The True Love Wedding Dress (36 page)

“Shh,” Patrick tried, to no avail. Not knowing what else to do, he gathered her into his arms and pressed her face against his chest to muffle the noise.

To his surprise, she went limp against him and continued to sob her heart out. Patrick had held his sister a few times while she cried, so he was no stranger to the ritual. He ran his hand into Faith’s hair, tightened his hold on her, and whispered nonsensical words of comfort while swaying to and fro. She felt right in his arms, he realized, as if she’d been made to fit, her head hitting him at the hollow of his shoulder, her breasts nestling sweetly just under his ribs.

When she finally quieted, she gave an exhausted sigh, turned her head to press her damp cheek over his heart, and closed her eyes.

“You lied to me, Mr. O’Shannessy,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry. It seemed like the thing to do at the time.”

“No, no, I don’t mean about that. You told me”—her voice went thin and shaky again—“that you weren’t a gentleman.”

Patrick mentally circled that. Before he could collect his thoughts to reply, she added, “You are, without question, a gentleman, sir—the finest that I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet.”

Patrick didn’t much care about how he stacked up as a gentleman. “Just say you’ll stay here, Faith.”

“It’s unfair to you,” she squeaked. “I’m completely useless, even”—broken sob—“at
this
.”

“At
this
?” Patrick wasn’t sure what she meant.

“Yes. You know.” She flapped a hand at the bed. “I’m not fleshy the way men like, and I am completely inept as a lover. Harold said so.”

“Harold?”

“My late husband,” she said with a sniff, prompting Patrick to fish in his pocket for a handkerchief.

“Here, sweetheart.” When she took the square of cloth and gave it a peering look, he quickly added, “It’s clean.”

She blew her nose with far more daintiness than she had exhibited while crying, which made him smile. Of all the sounds he might have expected this lady to make, last on the list was the first half of a donkey bray.

After dabbing under her eyes, she hauled in a shaky breath, gulped, and cut him an embarrassed glance with tear-swollen eyes. “You must think me a complete flibbertigibbet.”

“Nah.” He thought she was far too beautiful for her own good, and possibly his as well. “I think you’ve been through a hell of a time and finally just sprang a leak. Everybody needs a good cry sometimes.”

As he spoke, he led her over to sit on the edge of his bed. To his surprise, she slumped onto the mattress, let her head fall back, and sighed wearily as she closed her eyes. She was so lovely, even with swollen eyes and a puffy mouth, that it took all of his control not to touch her again.

“Everyone should have at least one talent,” she whispered. “What is mine?”

Patrick curled his hands over his knees and bit down hard on his back teeth. He could think of several things she might be good at, but he refrained from naming them. “You helped make butter today. And you gathered eggs and slopped the hogs.”

She smiled, straightened, and lifted her long, wet lashes to give him a wondering look that made his bones feel like pudding. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Before you know it, you’ll be a fine housekeeper.” Forcing his mind to more practical concerns, Patrick considered the situation. “I’ll tell you what. If you’re really that concerned about this arrangement being fair to me, you can work without pay until you’ve learned how to do everything. In the meantime, you’ll be helping out enough around here to earn your room and board.”

Tears sprang to her eyes again.

“Don’t cry.” He’d always felt panicky when women cried. Why, he didn’t know, but there it was.

She shook her head and blinked. “Normally I’m not given to weeping, Mr. O’Shannessy. It’s just that you’re such a surprise.”

“Not a dock ruffian, after all?”

She smiled tremulously. “No, not a dock ruffian. How will I ever repay you for your kindness?”

Again, he could think of several ways, which he immediately banished from his mind. He had asked her to remain here to save her from lechery, not to subject her to it. “You can start by calling me Patrick. I don’t much like my surname.”

“Why ever not? It’s a lovely surname.”

The question sobered him and helped to get his mind off the way her breasts thrust against her shift. “It came from my father, and he was a bastard.”

“There’s so much pain in your voice when you speak of him. Whatever did he do to make you hate him so?”

Patrick chucked her under the chin and pushed up from the bed. “We can tell each other our life stories another time. It’s late.” He gave her a slow grin. “When there is time to talk, I’ll be particularly interested to hear how you ended up married to a blind man.”

“Harold wasn’t blind.”

“Oh, yes, he was, darlin’, stone blind, and stupid to boot.”

 

In the not so distant past, Faith never would have thought it possible for her to become friends with a man like Patrick O’Shannessy. But that was exactly what transpired over the next month. They met before dawn in the kitchen each morning to prepare breakfast, he the teacher, she the student, and always, always, the lessons were fun. Patrick showed her how to crack an egg using only one hand, a feat that she never mastered. He also tried to show her how to flip a flapjack high into the air. When Faith tried to do it, everyone dived for cover.

“Darlin’,” he said after retrieving a half-cooked flapjack from the kitchen floor and tossing it into the slop bucket, “the idea is to land it in the skillet.”

Faith wondered how he could expect her to learn much of anything when he always looked so distractingly wonderful. Freshly scrubbed and shaven, in clean jeans and a work shirt, with his wavy hair still damp from the washbasin, Patrick O’Shannessy was enough to make any female’s heart skip beats. Sometimes when their hands accidentally touched, Faith’s fingertips felt electrified. At other times, the husky timbre of his voice near her ear set her heart to pounding so loudly that she felt certain he might hear it.

After breakfast each morning, they adjourned outdoors, where Faith learned about the goings-on in a barnyard. Charity was not excluded during Faith’s training.

“Someday, sweetheart, you’ll need to know how to milk a cow,” Patrick pronounced, and the next thing Faith knew, her little girl was sitting on a tripod. “Excellent!” Patrick said when Charity succeeded at the task. “I’ll make a country girl out of you yet.”

It was Faith who proved to be a slow learner. Unlike her daughter, city ways had been ingrained in her for a full twenty-two years. She trembled with fright the first few times she went near a cow. Eggs covered with green excrement made her gorge rise. The hogs intimidated her. And, after encountering a snake one afternoon, she ran into the house and refused to come out again.

“Honey, it was only a harmless garden snake,” Patrick assured her.

“A snake is a snake is a
snake
!”

Faith couldn’t gather the courage to go back outdoors until evening, whereupon Patrick schooled her in identifying serpents while they milked the cows. “The only dangerous snakes we have in these parts are rattlesnakes,” he assured her, “and they’re real good about warning you before they bite. Also bear in mind that they’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

Faith seriously doubted that. Even so, she found herself falling in love, not only with the man but with his ranch as well. Living with Patrick was like being released from prison. Back east, she’d had to concern herself with appearances her every waking moment. Ladies dressed in a certain way. Ladies walked in a certain way. Ladies spoke in a certain way. Rules governed every occasion.

In Colorado, Faith could forget all that, and she felt gloriously free for the first time in her life. She could go for long walks with her daughter to pick wildflowers in the heat of the day, unconcerned about the sweat that filmed her brow or the freckles that might appear on her nose. She could snort when she laughed. She could yell when she grew angry. She could even strip off her shoes and stockings to go wading in a stream without fear of reprisal.

To her surprise, she didn’t mind the hard work that came with her newfound freedom. She felt a wonderful sense of accomplishment when each day was done. She actually liked to cook, once she got the hang of it. Making butter and cheese proved to be easy. She soon grew relaxed around the barnyard animals. And there was nothing so satisfying as to stand inside Patrick’s home, feeling proud as punch because every room was sparkling clean.

That wasn’t to say that she never made mistakes. One morning Patrick entered the kitchen in a shirt that hung from his torso in tatters. “Stub your toe when you were putting in the lye?” he asked.

Faith was horrified. She rushed across the kitchen, gathered some of the shirt material in her fingers, and gasped in dismay when it fell apart at her touch. “Oh, Patrick, I’m ever so sorry.”

“No matter. I needed new shirts, anyway.” He gave her a mischievous grin. “Tomorrow we’ll go into town and buy some yardage.” He glanced down at her threadbare dress, his gaze lingering overlong on the bodice. “It’s high time that you and Charity had some decent dresses, as well.”

“But I can’t sew!”

“You can learn.”

 

True to his word, Patrick hitched up the wagon the next afternoon, and off the three of them went to town. En route, his arm frequently grazed Faith’s, scrambling her thoughts and making her acutely aware of him on the seat beside her. Though she tried to keep her gaze fixed straight ahead, she found herself admiring his muscular forearms, displayed to best advantage by his rolled-back shirtsleeves, his thick, masculine wrists, and his large, capable hands.

What would it be like, she wondered, to have those hands touching her?

“It’s a gorgeous day, isn’t it?”

Faith jumped with a guilty start and blinked the countryside back into focus. “Yes, it’s lovely,” she agreed.

He slipped her an amused glance that made her wonder if he could somehow read her mind. The very thought made her cheeks go hot with mortification. Taking herself firmly in hand, she forced her mind onto the shopping trip that lay ahead.

After purchasing the fabric, Patrick took Faith and Charity for ice cream, a treat that Faith had despaired of ever enjoying again.

“Yum!” Charity said as she licked her spoon. “I could eat this all day.”

Faith couldn’t help but smile. “It is delicious. Thank you, Patrick.”

He glanced over just as she touched her tongue to the ice cream perched on her spoon, and his eyes, normally a deep, twinkling azure, went as hot as the blue base of a flame. “You’re welcome,” he replied in a gravelly voice.

Faith quickly broke visual contact, but not before her hands went suddenly clumsy, causing her to drop her spoon on the floor. When she bent to retrieve it, Patrick did as well, and their heads bumped, making white stars flash before her eyes.

“Oh, damn, I’m sorry.” He reached out to steady her, his hand curling over her upper arm. Faith jumped at his touch as if it had burned her. “Are you all right?”

Faith nodded, but in truth she was far from feeling all right. Being around this man wreaked havoc with her common sense. She wasn’t a young girl, fresh out of short skirts and her hair still in pigtails. She’d been married for five long years and had hated every minute of it. The last thing she wanted was to be under a man’s thumb again.

Only somehow she sensed it would be different with Patrick. The touch of Harold’s hand had never set her heart to pounding. And to her recollection, he’d never made her laugh. More important, he never would have thought to buy her ice cream simply because she loved it.

“Let me get you a clean spoon.”

Faith shook her head. “No, no. Thank you for offering, but I’ve had enough.”

“But you’ve hardly touched it,” he pointed out.

Faith felt a sudden need to escape the restaurant and get some fresh air. Luckily, Charity had gobbled down her ice cream with unbridled enthusiasm, and they were able to leave.

After paying their bill, Patrick joined them on the boardwalk. Her stomach jittery with nerves, Faith hurried Charity along in front of them, anxious to get back to the ranch where she might find some time alone to get her feelings sorted out. And sort them out she would. Her reactions to this man were beyond silly; they were downright ludicrous.

Up ahead of them, in front of the general store, there sat a large crate. As they drew closer, Faith saw that it contained puppies, darling little things with brown and white splotches and huge, floppy ears. A sign tacked to the side slats of the crate read, FREE TO A GOOD HOME.

“Oh, aren’t they sweet?” Faith said.

Charity had long wanted a dog of her own. With a squeal of delight, she dropped to her knees and leaned over the crate. One of the puppies jumped up to lick the sticky remains of ice cream from the child’s face. Charity laughed. “Oh, Maman!” she cried. “Please say I can have one.
Please?
”

“Oh, darling, I’m sorry. Perhaps one day soon.”

Patrick gave Faith an inquiring look. “Why can’t she have a pup now? There’s plenty of running room out at my place. It’ll give her a playmate.”

Faith was stunned by the offer. “But a puppy must eat.”

His lean cheek creased in a grin. “Yeah, I reckon so. Most dogs do.”

“No, Patrick. You’ve already done so much.”

Ignoring her protests, Patrick crouched beside Charity. “Which one do you want, sweet pea?”

“This one,” Charity cried. “He likes ice cream.” Patrick nodded. “He’s the boldest and friendliest, too. If I were doing the choosin’, he’s the one I’d pick. Gather him up.”

“Truly?” Charity’s eyes went wide with excitement and incredulity. She hugged the puppy close, beaming an adoring smile. “You mean he’s mine?”