It felt like, in each waking moment of the past days, her every thought had been of his kiss. Of feeling his strong arms holding her close. Of feeling cherished. Her nights were no better, for now they were filled with dreams of him. Of forging a future with him. Silently she berated herself for her overactive imagination, wishing she could find a way to temper her attraction. Unexpectedly she understood her sisters’ disappointments with a greater acuity, for Phoebe didn’t know what she would do if Eamon reverted to being solely a friend. Or worse, a disinterested acquaintance.
This evening, she slipped out of the dining room before dessert, desperate for a few moments to herself. She knew she was safe for a little while longer, as the drinking and poker playing wouldn’t begin in earnest for another hour or so. By then, she’d be safely ensconced in her stateroom with her sisters.
Tonight the air was still, as the temperature dropped after a warm spring day. The boat swayed in the current, securely moored in the middle of the river, and an owl hooted on the distant shore. The half-moon cast its rays over the rippling water and the steamboat. Phoebe sighed, half elated at Eamon’s presence and half disgruntled she would have no time to herself.
“Hello, Mr. O’Rourke,” she murmured, as she kept her back to Eamon and continued to stare out at the water.
“You know I’ve told you to call me Eamon. Should you call out a greeting for a Mr. O’Rourke in Fort Benton, you would get many responses.”
She fought a smile, the corners of her lips tipping upward. “And you know it’s improper for me to do so.”
“Come on, Bee,” he teased, as he nudged her with his shoulder.
At the use of the nickname he had given her while under the cottonwoods, her breath caught, and she prayed she was in the shadows to hide her reaction, as she felt her cheeks heat.
When she remained quiet, he huffed out a breath. Leaning with his back against the railing, he faced her. “What’s your uncle like?” he asked again.
She let out a long breath before saying, “I don’t remember him well. He left to adventure when we were girls, although my mama said he was one to avoid a conflict. He also had gold fever.” She grimaced, as though she were being disloyal to a man she barely knew. “We all feared that the War Between the States was coming long before it started and that all able-bodied men would be needed to fight, if such a conflict arose. Mama always thought my uncle hightailed it west years before the conflict so he wouldn’t have to fight.”
“So he’s a coward,” Eamon muttered, his expression filled with concern.
“I think he’s more of an opportunist. Although he was always my mama’s favorite brother. And she extracted a promise from him that he would care for the three of us, if something happened to Mama before we were wed.”
Eamon frowned. “Thus you’re traveling upriver to find a man you barely know?” His brows furrowed in confusion. “I still don’t understand, lass. Why wouldn’t you have him come to you?”
Phoebe closed her eyes to avoid any censure or criticism in his gaze. “I know that seems more sensible, but Uncle hasn’t returned to Saint Louis in years. In his letter, he said he refused to travel to us and to be forced to suffer the indignities of so-called good society.” She swallowed as Eamon stared at her with concern, as she intimated she and her sisters weren’t worthy of such regard or care from the unknown uncle. “In the letter, he advised that we were to travel to him as soon as possible, or we were in jeopardy of losing our inher …” She flushed and stammered. “Or our futures were in jeopardy.” She forced a smile. “We took a vote, and I was outnumbered.”
“I would have thought your eldest sister would have insisted on the three of you remaining in Saint Louis. She seems sensible too.”
Phoebe sighed. “Because she seems meek and studious, she has the appearance of being the most grounded among us. But she’s actually the most fanciful. All those books have made her quite a romantic.”
Eamon grinned at her, the light from a nearby lamp enhancing his chiseled good looks. “Have you ever been accused of such a thing?” When she gaped up at him, he whispered, “Of being a romantic?”
She shook her head, reminding herself how he first thought of her as a sister and then as a friend and could hope for nothing more. That she could not envision a white dress and an eager groom awaiting her approach. “Of course not. I’m the practical sister.”
He stared at her a long moment, to the point she fought squirming, and then he shook his head. “I think that’s what you tell yourself as you battle disappointment. I think you want to be just as fanciful, just as daring as your sisters.”
“Life is rarely kind to those who dream,” she whispered.
He made a small grunt, almost of pain, at her words. “How I wish you were wrong.” Eamon turned to lean on his elbows, looking out at the river in quiet companionship with her.
Whereas, before his arrival, she had yearned for time for silent contemplation, now she prayed he never left her side. A momentary serenity filled her, and she wished for it to never end. The sounds of the men bickering as they played poker and of the captain calling out to his men faded into the background, as she closed her eyes and relished the peace of this moment. Never before had she thought being in the presence of another person could bring her such tranquility.
Eamon pushed away from the railing, abruptly disrupting the quiet interlude, a strange look in his gaze. “I must return to find Finn. I fear he’ll find a poker match and beggar us before arriving to Fort Benton.”
“Of course,” she murmured, watching as he scurried away from her. With a long sigh, she attempted to recapture the previous moment’s peacefulness, but his absence proved such a desire unattainable.
* * *
Minutes later, cursing as the door to the miniscule stateroom he shared with Finn slammed against the wall, Eamon entered and shut the door with another smack. Finn rested on the upper bunk, reading a five-and-dime novel, while Eamon paced around the small room.
“Leave and come back if that’s all you’re going to do,” Finn snapped. “Watching you from up here gives me vertigo.”
Eamon rolled his eyes but opted to kick off his boots and to shuck his outer clothes,. before flopping onto his back on the lower bunk. “What I wouldn’t give for a proper bath,” he muttered.
Finn peered at him from above, his head upside down. “You’re in such a state because you want a bath?” He yelped when Eamon batted him on his head, so Finn returned to resting on the upper bunk, muttering under his breath the entire time.
“Of course not.” Eamon sighed and tried to settle into the bed.
“She’s not your sister, Eamon,” Finn said in a soft voice.
With a growl, Eamon launched himself from the bed, barely avoiding hitting his head on the wooden frame of the upper bunk, potentially knocking himself out cold. He resumed his pacing and nodded. “I know. But she sees me that way. And she’s young. I’m young. Too young to consider marryin’.” He rubbed at his head, sending spikes of black hair standing on end.
Finn sat so his legs dangled off the edge of the upper bunk, partially hunched over so his head didn’t hit the ceiling. “Why would you be thinkin’ about marriage now? A few days ago, you thought you’d never marry.”
Eamon walked the few paces to the small window and stared outside. Immediately he thought about the time he had spent with Phoebe. All that she had said, but also all she had alluded to. Instinctively he knew there was much more to her than a well-put-together, controlled woman. For some reason, he was intrigued and wanted to know more about her.
“I thought the sisters were like Aileen. Mail order brides.” He met Finn’s amused gaze. “But they’re not. They’re in search of an uncle who they haven’t seen for years, although I’m uncertain he’s an uncle to pine over.”
Finn rubbed at his head. “Unlike Mum and Maggie.”
Eamon looked at his brother over his shoulder and turned to lean against the windowsill. Grasping at the d
istraction, he said, “Do you think Mum will still be there when we return? Or will she have disappeared again?”
Finn hopped down and stood with his hands on his hips and his head tilted to one side, studying his brother as though he were a foreign creature he’d never seen before. “Are you addled, Eamon? Did someone bash you over the head, which caused you to spout nonsense about marrying and fears Mum will be gone again?”
Eamon swore and crossed his arms over his chest, his shoulders hunching. “I’m not addled. I know exactly who you are—my meddlesome brother.”
“Mum will be there,” Finn said in a low voice, his words emerging like an avowal. “She wouldn’t leave again, Eamon. She wouldn’t.” When Eamon continued his pacing, Finn added, “She never intended to leave us in the first place. It was all a horrid misunderstanding between Da and the French-speaking nun.”
For a moment, Eamon was reminded of the boy Finn had been during the months after their mother had died. The confusion and fear Finn had felt every day as he woke to find Mum absent and to feel the resurgent grief at the understanding she wasn’t coming back. The responsibility Eamon had felt in equal measure to soothe his brother, while Eamon’s own heart broke into just as many pieces. “Aye, she’ll be there. She has to be.”
Finn nodded, as though the possibility of her absence were not worth contemplating.
After a long moment, while Eamon smiled as he stared at the brother he adored, he said,. “You know that I won’t marry because, if I do, our adventures will cease.”
Finn nodded emphatically, any worry forced away. “Aye, an’ there’s still too much livin’ to be done before we bind ourselves to a woman.” He moaned, arching his arms overhead to touch the ceiling of the cabin as he stretched. “Can you imagine chainin’ yourself to a woman like Winnifred?” He shivered dramatically as he dropped his arms. “Within a month of marriage, she’d be the death of any man unfortunate enough to marry her.”
Eamon chuckled at his brother’s antics. “Aye. We’ll be busy enough as uncles for years to come.”
Finn gave an appreciative sigh. “Uncles. That sounds perfect. You can love the babes with all your might and then hand them back when they start actin’ up.”
Eamon laughed again and tumbled into his bunk to sleep. Although he knew his charming brother Finn had reason for not wishing to marry anytime soon, an ache settled deep inside Eamon at the thought of being alone for years to come. His mind instinctively returned to the time he had spent with Phoebe tonight, and he relaxed, as though she were beside him.
Although she thought herself levelheaded, he knew she must have moments where she was passionate and outspoken. He wished he were the man she turned to, the man she shared such intimate thoughts and ideas with. Instead he feared he would forever be on the periphery of her life, watching as she blossomed under another man’s attentions.
Finn had thought Eamon muddleheaded to express doubts about their mum, but he harbored a deep-seated fear she would have left again, while they were away during the winter. Her disappearance and reported death eighteen years ago—when they had first arrived in Canada, after fleeing Ireland and the horrible potato famine—had affected him greatly. Even though he had acted as though he barely remembered her, her absence had acted like a wraith, forever present but out of reach.
He had tried to be the strong big brother for Finn, shielding him from bullies and mean words, when they did menial tasks to earn a penny. However, the woman his da had married, Colleen, was miserly in her love. She had felt betrayed because Seamus would always love the memory of a dead woman more than the woman alive and warming his arms.
From the moment Eamon, as a boy, had seen both Seamus’s misery and then Colleen’s, Eamon had vowed to never feel more than a fond affection for a woman. Any stronger emotion only led to heartache and pain. He’d learned at an early age such suffering was never worth the risk.
He sighed and thought of his brother Declan, who hadn’t learned the lesson of their mother’s absence, and now Declan was miserable. With one last long sigh, Eamon resolved to overcome any attraction he felt for Phoebe. He resolved that he and Finn would be the carefree bachelor brothers forever.
Nothing was worth the despair Declan felt. Nothing was worth the agony their father had suffered for almost eighteen years. Nothing was worth the pain and rejection of love where another didn’t love you back. Before he slipped into sleep, Eamon said a silent prayer that his brother Declan would find his way free of his torment.
* * *
A week later, Phoebe paused, hitching her normally smooth stride as she noted Eamon standing by himself at the railing. Although she saw him at each meal, he had merely smiled at her in an impersonal manner and spoken with men traveling to Fort Benton. Finn had largely ignored Winnifred, and her sister was irate at being snubbed.
With a deep breath for courage, Phoebe approached Eamon, pasting on a friendly smile. “Hello, Mr. O’Rourke.”
He stiffened at her sidling up next to him but then nodded in a deferential manner. “Miss Mortimer,” he murmured. After a long moment of stilted silence, he cleared his throat. “We appear to be making good time.”
Her head bobbed up and down, as she stared at his profile when he refused to look at her. Tearing her gaze from him, she stilled her repetitive movement and looked out at the river. “Yes. I hear we should arrive by the first part of June. Only a little over a week from now.”
Eamon chuckled. “Captain’s irate we won’t be the first ship to arrive, but we’ve lost too much time caught up on sandbars and cutting firewood.”
She shrugged. “As long as we arrive safely, it shouldn’t matter if we are the first or the tenth.” When she saw him staring at her with a slightly disapproving look, she flushed. “Although I’m certain I shouldn’t have an opinion on the matter.”
“Whether you do or don’t, it won’t make us arrive any faster, Miss Mortimer.” His jaw clenched tight for a long moment before he relaxed. “I hope you are having a pleasant journey with your sisters.”
When he turned to leave, she gripped his arm. “Please. What have I done to offend you?” She bit her lip at the pleading in her tone. When he stared at her with unrelenting coldness in his gaze, she shivered.
“Why, you’ve done nothing, Miss Mortimer.”
Her hold on his arm tightened to prevent him from wandering away. “I don’t believe you. You’ve been unfriendly. I know I’m not the sort of woman a man would desire to marry, but I’d hoped we were friends. I thought we might be more.” She grimaced at her last words.
“You’re wrong,” he rasped, his blue eyes flashing with anger and a deep emotion before he expelled a long breath, easing his tension. “You’re wrong,” he repeated in a calmer, emotionless voice. “I believe we just had a friendly conversation. I could never want for more.”
“Never want for more,” she whispered, parroting his words back, as though attempting to make sense of them. She shook her head repeatedly. “I don’t understand. I never meant—” When he placed callused fingers over her soft lips, her eyes rounded like saucers, shock and confusion in her vivid green eyes.
“Please, Miss Mortimer. Don’t embarrass yourself. Or me.”
She gasped and took a step away from him. “Never,” she choked out. “I beg your pardon.” She twirled around, racing away from him, until she careened into her stateroom door. Her hands grasped at the doorknob, shaking so violently that she couldn’t get the handle to turn. Finally she pushed her way into the room, falling to her knees when she entered the tiny space.
Looking around, Phoebe let out a relieved sigh that neither of her sisters were present to witness her humiliating entrance. She kicked the door shut and crawled to her berth, resting on her side, her knees pulled up to her chest, like she were a child. The last scene with Eamon played as though on eternal repeat. Cringing at the apologetic, pleading woman she had been, she wished she had been strong and confident. Captivating. Intriguing. Anything other than she was
. For she knew no man would find her appealing.
Ever since she was a girl, she recalled hearing those around her talk about how terrible it was that she was so plain. That thank heavens she had the Mortimer eyes, for at least that gave her an alluring trait. That it was a shame she didn’t have Lorena’s charm or Winnifred’s wit. What a tragedy that she was so frightfully boring. Boring, the most dreaded word, besides pity, in Phoebe’s vocabulary because it had been bandied about with such alarming frequency in relation to her since she could remember.
Unlike Winnifred, who had sharp cheekbones, a husky voice, and the confidence to match her becoming figure, Phoebe had always known she was homely. Her blond hair was more dull than lustrous, her skin marred with freckles, and she had been afflicted with a crippling shyness until recently. Her willowy frame had too often been referred to as having all the grace and beauty of a stick.
Although she would never say a disparaging word against her mama, she knew her mother had always despaired of her, while rejoicing in Winnifred and Lorena. As her mama had proclaimed time and again, they were the daughters who were destined to shine and to make brilliant matches, not Phoebe. No, Phoebe was meant to remain at home as the spinster sister, caring for her mama as she aged. As her mama had said, with a regretful pat to Phoebe’s cheek, no man would truly desire such a woman as Phoebe.
Curling onto her side, Phoebe admitted to herself that she had created fantasies in her mind about Eamon, hoping that he would prove untrue all that had been said about her in the past. That she was desirable. Attractive. That someone would want to marry her.
“I should have known better,” she whispered to herself, her breaths emerging in a sob. “He barely wants to be my friend. He only said what he did because he desired a kiss. Like all men wanted from my mama, he just wanted to use me.”
Pioneer Longing: The O’Rourke Family Montana Saga, Book Four Page 3
