Pioneer Longing: The O’Rourke Family Montana Saga, Book Four Page 8

  Eamon sat in the sudden silence of the empty kitchen, his mind racing as he relived scenes from the previous night.

  “Are you well, my Eamon?” Mary asked, resting a soft hand on his arm.

  He jerked, as he had expected her to leave the room too. “Mum,” he whispered. “You’re here.” His unfocused gaze settled on her, taking in her earnest expression as she studied him. Rather than the middle-aged woman with wrinkles around her eyes, gray mixed in her auburn hair, and plump cheeks, he saw the thin woman with laughing hazel eyes who had picked him up and had swung him around when he was a boy.

  Rather than the large kitchen with the fine stove and the immense table, he saw a crowded room with a kettle over a peat fire. However, he realized joy flourished in both places because of her presence. “Mum,” he whispered again, suddenly fighting tears.

  “Shh, Eamon, love, you’re all right,” she murmured, as she pulled him close, urging him to rest his head on her shoulder, as he had done as a young boy.

  He sniffled, and her scent filled his senses, recalling all the times she had held him. “I forgot,” he whispered, his arms suddenly binding tightly around her. “I made myself forget.”

  Running a hand over his head and down his back, she cooed at him, as though he were a wee babe in need of comfort. “What did you forget?”

  He leaned away, scrubbing at his face, as he flushed at the evidence of his grief and also his relief at her presence. “You. I made myself forget you.”

  Blanching, Mary held herself ramrod straight. “I don’t understand, Eamon. Why?”

  “It hurt too much to remember,” he whispered. He ducked his head, ashamed at being so weak. After a long moment, he looked up to see his mum sitting in front of him in silent misery, a stream of tears coursing down her cheeks. “Oh, Mum, I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know what I could have done, Eamon. I never wanted to be separated from you or your siblings. Or your da. I wanted the life we had.” She sniffled, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket and swabbing at her face. “But fate had other ideas for us. An’, by the grace of God, we’re together again, aye?”

  “Aye,” he said with a smile. “But you have to understand, I have difficulty believing in forever. And always.”

  Mary smiled, cupping his face. “Believe in now. Believe in tomorrow. For, if you believe in tomorrow, you’ll find your forever and your always.”

  Eamon sighed, pulling her close again. “I’ve missed you, Mum.”

  “As I’ve missed you, my Eamon.”

  * * *

  Two days after Phoebe’s escape from the saloon, Eamon jerked awake, sitting up and gasping as his bedroom door slammed against the wall, interrupting his much-needed nap. He had spent the past two nights by Phoebe’s bedside. Eamon studied the door in a sleepy daze, as it careened forward to hit the person in the doorway. “Winnifred?” Yawning, he stretched and tried to shake off an overwhelming fatigue. “What’s the matter?”

  “My uncle is here. He’s spouting his thousand-dollar words.”

  Shaking his head again, Eamon rubbed at his eyes. “It wouldn’t matter if they’re million-dollar words. You’re here, and he can’t make you leave.” He stared at her intently, as this was one of the only times he could remember seeing her so out of sorts.

  Biting her lip, she murmured, “That’s not what he says.”

  With a growl, he motioned for her to leave, rising when the door closed to tug on clothes. He rushed from his room to barrel down the stairs, following the sound of raised voices. He slipped into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him in an attempt to protect Phoebe from hearing her uncle’s voice. A man he didn’t recognize, but who he assumed was the uncle, stood with his back to Eamon, and waved his arms around in a grandiose manner, bellowing at his da. Kevin and Ardan stood near the stove in front of their mother, while Finn glowered at the man as he stood behind their da.

  Eamon nodded to his brothers, moving to stand beside his da. “Why are you here?” he demanded, the question barely intelligible as he yawned again.

  “And who are you to question me or my presence here?” the rotund man in garishly colored garments asked. His saffron-yellow waistcoat clashed with the green of his suit, and Eamon stood momentarily stunned by the man’s horrible fashion sense.

  “I’m an O’Rourke,” Eamon said, as though that were all the justification he needed.

  “Why should that matter?” the man asked, puffing out his chest and straining his already precariously fastened buttons. He waved his hand around to indicate everyone in the room. “They’re all O’Rourkes, and they’re as useless as you are.” He pointed at his chest, tilting his head back with pride. “I am Uriah Chaffee, Esquire. I am a man of law. I am a man of importance. What is an O’Rourke? Nothing!”

  Eamon stood even taller at the man’s proclamation, suddenly wide awake and irate. “You have a lot of nerve, barging into our home and insulting us. You have no right to be here.”

  “I have every right, when you have kidnapped my nieces,” Chaffee hissed, absently swiping at drool on his chin. “You have no right to keep them here against their will.”

  “They aren’t here against their will. They’re here to evade you and your evil plans,” Eamon said, as his brothers murmured their agreement. “Phoebe is battling for her life because she was so desperate to escape your scheme to use her to earn you money that she nearly died in the attempt.”

  “Lies!” Chaffee bellowed, his eyes bulging with his anger. “How dare you impugn my honor?”

  Shaking his head, Eamon said, “A man who would force his nieces into prostitution has no honor.”

  Sputtering and beseeching, Chaffee looked around the kitchen, searching for someone sympathetic to his plight or his version of the story. “I had no idea Mr. Bell had such nefarious intentions for my poor niece. I thought he would offer her a job as a … as a …”

  Seamus chuckled. He stood tall with his arms over his chest, but no humor lit his startling blue eyes as cold as a glacier. Instead they reflected his disdain and his disgust. “I can imagine what sort of work you hoped he would offer your niece,” he murmured. “No estimable man would ever consider forcing a woman he cared for to work in a saloon, much less in a brothel.”

  “Oh, but it’s acceptable for an O’Rourke to work at the Bordello?” Chaffee demanded.

  “You know—as well as everyone else in this town—that she works on off-hours as a seamstress for the Bordello Sirens. And during these busy summer months, she works at home. The Madam is very careful to guard Mrs. O’Rourke’s safety and reputation,” Kevin snapped.

  Glaring at Seamus and then Eamon, Chaffee snickered. “You O’Rourkes will always alter every rule, every social convention, to suit your needs, won’t you?” He put his hands on his hips. “I cannot be blamed for accepting aid to help feed and clothe those worthless women when they showed up unannounced and unwanted. Who would want three unskilled women to care for?” He ignored the gasp of indignation in the hallway behind him, as Lorena and Maggie hushed Winnifred. Rolling his eyes, he made a motion to indicate that the O’Rourkes would and that their inclination to help their womenfolk was a sign of their feebleness.

  Eamon stood shoulder to shoulder with his father. “We might bend the rules, aye, but we never have and never will accept harming the safety of those we love. ’Tis an unpardonable offense.” He paused as Chaffee rolled his eyes again.

  “Do you think I care about you spouting your platitudes and theories about familial love and loyalty? I’ve never been bothered by such sentimentality, and I certainly won’t start now. How do you think I’ve had such success in my life? If I had allowed myself to be bogged down by feelings for my poor, pathetic sister, I would never have left Saint Louis. Thankfully she was more realistic than you lot and grabbed at every opportunity that came her way.”

  “You are reprehensible,” Seamus said in a low voice that sent shivers down Eamon’s spine. It was the voice every O’Rourk
e child dreaded hearing, for it signaled their da’s deepest disappointment. However, this time it was laced with loathing, a tone Eamon had never heard before.

  “So sue me!” Chaffee said with a cackle. “Oh, wait. You can’t because I’m the only lawyer in town.” His laughter intensified as he reached forward and poked Eamon in the chest with a pudgy finger. “Here’s your problem, O’Rourke. I am their uncle. I am their family. I am perceived as the one to safeguard them. Not you and your ragtag family.”

  Eamon tried to unclench his tight fists, while he reined in his temper. “Say what you want now for you are not welcome in our home ever again.”

  Uriah gasped and puffed out his chest at Eamon’s edict. “As their only living male relative, the law will perceive me as their legal guardian. Thus, what I wish for them is what will happen. And I will sue you because you are preventing me from caring for my beloved nieces as I see fit. If you believe that spineless sheriff will see things any differently, you are a fool.” Uriah leaned back on his heels, as though he had just declared checkmate.

  Eamon stared at Seamus and paled at Uriah’s words, the only outward sign of doubt.

  “You mean, you’ll mangle any an’ all laws an’ their interpretations to suit your needs,” Seamus said, as he glared at Uriah.

  With an insolent shrug, Uriah sniffed and looked around the O’Rourke kitchen, as though it were fit only for street urchins. “I’ll return in a few days’ time. I would hate the added expense of doctor’s bills for Phoebe after she so foolishly injured herself.” He pushed past Seamus and Eamon, the floorboards heaving as he stormed from the room to exit the kitchen door.

  After their unwanted visitor left, Seamus spoke, clasping Eamon’s shoulder and looking at the other O’Rourke men in the room. “Now that ’tis summer, and the roads are passable again, we must look into findin’ our own lawyer. I’ll speak with Dunmore about fetchin’ a real attorney from Helena or Virginia City to aid us in riddin’ this town of Uriah for good.”

  Ardan nodded, his strong arms crossed over his muscular chest. “Aye, Da, but ’twill be a challenge to convince a man to leave the profitable towns to return here. Let’s hope Dunmore is persuasive.”

  Eamon stood in shock at the uncle’s visit, listening to his family chatter around him, his mind racing with one overarching thought, How could he keep Phoebe safe?

  * * *

  On the fourth night of his vigil, Eamon sat on the chair beside Phoebe’s bed, the book in his hands slipping to his lap and then to the floor with a soft thud. He jolted softly but did not awaken from the noise. He arched forward until his head rested on the mattress beside Phoebe, his arms and hands cushioning his head like a pillow. With a satisfied sigh, he began to slide into a deeper sleep. He had assured Maggie that he would watch over Phoebe, reading long into the night before fatigue caught up to him. Now he relished dreaming about a time when Phoebe was better, and they could dream about their future.

  Bolting awake, he stared in confusion at Phoebe to see her thrashing on the bed and reaching for the bandage covering her right thigh. “No, Phoebe, no!” He grabbed her hands, holding her as still as possible, as she shivered and heaved. In the dim candlelight, he saw the flush on her cheeks and the sweat on her brow.

  Clamping both wrists together in one of his hands, he raised his free hand to touch her face. “Feck, you’re burnin’ up.” Glancing around, he saw he was completely alone, and he heard no noise in the house to suggest anyone was nearby to help him. With a resigned sigh, he bellowed, “Maggie!” After a moment, he yelled her name again, saying a prayer of thanksgiving when he heard the thump of footsteps upstairs, then Winnie complaining—as always—and the clamoring of many feet on the stairs.

  “Maggie,” he breathed, as his sister burst into the room. “She’s on fire.” Unable to hide the fear in his gaze, Maggie nodded. “And she’s tryin’ to undo her stitches.”

  “Aye,” Maggie said, tugging down the blankets to look at the bandage. She frowned to see it soiled. Turning to the door, she called out orders. “Boil water, bring me clean cloths, and find ice.” When she didn’t hear footsteps scurrying to obey her orders, she called out, “Go!”

  Finn and Niall poked their heads in, and Maggie bade them hold Phoebe down. “’Tis like before,” Maggie said to Eamon. “You talk to her, while the lads hold her down.”

  Phoebe kicked out, hitting Maggie squarely in her chest, sending her sprawling to the ground.

  “Mags!” Eamon called out, as Finn helped pull her up. “Are you all right?”

  “Ouch,” Maggie breathed, as she rubbed at her chest. “I’ll be fine, but now you know how strong she is. And she doesn’t know what she’s doing. The fever rules her.”

  Mary entered with a bowl of water, and she and Maggie washed their hands before cutting off the soiled cloth. “Oh my,” Mary breathed, as she looked Phoebe’s reddened scar. “What should we do?”

  Maggie shook her head, staring at it. “I don’t know. Get her fever down. Let’s see if she’ll drink any more willow bark tea.”

  “Isn’t the fever protecting her?” Niall asked. At fifteen, he was the eldest of Seamus’s younger sons from his second wife, Colleen. Although he had Seamus’s black hair, he had his mother’s green eyes.

  “To a point, Niall, but then it could kill her,” Maggie said, ignoring Eamon’s flinch at her blunt talk. “We need ice. Hopefully Da found some.”

  “Finn and I’ll get the bathtub ready,” Niall said, as he ran from the room, eager to help.

  Henri and Bryan entered, balancing a huge mug of willow bark tea between them. “We have the tea!” Bryan called out, his green eyes shining with pride as he aided his older brother in his time of need. At eleven, he worshipped his older brothers and rarely had the opportunity to help them.

  “Good lads,” Eamon said, his voice nearly choked with deep emotions as he saw his family pulling together to help Phoebe. “Thank you.”

  “Anything for you, Eamon,” Bryan said, as Henri nodded his agreement.

  Eamon eased Phoebe to sit up, holding her upright, an arm under her shoulder as he balanced on the small part of bed beside her. “Come, love. Drink your tea. ’Twill help your pain and make it all better.” He continued to coax her, as he urged her to take small sip after small sip. When she had drunk half of the large mug, he handed it to his mother, who set it on the bureau.

  A clatter at the back door heralded Seamus’s return, and he called out, “I have ice!”

  “Oh, thank God,” Mary said, as she gripped Eamon’s shoulder.

  After they had moved the bathtub into Phoebe’s room, Seamus poured the bags of ice into it. Water was added, and soon Maggie attempted to shoo Eamon from the room. “You can’t see her without clothes, Eamon. ’Tisn’t proper.”

  “And do you think you’re strong enough to lift her into and out of the tub, with or without Mum?” He shook his head. “An’, no, Da is not helping if I can’t.” He looked from his mum to Maggie and back to his mum again. “Phoebe is …” His voice broke. “Don’t deny me, Mags.”

  Maggie stared into his eyes a long moment, before nodding her agreement. “Fine, but you’re the one who’ll have to tell her what you did.” She rubbed at her chest. “I’ve no desire to be walloped again.”

  Eamon chuckled, suddenly grabbing her into his arms for a quick embrace. “Thank you, Maggie. For everything.”

  She kissed his cheek and stepped back. “Always, Eamon. ’Tis what family does.” She looked at Phoebe and motioned for the door to close behind the men, now leaving. “Come. Let’s help her.”

  Eamon stood back as he watched his mum and sister work to free Phoebe of her sleeping gown. When Maggie motioned for him to approach, he lifted her into his strong arms, hating her cry of pain as he jostled her injured leg. “Forgive me, love,” he crooned. “I’d never mean to hurt you, but we have to get you better.” At Maggie’s urging, he lowered Phoebe slowly into the cold water, holding her in place, even though his hands fe
lt like icicles, while she thrashed and fought to escape.

  “Cold!” she screamed. “Why are you torturing me?” A few tears leaked out, and he saw Maggie frown in concern.

  “Mags?” he whispered.

  “You must get her to drink,” Maggie said in a soft voice. “Have her finish this tea.” She handed him the mug of cold willow bark tea. “I’ll get more water.”

  Eamon focused on Phoebe, urging her to drink. When she had swallowed all of the tea and nearly an entire glass of water, he saw Maggie give a satisfied nod. “Why, Maggie?”

  “She should have cried tears, but few came down her cheeks. It’s a bad sign, and she needs more fluids.” Maggie squeezed his shoulder. “Trust me.”

  He stared at his sister intently for a moment. “I do, Mags. With her life.”

  Running a cloth through the cold water, he ran it over Phoebe’s head again and again to help cool her. Finally Maggie instructed him to extract her from the water and to cover her in a large bath sheet. After wrapping her up tightly, he sat on the chair with Phoebe on his lap, as a nightgown was eased over her head. Mary dried her hair with a towel, placing another on her pillow, before Eamon settled her again on the bed. He watched as Maggie and his mum rubbed alcohol and then honey down the wound again and afterward bound it with fresh clean cloths.

  “Why did you do that, Maggie?”

  She shrugged and flushed. “I’ve read that alcohol can clean a wound and that honey can help with infection. I fear, if I open the wound, it will never heal, but hopefully this will help a little.” She shrugged. “I’m doing the best I can, Eamon.”

  He gripped her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Of course you are. You’ve done more than the doc, who spends too much of his time in the saloons.” His gaze roved over Phoebe, who had tumbled into sleep. He feared she wouldn’t remain restful for long. “Go get some sleep, Mags and Mum. I’ll sit with her.”