Page 47 of A New World for the Irish Daughter

“Then we’d best get it,” Maggie replied, and steeling her spine, she ushered him back toward the saloon, stepping through the swinging doors with a shiver of trepidation as well as a ripple of curiosity. She had never been in such a place before; no decent woman ever would venture into such an establishment.

Brendan swayed next to her as Maggie blinked in the gloom. The floor was covered with sawdust and the air smelled thickly of smoke, sweat and whisky. A few men looked up from their glasses, as bleary-eyed as Brendan, and one man sauntered toward her with a leer.

“How are you, little lady?”

“Very well, thank you,” she replied crisply. Holding tightly to Brendan’s arm, she marched toward the bar. “I believe you have my husband’s suitcase. We’d like it back now, please.” She didn’t know why she’d called Brendan her husband; surely such a charade wasn’t necessary here as it once had been in Chicago? And yet the lie had slipped out, far too easy to say.

“Your husband, eh?” the bartender remarked, propping his elbow on the plank of wood atop two barrels that served as a bar. “Or the woman who snapped his heart in half and crushed it under her heel?”

Maggie’s mouth dropped open in shock. Is that what Brendan had said when he’d been three sheets to the wind? Did he really see her as that carelessly cruel?

She flushed in embarrassment, lifting her chin as she met the bartender’s gaze squarely. “The suitcase, please,” she saidin the same crisp tone as before. Her knees were shaking, but fortunately her wide skirts hid the tremble. She kept the bartender’s sleepy, speculative gaze with a steely one of her own. She could not allow Brendan to lose all his belongings the very day he arrived in Alaska, no matter what he thought of her.

“This is the one, Jim,” Brendan slurred, his head hanging down as he swayed where he stood. “She’s the one.”

The bartender chuckled, looking both sympathetic and amused. “You want me to give her your outfit, bub?” he asked, giving Maggie a not very admiring glance.

Her cheeks felt hot, but she kept his stare.

Brendan nodded without saying anything more, and Maggie feared he might be close to passing out completely. She kept an iron grip on his arm as, with a long sigh, the bartender reached for the suitcase and passed it over. Maggie took it, stumbling back a little under the weight, which led to a chorus of guffaws from the men slumped at the bar.

“Thank you,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster, and then she marched out of the saloon, Brendan stumbling next to her, the suitcase in one hand.

Back outside, she let out a shaky sigh of relief. That could have gone so much worse, she suspected, based on what little she knew of Alaska already.

She turned to Brendan. “You’d best come back to our room, on Front Street. We’ll figure out what to do from there.”

Brendan raised his head, his red-eyed gaze baleful. “You don’t need to?—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Maggie snapped, her patience reaching the end of its tether. “Do you think I’m going to leave you here on this muddy street, to be robbed by whatever common thief happens by? I might havesplit your heart in half and crushed it under my heel,” she added with asperity, “but I’m still going to take care of you.”

In response, Brendan merely glared at her, and Maggie sighed, deciding she could deal with his ire better than his pathos.

“Come along,” she told him, like he was a child, and hauling both Brendan and the suitcase as best as she could, she started walking back to Front Street.

Mrs. Compton barely batted an eyelid when Maggie came inside with Brendan still looking decidedly worse for wear, although at least by then he could walk by himself—mostly.

“Went to the hospital and picked yourself up a patient?” she surmised dryly, and Maggie almost laughed, even though her nerves were well and truly frayed.

“Something like that,” she agreed. “Mr. O’Donaghue came on the steamer with us and hasn’t yet found accommodation. I’m going to sober him up and then find him a room.”

“I’ll have Elvira send up some coffee,” Mrs. Compton offered, and Maggie gave her a grateful smile.

“Thank you very much.”

Upstairs, she guided Brendan to one of the beds, no more than a thin mattress on squeaky springs, and he laid down with a groan, flinging one arm over his eyes as she unlaced his boots.

“Mrs. Compton’s bringing coffee,” she told him. “A few cups and you should be right as rain, or almost, I hope.”

In response, he shook his head and groaned again.

Maggie sighed. “I expect Danny and my father will be returning shortly in a similar state,” she told him with an attempt at wryness. “In fact, I suspect every man fresh off the boat finds a saloon just about first thing. Welcome to Alaska and all that.”

“Don’t,” Brendan said on another groan, this one low and heartfelt. “Don’t try to make me feel better, Maggie. I’m ashamed of myself as it is.”

Maggie sighed again as she sat down on the edge of the bed. She reached over to smooth Brendan’s rumpled hair away from his forehead and he flinched away from her, which caused her a pang of sorrow. “Why not?” she asked. “Why shouldn’t I try to make you feel better?”

“Because,” he managed, the words drawn out and still slightly slurred, “you know I never wanted yourpity.”