Patrick's Charm (The Bride Train, #2) (2 page)

“I saw your advertisement on the side of the building,” she said in a blithe tone that indicated she hadn’t yet noticed how red his face was getting.

Considering the effect she had on him, he had to get rid of her. Just as soon as he worked out what she wanted. “My advertisement?”

Her lips twisted in a wry smile. “I supposed it was yours. Someone wrote, “Female entertainers wanted.”

“Oh, that...yeah, that’s mine. I wrote it...” He caught himself before he kept blabbing on like a fool. Maybe the medicine he took earlier combined with the whiskey had fogged his brain.

“Good.” She brightened up after he claimed responsibility. “Then I’m talking to the right person.”

“The right person?” He still didn’t know why she was here, although now he recognized her as one of the women who had arrived on the bride train earlier in the month. That didn’t explain why she would come to the saloon to talk to him about a sign he put up—unless she had an objection. That had to be it. She was one of those busybodies who liked to tell folks what they could and couldn’t do.

He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned down at her. “Are you here to tell me I shouldn’t be hiring women?”

Confusion flashed across her face, replaced by a look of amusement. “No, Mr. O'Shea...I'm here to apply for the job.”

***

C
harm waited for the Irishman who owned the bar to speak again. His speechless reaction didn’t surprise her. Employers didn’t look at her and think
female entertainer
. More like,
underage innocent
.

Mr. O’Shea didn’t look his part, either. Rather than wearing nice woolen trousers and a colorful vest, beneath the bartender’s apron he had on denim and duck cloth. No neatly groomed mustache, either. His face sprouted an unkempt beard. He resembled his rough-looking clientele.

She cast a wary look around, beginning to question her spontaneous decision to inquire about the job. Like most saloons out west, the walls were adorned with the heads and horns of dead animals and amateur paintings of scantily clad women. The air smelled of stale beer, cigar smoke and a musky odor she associated with men who bathed infrequently.

The owner, at least, appeared to be clean.

She’d worked in worse places, and this job at least fit her skills, and it was better than an unwanted marriage, which would be her fate if she didn’t find some other way to support herself. Disregarding her misgivings, she met Mr. O’Shea’s bewildered gaze, and was struck by the unusual color of his eyes, an intriguing blend of blue and green. His best feature, perhaps. Though it was hard to tell with a beard covering half his face.

He still hadn’t spoken, which might mean he’d already hired someone and wasn’t sure how to tell her. She sincerely hoped that wasn’t the case. “Is the position still available?”

Some emotion flickered in his eyes, which might’ve been interpreted as panic, except that didn’t make sense. “No.”

“No, it’s not available?”

“No, you’re not right for the job.”

His blunt rejection caught her off guard. Now what? Signing on as a bride had seemed a clever ruse, until she’d realized she was stuck in an uncivilized settlement with no other means of support. She had run from one danger straight into another. Would she be forced to go from saloon to saloon, begging for work, or worse, accept a stranger’s proposal?

The implications of her tenuous situation triggered an avalanche of emotion, and her eyes began to burn. Horrified, she blinked furiously. Real tears? She hadn’t cried real tears for ages, much less in front of a stranger who knew nothing—and didn’t care—about her predicament.

Alarm registered on his face. He raised his hands, the universal gesture of helplessness men used when confronted with a weeping woman. “Oh no...no miss, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to give offense, truly. This...this isn’t the sort of job you think it is.”

His meaning became clear. Heat flooded her face. Angered at being duped, she lost her patience. “Are you saying your sign is a thinly veiled notice for prostitutes? If so, I will insist you change it so as not to lure another innocent woman into your—”

“No!” Above the beard, his cheekbones reddened. He cast a worried look over his shoulder. The customers had turned away from their cards and conversations to watch them, some with curiosity, others with amusement.

Charm enjoyed being on stage but not being gawked at when she wasn’t performing. Ignoring the stares, she held the embarrassed owner’s gaze, her anger fading. As she had first suspected, she didn’t fit the image of what he thought a female entertainer should look like and that accounted for his remark about her not being right for the job. What a relief to hear he wasn’t running a brothel. “What type of entertainer are you looking for?”

“O’Shea! What’s a man gotta do to get a drink around here?” The shout came from a man in dusty denims standing at the bar. Rather, weaving. He didn’t need another drink.

The owner turned with an imploring look. “See here, Miss. This isn’t a place for the likes of nice young ladies like you. I’m sure you’ll find yourself a husband without having to entertain anybody...and I need to get back to my customers, so...” He took a step backwards and made a shooing motion with his hands before he turned and strode away, leaving her standing there, slack-jawed.

The finest theaters from San Francisco to St. Louis had clamored for her to appear, and this uncouth Irishman running a shabby saloon out in the middle of nowhere had just shooed her away like he would a stray cat.  

Seething, she followed him and spoke to his back as he reached for a bottle on one of the lower shelves behind the bar. “You did not answer my question, sir.”

He spun at her remark. That she’d startled him was evidenced by the way he fumbled the bottle, just catching it before it dropped. He set it on the counter with a thud.

The impatient customer stared at her without recognition.

O’Shea didn’t recognize her, either, which was a good thing. She’d changed her name, and it seemed unlikely the men out here on the edge of nowhere would’ve seen her perform.

“What sort of entertainer do you require?” she repeated.

The owner propped his hands on his hips, frowning. “I need dancers. Singers.
Saloon girls
.” He emphasized the last to make sure she understood.

She didn’t appreciate being treated like she was dimwitted. “I can sing and dance, and I play the banjo. I’m also a good actress and can put on skits. If you hire me, I assure you, your customers will be entertained...and you won’t need any
saloon girls
.”

Charm hesitated, looking around. There were no other servers. She’d better clarify. “Unless you need to hire women to serve drinks. I don’t do that.”

The sandy-haired farmer slammed his hat on the surface on the bar and dust went flying. “I say, hire the gal.”

O’Shea poured a drink and held out his hand. The customer slapped a coin into his palm. “Thank you, Mr. McLaughlin, for your informed opinion.”

“Glad to be of service—” The bleary-eyed patron let out a loud burp. He grinned at her. “S’cuse me miss. I should introduce myself. Bill McLaughlin, head organizer for the Land League.”

O’Shea put his hand on the bar in between her and McLaughlin. The gesture appeared strangely protective. “If you would give us a moment...”

“Oh, sure...” Mr. McLaughlin touched his fingers to his forehead in a drunken salute and staggered back to a table where the other men clapped him on the back. Perhaps he’d been put up to the interruption.

The owner turned to her with a frown. “Look, miss...”

“Labelle.” He hadn’t bothered to ask.

“Miss Labelle. I’m sure you sing pretty, but what I’m looking for is...” He droned on with a tedious repetition. There would be no convincing him by listing her qualifications. A try-out would be easier if his establishment had a stage, but she could manage without.

She hoisted herself up on the bar. Fortunately, her acrobatic training had made her strong and agile.

“What are you doing?” He swiped at her skirts. She hopped out of his way, to the end of the bar. Fortunately, he wasn’t quick. In fact, he appeared to have a limp. That wouldn’t stop him from dragging her off the bar if she didn’t do something to impress him.

Facing the crowd, she broke out in a rousing song she suspected Mr. O’Shea had heard before, if he hadn’t sung it himself.

“My name is Tim McDonald, I'm a native of the Isle,

I was born among old Erin's bogs when I was but a child.

My father fought in 'Ninety-eight for liberty so dear;

He fell upon old Vinegar Hill, like an Irish volunteer.

Then raise the harp of Erin, boys, the flag we all revere—

We'll fight and fall beneath its folds, like Irish volunteers!”

The customers, after staring at her for a moment, began to clap along. A few men leapt up and joined in, singing. One man even climbed on a table. He held out his arms to her, as if he wanted a hug.

A thrill shot through her and her spirits soared, the feeling she always experienced when bathed in the adulation of a crowd. Warming to the role, she bent down, took an empty glass from a surprised customer and held it high, doing a jig while she sang.

“When I was driven from my home by an oppressor's hand,

I cut my sticks and greased my brogues, and came o'er to this land.

I found a home and many friends, and some that I love dear.

Be jabbers! I'll stick to them like bricks and an Irish volunteer.

Then fill your glasses up, me boys, and drink a hearty cheer,

To the land of our adoption and the Irish volunteer!”

The men cheered and stomped as she sang. The man on the table began to do the jig along with her. When she finished, she took a flourishing bow, and then hopped off the bar—right into Mr. O’Shea’s arms.

Her heart, already pounding, sped up. She stared at him, more surprised by her shivering response than by his quick reflexes. This hadn’t been part of the plan. She wouldn’t willingly jump into any man’s arms, much less a stranger’s.

The men cheered louder. Coins plinked on the bar as they threw money and yelled for another song.

Her skin grew warm and the thrill heightened, a physical response due to the crowd’s enthusiastic response, of course. Not the result of being cradled in the arms of a surly Irish saloonkeeper with eyes that reminded her of the sea on a sunny day.

What was she thinking? She didn’t care about the color of his eyes. The impromptu ending had worked out perfectly. She would continue the act to its conclusion. Looping her arms around his neck, she put on a big smile. “I think that qualifies as entertainment, don’t you?”

––––––––

P
atrick breathed heavily, and it wasn’t due to exertion. The little singer in his arms weighed less than a cask of cider, and sure didn’t feel like one. He’d feared she might hurt herself when she jumped off the bar, but even that didn’t account for the pounding excitement in his chest.

The song, that’s what caused this reaction.
The Irish Volunteer
was the last song he and his brother sang together, while marching through the mud on the way to Fredericksburg. Hearing it again in a strong, beautiful voice had shaken him to the core.

“When do I start?” Miss LaBelle asked breathlessly.

Patrick looked into her flushed, smiling face, and the words needed to send her on her way stuck in his throat. When she had finished singing and then leapt as if she expected him to catch her, he’d reacted instinctively. She might’ve planned for this, thinking to manipulate him into doing her bidding. That was something Kathleen would’ve done.

By the auld sod!
He wouldn’t be twisted around another woman’s little finger.

He dropped his right arm and Miss Labelle’s feet hit the floor. He kept his left arm around her until he was certain she had her balance. Then he stepped back.

A coin struck the side of his head and bounced off. He sought the culprit with a scowl.

Every man was on his feet.

“Let her sing, dummkopf!” a Dutchman shouted.

“Hire the girl, you fool!” McLaughlin heaved another coin. Patrick raised his hand and caught this one.

“Sing for us, darlin’!” a drunken railroad worker howled.

They loved her. They loved her so much they were throwing money. Patrick came to his senses. He’d be a fool to send her away. The odds of finding another woman who could sing and dance like this one were nil. This was the break in the clouds he’d been waiting for, even if he couldn’t quite believe his...

No, he wouldn’t call it
luck
. That would jinx him for sure.

He leaned over and whispered. “You can start right now.”

Her lips curved into a pleased smile.

“What’s your given name, Miss LaBelle?”

“Charm.”

His breath caught somewhere just above his pounding heart. It was a sign so obvious even he couldn’t miss it. Finally, the day had come. Luck was smiling on him.

If he hired this girl and customers kept throwing money, he could soon afford to fix up the place. O’Shea’s would become known as the best spot in the Neutral Lands for entertainment. He would be rich and successful, like he’d dreamed when he first stepped off the boat in America, before he got lured into fighting a war that wasn’t his and his life had gone to hell. Some higher power—God, Fate, Luck, maybe they were all one and the same—had decided he’d suffered enough and had granted him a charm.

He reached over, grasped her hand and held it up. Turning to the crowd, he shouted. “Meet Miss Charm LaBelle, O’Shea’s new entertainer!”

Enthusiastic cheers went up.

She glanced over with approval shining in her eyes, and his heart melted like warm butter.

Alarmed at her affect on him, he let go of her hand.

Charm sashayed around to the front of the bar and began to croon a familiar ballad that Patrick had heard around crackling campfires in the loneliest hours of the night. More than five years had passed since those hellish times, but hearing
Lorena
brought it all back in a rush.