Pioneer Desire: The O’Rourke Family Montana Saga, Book Two Page 5

  “I wonder if ’tis true what some of the men are sayin’,” he noted with a broad smile, as he followed her silent instructions on where to place the pots and pans. “That you’re the Queen of the Fairies, come here to tempt us with your cooking and to prevent us from finding success anywhere far away from you.”

  “Get away with you,” she said with a laugh. “I’m no fairy, and I’ll never pretend to be one. If the men are enchanted by my cooking, it’s because they’ve had to make do with food fit for the pigs until now.”

  “Well, yes, since Mrs. Tompkins left,” Ardan said in agreement.

  Standing with her hands on her hips and fighting a smile, Deirdre asked, “Did you accuse Mrs. Tompkins of being a witch or a mystical being because she could cook?”

  “Of course not,” Ardan said. “She was twenty years older than you, married, and not half as pretty.” He winked as she sputtered out a laugh, and then he moved to the sink to continue his task of washing dishes.

  After she set cakes into the oven, she moved to dry the dishes he washed.

  “You’ve been doing all this work yourself the past days?” he asked. At her proud nod, he swore under his breath.

  “There’s no need to be upset that a woman can be independent,” she snapped.

  “If you believe that’s why I’m angry, you’re an eejit,” he said, as he wiped his hands on his pants and faced her. “You’re workin’ yourself into the ground while Buford sits an’ chats with the lads out front. He should be workin’ as hard as you, for he wouldn’t have a successful business if you weren’t here.” He paused. “Buford is going to pay for your hired help?”

  She shrugged at his implied question. “He said, if I wasn’t up to the task of doing all the necessary work, I would need to subsidize them from my share of the profits. That he hasn’t needed to pay for more than one cook in the past.”

  Ardan rested one hip against the counter. “And look where that got him,” he muttered. “Bloody eejit.” He stormed past her and down the back steps, the door slamming shut behind him.

  She watched his swift departure, absurdly upset that he hadn’t eaten one of her oatmeal cookies. Unable to spend any more time on his mercurial moods, she focused on the evening’s meal, thankful for the help he had provided her. And his company.

  At least once a day the following week, Ardan strolled by the café in a casual manner, surreptitiously scanning the interior as he passed it to see the number of customers inside. He always noted they were contented with the fine fare prepared by Deirdre, enthusiastic and effusive in their praise of her cooking. He paused one day, unable to stop himself from sighing with pleasure as the scents of roasted chicken and rosemary wafted on the breeze. He yearned for a taste of one of her homemade cakes but refrained from entering the café.

  One day, nearly a week after he had last seen Deirdre, he paused near the café, before turning away with a regretful shake of his head. He barged into someone walking on the boardwalk, and he reached out reflexively to keep her from tumbling to the ground. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Niamh?” he asked, as he stared at his oldest sister, the third oldest O’Rourke. “What are you doin’?”

  She watched him with a curious expression. “I could ask you the same,” she muttered, as she tightened her grip on her one-year-old daughter, Maura. “I thought to go on a walk with Maura. See if there are any ships for her to watch. An’, if no ships, I’ll bring her by the livery to see if Dunmore or Cormac will let her pet an animal.”

  “Don’t let her too near the water,” Ardan warned, as he reached forward to tickle his niece’s cheek. “How is it she grows so much each time I see her?”

  Niamh shrugged, a smile finally lighting her eyes as she beheld her precious girl. “I don’t know. But, aye, she does.” After a moment, she focused again on her eldest brother. “Are you well, Ardan? You seem out of sorts.” She paused as she looked from him to the nearby café. “And all too focused on the café.” When he muttered under his breath about ‘interferin’ family members,’ she grinned. “Or should I say, all too interested in a certain woman in the café?”

  “Don’t start,” he said, unable to hide a grin. “Mrs. Finnegan works too hard and needs help,” he muttered. When Niamh looked too interested, as though she would pursue that topic of conversation, he shook his head and said, “You know I’ll die a bachelor, carin’ for my wee nieces and nephews.”

  She laughed. “Ha! They’ll be carin’ for you in your decrepit old age. And, as of now, you only have one niece.” She kissed Maura’s head, as Maura played with a strand of Niamh’s loosened auburn-colored hair. When Maura held out her arms to her uncle, Niamh passed her daughter to Ardan. “Seems she is charmed by you, even if the new cook isn’t.”

  Ardan rolled his eyes, as he bounced Maura in his arms. “Forget your mum’s foolishness. She wants to see us all married an’ as happy as she is.” He paused when Niamh froze at his words. “Niamh?” he asked, as he kissed Maura’s small fingers that patted at his face. “Are you well?”

  She shrugged, staring at the river. “Of course I am. And, if I know disappointment, I only have myself to blame.” She stilled her movement away from Ardan, when he rested a hand on her forearm.

  “No,” he said in a soft voice. “’Tis Connor’s. He’s workin’ with Cormac, aye?” Ardan referred to Niamh’s husband, Connor Ahern, a man who preferred to spend his time in the saloons and at the gambling tables rather than working with his brother, Cormac, driving oxen.

  “Not just now. He finds the work … too strenuous for him.” She flushed as she looked at her feet in well-worn shoes. “Don’t worry about me, Ardan. I’ll find a way to ensure we are well cared for.”

  Shaking his head, Ardan fought swearing in little Maura’s presence. “’Tisn’t your job, Niamh, to find a way. Your husband should care about your well-being.”

  Niamh shrugged and stared bravely at him. “I would hope you choose more wisely than I did, Ardan,” she whispered, as she eased Maura back into her arms. “For I’m discovering just how long a lifetime can be when married to …” She broke off without finishing her sentence, but the sentiment, the wrong man, hung in the air between them. “I’ll see you soon,” she whispered as she brushed past him.

  Ardan watched her go, his fascination with Deirdre and the café momentarily eclipsed by his concern for Niamh.

  Chapter 3

  Every day for the past week, Deirdre had looked to the back door when supplies were delivered, but Ardan didn’t appear and had never returned. One of his brothers always came by and made the deliveries, showing her what Ardan would have looked like as a boy without as many responsibilities as he had now. His brothers teased her and told her funny stories, but they never expressed any concern for her or her business.

  Like Ardan did.

  She stood at the sink, during a lull in cooking, elbows deep in washing dishes and silently chided herself for missing Ardan. She barely knew the man. Even though he had shown her kindness and consideration, it did not mean he had any regard for her. She scrubbed extra hard at a stain on a plate and silently chastised herself. She refused to have any feelings for him.

  Her musings did nothing to dampen her disappointment at his absence from her life. She had hoped he would speak with his family about her needing help and that they would appear again without her having to seek them out. After a week of backbreaking work, she acknowledged she had to find time to discuss her need for helpers with Mary or Seamus.

  At the tap on the café’s back door, she dropped the plate back into the sudsy water and dried her hands on a towel. “Yes, come in,” she called out, as she turned to the door. “Ardan,” she breathed, her gaze roving over him. Although she had thought of his brothers as a younger version of him, she doubted they had ever carried the weight of responsibility as he did. They were younger brothers, protected by their older siblings and father, and had the lightness of spirit to prove it. “Did you bring supplies today?”

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p; He shook his head and frowned at the sight of her at the sink. “No.” He moved toward her.

  She took a step away from where she had been working, her eyes huge as she saw the anger in his gaze.

  “Do you have another apron?”

  “Apron?” she repeated. After a moment, she spun and pulled open a cupboard, extracting one, showing it to him.

  As she watched him shuck his coat and waistcoat, his strong muscles bunching and relaxing under his shirt, he grabbed the apron from her. She blurted out, “Why do you want an apron?”

  “I’m not busy at the warehouse. I can help you with dishes. Miserly Hunt has no right to squirrel away the profits, when you are the reason why he’s having any success.”

  She flushed at the determination in his gaze and the pleasure his words evoked. “I … This isn’t proper,” she whispered.

  “Buford should have paid for at least one of my brothers to help you. And you most likely still need Maggie to aid you with the cooking. But, for now, you have my help. Free of a costly wage.”

  Rubbing at her forehead, she shook her head from side to side, as though attempting to figure out a riddle. “I don’t understand.” Her eyes filled with tears as she saw him dive into work.

  “I hate bullies, and, against my will, I like you,” he said.

  She jerked and took a step away from him. After turning, as though looking for something for one of her recipes, she swiped at her cheek to clear it of the tear that fell. His words had cut through her fragile confidence and the ease she had felt with him. “Am I that awful?” she asked in a small voice.

  A dish clattered in the sink. “Awful?” he asked. Wet hands touched her shoulder, and he gave them a soft squeeze. “No. It’s because you aren’t that I have trouble thinking of anythin’ or anyone else. You’re under my skin, Deirdre, an’ I find that hard to accept.” With another squeeze, he moved away.

  She took a deep breath, inhaling his spicy aftershave and a musky scent she knew was all Ardan. After another steadying moment, she pivoted to see him working diligently, as though he hadn’t turned her world upside down. She forced herself to act as though nothing momentous had occurred and moved to bake a special cake for the evening’s dessert and more bread.

  “What are you servin’ for the midday meal?” he asked.

  “Stew,” she said. “I’ve decided the midday meal will be a simple one, and the men don’t seem to mind.”

  “Of course not. It’s edible,” Ardan said, as he looked at her over his shoulder. “Would you mind if I had a bowl after I finish? I’ll miss the meal at my mum’s, and I’d rather not explain why.” He flushed as she stared at him with curiosity. “They always have a lot of questions, aye?”

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know what that’s like. I never had much family.”

  “No?” he asked, as he rinsed and then rewashed a dirty pot. “Where is your family?”

  “All dead,” she said in a clipped tone. At his shocked stare, she shrugged. “I have no one.”

  Ardan looked as though he’d been poleaxed at the thought. “I can’t imagine,” he breathed. “Even after we lost mum, we still had each other.” He paused, his brows furrowed. He returned to his work, quiet for minutes as he diligently washed and dried dishes.

  “How is it your family can spare you again?” she asked. She squeaked and turned to the connecting door at Buford’s bellow for bowls of stew.

  Ardan looked at her and shook his head, as she set down her mixing bowl and moved to dish up and serve the stew. “No, lass. Let the man come in and ladle it up himself. You’ve prepared it. He can serve it.”

  She paused in her movement toward the stove and beamed at him. “You’re right. I’m so tired that I’m not thinking straight.” She moved back to the bread she was kneading and to the cake she needed to finish mixing and smiled calmly at Buford as he stormed into the kitchen.

  Flushed red and with eyes on fire, Buford failed to notice Ardan standing in the corner washing dishes. “I told you to get those bowls of soup ready, woman,” Buford snapped. “Why are you still elbow deep in that muck?”

  “This muck is what is garnering you acclaim, Mr. Hunt,” she said in a sweet voice, although her cognac-colored eyes gleamed with anger. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard the men talk about finally eating good bread? Or that my desserts remind them of their mama’s?” She waited for him to apologize. “I’m too busy to be serving the food as well. That’s your job. I’ve prepared the stew. Ladle it out and put a slice of bread beside each bowl.”

  “You lazy wench,” Buford sputtered, as he watched her continue her work without making a move to comply with his demands.

  Flushing at his verbal abuse, she shook her head. “If that is how you think of me, I will need to take my baking and cooking talents to another location. I’m certain I will have as much success elsewhere. Although I’m doubtful of yours.” She pulled her hands from the dough, swiped them on a cloth, and took a step away.

  “Now don’t get hasty,” Buford stammered. “Just a little meaningless banter between partners.”

  Glaring at him, Deirdre remained silent.

  “So, if she were to call you a miserly, manipulative bastard, you’d take that all as good fun?” Ardan asked. He smiled as Buford gaped at him, finally noting his presence. “Buford, always a pleasure to see the real man behind the facade.”

  “O’Rourke, what are you doing here?” Buford Hunt demanded. “You have no right to be on my premises without my permission.”

  Ardan chuckled. “Imagine the townsfolk’s amusement to learn you were so threatened by my presence washing dishes that you had to throw me off your property.” He met Buford’s irate glare. “Mrs. Finnegan needed help with the most basic of chores because you are too closefisted to ensure she has appropriate help to keep her kitchen running smoothly.”

  Buford puffed out his chest. “As I’ve said before, and I’ll say again, if she’s such a poor manager of her time and her kitchen, I should not have to suffer the expense to clean up after her.”

  Ardan leaned against the counter, his arms over his chest, ignoring the consistent calls for service from inside the café’s dining area. “With your other cooks, did they ever bake bread? Or cookies? Or a cake?” he asked. Answering his own questions with a shake of his head, he said, “They barely served an edible stew, which is why you rarely saw an O’Rourke here when we were desperate for a meal before my mum returned. Now you have three different meals a day, along with desserts and bread. That requires aid, you fool.”

  “The Tompkinses did it without outside help,” Buford said, a stubborn tilt to his jaw as he moved to the stove to ladle out bowls of stew.

  Ardan rubbed at his temples and shook his head. “You really are an idiot, and I’m surprised your business has lasted as long as it has.” When Buford glared at him, Ardan said, “How can you not remember that Harold ran the front, Irene cooked, and her grandchildren cleaned? They were always tryin’ to sneak away to play, but they had their chores. Irene had plenty of help.”

  He paused as he met Buford’s stubborn stare. “An’ the town wasn’t as busy then. We weren’t in the middle of gold rush fever. You should continue to pray that Mrs. Finnegan doesn’t depart for one of the larger towns in the Territory to earn greater fame, as she deserves.”

  Buford let out a huff of frustration as he stormed out of the kitchen, carrying bowls of stew. He came and went numerous times, feeding the hungry men. Finally he was heard telling a tale in the café, and Deirdre knew he wouldn’t return for a while.

  Deirdre turned to face Ardan, unable to fight a smile. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ve been too tired to fight his bullying.”

  Ardan winked at her. “Anytime, Deirdre. Anytime.”

  That evening, Ardan watched as his mother cleaned the family’s kitchen, chatting and laughing with Maggie. His eldest brothers had scattered, and Da was in the living room, reading a novel aloud to Niall, Oran, and Bryan.

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nbsp; The simple scene reminded him of long-ago times, when they had lived in a tiny cottage in Ireland. He and his siblings would circle his mum’s skirts, eager to help her and to earn a pat on the head or a word of praise. She was never stingy with her approval, and he remembered her gentle approbation always made him want to do more and to be better. After watching her with Maggie for another long moment, he rose and moved to the sink and met his mother’s startled gaze a moment before he pulled her into his arms.

  “Ardan?” she whispered, as she wrapped her arms around his waist and held him close.

  “Can you give us a moment, Maggie?” Ardan asked his sister, barely noticing when she slipped from the room. “I’m sorry, Mum,” he whispered in her ear as he fought tears. “Forgive me.”

  She leaned back, his face cupped in her palms, as she gazed deeply into her eldest son’s eyes. “There’s nothin’ to forgive you, Ardan.” A tear coursed down one cheek. “Do you know the pride I feel every time I see you? To think you’re my son?” She reached up and stroked back a lock of his hair. “I remember the first moment I held you in my arms, swaddled in a rough wool blanket. You already had Seamus’s black hair and blue eyes, and I feared you’d have nothing of mine.”

  “Mum,” Ardan whispered.

  “But you did. You had my compassion and keen sense of right and wrong. And I hate that you’ve felt wronged by me.” Her eyes overflowed as tears coursed down her cheeks.

  Ardan nodded, unwilling to lie to himself or his mother any longer. “I was so angry,” he rasped. “At fate. At you. How could I have mourned you for eighteen years, and yet you lived? You had another family. Did we mean nothing to you?” He took a deep stuttering breath as he saw the pain in her gaze evoked by his words. “My head understands what happened, but my heart still feels betrayed.”

  “I didn’t betray you. I could never betray you,” Mary said, as she gripped his face and stared at him with a fierce urgency. “Please tell me you understand that.”