Patrick's Charm (The Bride Train, #2) (8 page)

While Charm watched with a look of amazement, he transported the remainder of the jugs into the storeroom. She’d tasted the brandy he made by mixing the brew with fermented fruit—wasn’t a lady’s drink.

He lifted her heavy cases and set them over by the stairs. Costumes. Couldn’t imagine why she needed so many. She would want a place to put them, and to get dressed. He hadn’t thought of it earlier and should have. He wasn’t doing a very good job taking care of his good luck charm. “You can have one of the rooms upstairs.”

Her face paled.

He could’ve kicked himself. Working women had rooms over saloons. He quickly explained. “A dressing room is what I mean. Nothing else.”

“Got everything unloaded...”

Patrick turned at the remark. Childers would have to walk up about the time he stepped on his tongue. “Fine, thanks.”

On delivery day, they typically ended up in a long conversation about the finer points of making moonshine or arguing over local politics. Today, Patrick was in no mood to chat. He wanted Childers gone as soon as possible.

The bootlegger gave Charm a flirtatious smile.

Patrick fought the urge to knock the other man’s teeth out. “I’ll settle with you inside.” When he turned to Charm, he softened his tone. “Won’t be long. Then I’ll take these bags up to your dressing room. The door has a bolt on the inside.”

“That’s good to know.” She looked at him, not Childers.

She followed him into the saloon. Patrick had never been so keenly aware of a woman’s presence, and it made him wonder if her magnetism extended to other men. Saints, he hoped not. He might end up killing someone.

He retrieved the lockbox from a drawer in the back bar and counted out what he owed. The cost of homebrew had gone up to twelve dollars a gallon. He’d been forced to raise his prices, but he could still sell drinks for twenty-five cents a shot and make a profit. With Charm performing, he would bring in even more. Enough to pay off his debts and make improvements.

Unless the railroad agent assigned the land to McGill. Then he would lose everything.

He glanced up, caught Charm watching him and gave her a smile. She blushed and looked away. The classic reaction from a woman who found a man attractive.

Maybe her stunned remark earlier meant she liked him looking
different
. She shied away from him when he touched her. That didn’t mean she disliked his touch. She might like it too much. And the way she’d fussed over him, not like a mother...more like a wife.

Patrick’s heart beat faster. Why was he so bloody slow to see the obvious? She shared this insane attraction, or his name wasn’t O’Shea.

He could ask for Charm’s hand and his problem would be solved. Marriage to Charm could turn out to be a bigger problem. Desperation made a man risk what he wouldn’t otherwise. Knowing the attraction was mutual gave him confidence, and having enough in common to make the marriage sensible made him more comfortable with the idea. Besides, it would benefit both of them. He’d keep his land, and she would have his protection and be kept safe from men who would try to take advantage. She was naïve to think she could bring her things over here and not suffer the consequences. He’d save her from herself.

Patrick handed Childers his money.

The bootlegger folded the bills and tucked them into a leather pouch threaded through a belt that also held a sheath. He adjusted his coat over a bone-handled knife locals called an Arkansas Toothpick. Unlike his brothers, Arch wasn’t known for being quarrelsome, yet few were willing to push the strapping young man into a fight. For his part, Patrick avoided confrontations. He’d had enough of killing in the war. However, he’d make an exception if Childers kept sending sheep-eyed looks in Charm’s direction.

“Miss LaBelle tells me she’s gonna be performing...”

“That’s right.” Patrick didn’t invite Childers to return. Reason told him the more men who came to the show, the more money he’d make. But he’d stopped listening to reason the moment he saw Charm sitting in the bootlegger’s wagon.

Childers smoothed his hand over his hair, preening as she watched. “Think I’ll come back later so I can see you perform, Miss LaBelle. I bet you sing as pretty as a songbird.”

“Thank you, Mr. Childers. I do hope you’ll make it back in time to see the show.”

Logically, Patrick knew Charm was just being polite. But hearing her issue an invitation to Childers heaped fiery embers on the searing jealousy burning his insides.

Charm belonged to him. The sooner he established that, the better.

“You’ve got other deliveries to make. I’ll see you out the back.” Patrick took hold of the younger man’s beefy arm.

Childers frowned when he couldn’t shake off the grip. “I’m in no hurry.”

“Sure you are.”

Arch kept his feet planted, the friendly smile fading. The muscles in his arm tensed.

Patrick glanced at the knife. On second thought, a different approach might’ve been wiser.

“Oh, Mr. O’Shea. I almost forgot. I have a favor to ask.” Charm glided over. The moment she laid her hand on his arm, it seemed something inside him unlocked, and his grip on the other man released.

“Excuse me for interrupting...” She acted as if she hadn’t noticed they were about to come to blows. Except, her fingers trembled.

“No, ma’am, you ain’t interrupting anything. I was on my out.” Childers adjusted his coat. With a careless smile, he touched his fingers to the brim of his hat. “Miss LaBelle, it’s been my pleasure. Until later.”

As soon as the back door slammed shut, Charm turned with an icy glare.

“What is wrong with you?”

Patrick didn’t answer right off. Her question could be interpreted a number of ways. She could be referring to his jealousy, or to his stupidity, or to something else entirely.

He made it to the bar without limping and stashed the lockbox in a drawer. His pride had already taken a beating when she stepped in and saved him from having to fight a man who might’ve whipped him. No, not
might
have. Defeat was a foregone conclusion. Childers had every advantage: health, strength, agility, and a damn big knife.

“You should be careful who you accept rides from...” The moment the rebuke left Patrick’s lips, he knew it was the wrong thing to say.

Charm’s eyes flashed with fury. “Mr. Childers behaved like a gentleman. You, on the other hand, are being an ass.”

She applied the lash with more precision than the officer who’d flayed his bare back, a punishment for being drunk and disorderly. Hadn’t he learned anything since then?

More restraint. That’s what he needed. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to stand by calmly while men drooled over his wife, something that was guaranteed to happen as long as she performed. His bad temper had gotten him into trouble too many times to count. He couldn’t let it chase off his good luck. That is, if he hadn’t already ruined his chance at talking Charm into marrying him.

***

C
harm applauded the restraint she showed by not walking over there and slapping Mr. O’Shea. The impertinent man had some nerve. How dare he rebuke her for accepting a ride when he hadn’t bothered to offer his assistance, and then foolishly antagonized the man who came to her aid? He all but challenged Mr. Childers to a fight by trying to drag him out the door.

She shivered, rubbing at the chill on her arms. Had she not intervened, Mr. O’Shea might be sprawled out on the floor with a knife plunged into his chest. It could’ve happened. She’d seen fights spiral out of control, had witnessed men stabbed to death, shot, struck on the head with a chair, all because they couldn’t control their tempers. Or jealousy. That’s what appeared to have set him off, though she’d done nothing to provoke it.

Unable to deal with the onslaught of emotions, she turned sharply and set off after her suitcases. Her skirts swirled, throwing bits of caked mud off the hemline, the result of her brief walk with suitcases in tow. Mr. O’Shea had left her bags by the stairs in the rear of the building where liquor and foodstuffs were stored. She would fetch suitcases and take them upstairs herself. She didn’t require his assistance.

The storeroom had a distinct odor peculiar to fermented beverages. Canned goods lined the shelves, and on the floor next to casks of beer and whiskey were barrels labeled salt crackers. Greasy sausage links dangled from a nail driven into a beam over her head.

Her stomach growled. Maybe she could have one of those sausage links. She would prefer potpie, except she would choke on it just thinking about those horrid people who put her out in the street.

Mr. O’Shea caught up and reached the suitcases before she did. He moved fast, given his limp. His legs were so much longer than hers, he made the distance in half the time.

“Miss LaBelle...Charm...” He stammered her name.

She hadn’t seen him so awkward. Embarrassed, perhaps. He ought to be.

“You ran off before I...” His eyes begged forgiveness. “Here, let me get these suitcases. I’ll show you to your dressing room, and get you something to eat. Don’t want you thinking I starve all my workers.”

The dimpled smile melted her heart. She restrained her fear, which told her to throw herself into his arms and beg him to promise her to never get into a fight, to never leave her.

She stared at him, horrified, as a different kind of fear took hold. The devilish man had infected her...with sentimentalism. Something she never suffered from before. Dramatic emotions were reserved for the stage, not real life.

“After you.” He nodded at the stairs leading into the unknown.

Her hand trembled and she grasped the railing. The risers behind her creaked and groaned. He followed at an uneven pace. She grew worried. “Are the suitcases too heavy?

“No...though you weigh less.” Teasing, his way of rebuffing her concern, or deflecting attention away from his infirmity. She didn’t really think of him as infirm. He towered over her, and he looked very strong. Whatever caused his limp didn’t get in his way.

She found his light-heartedness refreshing and his tenacity admirable. Jealousy, she wouldn’t stand for. He didn’t own her. No one would.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she hesitated. Afternoon light filtered in through a window at the end of the hall, reflecting off bare walls. Unmarked doors faced each other.

Mr. O’Shea stepped behind her. His nearness triggered an invisible current that leapt between them. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant or frightening. Just odd. She’d never experienced anything like it.  

“The room on the left. You can have that one for your dressing room.”

She gave the knob a twist and pushed the door. A warm breeze flowing between two open windows ruffled curls around her face. The room had simple furnishings: a bed covered by a wool blanket that was folded back over what looked like clean sheets, a washstand with a utilitarian basin and pitcher, and beneath, a chamber pot. Beside the bed stood a small table, and next to that, a straight-back chair. Instead of a wardrobe, a row of pegs were nailed into a board mounted near the door. Nothing fancy, but it afforded more privacy than what she had at the hotel.

She swallowed to relieve a dry mouth, working up the nerve to ask if he would allow her to stay. Living above a saloon would virtually guarantee she’d be considered a prostitute. What choice did she have? At this point, her reputation was irreparably tarnished.

He carried her suitcases inside. “Where do you want them?”

She stared at the bed, trembling. He might assume she wanted to use the room to entertain customers—him being one of them. Her throat tightened and her eyes began to sting. She swallowed, dangerously close to breaking down.

In hindsight, she might’ve stayed with the other women and tried to negotiate with the railroad agent for more time. That would only delay the inevitable. She’d made her decision. Now she had to live with it.

Mr. O’Shea set one suitcase on the chair and put the other one on the bed, which creaked beneath the weight. He glanced at her with amusement dancing in his eyes. “How many costumes do you have in here?”

“That one isn’t my costumes. It’s my clothes, all my things...”

He frowned, clearly confused.

She took a deep breath. “The owners of the hotel asked me to leave.”

There, that wasn’t so hard.

Her employer advanced with a thunderous frown. “Are you sayin’ they threw you out because I hired you?”

“No. Because I took the job.” She refused to let him shoulder any of the blame.

His fierce frown softened, followed by a look of respect, and then, tenderness, a surprising response. “Hypocrites, the lot of ‘em. You got no cause for shame.”

“I know.” The tension banding her chest eased. Sharing her pain with him made the load lighter, less oppressive. Knowing he understood and sympathized made it easier to ask for a favor. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to rent a room. I need somewhere to stay.”

“I’ll do better than that.”

Charm pondered what he meant by the cryptic remark, but then her thoughts scattered when he lifted his hand to her face. Every muscle coiled in anticipation of the dreaded, gut-wrenching response. Instead, a warm and comforting feeling invaded her body. She couldn’t make sense of her reaction, hadn’t thought she could experience desire without fear.

“You’ll be safe with me, I promise.”

Patrick O’Shea was only man besides her father she’d trusted to catch her, despite knowing where blind dependence could lead. She shouldn’t rely on him, but all the reasons in the world didn’t seem to matter. Somehow, she found her hands on his arms, clinging to him.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured.

“I’m not crying.”

“Your cheeks are wet.”

Even tears were a surprise. Frozen emotions, melting.

He moved his thumb over her skin, the light friction sending shivers racing in every direction. His touch triggered a yearning so strong she leaned forward, tempted to give him permission to do more than cup her cheek.

The ache spread and became urgent, compelling. She teetered on the edge of desperation, and only he had the keys to a storeroom filled with secret pleasures. She rubbed her face against his palm, nudging him to do something, to ease the restless hunger.