Seamus took a step toward him. “Your ways might be amusin’ to those in a big city but not here, Mr. Chaffee. Here, we honor what we’ve lost.” He waited, his eyes flashing with annoyance that Mr. Chaffee’s smile failed to dim. “We’ll see you in one week.”
“Wonderful. One week it is. Please ensure the lovely widow is present. I’d hate for her to be deprived of hearing her late husband’s last wishes.” With eyes gleaming with anticipation, he melted into the crowd.
“Vile man,” Lucien muttered.
“Aye,” Niall agreed. “Will he cause trouble, Da?”
Seamus sighed, his gaze turned in the direction the lawyer had gone. “That sort of man always does, my boy.” He took a sip of his whiskey. “Come. Let’s not worry about what the weasel might say. We’ve worries enough today.”
Cormac had every intention of ignoring the insistent knocking on his front door, but, when he heard the soft voice of Mary O’Rourke, he found himself rushing to open it. “Ma’am,” he murmured in a near-reverent voice. “I—Why would you leave the gathering?” He stood tall, his suit coat slung over a nail in the corner, with his waistcoat half unbuttoned and his shirtsleeves rolled up. He flushed at his state of undress and began to do up his clothes.
“You know I don’t care what you wear, Cormac,” she said, with her gentle smile, as she tenderly cupped his face with one palm. “Might I come in? ’Tis a bit wet out tonight, although I should say it reminds me of Ireland.”
He nearly smiled, something he had thought he would never do again, and stepped aside to allow her in. Belatedly he saw a small basket at her feet with a pot and a napkin inside. She picked it up and set the pot on the stove.
“You’ll be wanting food at some point. Stew’s in here, and there are a few pieces of brown bread wrapped up for you. ’Twill keep you full, until you’re ready to venture out again.”
“Why?” he whispered.
She ignored everything in the room but him—the shattered, devastated man who believed himself alone in the world. “Because you are part of my family, Cormac.”
He shuddered at her words and shook his head, suddenly battling tears he refused to allow to fall. “No. I’m not. I don’t deserve to be.”
“Well, that’s the beauty of it. I decide who’s in my family, aye?” She ran a hand over his strong shoulders, whispering, “And I’ve claimed you as one of my own, a mhac.” When he shook his head at her Irish, she murmured, “My son.”
His tears overflowed, and he whispered, “I don’t deserve you, ma’am.”
“Mary,” she said, as she pulled him into her arms. “An’ you do. But you must believe you do as well.” She stroked a hand over his strong back. “Just as you must believe you aren’t alone. Your brother died a tragic death, but you are still with us. Unlike the time I was cruelly separated from my family and truly alone, you aren’t, Cormac. You still have us. Never forget that.”
She eased him away and looked deeply into his gaze. “My prayer for you is that you will live the life he never had the courage to. Filled with love and honor.” She patted his cheek and slipped from his house.
Cormac collapsed into a chair, his mind whirling with the day’s events. He yearned for the kinship Mary offered but feared she would retract her affection once she realized his sins.
Two days later, Niamh walked the short distance to Cormac’s house. A cool breeze blew, although the sun peeked through the clouds, drying all but the deepest puddles after the recent deluge. She pulled her shawl around her at the hint of winter in the air. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on his door.
When it opened, he stood in shadows, his expression largely obscured. When he stepped into the light, she backed up a step at his forbidding expression.
“Niamh, stop,” he said.
She froze, her gaze darting to his.
“You know I’ll never hurt you.”
She looked at him a long moment and then nodded. When he stepped aside and motioned for her to enter his cabin, she slipped inside. She glanced around the small one-room cabin, which she had never before entered. He had always visited her at the home she had shared with Connor. In the rear corner was a large bed, piled high with blankets and a few pillows. On the opposite wall was a table where two could sit, with a window casting light into the room. Another window, beside the front door, allowed more light into the small space. A potbellied stove sat on bricks and stood in the corner to the right, with two chairs in front of it. “Two of everything?” she asked.
Cormac flushed and rubbed at his nape. “It had always been Connor and me. I hoped he’d stop for a visit.” His gaze dropped to the floor, and he looked away.
Niamh closed her eyes in regret, for she knew her husband, and she knew Connor would never have deigned to spend his time in conversation with his brother. Not when he could have been at the saloons, swigging firewater or gambling. “I’m sorry, Cormac.”
He shrugged. “I should have expected no better. I’m the fool for ever thinking he’d be different than he was.” He motioned her to a chair near the mostly dormant stove. “But fortunately it means I have seats for both of us when you visit.” He poked at the embers in the stove and set kindling inside, waiting for it to catch before building up the fire.
Niamh sat in silence as she watched the fire, comfortable, the tension of the day seeping away. This is how she had always felt with Cormac. At ease. Secure. Her mind shied away from the word safe, but she knew, deep inside, that was truly how she felt. Silence between them never led to discord. Never came from discord. Instead it resulted from a deep understanding of the need for quiet communion and for the comfort brought by the mere presence of one who is cherished.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, breaking the silence after over one-quarter hour. By this time, the fire had been built up, and the small cabin was quite warm.
“What for?” he asked, tossing the poker from one hand to the other.
“For causing his death,” she whispered. She raised her tormented gaze to meet his penetrating one. “For exulting in it.”
He sighed and dropped the poker to the floor, where it clattered against the metal shovel and broom for the stove, provoking a jarring clang. “If you did otherwise, you wouldn’t be human. And I’d have you no other way than how you are.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What will you do?”
She shook her head, staring into the flames. “I don’t know, but I won’t jump into the river.” Her words evoked a soft smile from him, as she raised her gaze, and they shared a long look. They had teased each other about jumping in the river, since nearly the first day they had met on the steamboat.
Unbidden, a scene from two and a half years ago flitted through her mind.
A soft breeze blew as a pelican swooped by the side of the steamboat, as though discerning what sort of creature was invading the river. Niamh stood with her hair tied in a long braid down her back, marveling at the stark beauty of the barren land and the distant cliffs, as the steamboat made its slow progress up the river, battling its way through waters swollen with spring runoff. Frequently she heard crewmen calling a warning to the captain about floating logs and snags seen poking from the floor of the riverbed. Thankfully the captain had, so far, been adept enough to miss all such potential calamities.
“Have you had enough?” asked a man in his teasing, rich voice. “Contemplating jumping overboard?”
She giggled as Cormac nudged her in the shoulder with his. “Of course not. I’d never do such a thing.” She lowered her voice to a barely audible level. “Not unless the ship were on fire, but then I fear I’d drown. I don’t know how to swim.”
He winked at her. “Never fear, Miss O’Rourke. I’d save you.”
She shook her head but giggled again. “Always so gallant, Mr. Ahern.”
“Cormac,” he said with a smile. “When I hear Mr. Ahern, I think of my father.” Then his smile turned to a grimace.
She shifted so she stood fully in the shade, with the b
reeze ruffling her hair, teasing tendrils of her auburn hair loose. She studied him for a long moment. He was tall, with brown hair that hung past his shoulders and sky-blue eyes. He was taller than his older brother, Connor, who had blond hair and muddy brown eyes. “Was your father a bad man?” she asked.
“No, of course not,” Cormac said and then sighed. After a long moment, he murmured, “It makes me miss him. Them.” When Niamh remained quiet, he said, “I grew up with a large family. In Missouri. My father was from Ireland. Left before the famine.” He shrugged. “He never said why he left Ireland, but, after roaming for a while, he settled in Missouri, and he sweet-talked my mother into marrying him.” His eyes gleamed for a moment, as though remembering long-distant scenes. “He always told the best stories. And spun everything to his advantage. He had a way of sweet-talking everyone.”
“Like your brother,” Niamh said with a sigh.
Cormac cleared his throat. “Yes, like Connor. And that isn’t always a good thing, Miss O’Rourke. You must discern if any substance is behind the sweetness.” He paused as he saw her think through his words, and her mutinous expression appeared, as she had no desire to give credence to his warning. “Anyway, there were seven of us, with only one sister. And never enough food and always too much work on the farm. Connor and I were the eldest sons, and my da sent us away to sell our crops in a nearby market.”
Niamh frowned. “Why didn’t he go?”
Shrugging, Cormac rested his shoulder against a post. “He’d tried to swindle one of the merchants at the last market and thought Connor and I would be more accepted than he would be. And we were.” His gaze clouded. “We were gone longer than planned, as the horse threw a shoe, and the axle on our cart broke. After five days away, we returned, to find everyone dead.”
“What?” Niamh gasped. She gripped Cormac’s arm. “How? What happened?”
“We don’t know. Some sort of illness. But they all perished. And we didn’t because we were at the market.”
“Oh, Cormac, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I thought it was awful to lose my mum and sister.”
He squeezed her hand. “And it was, Miss O’Rourke. Never doubt it.” He sighed as he looked over her shoulder. “Here comes, Connor, hoping to see you.”
Niamh fought a squeal as she brushed at her hair. “Oh, I wish I looked more polished.”
“You’re beautiful, lass,” he said. “Never doubt it.”
Niamh barely heard him as she spun to see his charming older brother strolling in her direction, his golden hair glinting in the sun. Her sense of kinship to him had heightened to realize he had suffered loss too. She never registered Cormac leaving, her attention wholly focused on Connor.
“Niamh,” Cormac repeated, breaking her reverie.
She started, her gaze focusing on the small cabin and then Cormac. She shivered, as though finally hearing his warning from years ago. She fought despair that she hadn’t heeded it then. “Do you ever wonder, Cormac, what might have happened if things had been different?” She gazed at him with a desolate, confused gaze. “If I had chosen differently?” she whispered.
“Only every day,” he muttered, rising to move to one of the windows, his back now to her. “But I’ve found it does little to alter reality.”
She rose, moving to his door. “I have a sense everything changed the day he died. I’m just waiting to see what is to come.” With those words, she eased open his door to return to her parents’ house, leaving him staring at her through his window.
Chapter 2
Three days after the funeral, Niamh walked behind her parents’ house with her daughter. Maura was of an age where she loved to play outside, and Niamh knew that winter would come soon enough. Although she had no desire to do anything but lay in bed, she wanted to spend time with Maura, hoping her daughter could lift her out of her dark mood.
She stood in the dried, brittle grass, still damp after a frost, watching Maura frolic, as she chased small insects hatching in the warmer afternoon air in her halting little girl run where she always seemed on the verge of toppling over. However, Maura managed to keep her balance, and always pushed Niamh away when she wanted to run and play. Tilting her head up to the sun, Niamh sighed at the momentary pleasure of feeling the warmth on her cheeks. At the soft breeze blowing, rather than the harsh weather they had suffered in recent days, she clenched her hands together tightly, as she fought memories and attempted to live in the moment.
“Mrs. Ahern,” a woman said, her soft voice interrupting Niamh’s quiet interlude.
Niamh spun and gaped at the woman who had the temerity to speak with her. Although Aileen worked as a seamstress for Madam Nora—the owner of Fort Benton’s most successful brothel, called the Bordello—Niamh had never conversed with the woman. And, even though it had been rumored her father was friendly with the woman, Niamh had always discredited such gossip. “I’m uncertain why you would want to speak with me.”
Madam Nora stood a few inches shorter than Niamh. Unlike Niamh’s blatant beauty, Madam Nora appeared mouselike with brown hair, brown eyes, and nondescript features. However, her eyes shone with intelligence, and Niamh knew that the Madam was not one to be crossed or to be underestimated.
“I am here because I fear I am at your mercy.” Rather than the skimpy, shiny clothes Niamh imagined a brothel owner would flaunt, Madam Nora wore a demure purple wool dress with a high neckline, and her polished black boots poked out from under the hem of her long skirts.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.” Niamh glanced in the direction of her daughter and sighed with relief to see Maura building a fort out of sticks she had found.
“Your husband.”
Niamh faced her, a tension thrumming through her at the mention of Connor.
“He died at my establishment,” Nora said.
“Yes,” Niamh said, “I had been informed of that … unfortunate occurrence.” Niamh met Nora’s gaze.
Nora watched her with a quizzical expression. “I’m uncertain you understand the full implications.” Nora firmed her jaw and took a step closer to Niamh. She lowered her voice, as though wanting to prevent the possibility of her words carrying on the wind and reaching innocent Maura. “Your husband arrived at the Bordello, drunk and angry. Unfortunately Ezra was already dealing with an overly amorous customer.”
Nora paused when Niamh snorted at the implication that such a customer in the Bordello were a rarity.
“Not all men treat women well when they are with them in private, but we do not allow them to mistreat the Sirens,” Nora snapped. She flushed, and then her gaze sharpened as she saw Niamh shift with discomfort at her words. “As for your husband, he arrived during one of the rare moments when the front door was unattended by Ezra. Mr. Ahern took a shine to one of the Sirens and then attempted to abuse her.”
Niamh sighed. “He always believed a little discomfort made the woman more amenable to his advances,” she murmured.
Nora snorted her disagreement. “Well, my Siren was having none of it. She is highly sought after here, and she, nor any of my girls, need suffer a man’s attention if they intend to harm her.” She paused. “Your husband fought with Ezra, and he died.”
Niamh stared at her a long moment. “Ah, you’re worried about Ezra. Is he your man?”
“Yes, he’s the man who works the front door. My security for the girls and a decent man.”
Shaking her head, Niamh said, “No, your man.”
Smiling, Nora shook her head. “No. Ezra and I share a purely collegial relationship. But he is like a brother to me.”
Niamh turned away a moment, watching her daughter play with joyful abandon as she chased a butterfly, before tripping and falling. Rather than cry with frustration and run to her mother for a hug, she chortled with laughter and pushed herself up to continue her chase. Niamh blinked back tears, wondering where her own resilience, her own joy in life had gone. Why couldn’t she be more like her daughter?
With a
deep breath, she spoke in a soft voice. “I’d hate it if anything were to happen to one of my brothers. Or Cormac,” she whispered. “I knew my husband well, Madam. I know what he was capable of.” She faced Nora, her expression bleak, echoes of the mistreatment she had suffered in her gaze. “I won’t press charges. Someway, somehow, I always suspected Connor would die a violent death. I see no point in ruining any more lives over the choices he made.”
Madam Nora exhaled the breath she had been holding. She reached forward, squeezing Niamh’s hand, as she blinked back tears. “Thank you.”
Niamh nodded, focusing on her daughter again, as the sound of the Madam’s footsteps fading away became more distant, until only the wind and her daughter could be heard. Niamh whispered to herself, “If he hadn’t died by Ezra’s hand, I fear he would have died by mine.” At that thought, she shivered and forced herself to join her daughter, as Niamh attempted to forget the years she had spent with Connor Ahern.
Ardan sat in the kitchen of the café his wife ran, flirting with her, as few customers were here on this early October day. The townsfolk would arrive later for their supper, and they understood the café closed by seven thirty this time of year, so Ardan and Deirdre could join the O’Rourke family for their supper. He sighed when he heard the bell over the café door ring and winked at his wife before rising.
He entered the café seating area on quiet feet and stopped, watching as Cormac stood rocking in place, as though fighting an indecisiveness about whether he should stay or go. Ardan took a moment to study the man who had always held himself distant from the O’Rourkes, although they had considered him part of the family.
The loss of his brother had seemed to cause Cormac to lose that inherent sense of purpose that always filled him. Now it appeared as though he were floundering. The finality of Connor’s loss had provoked a rootlessness evident to those who knew Cormac well.
Pioneer Yearning: The O’Rourke Family Montana Saga, Book Three Page 2
