Free Patrick's Charm (The Bride Train, #2) by E.E. Burke Page B

O’Shea had left her bags by the stairs in the rear of the building where liquor and foodstuffs were stored. She would fetch suitcases and take them upstairs herself. She didn’t require his assistance.
    The storeroom had a distinct odor peculiar to fermented beverages. Canned goods lined the shelves, and on the floor next to casks of beer and whiskey were barrels labeled salt crackers. Greasy sausage links dangled from a nail driven into a beam over her head.
    Her stomach growled. Maybe she could have one of those sausage links. She would prefer potpie, except she would choke on it just thinking about those horrid people who put her out in the street.
    Mr. O’Shea caught up and reached the suitcases before she did. He moved fast, given his limp. His legs were so much longer than hers, he made the distance in half the time.
    “Miss LaBelle...Charm...” He stammered her name.
    She hadn’t seen him so awkward. Embarrassed, perhaps. He ought to be.
    “You ran off before I...” His eyes begged forgiveness. “Here, let me get these suitcases. I’ll show you to your dressing room, and get you something to eat. Don’t want you thinking I starve all my workers.”
    The dimpled smile melted her heart. She restrained her fear, which told her to throw herself into his arms and beg him to promise her to never get into a fight, to never leave her.
    She stared at him, horrified, as a different kind of fear took hold. The devilish man had infected her...with sentimentalism. Something she never suffered from before. Dramatic emotions were reserved for the stage, not real life.
    “After you.” He nodded at the stairs leading into the unknown.
    Her hand trembled and she grasped the railing. The risers behind her creaked and groaned. He followed at an uneven pace. She grew worried. “Are the suitcases too heavy?
    “No...though you weigh less.” Teasing, his way of rebuffing her concern, or deflecting attention away from his infirmity. She didn’t really think of him as infirm. He towered over her, and he looked very strong. Whatever caused his limp didn’t get in his way.
    She found his light-heartedness refreshing and his tenacity admirable. Jealousy, she wouldn’t stand for. He didn’t own her. No one would.
    When she reached the top of the stairs, she hesitated. Afternoon light filtered in through a window at the end of the hall, reflecting off bare walls. Unmarked doors faced each other.
    Mr. O’Shea stepped behind her. His nearness triggered an invisible current that leapt between them. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant or frightening. Just odd. She’d never experienced anything like it.  
    “The room on the left. You can have that one for your dressing room.”
    She gave the knob a twist and pushed the door. A warm breeze flowing between two open windows ruffled curls around her face. The room had simple furnishings: a bed covered by a wool blanket that was folded back over what looked like clean sheets, a washstand with a utilitarian basin and pitcher, and beneath, a chamber pot. Beside the bed stood a small table, and next to that, a straight-back chair. Instead of a wardrobe, a row of pegs were nailed into a board mounted near the door. Nothing fancy, but it afforded more privacy than what she had at the hotel.
    She swallowed to relieve a dry mouth, working up the nerve to ask if he would allow her to stay. Living above a saloon would virtually guarantee she’d be considered a prostitute. What choice did she have? At this point, her reputation was irreparably tarnished.
    He carried her suitcases inside. “Where do you want them?”
    She stared at the bed, trembling. He might assume she wanted to use the room to entertain customers—him being one of them. Her throat tightened and her eyes began to sting. She swallowed, dangerously close to breaking down.
    In hindsight, she might’ve stayed with the other women and tried to negotiate with the railroad agent for more time. That would only delay the inevitable.