

  “Da and me brothers thought you were one o’ them what kidnapped me. When it happened most all the adults were away from camp, excepting me own family.”

  She shivered, and a frown creased her brow. “There I was, watching after some o’ the children by
the little stream when those two devils sneaked up and grabbed me. I screamed bloody murder, and the tykes ran for help. Right away, Mac and Finn helped Da look for me.

  “They heard the shots and rode in, but you’d already fallen from your wounds. It was me own family who almost shot you again afore I could stop them.” Apparently talking about the ordeal still terrified her, for tears filled her eyes and she paled.

  He had only sought to understand, not resurrect painful memories. “Thanks.” His dry tongue stumbled around the word until it came out a hiss, but apparently she understood.

  “’Tis you deserves thanks, and they’ll be offering theirs soon as you’re up and about.” She smoothed the sheet over him as if tucking in a child. Her gaze locked with his. “My name is Cenora Rose O’Neill. What’s yours?”

  He struggled against the haze engulfing him. Señora? Was the angel married then? Why wouldn’t her husband help look for her with her father and brothers? He forced his lips to move. “Dallas. McClintock.”

  “You’ve had bad dreams until we feared your thrashing would open your wounds. You called out ‘Austin’ until we thought that might be your name or the place you’re from.”

  Though he tried to explain, no words came. Concentration and the effort of talking took its toll. He let himself slip back into sleep.

  ****

  Brendan O’Neill sat at their wee table beside his darling wife. Her fingers trembled until she almost dropped her breakfast cup of tea. Sure and wasn’t it his fault she worried so? If only he solved problems as well as he talked. He slid his arm around her thin shoulders.

  “Don’t fash yourself to bits about this, my love. Trust me, ‘tis the only way to save the lass and ourselves. O’ course, first I’ll see he’s not already spoken for.”

  “But forcing him to wed her seems a terrible thing to do to the man who saved our girl.” Aoife brushed a tear from her cheeks then set her cup on the table.

  “Were Cenora not everything a man could want in a wife, then it would be a shame.” He kissed her damp cheek softly. “Other than me own precious wife, a sweeter lass than our Cenora never lived. Any man should count himself lucky to have her.”