Patrick's Charm (The Bride Train, #2) (12 page)

Charm rubbed at her stinging eyes. “My mother died three months ago.”

She had resisted crying, believing grief, and the acceptance that went with it, would worsen her fear of being alone. “I miss her...terribly. She took care of me. Maybe too much. Looking back, I can see I should’ve been more independent. Without her, it feels as if I’ve been set adrift in a leaky lifeboat.”

“I’m sorry.”

Did he mean he was sorry for her loss, or her belated insight? Whatever his meaning, his tone conveyed sympathy. His heart could be softening. Then again, the kind man she believed him to be wouldn’t blackmail her. She had to discern his intentions before she gave away too much information. “Is it money you want?”

He shook his head.

How could she be sure when she didn’t know him well enough to discern whether he would be truthful? “I want to believe you.”

He looked down at her. The distant coldness in his eyes melted into sadness. “I want to believe you, too.”

She dropped her gaze before the tears welled. How hypocritical to question his trustworthiness after she’d deceived him.

Her toes dangled several inches above the floor. His booted feet were firmly planted. He easily had the strength to overcome her, even injured. Still, she wasn’t afraid of him, had never been. He could have seduced her had he been persistent instead of giving her a wide berth, as she’d asked. Unlike Simon, Patrick had integrity, and the strength of character her father had lacked. In her heart, she knew he could be trusted. She wasn’t as sure she could convince him to trust her.

First, she had to be more honest and open. “When I was four, maybe five, my father owned a concert saloon in San Francisco. Even then, I loved performing. He used to set me on the tables and I would sing and dance to entertain the miners. They called me Little Belle.”

“La Belle Enfant,” Patrick murmured in a thick Irish brogue. “The beautiful child.”

“You know French?”

“Enough to translate that.” He’d been holding the card face down. Now he turned it over. Revulsion rolled through her as she imagined what he must be thinking.

“I look like a whore.”

“That’s not what I see.” His declaration eased her churning stomach. However, she couldn’t read what was in his expression.

“What do you see?”

“An innocent, unaware of her seductive powers.”

“That’s a poetic way of putting it.” She wouldn’t mislead him. Not again. “I’m not innocent, Patrick, and I haven’t been unaware since I was young enough to grasp what men meant by the things they whispered to each other...and sometimes to me.”

He tossed the card, and her image landed in a suitcase. She thought about closing the lid. Covering it up wouldn’t change anything.

Patrick glowered, as if it offended him. Maybe that was his way of handling his disappointment in learning she wasn’t pure. However repulsive or painful, the truth would be better for both of them. “Your father should’ve protected you.”

How surprising his anger would be directed at her father instead of her. Her Papa had been even-tempered and fun loving, brilliantly witty, and protective in his own way. She loved him so much she couldn’t condemn him for his flaws. “He didn’t let anyone near me for as long as he lived. He died when I was fifteen. My mother protected me, too, although she encouraged the image. She told me I was only giving men what they wanted—an innocent they could lust after. That it was their sin, not mine. For a long time, I believed her.”

“Not anymore?”

“No. That’s why I won’t wear the white dress. It makes me feel...filthy.”

Patrick shifted closer. He put his arm around her, drawing her against his side. She should pull way rather than encourage him, and she would have if she had the willpower. Though there was nothing lurid or offensive about the way he touched her. He offered comfort because he was a good man with a compassionate heart, something she had seen in him from the start and couldn’t resist. With Patrick, and only with Patrick, she felt truly accepted and cared for, like a person, not an object.

She gave in to her longing and rested her head against his shoulder.

He reached up and stroked her hair. “Why did you run away?”

“A few years after my father died, my mother met a man who owned a theater in St. Louis. Simon LaBar became my mother’s lover, and then her husband and my manager. He arranged for me to perform in the best theaters, and had the contacts to get publicity wherever we went. He dictated the shows, the music, the dances, what I wore. Insisted on personally inspecting every costume.”

“With you in it?”

“Yes. He said he wanted to see how well it fit.” She had tried to tell herself he wasn’t undressing her with his eyes. “My mother finally put a stop to it...a week before she died.”

The muscles in Patrick’s arm tensed. “That’s why you ran? You thought he had something to do with her death?”

“The doctors said she had a weak heart. That’s what killed her.” Charm closed her eyes and willed her stomach to calm. If Simon had done something and she had missed picking up on it, she would never forgive herself. “I don’t think he would murder her. He was her husband.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Some men beat their wives.”

“Simon didn’t beat her. She would’ve left him. He didn’t beat me, either.”

“What did he do to you?” Patrick’s voice resounded like a death knell.

She couldn’t tell him, it was too humiliating, and no one would believe her. Everyone assumed actresses had loose morals. Patrick might think she invited the attention. There were other reasons she fled. “I found out after my mother died that he had managed to get complete control of our finances. He told me if I married him, he would take care of me...”

“So you ran.”

“I thought if I went somewhere no one knew me, started over with a different name, Simon wouldn’t find me.”

Patrick didn’t speak for long moment. She was glad he didn’t take his arm away. If anything, he held her tighter.

She clung to his vest, which smelled of wool and tobacco smoke. Burrowing closer, she detected the scent of his warm skin. Clean, masculine, not masked by cloying fragrances. She ached to be closer, flesh-to-flesh, with nothing between them. Close enough she could forget about another man’s hands on her.

“I’ll protect you.” His voice became husky, the brogue stronger. “Marry me, and LaBar can’t touch you.”

His heartfelt offer tempted her. Patrick would be a kinder master. Except, she didn’t want another master, and she didn’t want him tying himself down for her sake. Something inside her had been broken and couldn’t be fixed. For that reason, she could never love him like he deserved to be loved.

“Thank you, Patrick. Your offer means more to me than I can express. But I can’t accept. I won’t let you bind yourself in a loveless marriage just so you can protect me.”

He removed his arm. “Who said anything about love?”

***

P
atrick left the bed. Remaining beside Charm would be unwise when every part of him ached to hold her, and never let go. She thought he’d come up here to shame her. Revenge wasn’t what he sought. But coercing her into a marriage she didn’t want would make him no better than that snake LaBar.

Charm hadn’t told him everything, but he’d read into what she had said, and it made him sick, and furious. She’d been a victim of the worst sort of man. No wonder she didn’t trust his kind.

He tried to pace. Impossible without stepping on her clothes. Dresses and undergarments lay over the chair and bed, suitcases were open, spewing their contents onto the floor. The room seemed a reflection of her state of mind and situation—confused and messy. He liked order. Keeping things tidy gave him a sense of control. A false sense, of course. Few things were in his control, and Charm wasn’t one of them.

That didn’t change the fact she needed his protection. Even more than he first thought. He couldn’t force her to accept him. She had to come to the decision of her own free will. In order for her to get there, she had to perceive the benefits of marriage. He would have to rely on the wisdom of others who’d been much smarter about relationships.

“My grandfather once told me,
People live in each other’s shelter
.”

“Another Irish saying?”

“Aye, we’re very wise people. Where do you think Solomon got his proverbs?”

Her guarded expression dissolved into a smile. One barrier down. He didn’t dare go over there and sit beside her, or he would have her in his arms and they would be right back where they’d started.

Needing a distraction, he kept his hands busy, picking up a child-sized boot with jet buttons down the side and searching out its mate. “We supposed to help each other, is what it means. I make my shelter next to yours...” Holding the shoes, he lifted his arms to demonstrate. “You make yours next to mine, and we form a bigger shelter. Get twice the benefit.”

“Or one shoe each,” she quipped.

“Keep your shoes. They won’t fit me.” He placed the tiny boots near the end of the bed.

Good, she was smiling and bantering with him, an improvement over suspicion. “I understand the basic principal, and it’s a nice image, but you’re the only one building a shelter, as far as I can see.”

“That’s not true. I give you my name and the protection marriage affords, and in exchange, you help me keep the saloon.” He hated how selfish that sounded. But after being so hard on her for deceiving him, he refused to be dishonest. What he said was true, just not the only reason he wanted her.

“Keep the saloon?” She propped her hands on the side of the bed, regarding him with puzzlement. “I didn’t know you were in danger of losing it.”

“The brother of the man who sold me this place is contesting my claim. The railroad’s policy gives married men priority. If I’m married, I’ll stand a better chance at keeping my land.” He bent down and moved the suitcase so he would have room to walk around.

Charm slid off the bed. She picked up a dress and walked over to the line of pegs near the door. Reaching high, she hung it up. Was this a sudden outbreak of neatness, or had he embarrassed her by tidying up? The last thing she needed was more guilt.

He grabbed the chair and pulled it over, straddled the cane seat and folded his arms over the back. No more picking up, and the chair would offer a wall of protection she might feel like she needed. “You’ll be helping me, Charm. This isn’t a one-sided deal I’m offering.”

“Why me?” She picked up another dress and hung it by the first. “Why not ask one of the other women if you don’t care who you marry.”

“I do care—” He stopped his tongue before he blurted out just how much he cared. That would send her running because she didn’t share his feelings. At the same time, he didn’t want her to think his intentions were purely mercenary. “It wouldn’t be fair to marry a woman who wants more than a marriage of convenience.”

Charm had her back to him while she fiddled with arranging the dresses on the wall pegs. “Yes, you’re right. They deserve more than that.”

So do you.
Patrick clamped his teeth shut to keep from blurting it out. That would give her an excuse not to marry him.

“What’s your reason for not wanting a...a real marriage?” Her voiced sounded strained, but he couldn’t see her face to read her emotions. He refused to talk to her back.

He set the chair aside. Aching with the need to comfort her, he cupped his hands on her shoulders.

She stiffened.

God, he longed to kill the man who’d hurt her and made her afraid.

“It’s all right. I’m not going to do anything, I just want to show you something.” With gentle insistence, he guided her to the window.

“You want to show me the view?”

“Best in town.” He made the quip without feeling humorous. He hadn’t practiced what he would say, only knew he had to lower his barriers so she would lower hers. Telling her about his failed marriage might not convince her to give the institution a try, but she’d risked honesty. Painful honesty. He owed her the same.

“The depot wasn’t here when I first arrived three years ago. Neither was this building. My wife had to live in a sod house.

She turned her head sharply to look up at him.

“Surprised to hear I was married?”

“No, most men marry young...and you aren’t young.”

He laughed, more amused than offended by her blunt remark. When she decided to be honest, she didn’t hold back. “No, I’m not young. But I’m not old, either, unless you consider thirty ancient.”

“I’ll be there in seven years, so no, I don’t consider it old.” Her gaze turned troubled, questioning. “You were telling me about your marriage.”

“After the war, I wed a girl from New York, Kathleen Dooley. Her brother was in my company, one of the few who made it back...” Patrick paused at a wave of melancholy that blew in like dark clouds whenever he thought about the war. “Before we married, I told her of my plans to move west. She was excited, said it’d be a big adventure...”

“What happened to her?”

“She got out here and found she didn’t like adventure. Hated the soddy, hated cooking over an open fire and washing her clothes in a creek. She was scared of the Indians and the wild creatures. She pined for her family and for her friends, and for the nice things she had when she lived in the city. Being her father’s only daughter, she was used to being spoiled, and I didn’t spoil her enough, or so she said. I promised her as soon as the railroad arrived, I’d build a place. But she wanted me to take her home. She didn’t want to live in Kansas. I told her if we went back, we’d never have much. We’d be poor. The opportunity was out here, if she’d just be patient. She wasn’t. She wanted her old life more than she wanted her new one. I took her as far as St. Louis and put her on a train. Six months ago, she wrote to tell me she had our marriage annulled. Claimed I couldn’t give her children.”

Charm put her hand on his arm in a comforting gesture “I’m sorry she left you.”

He hadn’t told her this to gain her sympathy. “She didn’t leave. I let her go. I put her on the train instead of trying harder to make our marriage work. That’s a mistake I won’t make again.”