Tenacious Love (Banished Saga, Book Four): Banished Saga, Book Four (10 page)

“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 stiffened 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.

S
amuel 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.”

* * *

F
iona 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.”

Elias laughed and slapped him on his back. “If it’s that good-looking lady from the gardens I’ve seen you with a few times, you’d be a fool to not become better acquainted with her.”

They stood in companionable silence a while, sipping their drinks.

Patrick broke the silence, saying, “I thought your union was strong. That Butte was a mining town where the miners set down roots and raised families.”

“Not anymore. The union was strong when it was run for the Irish. When Marcus Daly was in town.”

“He’s been dead for years,” Patrick said, taking a sip of whiskey and crossing one leg in front of the other as he leaned against the wall. “Didn’t he die in 1900?”

“Ya, and those of us not from Ireland …” Elias shook his head with disgust. “They refused to strike last year when a group of Finns was fired. Refused to stand up for their own union members.”

“What were they accused of?”

“Being Socialists.”

Patrick smiled wryly. “You can see why the mining companies would be hesitant to have Socialists, eager to wreak havoc wherever they go, working in a mine. They could endanger the lives of many men.” He thought of the daily mine accidents leading to maimings and death. He shook his head as he envisioned a group belowground, intent on causing harm. “I can’t blame the Company for wanting to keep its people safe.”

“Did the union stand up for five hundred of their members when they were fired?” Elias’s eyes blazed. “No. Because they weren’t Irish. Many were fired by their foremen, Irishmen, who didn’t want Finns working with them.”

Patrick frowned and was about to speak but held his tongue as Elias barreled on.

“Has the union demanded that the Company stop using the rustling card system? Of course not. We’re all convinced they helped create the damn thing to keep us in our place and to force us to pay our dues to a union that doesn’t represent us.” He glared at Patrick. “They want to do all they can to help the Irish and keep the rest of us from any position of power.”

“I’m sure it’s more complicated than that,” Patrick murmured.

“Just as I’m sure you don’t want to see it as being that simple—what with a last name like Sullivan.” Elias glared at him.

“Listen, I have no say over anything that happens in the Company.” He frowned, staring into the amber liquid in his glass. “I only accepted the job here as I had hoped it would provide me with a fresh start.”

“Well, if you have any friends who are in higher places, I’d think they’d be worried. The miners are restless, and they aren’t happy.”

Patrick shook his head. “I’d think that would make the miners more uneasy than the mine owners. If you aren’t organized, you have no bargaining ability with the Company.”

Elias snorted. “That’s what the union keeps saying. That we must be a unified group. But they want us unified in their way. The old way. We aren’t willing to accept that.”

“I fear your union may be correct.” Patrick speared Elias with an intense stare. “You splinter that union, and you may well lose all your influence with the Company.”

Elias smiled ruefully and raised his glass to Patrick. “I never thought I’d have a drink with a man who works for them yet encourages me to remain in my union.”

Patrick laughed. “I’ve never been conventional.”

* * *

A
warm breeze blew
, bringing a respite to the day’s even warmer temperature. Men sat on boardinghouse stoops or stood outside the bars to enjoy the evening. Patrick nodded to a few he knew and entered a small café for dinner. He waved off the hostess, moving toward a small booth along one wall. Large windows, opened to the night’s breeze, let in the evening light and fresh air. “Hello, Miss O’Leary,” Patrick said with a grin. He frowned as she jolted at his voice.

She met his gaze, any hint of discomfort replaced with delight at seeing him. “Mr. Sullivan. I was about to order supper. Would you like to join me?”

He nodded his agreement and sat with her. “I’m not certain this is altogether proper,” he said, appearing uncertain.

She laughed. “There’s no concern for my reputation. We’re doing nothing untoward. Times are changing, Mr. Sullivan.” Her cognac-colored eyes shone with amusement. “Why aren’t you eating at your place of lodging? I thought it came with full room and board.”