Montana Maverick (Bear Grass Springs Book 3) Page 9

  Jessamine rose, smoothing a hand over her copper-colored satin skirt. “I’ve never written one slanderous word about Miss Helen. If it weren’t true, I would not have printed it.” She raised an eyebrow as she met Helen’s irate mother’s gaze.

  “Do you know what your article has done to my daughter’s sterling reputation?” Her eyes narrowed as Jessamine scoffed. “She has been tarnished due to your incessant reports of her movements through town.”

  Jessamine smirked at Mrs. Jameson. “If she had nothing to hide, then she wouldn’t act as she did, and I’d have nothing to report. You should keep a better watch over your daughter.”

  The older woman leaned forward and poked Jessamine in her shoulder, earning a grimace of pain. “How dare you insinuate my daughter is out of the bounds of what society expects from a young unmarried lady. You keep up this way, and she’ll never wed.”

  Jessamine snorted. “Why do you think the townsfolk readily believe what I wrote? She’s been on the edge of acceptable behavior for months. And you were the one proclaiming her upcoming nuptials before I arrived!”

  “How dare you sully her good name and imply I’ve in any way harmed her reputation.” Mrs. Jameson gasped as though shocked at the implication.

  “What name and what reputation?” Jessamine raised an eyebrow. “She shares her name with a woman more concerned with her personal standing in town than with her own daughter’s welfare. With a woman who is an inveterate gossip and schemer who attempted to buy the ruination of another couple’s happiness for her own benefit.” She glared Mrs. Jameson’s protestations into silence over her interference in Alistair and Leticia MacKinnon’s love affair that summer. Jessamine continued. “Your daughter shares her name with a bully, a whoremonger, and a cheat.”

  “You leave my son out of this!” Mrs. Jameson growled.

  Jessamine’s eyes flashed with anger. “Why is it you are more offended at my attacks against your son, Walter, than against your daughter?” She watched the small woman quiver with rage and shook her head before continuing. “Finally Helen shares her last name with Vincent Jameson, a man more enamored with a Beauty from the Boudoir than with his wife. A man with no sense of responsibility or honor as he divorced you and left you penniless. Don’t tell me that you still pine for Mr. Jameson?” She smirked at Mrs. Jameson.

  By this point Mrs. Jameson was so red that she looked about to explode. She remained mute, as though her rage prevented her from speaking.

  “This, then, is the name you are intent on protecting?” Jessamine asked with a sardonic smile. “It seems to me Helen is merely following in her family’s well-trodden path.” She jerked back, evading Mrs. Jameson’s swat. “Strike me, and I will bring charges against you. And make a mockery of you in the paper,” Jessamine said as her eyes flashed with loathing.

  “You know no decency. You, who have only lived a charmed life. How dare you come to our town and judge us? You don’t know us, and you don’t care to.”

  Jessamine shrugged. “You’re a few months too late in your attempt to garner my sympathy. I’ve watched you bully, belittle, and berate your daughter too often to ever believe in the sincerity of your protestations as to your desire to protect her.” Jessamine tilted her head forward as though in silent acknowledgment to something Mrs. Jameson had said. “However, no matter how much I detest you and your inability to act as a good and loving mother to your daughter, I should not bring any further suffering onto your daughter, Helen. Having to live with you and your son are punishment enough for one lifetime.”

  She and Mrs. Jameson shared a long, scathing look before Mrs. Jameson spun on her heel and stormed out.

  Ewan stood next to his brothers at the town’s harvest dance the following week in late October. The townsfolk and ranchers gathered each year to celebrate before winter arrived. This year’s harvest had been bountiful, with backyard gardens producing plenty to last through winter. The few farms in the valley had also produced bumper crops, although many of the farmers had recently arrived and would use the profits to pay off debts and prepare for the coming year. The ranchers had shipped their cattle to Chicago on the train, and their beef had sold at a great profit. Thus, there was much to celebrate.

  Ewan sipped at a glass of whiskey from a keg the Stumble-Out had snuck into a corner of the Odd Fellows Hall. His gaze tracked the movements of Jessamine, and he watched her pause to exchange a few words with different members of the town, although few were eager to spend much time in her presence. She wore an amber satin dress with a big bustle, and her red hair tied with a ribbon was like a river of fire down her back.

  “Ye are fortunate ye are no’ married. Ye can get away with drinkin’ that wee dram, rather than the punch,” Alistair grumbled. He followed Ewan’s gaze and hid a smile in his glass. “Why do ye no’ ask her for a dance?”

  Cailean nudged Ewan in the side with an elbow. “See how she taps her foot? It’s obvious she wishes she were dancing.” Cailean looked around the room, seeing Sorcha twirling the dance floor with a miner. “Seems no man is brave enough to ask her.”

  “Ye ken well enough why I dinna ask her,” Ewan hissed. “She writes articles about me twice a week. I dinna need to give the townsfolk somethin’ else to jabber about.”

  Alistair chuckled. “Ye already are, the way ye stare at her.” His smile widened as Leticia joined him. He ran a finger over his wife’s cheek. “Do ye want to dance, love?”

  At her nod, he handed his glass of punch to Ewan and led his wife onto the floor.

  “Why are ye no dancin’ with Annabelle?” Ewan asked Cailean.

  Cailean shrugged. “She’s too busy at the food table.” He nodded to the two tables laden with food. “Seems she’s enjoying her conversation with your Miss Ericson.”

  “She isna mine,” Ewan said. “And I think she would help Anna.” He met his brother’s worried gaze. “She doesna want to give up the bakery …” He clamped his mouth shut as Jessamine approached.

  She laughed, although the sentiment did not reach her eyes. “I find it interesting how everyone stops talking as I approach.” She took a sip of the punch before setting it down on a windowsill. “Can no one make a decent drink? This is the second event I have attended, and the punch has been horrible both times.”

  Cailean shared a long look with Ewan and raised his eyebrows.

  Ewan cleared his throat. “I ken that would be something ye’d love to discuss in yer paper, but it would hurt the feelings of Mrs. Guerineau. She’s an elderly woman, and she takes great joy in concoctin’ the punch as her mother did when she lived in New Orleans afore the War.” His grave gaze met Jessamine’s. “Please dinna embarrass her.”

  Jessamine sniffed as though he had offended her with his request. “I’m not as wholly without sentiment or sense as you seem to believe.” It was impossible to know if the flush on her cheeks was caused by indignation or embarrassment.

  Cailean moved so that Jessamine did not storm away from them. “I hope that is true, Miss McMahon. However, many of your recent articles would give rise to doubt.” He watched as she lifted her chin. “Your persistent attacks on Miss Jameson, your spurious report about Jack Renfrew’s death, and your constant fear-mongering do not fill me with confidence as to your sincerity.”

  “I already know what you think of me. You’ve made your opinion plain.”

  Cailean nodded. “Aye. You’ve been a disappointment.” He paused as he saw a flash of hurt in her eyes before she glowered at him. “However, I hope to be proven wrong in my estimation of you every time I read your paper.”

  “The fault is in you for having expectations,” Jessamine snapped. She glared at him until he moved and allowed her to pass.

  Ewan sighed. “That dinna go well.”

  Cailean chuckled. “No, but she’s acting like a cornered bully, and someone needs to stand up to her.” He looked across the room to see Walter Jameson following her movements with an intense glower. “And it’s better us than one like Walter.�
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  Ewan nodded. He slapped Cailean on the back and moved to follow Jessamine as she stood alone to the side of the dance floor. After he set his glass on a nearby table, he stood beside her. “Ye ken ye’ve only made life more difficult for yerself.”

  “Yes, blame me for everyone else’s foibles. Blame me for shining a light on how things truly are.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the townsfolk watching them with avid curiosity.

  He grabbed her hand, dragging her to the floor as a slow waltz began. “Stop fightin’ me, ye wee demon.” He grunted as she kicked him in the shin, her pointed shoes bruising even through his boots. “No one asked ye to bring to light our secrets and shames, Jessie.” He flushed as she glared at him for the nickname. “Ye could have more success if ye wrote with humor.”

  “I am a serious reporter. Humor is not what I do.” She tugged on her arms but was held tight against him.

  “That’s not what ye do yet,” he countered. “Ye are smart enough to ken ye can change. We all can.” He pulled her closer, smiling as she growled her discontent. “Ye can do whatever ye want.”

  She looked up at him, her expression softening for a moment. “You’re right. I can.” His hold on her eased a moment, and then she raised a knee, hitting him in his crotch. At his groan as he doubled over and fell in the middle of the dance floor, she bent down and whispered in his ear, “Don’t ever manhandle me again, ye ken?” She marched off the dance floor and out of the Hall amid a humming murmur from the townsfolk.

  Ewan gasped and flushed and accepted his brothers’ aid off the floor. They pushed him into a chair, forfeited to him by one of the elderly matrons of the town. He bent over to the point he grasped his ankles. “Damn her to hell,” he rasped. “I’m goin’ to …”

  “Shh, Ewan,” Alistair said as he patted him on the back. “Dinna say much. Too many are curious about what was and wasna said on the dance floor.”

  “Bluidy hell, I forgot how much that hurts.” He let out a deep breath and sat up to the point his elbows rested on his thighs.

  Cailean handed him a glass of whiskey, and the brothers acted as a shield as the townsfolk craned their necks to obtain a better view of him. After Ewan had taken a swig of whiskey, he held up his hand, and Alistair hauled him to his feet. The three brothers marched to the door and outside.

  Once outside, Ewan collapsed against the side of the building and took a few deep gulps of the cool night air. “I canna think what I did to anger her so. I’ll never understand that woman.”

  “I dinna ken why that should worry ye.” Alistair shared a confused glance with Cailean. “She’s a cantankerous woman.” Alistair waited a moment for Ewan to agree and then huffed in frustration. “Ye canna want anything to do with her, Ewan.”

  Ewan raised an eyebrow as he took another breath, the lines of pain easing around his eyes. He held out his glass to his brothers. “I’ll see ye later tonight or tomorrow.” He pushed away from the building, and soon darkness enveloped him.

  Sorcha watched her brothers leave the Hall but continued her dance with Frederick Tompkins, Irene and Harold’s grandson who ran a nearby ranch. She glared at him as he chuckled at Ewan’s discomfort. “Have ye no decency?” She raised a brow. “I doubt ye’d find it as amusin’ were I to do the same to ye.”

  He glared at her. “Are you always disagreeable? Can’t you just remain silent in my arms as I twirl you around the dance floor?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Is that what ye want from a woman? Someone mute and docile to do yer biddin’?”

  He tugged her closer as she tried to pull away from him. “Would be more pleasant than having to deal with a woman like you.”

  She stomped on his foot, the heel of her shoe catching the toe of his boot, and he groaned in pain. She wrenched out of his hold and marched off the dance floor, her head held high as she joined her sisters-in-law.

  “Oh my,” Annabelle breathed. “I’m just thankful the reporter left and didn’t see you act in such a way.”

  “She wouldn’t have any right to comment after how she treated Ewan,” Leticia said with a wry smile. “What did Frederick say to enrage you so?” She raised her brows as she looked at Sorcha.

  Sorcha exhaled a deep breath, her cheeks reddened from anger and embarrassment at being the focus of attention for all present. “He laughed at Ewan an’ then said he wanted someone quiet and docile to spin around the dance floor.”

  “Oh my,” Annabelle repeated. “He doesn’t know you at all to say such things.” She nudged Sorcha as Irene made her way toward them.

  Irene looked Sorcha over from head to foot and then asked, “What did he say?”

  Sorcha frowned. “I thought ye’d blame me. He’s yer blood.”

  Irene shook her head in dismay. “I know what he’s like. An overbearing brooder at the best of times.” She smiled as Sorcha laughed. “At least he did no lasting damage to your spirit.”

  Sorcha snorted. “That man willna ever have the ability to affect me.” She smiled at Harold as he appeared holding a cup of punch. “I fear I do no’ much like yer grandson.”

  “He’s an acquired taste. Like this punch.” He winked at her. “You’ll come to appreciate him.” He watched the two eldest MacKinnon brothers reenter the Hall without Ewan. “Seems the youngest brother had the sense to hide out in one of his lairs.”

  “He’s no’ a wolf,” Sorcha snapped.

  Harold laughed. “No, he isn’t. But I imagine he feels just as hunted at times.” He smiled as the two men joined them. “Seems he got more than he bargained for.”

  Alistair nodded as he looked around the Hall, relaxing as he caught sight of Hortence playing in a far corner. “Aye, he’ll have to learn her ways.”

  Sorcha tapped her brother on his arm. “He willna! He has no reason to want to ken her any better.”

  Alistair raised his eyebrows as Cailean laughed. “Not all courtships are smooth, Sorch,” Cailean murmured. He watched Frederick glare at them from across the room. “Something I’d think you were learning.”

  She let out a huff of air before accepting a miner’s invitation to dance. “Ye’re all daft,” she snapped and walked away. She glowered at Frederick as he watched her dance with a miner, her pleasure in the dance increasing as Frederick’s scowl intensified when she looked up at the miner as though he were a fount of wisdom.

  Ewan sat downstairs at the Boudoir and watched the antics of the women as they enticed men upstairs. Most men needed little persuasion to follow one of the whores, but a few seemed content to bide their time downstairs. Ewan nursed a glass of whiskey and replayed the scene from the dance over and over in his head. “Eejit,” he muttered to himself as he remembered her struggles to free herself from his hold only to have him tightening his grip on her.

  His self-reflection was cut short as a ruckus from upstairs caught his attention. He leaned over the side of his chair to look around a girl trying to entice him into something more than ogling, and he shook his head. “That wee idiot!” He pushed aside the whore, reaching out to steady her so she did not topple to the ground, and stood.

  He fumed as those in the main room watched with openmouthed stupefaction as Jessamine was dragged down the stairs by the Madam’s henchman, Ezekial, with the Madam on her heels. Jessamine grimaced as Ezekial’s hold on her arm tightened, and he shook her as though she were a rag doll.

  “How dare you sneak into my establishment and attempt to … to …” The Madam sputtered to a stop. Her irate gaze fell on Ewan and turned cunning and calculating. “If a woman is that desperate to join my girls, I feel it only proper to allow her most avowed admirer the right to her.”

  “Nae, Madam,” Ewan protested. “She’s a journalist. Attemptin’ to do what she sees as her job.”

  The Madam glared at him, her hands on her still trim hips. Her bosom rose and fell in her eggplant-hued satin dress with onyx jewelry decorating her throat, wrist, and ears. “I should have known a man who never partakes of my girls w
ould be unwilling to consort with her.”

  Ewan flushed with anger but was shoved aside as a burly miner strode to the front.

  “I’ll take ’er,” he said. He swiped his palm along his forehead as though a spit shine would make him more presentable.

  Jessamine struggled against Ezekial’s hold but was unable to free herself from his iron grip. He whispered something in her ear, which made her pale further and fight harder.

  “I like ’em feisty,” another man said.

  Ewan pushed his way to the front and shook his head. “Nae, lads, ye will no’ be with this woman tonight. She is a respectable woman. Look to the others if ye are wantin’ a bit of bedsport.”

  The first man looked Ewan over from head to foot and smiled malevolently. “She’s here, ain’t she? Any woman in a whorehouse is fair game. That’s what the Madam has always told us.” He took a step toward Jessamine, and Ewan pushed him back.

  “Don’t touch me, pansy ass,” the miner growled. “You won’t like the consequences.”

  In an instant Ewan cold-cocked the man, and he fell like heavy timber to the floor. The man behind him rolled him out of the way and took his place. Ewan raised his fists as he saw the expectation of a brawl in the man’s eyes. He didn’t look at Jessamine but whispered, “When ye can, run as fast as yer feet will carry ye.”

  The next moment he was too busy to concern himself with her. One man attacked from behind while the other from the front. He grunted as he was punched in a kidney and then the belly. He kicked at a man and wrenched his arm free. Soon an all-out brawl engulfed the first floor of the Boudoir. Furniture smashed against the wall as large men crashed into it. Whores scrambled upstairs for safety, and Ewan continued to pummel those who attacked him.