Longing for Julia, page 5
The place looked like one of those traveling fairs Ryan had seen once in England, with Julia standing in the middle. A monkey, yes, a monkey, was squealing from the rafters and zipping above everyone’s heads. The thin, blond scarecrow in a plaid cap who called himself a reporter was seated at a desk in the far corner, taking down dictation from an old gent sitting with his back to Ryan.
Julia stood behind the counter facing a group of six men, some hollering for stacks of newspapers to distribute. Two or three others, judging by their pointed comments, seemed more interested in her as a potential wife.
The hair around her face was moist from the afternoon heat. The vertical pleats of her blouse billowed over her chest and tapered softly into her waistband.
It wasn’t Ryan’s fault that Julia had fallen so hard for him in her youth. They’d never talked about their sentiments. She had always just been there, like a comfortable friend in her grandpa’s saloon, whenever Ryan needed a drink or a friendly ear. He had figured she listened in that same attentive way to all the men she’d served. He’d witnessed it with his own eyes. She had a way of noticing what every person in the room said, then coming back with a sentence or two of encouragement precisely when a man needed it. Those were the same qualities that likely made her a good reporter now.
Ryan had never considered her for marriage back then, and his past behavior shamed him. Now, marriage didn’t even enter his thoughts.
When he’d been younger, he’d thought that barmaids were…well, friendly to everyone. It shamed him now to think he hadn’t thought of her as simply a woman who had needs and desires and aspirations of her own. He’d been selfish and irresponsible and blind to everyone. It had surprised him that she’d been a virgin before they’d met. Quite frankly, he hadn’t known how to handle it. Later, after he’d bedded her, he had done what he’d always done when things scared him. He ran.
He was back to face all his shortcomings, in all their blazing glory. As a promise to the late Adam Willeby.
Julia glanced up from the notepaper she was writing on and finally noticed Ryan. As her eyes met his, he thought of that burning kiss back in his hotel room, and vowed he wouldn’t do it again.
She excused herself from the other men, slid out from behind the counter and approached Ryan.
He was the first to speak. His words were honest. “I hope you pick out a good man.”
Her eyebrows pinched together. “There do seem to be plenty to choose from.”
There was a fight in her voice and it rankled him. Years ago, she’d been more carefree, easy to bring to laughter, never uttering a harsh word.
What had happened to the quiet Julia Adare? She was now Julia O’Shea. Ryan wondered how much of her current anger had to do with him and how much with her circumstances. Because of their family history, he’d tried to keep his visits to the bar a secret from his own family. That is, until that night when it’d blown up in his face.
He hoped that as Julia aged, she wouldn’t turn into one of those bitter old women. He had a mind to tell her so, but didn’t want to be shown the door. After his run-in with the banker and the two Zefield brothers, Ryan was thinking that explaining his side of things in her newspaper might soothe some ruffled feathers in town. It couldn’t hurt. And so he would wait patiently while she finished with her suitors.
She planted her hands on her hips. “I’m surprised you’re here, after our last discussion.”
“The shove, you mean?” He expected her to look away, or tell him to hush his voice, or do anything to indicate she was as troubled by her own reaction to the kiss as he’d been by his, but she didn’t flick an eyelash.
“It was well warranted, don’t you think?”
He grumbled silently to himself. She was so much tougher than she used to be.
“If you don’t mind having a seat,” Julia said, pointing to the two empty chairs by the open door, “David should be right with you. He’s working on an advertisement for the preacher and should be finished soon.”
“The preacher?” The man had his back turned, so Ryan couldn’t see his face.
“He has some hogs he’d like to sell.”
Ryan lowered his gaze to his hands, fingering the brim of his cowboy hat, feeling oddly disappointed that David, not Julia, would be finishing his interview. Seeing her again was as comforting as it was painful. “I’ll sit right here like a good schoolboy.”
“You were never a good schoolboy.”
Amused, he sauntered to the chairs and sank onto one. “I’ll try my hardest. Good luck with your own—” Ryan glanced past her hips to the lineup “—endeavors. If you need any help choosing someone, I’d be glad to assist.”
Pursing her lips, Julia returned to the counter as Ryan crossed one booted foot over the other. He was glad he wasn’t in the running. It was ridiculous for these men to have to stand in line as if they were ordering sausages at a fair.
The minutes passed slowly. Two of her would-be suitors—ranchers, it seemed—left, while one remained. He was dressed in a clean business suit, so he obviously worked in town as opposed to a ranch. Ryan didn’t recognize any of them and was happy no one recognized him.
He stretched his legs again, trying to get comfortable on the wooden seat. No sir, he wasn’t interested in marriage. He enjoyed his life unsettled. In his travels, he’d witnessed a lot of marriages, and the bad ones all had one thing in common—two terribly unhappy people forced to stay together for the sake of appearances. Ryan, in contrast, thrived on constant change. Always had. His ability to deal with evolving circumstances, a changing battlefront, life-and-death decisions, had toughened him to the point that very little could get beneath his skin to hurt. He’d be utterly bored staying put for too long.
When the preacher walked by, Ryan stood up and nodded. He recognized the old guy.
“Reverend Dickens, how are you?”
The white-haired gent in a clean blue shirt stooped forward. “Ryan, my boy? Goodness, is that you?”
Praise the stars, a friendly reaction from someone.
“Yes, sir.”
“When did you get back into town?”
“A few hours ago.”
“That means you’ve missed your folks.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, we need to catch up, don’t we? Cleanse your soul, so to speak.” The reverend laughed. Ryan didn’t. The man always had a talkative nature. Frankly, he talked too much. “What say we have supper one evening and I can fill you in on your mother’s illness—”
“My mother?” Ryan’s heart nearly stopped.
“Isn’t that why you’re home?”
“No, I haven’t heard. What’s wrong with my mother?”
“She had a stroke five months ago, but is near to full recovery.”
Ryan couldn’t speak for the sorrow that gripped him.
“Tell you what,” said the reverend. “Why don’t we make it supper tonight? The owner of the fancy hotel, the Picadilly, keeps inviting me for a complimentary meal on account of a favor I did for his daughter. Why, just this morning at breakfast service, he was telling me he got in his annual shipment of lobster. It goes fast. It always does. Why don’t we meet at the Picadilly, say around five-thirty?”
Ryan nodded in agreement, still unable to speak due to his concern for his mother, but the minister didn’t seem to notice as he left the shop.
Slumping in his chair, Ryan took several moments to compose himself. He had lived life to the fullest while he’d been away, but so had everyone else in town. Life had gone on without him. If his mother had passed away…Ryan wouldn’t even have known.
He was brought out of his trance by the sight of a little boy moving around the shop—the kid he’d seen earlier from the hotel window. Ryan watched the boy weave in and out between David’s desk and the chairs. The child started playing with some pencils and ink pads as David rose from his seat and looked at Ryan.
“I’ll fetch us each a glass of cool water and be right back to talk to you,” the reporter said. He also mumbled something to the kid, so Ryan assumed he was his son.
The boy was just as skinny, with a similar ruddy complexion. About seven or eight years old, he was barefoot, wearing overalls, with shaggy brown hair and protruding ears. But when he stepped back and glanced up, Ryan was nearly blown out of his seat. The boy was a young duplicate of Brandon O’Shea. He had the same lopsided dimple, the same large ears, the same clump of brown hair, the same hesitant way of sizing up a stranger.
Struggling with the sight of his dead friend’s child, Ryan cast a look in Julia’s direction. Her son. Hers and Brandon’s.
Life had gone on without Ryan. He’d never been struck by such a pang of emptiness. It was more than he could handle. It was just…a shock. Rising to his feet, he took an unsteady step toward the door.
“Hey, Doc,” David called from behind him. “Where you going?”
“We can finish up another time. You can find me tomorrow morning at the fort. I’m headed there now to check in.”
Ryan didn’t turn, but he heard a quick shuffling of feet behind him. “But I brought you a glass—”
He swung around at the same instant that a fist sailed through the air. Ryan ducked just in time to miss the old man’s punch.
“Back for more, are you, you piece of filth?” Flanagan Adare, Julia’s Irish grandfather, of medium height but as thick and gnarled as an old pine tree, stood panting beside Ryan. “Couldn’t get enough the first time around?”
“Grandpa!” Julia hollered from behind the counter. Her sole remaining suitor stared. “Grandpa, don’t hit him, please.” She raced to Ryan’s side.
“Flanagan,” said Ryan, “hold your horses. I’m not back to cause trouble.”
The old man lowered his fists. “I don’t care your reason why. Get out.” Flanagan stared at Ryan’s missing earlobe. “I see that other folks feel the same way I do about you.”
“Some.”
“The bright ones.”
“You’re still in top form, Flanagan.”
“Ryan,” said Julia. “You better go.”
“Some women might be easy to fool,” said her grandfather, “but you’re never goin’ to con your way past these old eyes again.”
“I give you my word,” Ryan said to the old man. “I’ll keep my distance from her.”
“Your word is worthless. You left her to die. Julia was ill with scarlet fever three months. She was all I had left in the world, and you left her to die.”
Ryan felt as though someone had kicked him in the ribs. She’d contracted scarlet fever? By the trembling of her mouth, he knew it was the truth. He had no idea.
“Sir, sir,” David said to the old man, setting down his water glasses and racing to Ryan’s side as he returned from the back room. “I invited him here. This man’s a surgeon. He served in the British Army and is now an officer with the Mounted Police.”
Flanagan stared at Ryan, his white hair and whiskers stark against his suntanned skin. “It doesn’t make him a better man. He is what he’s always been.”
Ryan shook his head in disappointment. The haunting brown eyes of Brandon O’Shea’s boy followed him. Shame of a kind Ryan had never felt before permeated every inch of him.
How was a man supposed to catch up with ten years of regret?
Flanagan didn’t relent. “You’ve had your look. Now get out.”
CHAPTER 5
Humiliated. That’s how Julia felt all afternoon as she finished up in the print shop. Folks in town who weren’t supposed to know that she and the black sheep of the mighty Reid family were connected—or rather, had been in the past—now detected something worthy of gossip.
The fact that Grandpa had tried to punch the new surgeon was somewhat of a bonus for the wagging tongues. The news tore through town faster than the wildfires taking root in the foothills. Julia heard the whispering at the bank when she delivered her newspapers. She felt the stares at the market when she traded in her crate of tin scraps for two turnips. She dodged questions from her neighbor, old Mrs. Perkins, in the backyard while she pegged her laundry to the line. Julia refused to tell them a blessed thing. As for Grandpa’s unexpected swing, she couldn’t blame him.
Her son was someone she’d never dodge, so when Pete started asking questions while she prepared for her evening out with Mr. Shapiro, Julia found herself struggling to answer.
“Who was the man Grandpa tried to hit?” Pete glanced up at her while she brushed her long hair at the hallway mirror. He was short for his age, and sometimes it concerned her whether he was getting enough to eat.
“Someone we knew a long time ago.”
Pete scooped one of her shiny hairpins off the rickety wooden stand. He spoke matter-of-factly, but Julia heard the masked curiosity in his voice. “Grandpa hates him.”
“Could you hand me that, please?” Hoping to distract Pete, Julia asked him to hand her the tortoiseshell comb. It had been her mother’s in Ireland, something she’d said brought her luck whenever she’d worn it. Julia hoped for luck tonight with Mr. Shapiro. She’d decided on her newly washed navy skirt and navy blouse. The color was as subdued as the dark colors Mr. Shapiro usually wore. Yet, set against her skin, gave life to her complexion.
Pete placed the comb in her palm. “What did the man do?”
How could she explain it to a child? She shifted her weight to her other leg, suddenly aware how constricting her corset felt. Before she left this evening, she must remember to loosen it. “He was very rude to me when we knew each other.”
“Then I hate him, too.”
Pete’s protective nature always brought out her tender side. “Don’t say hate…it’s an awful word.”
“But he’s an awful man.” Pete’s gaze deepened. “Isn’t he?”
She brushed her hair harder. The sound of bristles running through it swished in her ears.
“Isn’t he, Ma?”
She yanked her hair back so tightly that it hurt. “Well, he wasn’t nice.”
“Is it true he’s a doctor?”
Julia anchored the comb then lowered her arms. “It’s true.”
“How come a doctor treated you so bad—”
“Listen to me, Pete.” She placed the brush on the stand and sank down to her son’s level. “Just because someone holds a high position, or dresses well, or has a pocketful of money to show you, doesn’t mean that person is nice. You have to be careful around people like that. Sometimes the folks who seem to have everything can…can treat you the worst.”
Pete absorbed her words.
“And,” she added, “just because someone else has tattered clothes or can’t afford a fancy haircut, or was born with poor looks, doesn’t mean they’re bad. Do you understand?”
“I guess so.”
Julia’s stomach growled, reminding her how hungry she was, and making Pete giggle.
“Let’s forget about all this gloom and go find Grandpa. He promised you a game of checkers, while I get to see what it looks like behind the fancy brass doors of the Picadilly.”
Julia hugged her son close, then kissed his cheek and rose to her feet. He’d always be her main concern.
She gave herself one last inspection in the mirror. She hadn’t had a lot of time to pull herself together—no fancy braiding of hair or soaking in the tub—but she was presentable. She marveled at how effective her advertisement for a husband had already been, bringing in four possible suitors, and wondered what this evening would hold. Her life had certainly come a long way since her first disastrous involvement with Ryan Reid.
They entered the crowded dining room at precisely five minutes past six. Mr. Shapiro was wearing one of his dark navy suits, and Julia took it as a sign of good luck that they were both wearing the same color. A perfect match, in her happy opinion. He’d been right on time. She appreciated a man who didn’t make her wait. Ryan had never thought it important to tell anyone when he was coming or going.
Julia swept the dull thought of Ryan out of her mind, vowing to concentrate on the more intelligent man standing beside her.
“A table for two, Stewart,” Mr. Shapiro said to the head waiter. “Something intimate and quiet where we can talk.”
His talk of intimacy caused a ripple to roll right up Julia’s spine. She took the opportunity to boldly tuck her arm under his elbow, indicating her approval. Looking a bit shocked at her forthright gesture, Mr. Shapiro grinned awkwardly and patted her hand. Then he quickly disentangled himself, sweeping the air in front of him to indicate she should walk ahead, following the waiter.
Feeling somewhat rebuffed, Julia tiptoed across the plush Oriental carpeting, around the seated customers, past candlelit tables, imported English cutlery and the piano player in the corner, to reach their secluded booth. Fine-grain leather met her fingertips as she slid to the window.
She was hoping Mr. Shapiro would eagerly slide in beside her, perhaps finding himself uncontrollably attracted to her, but he preferred to sit across the table at a distance.
“A bottle of your finest French red,” he said to the waiter, just as Julia glanced two tables over and spotted a familiar dark head. Ryan.
Her stomach, spine and throat all seemed to seize at once. What was he doing here? Had he come to spy on her?
The ape!
She tried to calm her thumping heart while accepting a menu from the waiter. She would darn well enjoy this meal. Her evening out with the distinguished barrister who was interested in marriage. She skimmed the page. Beetroot, cream of chicken soup, Russian dumplings. She started again, concentrating this time. Beetroot, cream of chicken soup, Russian dumplings, cornmeal—
“We could start with a platter of pickled peppers,” Mr. Shapiro said. “By golly, that’s a tongue twister. Peter Piper picked a platter of pickled peppers. How many platters of pickled peppers did Peter Piper pick?”
Julia looked up and smiled graciously. For a barrister, he had an odd sense of humor.
“If Peter picked his so-called platter, and the poor person peering past his pot of porridge stole one, then I’d have me a potentially powerful lawsuit of peppers. Ha ha ha…”
