When she reentered the kitchen, her three youngest brothers were busy setting the table, as they continued their constant chatter.
Bryan, the youngest of all, was almost thirteen, and he relished telling a good tale. He was in that in-between stage of not quite a boy but still far from a man. His green eyes always sparkled when he attempted to tell a tall tale, and he loved nothing better than a good laugh.
Henri, slightly older than Bryan, would turn fourteen in the fall. His chocolate-brown eyes were filled with mischief, as he enjoyed goading Bryan to tell outlandish stories.
Oran, at fifteen, was more serious, like their da, Seamus, although he always enjoyed their adventures. The men of the town had learned not to take on even the three youngest O’Rourke brothers when they were together, for they were fiercely loyal to each other.
Maggie had long ago learned to listen to their chitchat, as she picked up interesting tidbits about the goings-on in town that she would never have discovered otherwise. She smiled when she heard that Janet Davies, Kevin’s wife’s horrible aunt, was in a rage because one of her dresses was accidentally bleached and now resembled polka dots.
Maggie stilled when she heard their offhand comment that Dunmore had returned. “He’s back?” she asked in a whisper, a dish towel in her hands. “He’s really back?”
Henri stared at her with confusion and shrugged. “Oui,” he said. He’d never taken to saying “aye,” like his siblings, and preferred the French word from his childhood. Although fully accepted into the O’Rourke family, his father was not Seamus but Mary’s second husband, Francois. “He was at the stables.”
Maggie took a deep breath, as she attempted to feign indifference. She knew she had failed when her mother cast her a furtive smile.
“I think you should invite him to supper, Maggie darlin’,” Mary said, with a wry smile. “He’s not had a proper meal in too long. An’ I’m certain he’s desirous of our company.”
“You wouldn’t mind?” Maggie asked, unable to hide her eagerness.
“What’s one more?” Mary ran a hand over her daughter’s arm. “Go, love.”
Beaming at her mother, Maggie set down her towel and slipped off her apron. Impulsively she pulled her mum close for a hug. “Thanks, Mum.”
Racing away, Maggie ran out the front door, before forcing herself to walk with a measured pace in the livery’s direction. Now that it was early June, the small town was filling with recent arrivals from the steamboats. Soon it would feel as though Fort Benton was bursting, as every room at the hotel and the boarding houses would be full. However, the men gave her a wide berth. They understood that she was Seamus O’Rourke’s daughter and that she had ten brothers who would mortally injure any man who harmed her.
Pushing aside any thoughts of violence, she hastened her step in the direction of the livery. It stood a short distance away from the busy main thoroughfare that hugged the levee, where the steamboats docked. The stable master said he preferred to have his business away from the constant hubbub of town, as the noise was not good for the animals. Maggie suspected it was because he wished he could be a hermit. She’d yet to see him mingle with anyone in town for longer than a two-minute conversation.
Maggie poked her head into the livery, her smile blooming at the sight of Dunmore’s favorite horses in the stalls. She crept forward, holding her hand out for them to sniffle at her fingers. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she murmured, as she ran her fingers over their velvety heads. “I didn’t think to bring a treat.” She giggled as one butted her shoulder, bumping her back a step and catching her off guard. Maggie shrieked, and her arms flailed out, as she fell backward.
Rather than toppling onto the hard, unforgiving stable floor, she landed with a thud against a broad chest. “Oof,” she gasped, peering behind her to meet Dunmore’s amused gaze. “Philip,” she whispered. “I had hoped you were back in town.”
She gazed at the man who fascinated her. He was taller than her father, with a lanky build, although she had just felt how strong he was, as he caught her. Her fingers itched to trace through his silky locks, which he had trimmed while he was away, and she yearned to feel the scrape of his beard against her soft skin.
He eased her upright, his hold on her gentle and softer than a caress. “You knew I was. You were flirtin’ with my horses.” His lips quirked into a smile, as she blushed. He brushed a hand over her cheek, pushing strands of auburn hair off her cheek. “You’re well, Miss Maggie?”
She frowned at his address of her, taking a step closer to him. Her frown turned into a glower when he backed away from her. “Why are you avoiding me?”
Dunmore shook his head. “I ain’t avoiding you. I’m standing right in front of you.” He waited, his gaze filled with patient understanding that she interpreted as mockery.
“Then why are you not holding me in your arms?” she asked in a tiny voice.
“You know the answer to that, Miss Maggie,” Dunmore said, a fierce intensity lighting his gaze.
“It meant nothing to you,” she whispered, her healthy, delighted flush fading to a horrified pallor. “I was nothing but …” She broke off, as she backed up, holding her hand out to him as he now stepped toward her. “No,” she rasped. “Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. I’m a fool.” She spun on her heels, racing toward her family’s home, her delight in seeing him again turned to ash.
* * *
Dunmore watched Maggie race away, his hands fisted, as every instinct in him yearned to chase after her and to kiss her senseless. To prove to her that the last time he had held her in his arms
