A Mail-Order Christmas Bride Page 9

  She broke his hold on her stare. “I should have made him listen. So many times, I’ve wished—”

  “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” The lilt in his speech, only a sentence here and there, still tugged at her heart. “We can’t go back, Bets. Only forward.”

  “Father was wrong.”

  “He was right.” Brend rolled his shoulders inside his coat, features crimping in a wince. “Except for the convincing, in his place I’d have done the same.”

  “Then you’d have been wrong, too.”

  On a heavy sigh, he eased her into his embrace. She pressed her cheek against his chest and drank in the fragrance of their youth. “Your father did me a favor, little girl. I haven’t come up much in the world, but at least I’m not a body in an alley.” A sardonic huff tickled her pulse. “An Irishman’s never at peace, except when he’s fightin’.”

  How easily he turned on and off the brogue that had drawn her to a penniless delinquent in St. Louis. She could love this man like she loved the memory of that boy…but memories didn’t practice deception.

  She shrugged from the shelter of strong arms and peppermint. “Why didn’t Brendan Sheppard send for me?”

  “Would you have come?” He picked up her hands, fixing her with a mixture of yearning and hope. “Marry me, Bets. I’m still not the man you deserve, but I’ll give you the best life I can.” Quick as the wink that twitched one eye, the rogue reappeared. “Ye have the word of an Irish drunkard’s son.”

  How could she trust the word of anyone who’d secured her betrothal with a lie? She’d wrestled deceitful men all her life, with only exhaustion to show for the effort. Her father deceived her with half-truths about the proper suitor to whom he’d pledged her hand. George Adair said he loved her…but he loved his mistress more. And the lies he told to the whole of St. Louis…

  She shook her head, trying to smooth the tangles from her thoughts.

  Brendan released her and took a slow step back. Ice crackled beneath his boots. He cocked his head and the boy slipped away, leaving only a blank, lifeless mask.

  The brogue, thicker than ever, rumbled through gravel. “I’ll always be a back-alley hooligan. There’s no changin’ that, is there?” He laid a long breath between them. For a moment, defiance blazed in a young ne’er-do-well’s eyes. Too quickly, the inferno burned out. “Ye’re well rid of me, lass.”

  Chapter Five

  Brend pitched another log on the fire. Flames crackled and popped, tossing sparks onto the bare wooden floor.

  A cinder landed on his pants leg and scorched a hole in faded denim.

  “Gonna burn the place down, boy.”

  Only if he were lucky.

  “Ain’t that blaze big enough for you yet?” Perched on the edge of his cot, Boss shook loose a rattling cough. “You’re sweatin’ like a whore on a Saturday night.”

  Brend swiped a sleeve across his forehead. “I’ll not be watchin’ ye die of cold.”

  “Ol’ Scratch don’t want me no time soon.” The bony crank shrugged off four layers of blankets. “Ain’t even chilly no more.”

  Every icy gust invaded the cabin. Boss was tougher than bull hide, but even leather wore thin.

  Brend poured two cups of sludge from the pot on the hearth, stalked across the room, and shoved the battered tin into Boss’s hands. With a look just this side of ecstasy, the coot slurped a big gulp.

  Rolling his eyes, Brend swung for the window. He propped his elbows on the sill and stared into a curtain of white. Bitterest winter in years. How could Texas skies hold so much snow?

  A frigid draft leaked around the glass pane and set him to shivering. Best brave Boss’s brew lest he freeze solid. When he forced a glob down his throat, a grimace cramped every muscle in his face. No man should have to endure what the geezer called coffee.

  At least the swig filled a cold, empty spot inside.

  The cot creaked when Boss shifted his weight. “That gal’s eatin’ you alive from the gut out.”

  Trapped with a meddler who knew him too well. Irritation escaped as a growl.

  “You got that much spleen boilin’ in your gullet, put it to good use.”

  “Horses buttoned up, ice broken. Longhorns’ll fend for themselves. Nothing more we can do in this storm.”

  “Ain’t the kind of use I meant.”

  Boss never had been able to resist twisting a knife. “Leave it be, aul man.”

  “Should’ve bought a backbone instead of a wife.”

  “I didn’t buy a wife.” Brend whirled and flung the cup across the room. “I brought her here to…to…” A scrape of clawed fingers through his hair yanked his gaze to the ceiling. “Ah, hell. I don’t know why I brought her here.”

  He flopped onto a chair at the table, lowered his head, and tried to rip kinks from the muscles at the base of his skull.

  “You’re gonna break your fool neck, boy.”

  Not even a hard exhale eased the thudding in his chest. Feckin’ Mick temper. “She was better off in St. Louis.”

  “So, ship her back.”

  “Tried. Right can of piss, that one.”

  “Must be somethin’ downright ugly up yonder—or powerful important here.”

  Both. Disgrace chased Bets from Missouri. As for Fort Worth? “Pride.”

  Boss speared him with a rebuke. “No fine lady stays in hell’s half acre for pride.”

  “Ye’ve not banged yer head against a daughter of Eire, have ye?”

  “Ain’t had much experience with the fairer sex at all.” The old man sharpened his glare. “But I can tell you this: A man with sand fights for his woman. If he don’t, he’s no kind of man.”

  Brend had fought all his life for one thing or another. He knotted a fist. A good knuckle-duster right now would knock the edge off frustration…but he’d already lost the fight he ached to win.

  He stomped back to the window. Big flakes swirled so thick in the air, he couldn’t see the hill. Somewhere in the snow stood a dream painted yellow with white trim and a green door. Inside, only a few finishing touches—

  “Wishin’ won’t get you what you want, boy.”

  Boy. Boys grew up fast on the backstreets, or they didn’t survive. No alley rat had time to dream.

  And no Mick ever gave up a fight.

  He shoved from the windowsill. “I’ve got to finish that house.”

  Boss fairly leapt from the bed. “Then we’d best get after it. Time’s a-wastin’.” A grin added more creases to the old grouch’s face. “Prob’ly warmer in there, too.”

  A reluctant laugh shook Brend’s shoulders. The crusty codger would complain about the shine on the Pearly Gates, but no one could fault his teaching. A city boy sitting a saddle like he knew what he was doing, shagging crafty cattle from scrub, growing a ranch from raw river bottom…and not a single lesson without a quarrel. Though meaner than a javelina, Boss had given gifts beyond measure: self-respect, confidence, persistence.

  By the time Brend reached the peg on the wall, Boss had already buttoned his coat.

  He clapped the curmudgeon on the shoulder. “May ye rate a mansion in Heaven, aul man.”

  Wish I could give you one here on Earth.

  Chapter Six

  Elizabeth tucked the packet of headache powder into her pocket and scurried from the druggist’s shop. A smothering cloud of cinnamon and pine followed.

  Holding her breath, she wrapped her cloak tighter and hurried toward the café. There, the aromas of coffee, bacon, and biscuits offered shelter from yuletide ghosts.

  On the far side of the railroad tracks, Fort Worth likely glittered with the joy of the season. During the daytime, harness bells jingled in festive streets, if only in her imagination. After dark, waltzes floated from elegant balls as they had one Christmas Eve in a garden.

  Beneath a layer of melting snow, this side of town possessed its own coarse charm. So did the ragtag people. Holiday cheer bubbled everywhere. Even from the cribs and shanties, glad tidin
gs spilled into the air.

  How could those with so little find so much to celebrate?

  A chilly draft ruffled her hood as she stepped from the end of the boardwalk. At the same moment, a disheveled cowboy reeled through catcalls and into the muddy street. Reeking of spirits and much viler odors, he stumbled into her. She caught her balance and sidestepped.

  The inebriate reached to tip a non-existent hat. “Merry Christmas, li’l lady.”

  She cast her gaze to the ground and restarted her march.

  A rough grip clamped her elbow. “What say we do some rejoicin’.”

  She ripped her arm from his grasp. The derelict staggered backward.

  She hiked her skirt and darted into an alleyway.

  At the other end, ragamuffins swarmed a familiar ruffian. Laughing and jostling, the urchins snatched coins from his hands.

  She bolted for the pillar of refuge.

  Brendan glanced up. The waifs scattered.

  In no more than a second, strong arms wrapped her against a tower of strength. Unable to breathe around her heart’s frantic pounding, she clung to the safety of peppermint.

  He cradled her cheek against his chest. “It’s okay, little girl. I’ve got you.”

  Protection rumbled through her ear and cast a blanket over trembles. Her heartbeat steadied in the sanctuary of his embrace.

  He eased her away an inch. A gentle touch raised her gaze to still waters…but storms roiled in their depths. “What’s frightened you?”

  Best tell the truth. One lie between them was sufficient. “A drunk—”

  A palm to her lips caught the answer too late. If only she could shove the word back down her throat.

  A hard blink almost covered his flinch. “Some damnú rowdy touched ye?” Blue eyes darkened to match the brows crunched above them. “I’ll kill the Divil’s own bastard.”

  “No.” She caught a thin breath. “No, I’m fine.”

  “Ye’re sure.” Thinned lips barely twitched around the words.

  A shaky nod gave her time to sort her thoughts. Before the brogue got any thicker, a distraction… The urchins. She slid a flimsy smile over lingering jitters. “Those children adore you.”

  He shrugged. “They just recognize another alley rat.” A halfhearted grin stole a decade from his face.

  Memory flooded her heart and flashed outward so fast she feared her cloak might catch fire. He may have been born in an alley, but he’d never been a rat—only a young man determined to escape his father’s legacy, swinging at every obstacle because his fists were all he owned.

  If only that boy had mail-ordered a bride.

  “I brought you a gift.” He drew a bundle of green from his coat and tickled her cheek with the leaves.

  Mistletoe. Each white berry, when picked, paid the angels for a kiss. “That got us in trouble the last time—”

  A wicked sparkle lit his eyes. “Maybe it’ll get us in trouble again.” He backed her into the shadows.

  She subdued a giggle with a warning. “Brendan Sheppard…”

  “Fort Worth is a long way from St. Louis.” He plucked a berry, then raised the green sprig above their heads. “I doubt your father will catch us.”

  The mere brush of his lips spoke of a longing they’d once shared…still shared. Ten years disappeared in an instant.

  ****

  If ye were aulder, little girl… She still tasted as sweet.

  And the time had come to teach her more than how to kiss.

  Weaving his fingers through strawberry silk, Brend devoured the honeyed feast. She melted into him, inciting a jump in his jeans. They’d never been separated, not really. He’d be damned before anything, anyone, came between them again.

  Her mouth clung to his—a blessing, a gift—drawing a boy out of backstreet despair and into a hooligan’s dream.

  Did his da feel like this in his cups, lost in a fog he couldn’t bear to leave? He’d stay drunk for the rest of his life if—

  She pushed from his arms. As if blown by a sudden gust of wind, the fog scattered. His heaving breath reached for the last wisps.

  “I should get back to the café.” The breathy words rode puffs from within a bosom rising and falling in a mesmerizing rhythm. “Matilda needs headache powder, and she’ll be worried.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “I think it best if you don’t.” Lowered lids hid her eyes, but her tongue swept kiss-swollen lips, begging for his to return.

  “Bets—” Surely his voice didn’t cause that step backward. He pursued, and she retreated again. When she bumped the wall, paint chips flaked and fell. Somethin’ downright ugly up yonder—or powerful important here. “What’s keeping you in Fort Worth? Why not return to St. Louis?”

  For a long moment, she stared at the puddle soaking the hem of her skirt. Then, her gaze crept up his chest. Inside a coat able to fend off the harshest weather, the crawl laid a sizzle on his skin.

  When their gazes collided, hers bore extraordinary determination. “I’ll not live as a pariah in St. Louis. Fort Worth’s as good a place as any to make a new start.”

  “Is it, now?” No fancy ball gown, no delicate slippers, but not dressed in rags…yet. “And this is the start ye thought to be makin’.”

  After a glance down the alley, she inched along the wall. He blocked her escape.

  Poison gathered in dark honey. “My father left his home and climbed from the gutter. So did you. Don’t think I can’t do the same thing.”

  “Don’t think you can.” He cupped stiff shoulders. “The gutter is no place for you, Bets. These streets will eat you whole and spit out the bones.”

  With a smart upward sweep of her arms, she knocked his hands away. “At least these streets don’t hide the truth. These people—”

  “Need yer pity?” An old bitterness burned the back of his throat. “Look around. Yer ivory tower’s gone. Ye can’t toss a few scraps of bread and run home.” He seized her chin. The daggers in her glare sliced the Irish from his voice. “Please, Bets. I don’t want to find another body in an alley. Let me—”

  “‘Take care of you?’ I’ve heard that promise before.” She slapped his fingers from her skin. “I wed one stranger to the truth. I’ll not make the same mistake twice.”

  “And neither will I.” A man with sand fights for his woman. “Your father can have me beaten to death this time—or try—but I’ll not be run off.” The damnú Mick temper latched her arm with too much force. She didn’t flinch. “Not even by you.”

  “I’ll not be manhandled. Not even by you.” Had her snarl been a punch, he’d have landed on his ass.

  “Don’t bare yer teeth until ye can bite, lass.” Da’s warning left alley filth on his tongue. “Ye’ll be leavin’ these streets, like it or not.”

  Chapter Seven

  I won’t force you to honor the marriage contract. Yet here she was, married. To a brute without a heart.

  The barbarian hunched too close beside Elizabeth on the wagon’s spring seat, elbows propped on his knees. Silent, staring between the horse’s ears, he guided the sorrel with a gentle hand. The animal’s coat glistened in the sun.

  At least the horse rated her husband’s care and concern.

  With every revolution of the wheels, another rut jarred a layer from her composure. The jingling bells on the horse’s harness stabbed her nerves. Her husband needn’t have slung a blanket around her. The boiling inside kept her plenty warm.

  Husband. Each time the word slipped through her thoughts, irritation turned up the heat. She cast a surreptitious glance at Brendan’s profile. Another husband, this one young and strong with a square jaw and a crooked nose. One who spoke with a right-off-the-boat lilt.

  She passed a fingertip across her lower lip. One who’d beguiled her with mistletoe.

  She snapped her gaze to the side, away from the Black Irish beast.

  Here and there, lingering snow winked beneath trees that reached for a wide, blue sky. In the distance,
cattle clustered with their rumps toward the wagon.

  A ranch scraped from mortgaged land. Even “penniless cowboy” was a lie.

  She clawed at the band on her finger.

  “Throw it as far as ye will, lass.” The soft rumble laid an unwelcome caress on the back of her head.

  On a deep, calming breath, she closed her eyes. Discarding the ring would change nothing. At least lies could do little harm in Texas. She couldn’t fall farther than the bottom.

  Slumping against the seat’s arm, she rested her lips on curled fingers. How could a man who once claimed to love her take her prisoner?

  She stared at blades of grass beside the muddy track until her vision blurred. Though blindness might have proved a blessing, she swept her gaze to the horizon, blinking to clear her sight.

  Halfway to the skyline, a picket fence blocked the sweep. Her eyes stuck open.

  Behind the pointy stakes, like her childhood reproduced in miniature… Yellow with white trim and a green door. The cruel mockery stung.

  She whipped a glare to Brendan, sharp words halfway to her lips.

  The urge to trade blow for blow disintegrated on her tongue.

  Hat knocked back, reins still light in his hands, he squinted at the house on the hill. “Add another lie to me long list of faults. I didn’t bring ye here to save ye from that pack of snobs in St. Louis.”

  The tone of his voice, the faraway look on his face… A long-ago wish slipped out in a reedy whisper. “Why did you bring me here?”

  He didn’t answer, didn’t move, didn’t stop staring at yellow with white trim and a green door until he drew the wagon alongside the fence. Yanking his hat brim low, he jumped from the seat.

  An old man wearing denim and a sheepskin coat stepped away from the gate. His wide-brimmed Stetson seemed too heavy for stooped shoulders to carry, but the thunder that rolled in his voice belied any notion of frailty. “’Bout time you got back, young’un.”

  “Sorry, Boss.” After stripping a glove from his hand with his teeth, Brendan scratched the side of his nose with a thumbnail. “Got…held up.”