Tenacious Love (Banished Saga, Book Four): Banished Saga, Book Four Page 9

  He hid his grin or grimace by taking sips of his pint, but an alert miner noticed him and propped a shoulder on the wall, facing him.

  He was at least six-and-a-half-feet tall, with pale blond hair and striking blue eyes. “You find our talk humorous?” He spoke with a slight accent, although Patrick couldn’t immediately place it.

  “Not at all. Although I find your conversations illuminating.”

  “You aren’t a miner,” the man said in an accusatory manner.

  “No. I’m the one who works on the payroll so you get paid,” Patrick said with a droll smile.

  “You work for the Company?” the man hissed.

  Patrick glanced around, thankful the man’s voice hadn’t carried too far as Patrick didn’t look forward to miners, angry with stagnant wages, inflation and ever-increasing mine profits, venting their anger on him. “Yeah.” He took a sip of his beer.

  “Did you implement that card system?”

  “Hell, no,” Patrick said with an emphatic shake of his head. “I didn’t arrive until a few months ago, and I believe that started in December of ’12. You believe I have more clout than I do. I have none with the Company. I’m a hired laborer, in many ways like a miner.”

  “No, you’re not. You don’t have to go down there and risk your life every day. You don’t have to worry if your mine will be open or if the Company has decided to close it for some reason, leaving you no way to pay rent or buy food.”

  “Very true. I meant no offense.” He held out his free hand. “I’m Patrick Sullivan.”

  “I’m Elias Laine, from Finntown.”

  “Ah, Finnish,” he said. “I couldn’t determine your accent.”

  “I’ve been in America for many years, and I’ve tried to become American.” He shrugged. “Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I fail.” He waved his hand in a cutting manner.

  “Have you always been a miner?”

  “No, I was a farmer back home, but there’s never enough land for a big family. So I left.”

  “So Butte’s your home.”

  “For now. I come and go. When there’s work, I work. When not, I move on.”

  Patrick nodded as he glanced around the crowded bar, everyone standing shoulder to shoulder, gripping at least one pint. He didn’t relish pushing his way forward for another drink, so he relaxed against the wall, continuing his conversation with the talkative Elias. “Would seem a hard way to raise a family.”

  “If you had one. Life as a transient, indigent miner makes it hard to rear a family.” He shook his head with chagrin. “Besides, women are smarter these days. They don’t want a man going down the mine. Not when there’s such a great risk of maiming and death.” He stared at Patrick with a touch of envy. “They’d be looking for the likes of you.”

  Patrick laughed and shook his head. “No, I’m not the marrying kind.”

  “No family then.”

  Patrick’s gaze became shadowed before he forced a smile. “Not really.”

  Elias was called away by his friends. Patrick stood among the crowd for a few more minutes before venturing forth to enjoy an evening in Butte.

  Patrick reached out a hand, grabbing the woman by her arm an instant before she would have plummeted into the lake at the Columbia Gardens. “I wouldn’t advise swimming, ma’am.”

  She stuttered out a laugh, her alarm-filled gaze shifting to one of recognition. “Mr. Sullivan?” At his curious stare, she nodded as she repeated, “It is Mr. Sullivan, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” he said, his confusion evident in his gaze. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you.”

  “There’s no reason you would. I’m Mr. Sanders’s secretary, Miss O’Leary.”

  Patrick’s memory cleared as he looked at her. Her red-gold hair was tied back in a loose bun, and she wore a light-blue linen walking-dress that enhanced rather than hid her curves.

  Her cognac-colored eyes met his with appreciation for saving her from falling in the lake.

  “Of course. Forgive me.”

  She shrugged. “It’s nothing. When you are with Mr. Sanders, I’m certain you have more pressing things to note than his secretary.”

  Patrick flushed with chagrin, refusing to agree with her. “Do you come to the gardens often?”

  “On every possible free day.” She looked toward the mountains looming in the distance, for once not obscured by a thick haze of coal smoke. Saplings lined a few walkways, and green grass covered the area surrounding the lake. Nearby, a group played a game of baseball, and the players could be heard arguing about the rules. “It’s the only place here that reminds me of home.”

  “You’re from Ireland?” At her nod, he smiled. “So was my father.” He leaned down and picked up the wicker basket at her feet, its lid firmly latched even after she had dropped it. He frowned as he hefted it. “Might I escort you to your destination? This seems too heavy for you to carry.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose.” A soft blush highlighted her rosy complexion. When he waited patiently for her to take his elbow, she grinned at him and looped her arm through his. “I’m meeting my sister and a cousin at the far end of the lake.”

  “Why there?”

  “We like to imagine, on days like today, with the mountains shining in the sun and the lake before us, that we are home again. ’Tis silly, I know.”

  “No, believe me. I understand. After the desire to forget home wears off, all you want to do is remember it.”

  She nodded her understanding. “Why don’t you join us today, Mr. Sullivan? We always bring far too much, as you can tell by the weight of that hamper. It would be a nice change for us to have someone new to speak with.” When he stuttered out an excuse, she interrupted him. “It will be no imposition, and I insist, especially as you almost pushed me into the lake. This is what I request as my boon for nearly drowning me.”

  Patrick laughed and agreed. “Then I don’t know how I could refuse.”

  She led him toward a small hill near the far end of the lake and waved at two women sitting on a large blanket. They looked as though they were sisters, thin blond tendrils of hair artfully curling toward their napes as fine hats protected their fair skin from the sun. They waved as Miss O’Leary approached. She, in turn, had to tug at a reluctant Patrick, his steps slowing as he neared them.

  “Come. We aren’t scary,” she teased, her lips upturned into a smile.

  He realized she was always on the verge of smiling, reminding him of his brother Colin. He allowed himself to be led to the small hill and set the hamper on a corner of the blanket, anchoring it against any gusts of wind.

  “Maeve, Shannon,” Fiona said as she pointed at Patrick, “this is Mr. Sullivan. He prevented me from falling into the lake.”

  “We saw. He was most gallant,” Maeve said with a flirtatious smile. She wore a light-green linen dress that highlighted her complexion and eyes.

  Miss O’Leary added, “My younger sister, Maeve,” pointing at the flirty one.

  Her curves were subtler than those of Miss O’Leary.

  “You’re very welcome to join us,” Maeve said.

  Patrick sat and soon the hamper he’d carried and another the other women had brought were opened, revealing a feast of cold chicken, potato salad, green bean salad, crusty bread and bottles of cider. “Forgive me for not offering anything to this feast.”

  “Nonsense. It’s nice to have someone join us for a change,” Shannon said.

  She was thinner than her two cousins and her nose slightly less rounded. Her brogue was more discernible, and she smiled less freely than her cousins. “Your contribution can be to entertain us with tales as we eat.”

  He froze, his gaze flitting from woman to woman. He then looked down at the blanket and frowned. “I’m afraid little I have to tell would entertain.”

  Fiona glared at her cousin. “Mr. Sullivan and I work together.” She handed full plates around. “He’s quite friendly with Mr. Sanders.”

  Maeve and Shannon st
iffened at the mention of her boss, and Patrick’s frown deepened further.

  “Fiona, I know you don’t like me speaking plainly about your boss,” Maeve said, “but he reminds me of a wild panther we saw in one of those passing circuses.” Maeve shared a mutinous glare with her sister.

  Patrick laughed. “He’s not as bad as all that. He’s simply a man who’s had to work hard for what he now has, like many of us.” At their persistent looks of disbelief, he shrugged. “Although I’m sure you have reasons behind your opinions.” He paused, hoping one of them would speak again, but they focused on their cold repast instead.

  “Now, Mr. Sullivan, I refuse to believe a man such as you has no tales to tell of his journey to this fine town,” Shannon said.

  “I’m not a storyteller. That’s my brother, Colin’s, talent.” Patrick set down his empty plate and reclined on his hands, his legs stretched in front of him and crossed at his ankles.

  “Let us be the judge,” Fiona said with a smile. She handed him another bottle of cider and curled her feet under her to one side as she watched him expectantly.

  Patrick paused, his gaze distant. “I left Boston, where I’m from, not long after the turn of the century.” His mind was consumed by his last days and hours at home. He shrugged as he regaled them about his travels from city to city, the differences in each place. “Somehow I managed to be in St. Louis for the World Fair in 1904. Wandering the expositions on my day off, I never saw everything. It was a spectacular site.”

  After a few moments’ pause, Maeve giggled. “You’re right, Mr. Sullivan. You’re a terrible storyteller.” As he flushed, Maeve giggled again.

  “Tell me about Ireland,” Patrick said. “My da was from there, but he rarely spoke of it.”

  Fiona gazed toward the glinting water on the lake. “It’s always green. There’s rarely a time when it doesn’t rain for more than a few days. So ’tis often gray as well. But when the sun shines …” She gave a faint nod. “The mountains rise as though from a mist, and the lakes shimmer.”

  “It sounds beautiful,” Patrick murmured.

  “It is. It was. But ’tis a poor country unable to support its people. Thus, we leave.” Her smile held little of its earlier brilliance. “And cling to what we can remember and recreate it in our new homes.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. “Do any of you like music?” Patrick asked. “I heard the Minneapolis Symphony comes to town next week and thought to attend.” The women shared glances, and he watched them with confusion at their silent communication.

  “Are you asking any of us in particular?” Shannon asked.

  He rolled his eyes. “No, I’d like to invite the three of you to thank you for sharing your picnic with me today.”

  Maeve laughed at his frustration. “We’d be delighted. I’m sure you’ll be able to relate the particulars to Fee as she works with you.”

  Patrick sighed his relief as Fiona laughed her agreement, reaching farther into the hamper to extract an apple tart for dessert.

  They joked and laughed as the afternoon wore on, finally rising to catch a trolley near suppertime.

  8

  Samuel Sanders paused at his secretary’s desk, noting the gentle curve to her neck, the thin gold necklace nearly hidden under her dress collar. He admired her generous curves for a few moments before he tapped his fingers on the pile of papers beside her typewriter, meeting her startled cognac-colored eyes with amusement in his.

  Her fingers stilled on the keys as she awaited his instruction. When he remained silent, watching her as though he were a bird of prey, she tensed. “Sir?” she asked.

  “I find I have need of your expertise, Miss O’Leary,” he said, an indulgent smirk flirting with his lips.

  “I have nothing else to offer you, sir, beside my secretarial skills.” She lowered her gaze to appear demure.

  “I’m certain that is not true. I never realized I would come to you should I want to discuss the finer points of a musical composition.” He motioned for her to precede him into his office.

  She grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil and entered his office, sitting on the edge of one of the hard wooden chairs in front of his desk, her shoulders held so far back her shoulder blades nearly touched. She spared little time glancing around the room she’d seen numerous times but instead focused on the man shutting the door with a gentle click.

  His manicured hands belied a hidden core of steel. His perfectly styled dishwater-brown hair, parted to one side, and his immaculately tailored gray suit with maroon waistcoat gave him the appearance of a pampered businessman. However, his light-brown eyes shone with the unapologetic acceptance of what he’d done to achieve such a position.

  “I see you’ve become friendly with Mr. Sullivan,” Samuel said as he moved with the stealth of a cat to stand behind her. He fingered the thin strand of her necklace, tugging on it. He smiled as he elicited a gasp of dismay.

  “I’m sorry if it is against company policy,” she whispered, her head bowed, her hand over the front of her neck.

  “I’d hate to have to train a new secretary because you became enamored of him and decided to leave to marry him.” He tugged further on the chain, smiling as it snapped.

  She moaned as she grasped at the chain.

  However, it slipped through her fingers as he lifted it over her head and clasped it in his palm. He sat in front of her on his desk. “What were you trying to hide so desperately from me?”

  “Nothing.” She tilted her face, throwing her chin up in defiance.

  He smirked as he uncurled his fingers to look at her necklace and the charm that had dangled at the end of it. “I’m surprised, Miss O’Leary. Or should I say Mrs. O’Leary?” He held up the wedding ring that had nestled between her breasts moments before.

  “It was my mother’s.”

  In an instant, he leaned over, trapping her in her chair, his arms on either side of her, caging her in place. Although a thin man, menacing strength emanated from him. “Don’t lie to me. Never to me.”

  She shook at the threat carried in his voice. “Let me go.”

  He moved closer, his whiskey-flavored breath washing over her cheeks. “Never. You owe me, missus.” He traced a finger down her cheek, eliciting a shudder. “Do you react so to Mr. Sullivan’s touch?” She moved as though to push past him, and he pressed on both of her shoulders with the palms of his hands, holding her in place, hard against the back of the chair, her head pinned by his thumb’s hold on her chin. He smiled with satisfaction at the terror reflected in her eyes.

  “I’ll resign.”

  “Do you think anyplace else in this town will hire you? I’ll make sure you are not worthy of anywhere but the Dumas,” he said, referring to one of the brothels in the nearby red light district. He kept one hand on her neck and ran the other over the front of her bodice. “Personally.”

  She jerked as futile tears escaped. “Let me go!” She opened her mouth as if to scream, but he covered it with his palm and shook his head with disappointment.

  “I expected better from you, Miss O’Leary. But then I don’t know why. You are, after all, a woman.” When she stilled underneath his hold, he leaned closer and whispered in her ear, his warm breath provoking more trembling. “A weak, soft, malleable woman.” His hand coursed down her chest to her hip, then back up again to rest on her breast, holding her in place.

  “Here is what you will agree to, my dear. And, if you don’t, or if you think to cross me in any way, you will regret the day you left your lovely Ireland.”

  Fiona sat in the chair, caged by Samuel Sanders, and nodded as tears coursed down her cheeks. She shivered as he whispered in her ear threats to her sister. Her cousin. She recoiled at the pleasure her torment provoked in him as he promised pain and humiliation should she defy him. She shuddered as he licked and then bit the side of her neck. In that moment, she would agree to anything to escape him.

  A few weeks later in early June, Patrick walked into a marginally
less crowded Mile High Bar. He scanned the room for Elias but failed to see him. After obtaining a drink for this evening—a tumbler full of whiskey—Patrick moved again to what he considered his customary place along the rear brick wall. He sipped his whiskey, wincing at the burn and relishing the slow slide to oblivion. Tomorrow was a free day, and, other than a trip to the Columbia Gardens to see a patch of green and breathe fresh air, he had no plans.

  “Do you believe this wall won’t hold itself up if you don’t help it?” Elias asked.

  Patrick focused on him and smiled his welcome. He raised his glass by way of saluting his companion’s dry humor. He’d met Elias a half dozen times in the past few weeks, their friendship slowly solidifying.

  Plain electrical fixtures adorned a nondescript ceiling but provided bright light to the entire bar. The mirror behind the plainly carved long mahogany bar reflected the group of men awaiting their chance to purchase a drink. Casks of whiskey and ale filled the area behind the bar and below the mirror, and bartenders kept a close watch on patrons as they filled orders.

  “Why are you always alone?” Elias asked.

  “I don’t know many people in this town. I have no idea how long I’ll stay.” Patrick shrugged his shoulders.

  “Doesn’t mean you can’t make friends,” Elias argued. “Besides, most who come here believe they’ll only stay a short while before leaving. And then they settle here.”

  “I’ve begun to realize that.” Patrick took another sip of his drink. “I don’t know as I’m the settling type. I’ve moved around too much to ever feel like I belong anywhere.”

  “You have the luxury of being able to put down roots, knowing you have a steady job. Something us miners could only hope for.” Elias gave Patrick a pointed stare. “Find a good woman to settle down with.”

  “Like I said, I’m not sure I’m the settling type.” Patrick thought about Fiona and then shared a grin with Elias. “But I’ll know when it’s time to.”