Mail Order Bride Mishap (Into the West #3)

Chapter 12

She looked like a forlorn waif, huddled on the porch bench, looking up at him through startled, sleep-filled eyes. He spoke to allay her fears, for even in the murky light from the moon he could discern her apprehension, heard her quick inhalation. He hadn’t expected her to cry, though on second thought, maybe he should have. He already knew she was guided by her emotions.

Grabbing her elbow to steady her as she stood, he pushed the door open with his other hand and guided her into the dark restaurant. He’d barely shut the door and turned back around before she threw herself against him, sobbing inconsolably.

Well, hell, when was the last time he’d held a woman? He couldn’t remember. It took several damp moments before his brain signaled his arms to go around her slender frame. He was definitely out of practice.

Lord, but she was thin. A stiff breeze would blow her over, he wagered, careful not to tighten his hold too much in case he broke her fragile frame.

“There, there,” he rasped inadequately, mentally kicking himself for his lack of empathy. Or rather, his inability to show his sympathy. He’d never been good at comforting, except as a doctor. But Miss Fiona O’Toole wasn’t physically ailing, like he’d been used to tending. He’d eat his hat if what ailed her didn’t have something to do with her heart.

He kept patting her back clumsily, wishing he could do something, say something more substantial than what he was, but the thoughts froze in his mind like shallow pond water. How had he behaved before he became a crotchety old bachelor? He couldn’t remember.

“I’m so—sorry for b—barging in here, C—Cookie. Really, I—I am,” she stammered against his shoulder, which was getting wet from the steady barrage of her tears. “I had nowhere to go. I’m more a—alone than I was before!” she ended on a dramatic wail and a burst of fresh tears, and Cookie felt his heart crack within his chest. He tightened his rusty hold and shushed her watery outburst.

“Yore not alone, girl, so wipe that right out of yore mind,” he growled over her head, wondering what that dandified Edward Townsend had said to send Miss O’Toole into this emotional downturn. Hadn’t she just turned up at his restaurant this afternoon all smiles and excitement? Pranced off with her beau like a cat with fresh catnip?

Since her storm of tears had lessened to more of a spring shower’s intensity, he set her back from him and hunkered slightly to look into her shadowed face, after fishing out a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and handing it to her. She took it with trembling fingers, wiped her face absently.

“What happened, girl, to make you think yore all alone?” He asked with a frown, eyes searching hers. But the dark in the restaurant was too complete. He couldn’t read her expression.

“Edward and I had a row, and he broke off our engagement. I’m not getting married,” she ended on a keen, and Cookie hunched his shoulders against the squeal.

So, that foppish Townsend had cut her loose, was his next thought when his eardrums began functioning again. Over what imaginary infraction, he mused. Was she missing a button? Were her skirts too wrinkled? Her hair too curly? All viable reasons for a clotheshorse such as Edward Townsend to imagine himself betrayed, Cookie mentally sneered. The silly boy didn’t deserve such a lovely Irish rose as Miss O’Toole.

Seeing that she’d gained some self-control, Cookie ventured away enough to snap the front window curtains closed before lighting one of the table lamps with a hiss of an ignited match. No need for anyone to see the two of them together at this time of night. Then he turned back to face his moonlit visitor. His breath caught in his throat.

The lamp-light painted her in vermillion shades, all warm roses and pinks and reds, from the tumble of rubicund curls to that pink- tinged complexion. It ignored the swell of tear-wracked eyelids, the blotches from prolonged crying. Softened her cracked edges. She was a study in Van Eyck hues. He itched to set her to canvas, he who’d never raised a paintbrush in his life except to perhaps whitewash a fence. She was hauntingly sorrowful, mesmerizingly beautiful.