Pioneer Longing: The O’Rourke Family Montana Saga, Book Four

by Flightner, Ramona

  * * *

  Phoebe watched as Eamon moved away from her to interact with his family, and she wished for the thousandth time she could move about freely. She stared with envy at Maggie, who laughed and flitted from group to group, before she sat with a joyful sigh by Phoebe’s side.

  “Who is the man you just spoke with?” Phoebe asked, staring at a man who lurked in the shadows and corners of the room. He was taller than the O’Rourke men with long russet-colored hair. He seemed to only have eyes for Maggie, as his gaze tracked her every move around the room.

  Maggie glanced in the direction of Phoebe’s gaze and smiled, although she couldn’t hide a flush. “Oh, you mean Dunmore?” She shrugged in an attempt to appear nonchalant. “He’s a family friend.”

  Shaking her head, Phoebe murmured, “I think he’s more than that.” She broke off what more she would say at a commotion in the doorway. A finely dressed woman in a shimmering turquoise dress entered the room. Phoebe stared at her, attempting to remember where she had seen her before. “Who’s that?”

  Maggie beamed at the new arrival. “Nora. The Madam. She’s a close friend of the O’Rourkes.”

  Phoebe watched the Madam embrace first Seamus and Mary before Eamon. Phoebe fought an irrational anger at the woman touching her husband and forced her hands to unclench. When she saw Eamon’s discomfort, a portion of her ire eased.

  As Nora approached her, Phoebe fidgeted and bit her lip. The woman’s eyes were too knowing. Too all-seeing. Phoebe felt as though a fly stuck in a spider’s web, and she had no desire to be so trapped.

  “Nora!” Maggie squealed, as she jumped up and hugged the older woman. “You missed the ceremony.”

  Grimacing, Nora sat in the chair beside Maggie. “I’m afraid I couldn’t escape my duties this morning. Although I’m delighted to arrive while you are celebrating.” Her astute gaze landed on Phoebe, and she smiled with compassion. When Maggie left to aid her mother, Nora scooted over to the chair directly beside Phoebe that Maggie had vacated. “I’m happy to see you are recovering from your ordeal.”

  With rounded eyes, Phoebe blurted out, “You were the woman on the boardwalk. The one I had hoped would help me.”

  Nora nodded. “Yes. I did what I could. I spoke with the O’Rourkes.”

  Rolling her eyes, Phoebe said, “As if they would have done anything.” She gasped as Nora gripped her hand.

  “Never doubt their sincerity in aiding you, Miss Mortimer—or should I say, Mrs. O’Rourke now?” Nora said in a low, solemn voice. “Do not presume you understand what others would or would not do for you by the disappointments of your past.” Her gaze flickered to a pouting Winnifred. “By the lack of charity of those who should have always supported you.”

  Phoebe nodded, flushing. “I managed to save myself.”

  “Yes, at great personal cost,” Nora said. “Have pride in what you accomplished, but do not doubt that the O’Rourkes had a plan afoot to aid you.” She smiled as she saw Mary and Maggie returning with slices of cake. “I see I missed Seamus’s blessing. What a pity, as I always enjoy them.” When she saw Phoebe turn even more into herself, Nora murmured, “Again, girl, don’t doubt you deserved his blessing. If Seamus said it, he meant it.”

  At Maggie’s shriek, anything Phoebe would have said was forgotten. Maggie was on the floor, two pieces of cake and shattered dishes around her, as Phoebe’s uncle stood in the doorway. Dunmore had moved with surprising speed to aid Maggie and to prevent any further harm from befalling her, while a wall of O’Rourkes had formed near the doorway.

  “You are not welcome here, Chaffee,” Seamus said. He stood tall with arms crossed over his chest as he faced his adversary.

  Nora gripped Phoebe’s hand, quietly soothing her, as Phoebe saw her uncle for the second time since she had arrived in Fort Benton.

  “Where is she? If she’s whoring for anyone, she’s whoring for me!” Uriah Chaffee yelled. His jowls jiggled as he bellowed.

  “How dare you?” Eamon said, as he stepped forward, almost blocking her uncle from her view. “She’s my wife, and she is a respectable woman. You have no say over her life ever again.”

  Uriah snorted. “Until you bed her, the wedding is worth nothing more than the paper it’s written on.” He fisted hands at his hips. “And having your father proclaim your union is not binding.”

  Seamus shook his head. “No, Uriah. We had a priest, and the union is binding. Your nieces are out of your sphere of influence, for any harm to any of the Mortimer lasses is as though you’ve harmed an O’Rourke.”

  Panting and looking around at the unified front, Uriah hissed, “You can’t keep me from my own flesh and blood. It’s unconscionable!”

  “Unconscionable?” Eamon asked. “I would have thought that was what you did. Draggin’ your newly arrived niece to a saloon to turn her into a prostitute.” He shook his head. “My marryin’ her because I deeply care for her is the opposite of unconscionable.”

  “I am her guardian, and she agreed to my plans for her. She was eager when she met Mr. Bell.”

  “Lies!” Phoebe said in a tear-laden voice that cut through the room as though she had bellowed it. “Lies, Uncle. You were only too happy to have that man carry me off over his shoulder, kicking and screaming in protest, as you contemplated your potential earnings. And I know you envisioned doing the same with my sisters.”

  Uriah glared at her with malevolent hatred. “If you’d done what was expected of you, you’d never have been injured, and the O’Rourkes would never have interfered in our affairs!”

  Eamon snorted, his hands on his hips. “You are a fool. We would have outbid any and all men in that saloon for Phoebe. She never would have suffered as you had planned.”

  Phoebe gasped as she heard of their plan, confirming what the Madam had tried to tell her just moments ago.

  Uriah paled and then flushed beet red again. “I could have beggared you. I could have gained control of your store.” He glared again at Phoebe, as though she were the destroyer of all his dreams. “If only you hadn’t escaped!”

  Smiling at his wife, Eamon returned his focus to Uriah. “How does it feel to be outsmarted by a woman?” He took a menacing step toward the man. “Today is my weddin’ day. The only such day I’ll ever have. You are not an invited guest. You are not a desired guest. You’ve already ruined two pieces of Deirdre’s delicious cake. Leave while you can still walk.”

  “Is that a threat?” Uriah asked.

  “Save it,” Seamus snapped. “We know you proclaim to be a lawyer, but be forewarned. You harm one of us, and you will pay the price.” He paused as he saw the man swallow as he nervously looked around the room, filled with virile men, intent on protecting those they cared about, which included his nieces.

  “I have every right to be here!” Uriah proclaimed. “I should be considered family too!”

  Laughing derisively, Seamus shook his head. “Not while I draw breath.” He leaned toward the paunchy lawyer. “If you are the high-falootin’ lawyer you claim to be,” Seamus said, adding a thick note of doubt to his tone, “you know we can bar you from our home. Out.”

  Huffing out a frustrated breath, Uriah stormed from the room. Seamus followed him to ensure he left and that Mary was well.

  Nora squeezed Phoebe’s hand one more time before releasing it. “Seems you’ll have trouble with your relations for a while.” With an apologetic smile, she murmured, “I fear it would be best if that poor man either left town or drowned in the river.”

  Nora rose as Eamon approached, vacating her seat for Phoebe’s husband. Nora whispered something to him, before stroking a hand down his arm. “Goodbye for now, Mrs. O’Rourke,” Nora said. “I wish you all happiness.”

  Phoebe met her gaze fleetingly. “Thank you, Nora.” She bit her lip as she stared deeply into Eamon’s concerned gaze. “I’m sorry.”

  At her whispered words, he frowned. “For what? For having a miserable excuse for an uncle?” He smiled. “I’m certain, if w
e still lived in Ireland, I’d have relations who’d embarrass me too.” He raised her hand and kissed it. “Don’t worry, love. If he doesn’t understand now, he soon will that you are an O’Rourke and not to be trifled with.”

  Chapter 10

  That evening, Eamon chuckled as he closed the door to the bedroom he would share with Phoebe as she continued her convalescence, any outward display of his gaiety disappearing with the click of the door. He rested his head against the cool wood, taking deep breaths as he struggled with an overwhelming sorrow. Rather than joy and hope and wonder, the day had been filled with stilted silences, forced laughter, and a sickening sense he had just made the greatest mistake of his life.

  Although he had relished defending her from her uncle, he knew she doubted the sincerity of the emotions behind his desire to marry her. Even though she had attempted to hide her instinctual stiffening at his approach, her strained conversations and pasted-on smiles had made it abundantly clear she had little desire for his company.

  Rather than move through the room, chatting with his brothers, he would have far preferred spending the day sitting by her side and visiting with her. However, her cool demeanor had made him feel unwanted. He feared he would feel this way forever.

  “Ignoring me won’t make me go away,” her voice called out from the bed.

  He stiffened before nodding and turning to face her. “I know. But then I thought that was your role. Pretending I didn’t exist.” His blue eyes flashed with hurt, as he beheld her dressed in a beautiful nightgown with lace at the collar and sleeves—another gift from Aileen. Rather than remark on Phoebe’s beauty, which he’d quickly learned she would discredit, he moved to the bureau to undo his cuff links.

  “What do you think you are doing?” she asked, her voice shrill and trembling with a panic she couldn’t conceal.

  “Undressing.”

  “Oh, no, no, no, no,” Phoebe stammered out. “You are not sleeping with me. I’m still injured. What kind of man are you?”

  He spun to face her, his jaw clamped so tightly shut that it ticked with his anger, while his gaze shone with hurt and disillusionment. “I’m your husband, Bee. The man who pledged to always honor and protect you today.” He pointed to the space next to her bed. “Right there, to be precise.” Shaking his head, he stared at her in dismay. “How can you believe I’d do anythin’ to harm you?”

  She had pulled the covers up to just under her chin. “I … I’m not ready.”

  “Knowing you, you’ll never be ready,” he muttered, as he yanked off one boot and then the other. After tossing his waistcoat over the back of a chair, he pulled down his suspenders and tugged his shirt free of his pants. “Don’t worry,” he muttered, as he toed off his socks and heard her breathing ratchet up. He feared she was on the verge of hyperventilating. “I’ll sleep in my underclothes. But I am sleeping next to you. I’ll be damned if I’m consigned to that uncomfortable chair for another night.”

  “Another night?” she whispered in confusion and then yelped, forgetting his comment as he crawled over her like a panther.

  He laughed, humor and joy lighting his expression for one of the first times that day since his da’s blessing. Everything had turned sour then. “Don’t make so much noise, or the family will get ideas.”

  “Hush,” she gasped, covering his mouth with her fingers. Her eyes rounded when he tenderly kissed her fingers.

  “I promise on all I hold holy, Bee, I’ll never intentionally do anything to hurt you. Never again,” he whispered. “Let me under the covers.” He waited as he saw uncertainty battle with hope, until she eased her death grip on the blankets with the hand not touching him. “Thank you.” He crawled under the covers, sighing with pleasure. “Punch me if I snore,” he mumbled, as he closed his eyes.

  “Snore?” she asked, leaning up on one elbow. “You snore?”

  He shrugged. “Most men do.” He opened one eye to stare at her indignant expression. Her wariness and anger were gone, her innate curiosity shining through. He gazed at her lustrous blond hair, gleaming green eyes, smooth creamy skin, and his breath caught. “God, you’re beautiful, Bee,” he whispered, frowning when he saw the openness in her gaze shutter. Perplexed, he leaned up on one elbow to stare at her as she collapsed onto her back, breaking eye contact and attempting to ignore him.

  “Why, Bee? Why do you deny what you are?”

  She smacked him on his arm, and he grunted from the surprise of it. “Why do you lie? I know what I am. A plain woman, not blessed with the curves, the personality, or the beauty of my sisters.” She snapped her mouth shut, as though she had revealed too much.

  “Plain?” he breathed, his hand reaching forward to tangle through her silky hair. “How could you ever think yourself plain?” This time, he pressed his fingers to her lips, his smile tender as he gazed deeply into her eyes. “You’re beautiful. Bewitching. Captivating.” He paused as he saw pain in her gaze. “For some reason, you were never shown how remarkable you are.” He leaned forward, softly kissing one cheek and then the other. “But you’re also much more than your beauty, Bee.”

  “I am?” she gasped, her breaths emerging as pants.

  With humor and love shining through his voice, he ran his thumb from her temple down her cheek to her jaw and back up again. “Yes, so much more.” He kissed her jaw and nibbled a path down her neck, grinning when she arched into his touch. He eased away, his hand still tracing circles on her skin as he looked deeply into her gaze again. “You’re smart, kind, patient, and loyal.” He paused. “And you’re mine. To cherish and to adore.”

  She bit her lip. “Are you mine?”

  He frowned at the question.

  “Never mind,” she blurted out. “I’m foolish.” She yanked on the covers, thwacking him in the face. He toppled to his side, as he massaged his head and blinked rapidly.

  “For the love of God, woman, you could have blinded me,” he muttered, rubbing at his eye.

  “Good night, Eamon.” She had pasted on a placid expression, as she rested on her back.

  Leaning over her, he blew out the candle and then settled beside her. “Good night, Bee, my wife.” After many long moments, when he heard her breathing deepen and even out as she slipped into sleep, he whispered, “Aye, love, I am yours.”

  * * *

  Phoebe woke, experiencing the deepest sleep she’d had since departing Saint Louis. It was as though all her concerns had decided to give her overwrought mind a night off. With a satisfied sigh, she stretched. In that moment, she realized she was not alone in her bed. Just as quickly, she remembered she had married the previous day.

  Married.

  She rested with her eyes closed, as she fought panic at the thought of having married Eamon O’Rourke. A man she adored but who only tolerated her. She took another deep breath and frowned at an unexpected and unfamiliar weight on her belly. She stroked a hand down, her fingers tracing over the strong hairy arm curled over her, holding her close, and she sighed.

  Unwilling to break the small contact with him, she continued to think about her predicament. Although she had dreamed of marrying her entire life, she had never desired a marriage of convenience. Or a marriage to ensure her sisters were safe. Was it such a crime to wish there had been some tenderness between the bride and groom the previous day?

  She continued to caress Eamon’s arm as she sniffled. All throughout the long afternoon yesterday, she had hoped he would turn to her with a wink and the unfettered delight he had shown her a few times on the steamboat. That he would whisper he was glad they were more than friends. That she would have felt like something more than an obligation to him. Instead he had sat by her as though it were his duty as a husband. As though he were proving to everyone present, himself included, that he were an honorable man and able to keep his vows.

  Envy had filled her, nearly sickening her, as she stared at Ardan and Kevin with their wives. With women they had married out of love. Not pity. She’d thought her heart would break
when she saw Seamus whisper tender words to Mary and the reflected love in her gaze. When she had watched Dunmore track Maggie’s every movement with a covetous gaze. Even he was more in love with the unwed Maggie than Eamon was with her. Why was such devotion and adoration to be denied her?

  Winnifred had relished in Phoebe’s husband’s absence from her side. Phoebe had tried to ignore that Eamon had abandoned her the minute after he kissed her, preferring to spend time with his family rather than accepting congratulations for the both of them together. Winnifred’s words had been particularly sharp, piercing the fragile armor Phoebe had erected around her heart.

  “Why look, Bee,” Winnifred had said in a mocking voice, using Eamon’s nickname for her. “He can’t even tolerate standing beside you for a moment longer than necessary after the ceremony ended. And that kiss was more for a sister than for a wife.”

  Although Eamon had interrupted anything more Winnifred could have said, he had been increasingly uncomfortable during his father’s toast. Which made sense, as it was about love and wealth and a lifetime of happiness. They couldn’t even cobble together five minutes of joy. She frowned, suddenly fighting tears.

  A finger caressed her cheek, and she jolted, her eyes opening to meet her husband’s brooding gaze. “Was sleeping beside me that awful?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble.

  She shivered at the sound and shook her head.

  Soft, yet callused fingertips continued to trace over her cheeks and then to her jaw before rising to her temple. “What’s the matter, love?”

  “That,” she croaked out. At his perplexed look, she closed her eyes in defeat. “You call me such words but don’t mean them.”

  “Ah, Bee,” he breathed. “Don’t tell me what I mean.” He leaned forward, his lips following the path of his fingertips. “And don’t believe you know what I feel.”