Dreams of Gold Page 7

  “You think so, Sheriff? We don’t need that gal’s big-city ideas brought to our town.”

  Quinn recognized the blacksmith, Otto Bremmer’s, gravelly voice. “Let me go inside and see what’s happening.” As he stepped forward, the crowd parted. At the foot of the stairs stood a familiar square-shouldered figure. “Pa? You’re involved in this?”

  “Not by choice” He shook his head then ran a hand over his high forehead. “Remember we told you how your sister, Allene, championed the cause?”

  “Yeah.” During the years he was gone, his younger sister had passed out suffrage literature and made speeches. Irony was, she’d married four years earlier and moved to Oregon Territory before having the chance to cast her vote in an election.

  “Well, your ma’s in there now. Said something about this newcomer carrying on the spark that Allene lit.” His pa rested a hand on his shoulder. “Son, sort this out quick. I know you can.”

  Quinn looked into trusting hazel eyes—the emotion and color just like Logan’s. His chest tightened as the weight of responsibility settled. Rather than the inconsistencies of war, this situation was one he could deal with. One petite woman should not be so hard to quell. “I will, Pa.”

  “Nevin’s right. We want our women home now.” A masculine voice rose above the din.

  “Yeah, where they belong.”

  Sensing the crowd’s frustration, Quinn nodded at his father, then climbed up several stairs and turned. “You men stay here. This will go easier if I go in alone.” He scanned the crowd and spotted his deputy at the outer edge. “Bud, come on up and take my place.” Quinn waited until Bud reached the bottom step, then climbed to the doorway and slipped into the cloakroom. A familiar lilting voice tickled his ears.

  “Your comment, Mrs. Renato, leads into one of the reasons I suggested this gathering. Most of you have heard of the circumstances under which I arrived in your town. Because of the actions of despicable thieves, I find myself with limited cash and in need of employment.”

  Murmurs of agreement sounded from around the room.

  “This evening at supper, I was surprised to learn that in the only territory where women have the right to vote, not all believe this should be. I was chastised for insinuating myself where I wasn’t wanted and for accosting men for employment. I was also told I should be looking for a husband instead. Granted, the comments were spoken by a woman from a generation that held these archaic ideals. But her repressed attitude shocked me.”

  Quinn leaned a shoulder on the wall, hesitant to enter the room. So far, Ciara wasn’t doing more than stating an opinion—albeit a progressive one that hadn’t filtered throughout the entire state of Wyoming yet.

  “My dressing down came after I made a suggestion to Mr. Stanton about contributing a fashion article or two to the newspaper. Back in Massachusetts, I worked in the millinery trade and know firsthand how women crave knowledge of the latest trends. I offered to share that information about Eastern styles. He doesn’t believe such a need exists because you women”—her words paused—”don’t read his newspaper.”

  Shocked voices crescendoed. Quinn stiffened, ready to round the corner. He couldn’t catch any specific words from the crowd, but the tone was definitely offended.

  “Ladies, my statements are not meant to denigrate anyone. Marriage is a choice for some women. In fact, on my travels here, I met a young woman whose best choice out of a crowded Ohio household was to accept the proposal of a man she’d never met. Luckily, her decision turned out to be a happy one, based on what I observed this evening. But so often, women get matched with men more interested in a mother for their children than a wife.”

  “I avoided that just today.” A woman’s voice rose over the whispered conversations. “Miss Morrissey read her fancy cards and warned me against accepting the widower Thompson’s proposal.”

  Quinn shifted at the corroboration of Nate’s story about Ciara’s card reading.

  “Miss Johnson, warned might be too strong a word. I share the opinion of respected women across the country who don’t believe marriage has to be the only choice. Through centuries past, women have performed work outside the home. Granted, the tasks have been an extension of women’s work from around the hearth—governess, seamstress, cook.” Ciara’s voice rose. “As women have become educated, they should be allowed the opportunity to use that knowledge for the benefit of society.

  “I was also told a woman’s opinion should match her husband’s views. The insinuation here is that if a woman isn’t married, she doesn’t have an opinion. A fact that is definitely not true about me. How about for you unmarried ladies?”

  Quinn bit back a laugh at her comment about having an opinion. This woman had plenty. He sensed the growing agitation among the women and leaned around the wall until he spotted Ciara behind the podium at the head of the room.

  “That’s why, ladies—” Ciara shook a finger in the air “—we need to support the campaign to hire more women as teachers and to raise money to build a schoolhouse. Exercise the vote granted you and convince the governing group of your wishes here in Wyoming Territory.”

  Several bonnets bobbed like daisies in a breeze.

  “Take up a petition or speak to the town leaders. Tell them you want a female teacher—one who has studied the same coursework as a man but who will probably teach with a gentler manner. Back in Massachusetts, women have comprised the majority of classroom teachers for many years and have proved just as reliable as men.”

  “But why would we want to bring in a woman teacher?” Widow Perrin asked. “She’d just end up getting married off within a short time to one of the many bachelors in these parts.”

  “Oh, Beatrice, you never like anything progressive.” Belle waved a hand. “Keep talking, Miss Morrissey.”

  “Progress will help us all.” Ciara spoke louder and paced across the raised platform from where the preacher spoke each Sunday. “Women need to band together. Time spent on education matters or temperance issues will better all our lives. Talk to your husbands, your brothers, your fathers, and help them see how important these issues are.”

  Temperance? Quinn’s senses went on alert. Not a topic the men outside wanted to hear. He moved into the church room and leaned against the back wall, hoping to catch Ciara’s gaze and warn her. This speech needed to stop before the situation got out of hand.

  A tall woman in the front row shot to her feet. “Now temperance, I got something to say about that. And I’m sure many of you do, too.”

  The buzz of voices rose as women turned to those close by and spoke, their hands waving like clothes flapping on a line.

  “Sheriff.” Bud’s voice came from just around the wall. “What’s going on? I can’t hold back the men much longer.”

  The gathering had to be disbanded. Quinn took a step forward.

  “Ladies, we’ve come to hear Miss Morrissey speak.”

  That voice was familiar—his mother. Dread grabbed his chest as he turned to his right and stopped. How could he interrupt his own mother?

  Vera Riley sat forward in the pew, hand grasping the one in front. “Now, Miss Morrissey, I would like to hear more about building a schoolhouse. Many of us taught our own children at home. I believe a real schoolhouse is the proof a town has become civilized.”

  Quinn remembered his mother’s patience, and how she’d longed for a place where her three children could learn in the company of others.

  “This church is a good enough place for that.” Mrs. Turner jumped up and waved a fist in the air. “I want that saloon shut down.”

  “I agree,” Miss Fontaine’s quiet voice rang out. “My brother spends every Friday and Saturday night there. He comes home reeking of alcohol.”

  Loud stamping of feet from the entrance sounded, and the crowd of men pushed their way three bodies deep against the back pews.

  Aw, hell. Quinn pushed off from the wall.

  “Bonny’s right.” Mrs. Bremer rose, hands clasped at her wai
st. “That awful place is a temptation that steals food from my children’s mouths.”

  Otto stepped forward and pointed. “Ann Marie, hush what you’re saying in public.”

  She spun and crossed her arms over her chest. “I have the right to speak my mind. Right, Miss Morrissey?”

  Quinn stifled a groan and glanced at Ciara, whose narrowed green gaze ran over the disruption. This was the first time he’d seen her defenseless. He turned to face the disgruntled men, hands held out to silence the crowd. “Hold on, folks. Let’s quiet down.”

  “No, Sheriff. We want something done about that woman.” Otto pointed at Ciara but glared at his wife.

  “Yeah, we want our women to come home.” Several men echoed agreement with this last statement.

  “Now, gentlemen, I’ve been listening.” Quinn eased two steps back, the need to protect Ciara tensing his muscles. The air was filled with unknown potential. “And the women are doing nothing wrong.”

  “If you’re not doing anything, I will.” Otto stepped forward and waved a broad hand. “Ann Marie, get yourself home.”

  “I will not.”

  Accusations flew between husband and wife, sister and brother. Fingers pointed from opposite sides of the room and hands waved in the air.

  The situation was deteriorating fast. Quinn turned to Ciara and stepped up on the platform. Her green gaze met his with a questioning look, her body trembled.

  “How could this happen? Help me calm the situation so I may continue.”

  Double hell. His body tightened, ready to come to her assistance. “We’re past that. This is for your own good.” He circled a hand around her upper arm, fighting to ignore the warming of his fingers. “I’m taking you in.”

  “What?” She pulled against his grasp. “You’re arresting me?”

  He leaned down to whisper. “Go along with me. I’ll explain later.” A lemony scent invaded his nose, and he wanted to nuzzle closer, to linger long enough to taste the delicate skin on her neck. Instead, he straightened and pulled her along as he stepped off the platform.

  “This is unfair, Sheriff Riley.” She pushed and shoved against his hold. “I have done nothing wrong.”

  Her attempts to break free forced his hand against her ribs, setting his blood racing. Not a good time to be so aware of the spitfire. As he passed each pew, the voices subsided.

  At the back of the church, the men shuffled enough to make a path through the crowd.

  Quinn paused. “The meeting’s over. Go home everyone.” He moved around the wall and spotted his mother next to the doorway, color burning her cheeks and a condemning glare in her brown eyes.

  His chest tightened, but he touched his free hand to the brim of his hat. “Evening, Ma.”

  “This is wrong, son.”

  He hated the disappointment in her voice. “Sorry, ma’am, it’s my duty.”

  Ciara gasped and stopped fighting his grasp.

  Like a freshening breeze, the voices rose in the church, but Quinn didn’t look back. He strode down the steps, across the street, and up the rise to the jail, propelling Ciara along. How could he have dashed the first sign of life he’d seen in his mother in months? He clenched his jaw. How could he have acted any differently to protect the infuriating, but enticing, Miss Morrissey?

  Fact was, he couldn’t have. The need to keep her safe rose and he’d acted.

  When he slammed the office door closed, he spun her into his arms and sought her mouth with his own. Alone and safe. For a moment, he unleashed his concern coupled with the galloping desire this woman invoked. His lips pressed hard against her soft ones.

  Only a second later, she responded, her mouth returning his kiss with increasing pressure.

  His hands cupped her soft cheeks and he tilted her head to the left so he could nip and suckle her mouth. His tongue swept inside, and he tasted her warm sweetness.

  Blood pooled in his groin, and he pulled her closer, needing to feel her womanly curves against his aching body. Caressing hands slid up his chest, leaving tingles in their wake, and stretched around the back of his neck. The concern dissipated, and he let the passion take over, savoring her touch, her scent, her taste.

  Arguing voices invaded his awareness, battling with the pounding of blood through his veins. With great reluctance, he pulled away his mouth, his breath huffing out in harsh bursts, and listened.

  Unhappy people were headed this way. The crowd had followed them.

  Eyes still closed, she moaned and tugged on the front of his shirt.

  Damn.

  Resolved with what he had to do, he slid an arm around her waist, guided her through an adjoining door, and into the middle cell. The door shut with a metallic clang.

  “What?” Her body went rigid and she spun, grabbing the bars. “How could you, Quinn?”

  “I had to.”

  The betrayal he saw in her narrowed eyes stabbed like a knife into his chest.

  Especially following the first time she’d used his given name.

  “You’ll see.”

  Chapter Six

  Quinn disappeared from her sight at the same moment the door burst open and strident voices called out.

  Blood still pounding in her ears, Ciara tried to figure out what had just happened. One minute she was drowning in the handsome man’s kisses, head swimming with the scent of night air and the spiciness of bay rum. The next she was locked in a small cell by a callous sheriff.

  “Sheriff, I’m sorry but I couldn’t stop them,” a muffled voice said.

  “I understand, Bud.” Quinn’s words were clipped. “I’ll handle this.”

  Lips still tingling, Ciara scooted to one side of the open space and peeked through the doorway into the office. Several people gathered in the middle of the room. Surely, her arrest should have satisfied the men. Her fingers tightened on the bars and her stomach clenched into a ball. Was this some sort of vigilante action?

  Footsteps approached, and the faces of a burly man and a dark-haired woman appeared in the space. “See, Ann Marie, that’s what happens when you speak your mind. You best remember that.”

  Inside, Ciara wanted to move away from his vehemence, but instead she lifted her chin in defiance.

  “What’s the ruckus, lass?”

  The voice beside her made her jump. She jerked away from the bars and stared at the man in the next cell.

  He propped himself up on one elbow on the cot against the far wall.

  “I have been arrested.”

  “A fine lass like yerself? What’s the world coming to?” The man stretched and stood, extending a hand through the bars. “Me name’s Patrick O’Malley. And what be yours?”

  Another Irishman? The accented tone was like a balm to her nerves. Maybe he knew her father. She shot a glance at the group of people arguing in the office and accepted the man’s handshake. “I go by Ciara Morrissey, but I was born a Mulcahy. Perhaps you know the man I seek.”

  “Be he Shamus Mulcahy? Aye, I’ve sat across a poker table from the man.” Patrick scratched his whiskered chin. “Folks around here are nary too fond of the likes of him.”

  His words reminded her of her discussion with the sheriff. She sighed. The dratted mining business. “So I have learned.”

  “But that’s the way of the blasted Black Irish, excusing my language, miss.” He straightened to a sitting position.

  “Black? What do you mean?”

  “Why the scalawag’s coloring, of course. Not to mention his thieving soul.”

  Her heart beat faster. Just as she thought—there were two men. Her blue-eyed, sandy-haired father was innocent of the town’s ill will. Eager to share the news with Quinn, she turned back toward the office. The sight of his broad, solid form—arms crossed and legs braced in a squared-off stance as he faced the crowd—dashed her hopes. After what he’d done, the sheriff was not to be trusted. A shiver raced through her, and she hugged both arms around her stomach.

  “Toss the blanket around yer shoulders,
missy. The night air carries a bit of a nip.”

  “Thank you, Mr. O’Malley.” How ironic to be thankful for the kindness of a man on the wrong side of iron bars. She grabbed the scratchy wool blanket and sank down onto the cot. Mama would have been proud of her speech, and that she’d stood up for women’s rights. Sadness at the lack of someone to share this triumph with grabbed her throat, and she fought the burning at the back of her eyes.

  She really was alone in the world. Beloved grandparents and mother dead, stranger father nowhere nearby. Better get used to the situation.

  Raised voices from the office brought her back to her feet. Several women gathered around Quinn’s desk, blocking her view of the sheriff. “Can you hear what’s happening?”

  “No, missy, but a body gets used to that.” O’Malley crawled onto his cot and stretched out.

  Not likely. Anxiety spurring her moves, she paced to the end of her cell and back. Being stuck here would not get her any closer to finding her father. Nor out into the exciting, wide world to explore new places and have new experiences.

  “Ciara.”

  At the sound of Quinn’s deep voice, she whirled. Pulse racing, she studied his expression, her body still aware of the intimacy they’d just shared.

  Metal clinked against metal, and he swung open the cell door. “Your bail’s been paid. I’ll escort you back to the boarding house.”

  She hoped to see a bit of regret for his actions. But his body was stiff, and his dark eyes unyielding. Maybe kisses didn’t mean much to him. Heat flamed in her cheeks. She grabbed her reticule and marched past him, sliding her back against the bars of the metal opening to avoid touching him. “I know the way.” A woman alone needed to stand on her own two feet. The same two feet that tried to move her across the expanse of the office floor with haste.

  Stomping footsteps shook the floorboards. “Don’t you understand? By arresting you, I was keeping you safe.”

  At his words, she tossed her head and turned, hand on a hip. “From what? Or whom? I have spoken before more hostile crowds than that.” Only after she’d spoken did the fervent tone of his declaration sink in. Had he truly acted out of a wish to protect?