Patrick's Charm (The Bride Train, #2) (6 page)

She jerked her hand away, startled by the direction her mind had wandered. She had no desire to curl up beside Mr. O’Shea, or any other man, for that matter.

He straightened, slowly, and was soon back to acting self-confident, although he appeared wrung out. “Better now. Just a wee pain.”

His attempt to downplay the frightening episode was really quite endearing.

“A wee pain? I’d hate to see what a severe pain might do to you.” Without thinking, she withdrew her handkerchief from beneath her sleeve, reached up and mopped the sweat on his brow.

Based on his stunned expression, she’d surprised him—almost as much as she surprised herself. She withdrew her hand. His heat had magically transferred to her face. She focused her attention on folding the handkerchief. “What brought it on, this wee pain?”

He didn’t answer right away.

She lifted her head and their eyes met. The tension in the air fairly crackled, humming energy that started up whenever they were in close proximity.

His gaze became thoughtful. “Mr. Hardt paid me a visit this morning.”

“Did he?” She hesitated, apprehensive. The railroad agent might’ve heard she’d taken a job and tried to thwart her. “What did he want?”

“He mentioned you have a contract. With the railroad. Something you didn’t tell me.” Mr. O’Shea’s tone wasn’t scolding, but she sensed his disappointment nonetheless.

“The paper I signed? That doesn’t mean I’m their slave. They can’t force me to marry.”

He frowned at her response. “No one can force you to do anything you don’t want to.”

Want
had nothing to do with it. She longed to find someone to love and to be loved in return. Except, marriage required her to give up control. Having been at the mercy of a man who wasn’t her husband was bad enough. Married, she would have no way out. If she tried to explain her feelings to Mr. O’Shea, he would laugh at her, or think she was crazy.

“Mr. Hardt is worried about losing money. I’ll make restitution from my earnings.”

Her employer braced his hand on the bar. Despite his bravado, he still showed signs of being shaky. “I’ll cover whatever you owe.”

Oh no, she would not be obligated. That was just another snare. “You don’t have to pay my debts.”

“Less trouble for both of us if it’s done and out of the way. If it makes you feel better, I’ll take a little out of your pay each week ‘til we’re even.”

He was being generous, which in her experience made him suspect. People didn’t extend favors without wanting one in return. He had a point, though. If Mr. Hardt’s financial concerns were satisfied, the agent would be less likely to make trouble for her.

“I’ll consider your offer.” She gestured to a table, having the perfect excuse to get him to a chair. “If you’re ready to negotiate our agreement, why don’t we sit down? You can pour us each a drink. I’ll take a brandy.”

His eyebrows arched. He would be even more surprised if she asked for a cigar. Something she had tried and not found to her liking. To her relief, he didn’t rebuke her. Instead, he took down a bottle and poured her a drink.

As an actress, she had long been exiled from
proper
society, which held that men could enjoy whiskey and cigars, while women were allowed only medicinal tonics for female complaints. Ironically, the ingredients in tonics were fermented in alcohol or liberally laced with opium. She avoided them, having seen too many of her friends become dependent on daily doses, and their health seemed to grow worse, not better.

Mr. O’Shea followed her to a nearby table. He pulled out her chair, set the drink in front of her and then sank heavily into the chair opposite. His stiff movements indicated he still suffered from whatever ailment had debilitated him earlier. The “wee pain” must be why he limped, and today the limp appeared worse. No wonder he turned to whiskey.

“You aren’t having anything?” she asked.

“I’ve had all I need.”

She couldn’t remember a time her father had refused whiskey. Perhaps her employer didn’t overindulge because he’d observed the ill effects, or didn’t wish to drink away his profit.

The strong scent of apples teased her nose. This didn’t smell like her favorite brandy. After her last show in Chicago, one of the gentlemen in the audience had sent her a bottle of Hennessy Cognac. She released a wistful sigh. There could be no returning to that life. Not right away.

“Would you happen to have French Cognac?”

“Not at the moment. I’ll be sure to find some, now that I know your preferences.” Mr. O’Shea’s firm lips twitched into a half-smile. She wished to see his face without all that facial hair, but mentioning it would imply she found him fascinating.

“Merci,” she murmured, smiling as she took a sip. The brandy turned into liquid fire in her mouth, so strong she could hardly swallow it. She set the glass down, took a breath and blew it out. “Stronger than I’m used to...”

“You might prefer wine.” His expression remained bland, although she spotted a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“Perhaps later.” She didn’t wish to be the only one drinking. That would put her at a disadvantage when negotiating. He obviously knew it, and that would explain why he’d served her Fire Water. “What do you propose to pay me?

“A dollar a day, plus twenty-five percent on tips.”

If he knew with whom he bargained—one of the most sought after actresses in the country—he would know he’d just insulted her. But no, she couldn’t think like that. As far as he was concerned, she was an unknown hopeful who’d wandered into his saloon. There was no reason, however, to allow him to assume he bartered with a pea brain.

“I’ll keep the tips. If you require more than the enormous profit you stand to make on drinks, we can charge an admission and split the income.”

He leaned his arms on the table, holding her gaze. “Men don’t pay to get into a saloon.”

His reply gave her a marvelous idea.

“Turn your saloon into a theater. Then they’ll pay admission.” She sat back and gestured broadly with her hands. “This building is large enough. You could put a stage at one end. I could find someone to help me paint the canvas backdrops. We’ll need stage lights...kerosene is too smoky. Limelight would be best.”

“A theater.” He didn’t look enthusiastic. She thought it a grand idea.

“Look at it this way, you’ll have something none of your competitors offer.”

Working in a theater would also blunt expectations that she would mingle with patrons, sit on their laps and encourage drinking. She could hardly bear being close to men, much less allowing them to paw her.

“Make it nice enough and you could attract big stars...”
Like me.
Tempting as it was, sharing her true identity would be too risky. “Like Jack Langrishe or Lydia Thompson.”

Her employer folded his arms over his chest. “Build a theater big enough to attract the likes of those two? Out here? That’s shooting awfully high.”

His remark puzzled her because it never occurred to her to aim low. She appealed to his vanity. “Not if you’re a man of vision.”

Regret flickered in his eyes before he shuttered his emotions behind a frank look. “You’ll find visions don’t take you very far out here, Miss LaBelle. Take my advice, be practical.”

Perhaps she expected too much. He wasn’t as ambitious as she hoped, or he didn’t give a woman’s opinion much credence. That didn’t mean she would give up.

“Mr. O’Shea, if I was practical, I wouldn’t have come in here and asked for a job.”

––––––––

T
he saloon remained closed the following morning so Patrick could build a platform for his new performer. Miss LaBelle wanted more. Something bigger and better than anything he could possibly provide. Just like Kathleen. She hadn’t been satisfied with her lot, either.

Charm dreamed bigger dreams. When she talked about building a theater and bringing in big stars illuminated in limelight, her eyes glowed. Ah, but it sounded so grand and glorious. The kind of crazy idea he might’ve pursued when he was younger. Before life had taught him not to reach so high. He settled for smaller dreams now, because he couldn’t bear to want too much and have it taken away.

For a moment, he’d considered asking her to marry him...until she’d declared, with much vehemence, her opposition to marriage. He would have to find another way to keep his land. Bribery? He barely had enough to cover expenses.

Patrick swung the hammer, taking out his frustration on a nail. He couldn’t dismantle the building and move it. Even if he could manage such a feat, all the town sites had been claimed.

While he stewed and hammered, Charm chattered on, ignorant of the struggle he waged.

She had arrived at half past ten, thirty minutes late. When he reminded her that she would need to be prompt, she informed him she wasn’t a morning person, as if that was supposed to excuse her for being tardy. He didn’t give a tinker’s damn if she disliked mornings as long as she showed up for her performances. He wasn’t putting that in writing, though. Let her stew over it.

He paid little attention to the rough sketch of a stage she provided. How hard could it be to build a platform? Instead of leaving him to it, she remained to offer instruction, which he didn’t need. He wouldn’t have minded her company if she’d sit down and talk to him. Whenever she ventured near, she would flitter away, reminding him of a hummingbird.

“You should think about adding a chandelier. Mr. McGuire’s New Opera House in Virginia City is three stories high, with six gas chandeliers made from Austrian crystal, and gas footlights, and a double tier of boxes draped in scarlet, and gilt chairs and velvet railing...”

She sounded very familiar with the place.

“You’ve been there I take it?”

Silence. For the first time in the past hour...

“Do you think this stage is large enough? It needs to be at least six feet deep.”

Either she had the attention span of a hummingbird, or she had changed the subject on purpose.

Charm whisked around his right side just as he lifted the hammer. The flash of a slender ankle and a whiff of perfume distracted him. He struck his thumb instead of the nail.

“Bloody hell!” Sitting back on his heels, he gripped the wounded digit and bit his lip to keep from releasing a torrent of obscenities. Throbbed like the very devil.

“I can’t concentrate with you hovering over my shoulder,” he muttered.

She retreated in a swirl of violet skirts.

Patrick cursed his vile temper. Wasn’t her fault he was a clumsy oaf. If he’d kept his mind on his work instead of how good she smelled and how pretty she looked, and how much he wanted things he had no business wanting, he wouldn’t have hammered his thumb.

He turned with an apology on his lips.

“Here...” She thrust a glass of whiskey at him.

Kind of her, and she didn’t appear offended by his rudeness. His wife would’ve dissolved into tears if he’d snapped at her like that

Patrick offered a contrite smile. “Thanks, but I don’t need a drink.”

“It’s for your thumb, silly. Soak it. It’ll help.”

Drinking the stuff would help more. Though if he downed a glassful of whisky on top of the medicine, he wouldn’t be able to see the nail, much less strike it.

He dipped his thumb in the glass. Winced as it started to burn. Blood turned the reddish liquid darker.

“Good heavens, you’re bleeding!” Off she went, and snatched a small towel hanging on a hook beneath the front of the bar. He started to remind her that men wiped beer off their mustaches with that, but she was already back, tearing the towel in half.

She looked pointedly at his injured hand. With a sigh, he held up his thumb and she proceeded to wrap it. She fussed over him more than his sainted mother. Somebody needed to marry the girl and give her a flock of children.

Patrick jerked his hand away.

She blinked with surprise.

“I’ll take care of it,” he explained. No sense encouraging her to give him the wrong idea. At least she wasn’t shying away from him. Maybe he seemed less threatening injured. But if he did something stupid like proposing, she’d dart out the door and never return. Not only that, it wouldn’t be fair to marry her just because he needed a wife to keep his land. She deserved better

He tried to hold a nail, couldn’t get his thumb around it with the unwieldy bandage. “The stage can’t be any bigger. It’s already taken up five feet. We need room for the customers.”

She crossed her arms and her lower lip curled out. When he didn’t respond to her pout, she dropped the act. “Oh, all right. I’ll make do with five feet. But don’t forget about the ropes.”

He looked up at the stamped tin ceiling, apprehensive. She wanted him to drive large hooks into the floor joists and had described some acrobatic feat where she would “fly” across the heads of the patrons. Scared him to death just thinking about it. What if the rope broke and she fell, or one of those stupid tracklayers jumped up on a table and hauled her out of the air, or worse, some drunken settler fired off a gun in a frenzy of excitement.

Patrick got to his feet, fighting a strong urge to haul her into his arms and protect her from her own crazy self. “That sounds dangerous. Why don’t you just sing?”

She cocked her head and looked at him like he’d said something stupid. “After hours of singing, I’d be hoarse. I wouldn’t be able to sing the next night. Besides, variety will add spice.”

He could think of a few other things that would add
spice
, but he wouldn’t want her doing them in front of anyone but him. “You said you played the banjo.”

“Yes, I’ll play and dance and perform skits. I know several amusing variations on Shakespeare.” Again came the sigh. “But I’ve always wanted to fly across a room.”

His heart jerked in his chest. “You mean you’ve never done it?”

“Not exactly...” She glanced off to one side, as if meeting his eyes made her uncomfortable. “How hard can it be? Adah Menken performed
Mazeppa
tied naked to a horse.”

Appalled, Patrick grabbed her arm, pulled her over and covered her mouth. “Hush up, now. No more talk about flying or riding naked. You can do your act with your clothes on—and both feet on the ground.”