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  “Thank you. But what about your horse. Outlaw, I believe you called him?”

  “Yes. I’ll need to stable him—it’s been a long day.”

  “And I’m keeping you away from your dinner. I’m sorry.”

  “Miss St. Claire, an apology isn’t necessary.” He smiled down into her pretty face.

  She leaned forward, raised her hand, and rested it on Tom’s chest. “Thank you, Mr. Pettigrew.”

  Tom felt his heart stutter. He hadn’t felt like this since Analeigh…He kissed Miss St. Claire’s hand, closed the door, and climbed up to the seat. George was going to love her.

  He shook out the reins. “Home, Outlaw.” He gave the situation plenty of thought as the gelding clip-clopped through the streets to the East Village.

  Having fallen in love with Analeigh at first glance and been deliriously happy with her, he trusted his judgment.

  He smiled and settled his bowler hat on his head. He knew what he was doing, and once again he would be happy.

  They would be happy—George and Miss St. Claire and him.

  Chapter 7

  Tom led Miss St. Claire up the steps and into the boarding house. His landlady happened to be in the hallway.

  “Mrs. O’Connor, I’d like you to meet Miss Olivia St. Claire.”

  Mrs. O’Connor let her gaze take in the young woman—her clothes, her hair, and the portmanteau Tom held—and judging by her fearsome scowl, she wasn’t happy. “Really, Mr. Pettigrew,” she huffed. “I don’t run that sort of house.”

  Miss St. Claire looked devastated. This day had been one miserable thing after another for the poor young woman.

  “I know, Mrs. O’Connor, otherwise I wouldn’t have brought Miss St. Claire here. She just needs to board here temporarily. I know you have a room on the third floor that’s empty.”

  “Yes, well—”

  “She won’t be here for long.” And neither would he and George.

  “Well, just so you know, I won’t have any shenanigans going on in my house. I’m a God-fearing woman…and a light sleeper.”

  Tom swallowed a grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She swatted his arm. “Get washed up. Dinner’s been waiting and it’s getting cold.”

  “I just need to put up Outlaw. It won’t take me long.” He saw Mrs. O’Connor eyeing the young woman’s bruised cheek. “She…uh…walked into a door.”

  George popped out of the parlor. “You’re home, Papa.”

  “Yes, I am. I want you to meet Miss St. Claire.”

  George smiled at her and held out his hand. “How do you do, Miss St. Claire.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you…er…”

  “George. My name is George.” His son seemed entranced, and Tom bit his lip to keep from laughing.

  “Let her go, son.”

  George blushed and released her hand.

  “I was very impressed by your riding.”

  “Thank you. I’ve been riding since I was born.”

  While George and Miss St. Claire continued to chat, Tom turned back to Mrs. O’Connor.

  “Do you have any ice for the lady’s face?”

  Mrs. O’Connor scowled at him. “I might.”

  He knew she kept an ice closet in the pantry, which was handy. When he found a cottage for them, he’d make sure it had something similar. “I’d appreciate it very much if you’d be so kind as to make Miss St. Claire a compress? Afterward, would you show her to her room?”

  She nodded—grudging at best—and interrupted the conversation George and Miss St. Claire were having.

  “This way.” She led Miss St. Claire to the back of the house.

  “Georgie, why don’t you come with me? With the two of us working together, we’ll have Outlaw bedded down in no time.”

  “And then we can have dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, Papa.” He ran out to the street where Outlaw waited patiently, a far cry from the gelding’s original behavior, and George scrambled up onto his back.

  Tom smiled. That was his boy. He’d rather ride than drive any day.

  The drive to the stable didn’t take long. Tom left the hansom cab in the carriage house and unharnessed the gelding. Then he and George rubbed down, fed, and watered Outlaw, while George chatted about his day, what he’d learned in school, and how Sunrise and Nightfall were doing.

  Tom listened with one ear, hoping his son wouldn’t resent the fact that Tom was thinking of marrying again…for more than seven years it had just been the two of them.

  “What do you think of Miss St. Claire?” Tom asked as they walked back to the boarding house.

  “She’s pretty. She made that man give us a penny when we had Sunrise and Nightfall show off that time.”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “That was nice of her.”

  “It was.”

  George tilted his head and gazed up at Tom. “Do you like her, Papa?”

  “I do.”

  “The way Mrs. O’Connor likes you?”

  He gave a rueful laugh. “Yes, I think I do.”

  “Is she going to be my new mama?”

  Tom stopped and crouched before his son, resting his hands on George’s shoulders. “Listen to me, George. No one will ever replace your mama.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “But…it would be nice to have a woman take care of us, wouldn’t it?” George sounded so hopeful Tom couldn’t help but agree.

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. O’Connor isn’t going to be happy it’s not her.”

  “I reckon not. We may have to find a new place to live.”

  “Will we have enough money? I can leave school, Papa, and get a job.”

  Tom hugged his son. “Thank you, George, but that won’t be necessary. It’s my job to take care of you, and if I need to earn more money, I’ll take a second job.” He knew that wouldn’t be necessary just then. He’d been able to take advantage of another of the business deals he’d overheard, enough so he could afford the rent on a cottage with a small stable in the back for the horses and their mule and a paddock for them to graze and run around in.

  They arrived back at the boarding house, went up to their room to wash their hands and faces and slick back their hair, then returned to the first floor. Mrs. O’Connor and Miss St. Claire were waiting in the dining room. The bruise already looked less pronounced.

  “The other ladies have gone to the rectory of St. Aedan’s of Fern to embroider altar cloths,” Mrs. O’Connor announced. A number of older widows also resided in this boarding house.

  He and George waited until the ladies were seated before they sat themselves. Mrs. O’Connor signaled that Tom should say grace.

  He wasn’t a religious man, and he usually fumbled and combined the words of a number of different prayers, but he’d do the best he could.

  “God is great, and we thank Him for the gifts of His bounty. We ask Him to bless this food to our use.” He scrambled to find more words to say, and thought of the campfires when he’d been in the cavalry. “This meal is a sign of His love for us, and we pray You, O Lord, that it may be good for our bodies and souls.”

  He sent a look toward Miss St. Claire and had to admit he was pleased when he saw her biting her lip to prevent a smile from blooming on her face.

  Finally, unable to think of anything else to add, he simply said, “Amen.”

  Mrs. O’Connor sighed and shook her head, then passed the big tureen that held the stew around one side of the table and the basket that held rolls around the other.

  “I’ve never had this before,” Miss St. Claire murmured. “It’s delicious.”

  “It was my granny’s recipe. My ma couldn’t cook a lick.”

  “Neither could mine.”

  “My mama made the tastiest meals.” Abruptly, George looked uncertain. “Didn’t she, Papa?”

  “She did. George was only four when we lost her, which is why he doesn’t remember much about her. I tell him s
o neither of us will forget.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Mrs. O’Connor said, and Tom wasn’t sure he liked her tone of voice.

  “I’m sorry? Why would you consider me telling my son about his mother to be kind?”

  “Most men leave the raising of their children to their wives.”

  “That isn’t possible when their wife is in the ground beside their infant daughter.”

  Mrs. O’Connor turned pale. Tom had never snapped at her before, but her dismissive words cut him to the quick, bringing back all the pain he’d thought he’d buried with Analeigh and Mora.

  “Would you mind telling us about your wife, Mr. Pettigrew?” Miss St. Claire asked, her voice soft.

  Tom drew in a deep breath. When he had himself under control, he said, “She was the prettiest woman I’d ever seen.” Tom was still cautious about what he revealed—old habits died hard. When he and George had first arrived in New York, he’d run into an old amigo in a saloon in the Bowery. Sam was one of the few gringos who’d worked for Don Jorge.

  “Tom Pettigrew, is that you?”

  “Sam Pickett? Well, I’ll be.” They’d rounded up and branded a lot of cattle together. “What are you doing this far East?”

  “Drifting. The don sure wasn’t happy when you took your boy and made tracks out of there.”

  “I know.” Tom felt sick.

  “Still, I don’t figure how he thought you’d leave and let George stay.”

  “He intended for George to take over the rancho one day.” Tom looked around the saloon, but it didn’t look like anyone was overly interested in them or this conversation. He took a sip of his whiskey. “Don Jorge sent some yahoo after us.”

  “Yeah, pretty much everyone on the rancho who was handy with a gun was offered mucho dinero to bring George back. I reckon the yahoo wasn’t successful.”

  “No. I blew his brains out.”

  “You always was a good shot. So how’s George?”

  “Good. I left him at the rooming house a few streets east of here where I took a room.” That was a lie—the hotel was actually half a mile north of there—but as much as he liked Sam, he wasn’t going to trust his son’s whereabouts to a man who might be drawn by the cash money Don Jorge had offered for the return of his grandson.

  “Well, a saloon ain’t no place for a kid.”

  “No. Sam, will you keep mum about seeing me?”

  “Sure, but I think just now Don Jorge has more things on his mind than a missing grandson.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah. He got married a couple years after you left. I’ll be damned if the girl wasn’t young enough to be his daughter. Not only that, but she’s already produced three kids—all boys—for him.”

  “What are the odds he’ll forget he had a grandson named George?”

  “I’d say they’re pretty damned good.”

  Tom tossed a coin on the bar. He wasn’t going to take that chance. “Sam, I owe you, amigo.”

  “My pleasure. Will I see you around?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  Sam nodded. “Vaya con Dios.”

  They shook hands, and Tom walked out. He slunk through the streets, and once he was sure no one was following him, he returned to the hotel room where they’d been staying. He and George packed their things and rode away.

  A few days later, they found Mrs. O’Connor’s boarding house, and as luck would have it, she had a room available.

  “Mr. Pettigrew?”

  Back in the present once more, he smiled. “She was kind and sweet, although she had a temper.” There had been that one time, before George was born. They’d had a successful roundup, and he’d gone into town with Don Jorge’s vaqueros and had come home stinking drunk, with a knot on his cheekbone and a black eye. Analeigh had been kind and patient that night, but the next morning she’d revealed a side he hadn’t expected. “Estúpido! You’re lucky no one stuck you with a knife,” she’d shouted at him, causing his aching head to ache even more. He shouted back at her, and the next thing he knew, she’d backed him against a wall and was kissing him as if she wanted to eat him up. He was pretty certain that was when they’d made George.

  “I love hearing about Mama,” Georgie said.

  “Yes.” Tom ducked his head and smiled again.

  “I notice you have blond hair, Mr. Pettigrew,” Mrs. O’Connor said. “I assume your wife was a brunette?”

  “Yes. She had hair the color of a raven’s wing—George gets that from her.”

  “And his eyes and curls are yours,” Miss St. Claire observed.

  Tom smiled at her. “Yes.”

  “It’s nice that your son has something from both his parents.”

  “It is. And you, Miss St. Claire?”

  “You saw Father.” She selected a roll from the basket and began tearing off small pieces. “My brother and I both got our coloring from him.”

  “All my people were redheads,” Mrs. O’Connor said. She gave a bright smile and went on to talk about the politicians and soldiers in her family. “Why, we go all the way back to Gráinne O’Malley, she who was known as the Sea Queen. Even my sainted husband was well-connected. His Da was an earl. Do you have such important people in your family, Miss St. Claire?”

  “No.”

  “I see.” Mrs. O’Connor took the tureen and smiled down at the stew as she helped herself to it.

  Perhaps she thought that would keep her smug expression from being noticed, but Tom saw it.

  A glance across the table at his son showed him George had as well—his boy was very perceptive.

  A frown creased George’s brow. Tom stretched his leg beneath the table and tapped his son’s foot. When George looked up at him, he shook his head slightly.

  George gave an imperceptible nod. “Pass the butter, please?”

  Chapter 8

  Tom came back to the boarding house one evening a couple of months later to find Mrs. O’Connor waiting for him, her arms akimbo, tapping her foot in obvious irritation.

  “Good evening, Mrs. O’Connor. I trust you had a productive day.”

  “It could have been better.”

  “Oh?”

  “She puked up her insides this morning.”

  “Are you referring to Miss St. Claire?”

  Mrs. O’Connor frowned at him. “She’s the one you brought to this house, isn’t she?”

  Tom became concerned. “Is she ill? Do we need to send for a doctor?”

  “No, she’s not ill, or if she is, it’s the nine month variety.”

  Tom thought of what that bastard Beauchamp had done to her and felt tired. “So you think she’s expecting a baby?”

  “I do. In fact, I’m certain of it. Stupid—” Mrs. O’Connor bit back the rest of what she might have been planning to say and folded her arms across her chest. “She didn’t even realize being with child was what was behind her vomiting.”

  It was a shame, but women of that class were kept sheltered to an almost criminal degree. His Analeigh had only been aware because she’d grown up on the rancho and had seen first-hand animals mating and their offspring being born.

  “Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Mrs. O’Connor snapped.

  “Of course.” Truthfully, he wasn’t interested in the vitriol she spewed.

  “How much longer will that girl be staying here?”

  “Her rent is paid, isn’t it?”

  “Aye…By you.” Mrs. O’Connor didn’t seem pleased, in spite of the fact it meant all her rooms were taken. “But I can’t have a woman like that in my boarding house. I’ve a reputation to uphold. And it isn’t good for her to be around your son.”

  “Oh? Her condition isn’t contagious. George isn’t likely to become pregnant because he’s in the same room with her.”

  Mrs. O’Connor gaped at him for a moment, then said piously, “I’m just looking out for your son’s best interests.”

  “Thank you, but that isn’t necessary. As his father, I’ll tak
e care of him. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll talk with Miss St. Claire.”

  “Humph.” His landlady turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.

  Tom ran a hand through his hair. It had become more and more obvious in recent days that Mrs. O’Connor had a temper to match her red hair. It was fortunate he’d come across that cottage in Chelsea. It had a stable large enough for the horses, the mule, and the calico cat that made her home in it. The cat was friendly enough and would handle the rodent population. As for the cottage, it wasn’t large, but it would be enough for the three of them. It had a kitchen, parlor, and bedroom, with a loft above. An outhouse was behind the cottage, and there was a paddock for the animals.

  He had the receipt for a month’s rent in his pocket, with the option of extending it to a yearly basis.

  He’d planned to ask Miss St. Claire to marry him—not just yet, he’d wanted her to become more comfortable with him—but now it looked as if asking her sooner might be the better choice for all of them.

  And if he and Miss St. Claire were blessed with more children, he’d find them a larger home.

  Tom went looking for George and found him in the front parlor, sprawled on the floor in front of the fireplace with his copybook open before him. The schoolmaster usually sent him home with lines to copy.

  “Georgie, where’s Miss Olivia?”

  George looked up. “She’s up in her room, Papa. Is she okay? Mrs. O’Connor said she hasn’t come down all day.”

  “Oh?” Tom didn’t like the sound of that. “I’ll check on her. I’m going up to talk to her.” He crouched beside his son and touched the boy’s dark hair. The texture was so like Analeigh’s. One of the curls wrapped around his finger. There would come a time, Tom was certain, when George would find a woman who would fall in love with those curls. Soon, he knew, he’d have to have a talk with his son about men and women and what they did at night. And sometimes during the day. Tom himself had matured at an early age, and his own father had taken him to a local widow who’d been kind enough to show Tom the way of it.

  That would be a good introduction for his own son.

  He thought of Mrs. O’Connor and shuddered. Although definitely not with her.