A new world, p.1
A New World, page 1
A New World
Wyoming Wildflowers, Volume 4.5
Patricia McLinn
Published by Craig Place Books, 2015.
Also by Patricia McLinn
A Place Called Home
Lost and Found Groom
At the Heart's Command
Hidden in a Heartbeat
A Place Called Home Trilogy Boxed Set
Bardville, Wyoming
A Stranger in the Family
A Stranger to Love
The Rancher Meets His Match
Bardville, Wyoming Trilogy Boxed Set
Caught Dead In Wyoming
Sign Off (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 1)
Left Hanging (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 2)
Shoot First (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 3)
Last Ditch (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 4)
Look Live (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 5)
Back Story (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 6)
Cold Open (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 7)
Hot Roll (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 8)
Reaction Shot (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 9)
Body Brace (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 10) (Coming Soon)
Flores Silvestres de Wyoming
Flores Silvestres de Wyoming: El Principio
Casi una Novia
Pareja Hecha en Wyoming
Mi Corazón Recuerda
El corazón de Jack
Colección de trilogía Flores Silvestres de Wyoming
Innocence Trilogy
Price of Innocence
Marry Me Series
Wedding of the Century
The Unexpected Wedding Guest
A Most Unlikely Wedding
Baby Blues and Wedding Bells
Rodeo Knights
Ride the River: Rodeo Knights, A Western Romance Novel
Seasons in a Small Town
What Are Friends For?
The Right Brother
Falling for Her
Warm Front
Secret Sleuth
Death on the Diversion
Death on Torrid Ave.
Death on Beguiling Way
Death on Covert Circle
Death on Shady Bridge
Death on Carrion Lane (Coming Soon)
Serie I Fiori di Campo del Wyoming
I Fiori di Campo del Wyoming: L'inizio (Il Prequel)
Innamorarsi In Wyoming
Il Mio Cuore Ricorda
Il Cuore di Jack
The Wedding Series
Prelude to a Wedding
Wedding Party
Grady's Wedding
The Runaway Bride
The Christmas Princess
The Surprise Princess
The Forgotten Prince
Hoops
Not a Family Man
The Wedding Series: The Complete Collection (Books 1-7 and Prequels)
The Wedding Series Trilogy
The Wedding Series Box Set Two (Books 4-5, The Runaway Bride and The Christmas Princess)
The Wedding Series Box Set Three (Book 6, The Surprise Princess, and Hoops prequel)
The Wedding Series Box Set Four (Book 7, The Forgotten Prince, and Not a Family Man prequel)
Tod in Wyoming
Tod in Wyoming: Sendeschluss
Tod in Wyoming: Hängengelassen
Tod in Wyoming: Abgeschossen
Tod in Wyoming: Grabenbruch (Coming Soon)
Wyoming Wildflowers
Wyoming Wildflowers: The Beginning
Almost a Bride
Match Made In Wyoming
My Heart Remembers
A New World
Jack's Heart
Rodeo Nights
Where Love Lives
A Cowboy Wedding
Making Christmas
Wyoming Wildflowers Trilogy Boxed Set
Wyoming Wildflowers Box Set Two (Book 5, Jack’s Heart, and A New World prequel)
Wyoming Wildflowers Box Set Three (Book 6, Where Love Lives, and Rodeo Nights prequel)
Wyoming Wildflowers: The Complete Collection
Wyoming Wildflowers: The Complete Series
Standalone
Courting a Cowboy
The Games
To Love a Cowboy (A Western Historical Duet)
Widow Woman
Wyoming Wild: Western Romance Series Starters
Christmas Romance: Three Complete Holiday Love Stories
Proof of Innocence
Survival Kit for Writers Who Don't Write Right
Watch for more at Patricia McLinn’s site.
A NEW WORLD
Wyoming Wildflowers series
Prequel to Jack’s Heart
Patricia McLinn
*
Wyoming Wildflowers series
Wyoming Wildflowers: The Beginning – Prequel (Snowberry)
Almost a Bride (Indian Paintbrush)
Match Made in Wyoming (Fireweed)
My Heart Remembers (Bur Marigold)
A New World (Prequel to Jack’s Heart)
Jack’s Heart (Yellow Monkeyflower)
Rodeo Nights (Prequel to Where Love Lives)
Where Love Lives (Threadleaf phacelia)
Copyright © Patricia McLinn
ISBN: 978-1-939215-06-2
EPUB Edition
www.PatriciaMcLinn.com
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Dear Readers: If you encounter typos or errors in this book, please send them to me at Patricia@patriciamclinn.com. Even with many layers of editing, mistakes can slip through, alas. But, together, we can eradicate the nasty nuisances. Thank you! – Patricia McLinn
*
To Dad, for his stories of Gloucester and Ireland.
To Mom, for her insight to the human heart.
To both, in honor of their many years of marriage, family and romance.
*
The author extends her gratitude to Séamus, Mary and Andy Costello,
and Lori McKeever
for sharing their experiences and expertise.
*
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
The Wyoming Wildflowers series
Author’s Note
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
“Look at him, Ellie—the perfect man.”
Eleanor Thatcher grimaced at her cousin, trying to convey that she should lower her voice.
Not that she had any hope it would work. Might as well hope that every driver in Boston would use turn signals as hope Valerie would watch what she said, even in a public place.
“I mean, there he is. Exactly what we need, and right here in front of us,” Valerie said, perhaps even louder.
The red-bearded man to their left was actively eavesdropping. If Eleanor hadn’t already suspected it, his stillness and the way he averted his eyes, thus putting his right ear directly in the path of Val’s voice, would have convinced her. Of course, it didn’t require much effort to pick up what Val said.
It wouldn’t be so bad if she mumbled. But her multitude of jobs had included six months as a public radio announcer, so Val’s enunciation was flawless. No Boston accent for her.
“Even his name—Cahill McCrea. He’s perfect for us and you know it, El.”
“Val—”
“Just look at him. And listen. That’s all I asked—that you come and listen to him sing. That’s all, but now that you’ve seen him …” Val’s mobile face shifted to an expression of supplication, wide brown eyes limpid as a waif’s.
Eleanor almost laughed. Valerie Trimarco hadn’t asked her to come to this small South Boston pub at all.
She’d nagged and badgered until, knowing the barrage could go on forever, Eleanor had surrendered, driving in from Cape Ann through a cold March rain teetering on the edge of sleet.
So here she was on a Saturday night, at O’Herlihy’s Saloon, where the bartender did a steady business, where everyone seemed on a first-name basis except them, where decades of elbows kept a wooden bar polished smooth, and where the cumulative effect of curious eyes was like a searchlight trained on the scarred table she and Val shared.
Not that Val noticed. She didn’t have a self-conscious bone in her fashionably thin body.
The only way for Eleanor to escape with some sanity was to do what Val wanted. Eleanor had known that since they’d shared a playpen as toddlers. For sixteen years—as teenagers and adults—they’d hardly seen each other, but in the past year as Val’s partner in The Fishwife, Eleanor had learned just how little her cousin had changed from childhood days of scrambling over Gloucester’s Dog Bar Breakwater.
A sigh slipped from her. Sometimes she felt like the only grown-up shepherding second-graders through a glass factory.
“All right, Val. I’ll look. And I’ll listen. But that’s all.”
“That’s all I ask.”
Right.
The thrum of a guitar announced a song, and Eleanor hitched her chair for a clearer view of this man her cousin wanted her to weigh against perfection.
A guitar strap slung easily over his broad shoulder, he sat ten feet away. He had a hip on one stool and a foot propped on the rung of another. The second stool held a tin whistle, a harmonica and a beer mug freshened through the good graces of his audience.
Cahill McCrea. The name did suit him. He was more ruggedly interesting than handsome. But attractive, definitely attractive.
A stiff sea breeze could have tousled his thick dark hair off his forehead that way. But not even the strongest gale seemed likely to make an impression on the prominent bones of brows and cheeks that, under the makeshift spotlight of O’Herlihy’s Saloon, shadowed his eyes.
He turned for a sip from the mug, and Eleanor considered a profile that dropped in a nearly straight line from his high, wide forehead to a bump midway down his nose. A memento of a fight? In light of the thrusting lines of that stubborn jaw, she didn’t doubt it for a minute.
Considering the muscle and sinew of forearms revealed by rolled-back sleeves on his faded blue shirt, she wondered what had happened to the other fellow. The broad shoulders and wide chest stopped just this side of burly, and jeans worn to a powder blue encased powerful thighs.
A quiet note from the guitar pulled her attention back to his face. Without seeing them, she sensed his shadowed eyes resting on her as his comfortable baritone began to sing of his love with the ribbon in her hair. Her heart gave a startled jerk.
Familiar, despised heat push up Eleanor’s cheeks.
How ridiculous! A woman of thirty-one blushing. Blushing was for giggling schoolgirls, not for competent businesswomen. Especially not just because a stranger caught her staring at him.
Looking at him, she amended.
And she had every reason to look at him, she reminded herself during the second chorus. He was an entertainer, after all, and it was as an entertainer she assessed him. That was the reason Val had insisted she drive more than an hour from Gloucester to this working-class bar in South Boston.
She frowned.
Entertainer? Somehow that tag didn’t fit.
If she’d seen him on the street, she’d never have picked him as an entertainer. Even now, sitting and listening to his songs, she sensed an incongruity in the picture. Oh, his voice and his instruments blended pleasantly enough, but she had the odd feeling he wasn’t really performing.
She felt her brows pinch in a frown as she tried to pin down the elusive impression. He didn’t sell his music the way other performers did. Maybe that was it. He just sent the songs out there to be accepted or not, as if whichever happened wouldn’t affect him.
“Well?” Val demanded simultaneously with the last sad, clear note.
“I’m not sure that Irish music—”
Val waved the objection way. “He does other things, too. That’s just for here, although Irish music is awfully popular. Besides, it’s not just his music,” she said with a fervor Eleanor recognized all too well.
Oh, no. Another of Val’s enthusiasms.
Eleanor glanced at the bent head of the man testing his guitar’s tuning. Could a man like Cahill McCrea be hurt because the fire of Val’s interest burned bright and hot, but never long?
“Look at how good he is with the people,” Val continued. “He really gives this place an atmosphere. And that’s what we need at The Fishwife.”
That might be true.
With Val planning the menu and Eleanor directing the business, they gave customers a delicious meal and efficient service. But if they didn’t find a way to give them something more, The Fishwife wouldn’t last another season.
Perhaps not even half a season if they had as many bad-luck expenses as last summer. To cover the bill the second time the air conditioner broke down, they’d had to ask the employees to wait three days for their wages.
She didn’t voice the admission, though, because Cahill McCrea began a song just then—a stirring tune that had her tapping her fingers on the table while more demonstrative listeners clapped.
Maybe Val was right. Maybe this man, with his careless smiles and with his voice as smooth and potent as the oldest Irish whiskey, could draw in summer customers and keep The Fishwife afloat another year.
The song reached a rousing climax with the audience joining in on the last chorus and cheering at the finish. One male voice, heavy with beer, rose over calls of appreciation and demanded the singing of “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.”
“No!” The negative chorus seemed near unanimous.
Looking past the bulk of the red-bearded man at the next table, Eleanor picked out the requester from among a crowd at the bar. He had to be at least half a foot shorter than her own five foot eight and easily a decade past retirement age. He wore a tweed cap, flanked by feathery white tufts above his ears.
“ ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’!” he insisted above the protests. “And I’ll fight each and every one of you who doesn’t want it, do you hear?”
The idea of the little man fighting anyone seemed laughable, but she felt no urge to laugh. Someone in the room wasn’t laughing at all. She sensed tension.
She scanned the faces around the wizened, pugnacious man at the bar and saw expressions ranging from good-natured smiles to mildly irritated frowns. None produced the uneasiness she felt. But somewhere—“I’ll fight you, Cahill McCrea, if you’re thinking you won’t sing it. Fight you to the death. Do you hear that, Cahill McCrea?” The man’s challenge drew stifled chuckles.
Eleanor’s search ended at the next table. The red-bearded stranger—it was his tension she felt. The tight line of the beefy back and broad shoulders straining his white shirt communicated it as clearly as words. How strange. How could the little man at the bar possibly cause this bear of a man a moment’s concern? He wasn’t even looking in that direction. Instead, she realized as she followed his frown, he focused on Cahill McCrea.
The singer still rested at ease on the stool, although his smile appeared oddly tight. But that could have been an effect of the lighting.
“Can’t you just imagine that?” Valerie gleefully murmured in Eleanor’s ear. “It would be like Mickey Rooney challenging Mike Tyson.”
Eleanor didn’t answer and didn’t take her eyes off the red-bearded man and McCrea. She had the feeling a drama was being acted out that only she could see.
McCrea ducked under the guitar strap, further shadowing his face, but his voice held only easy confidence when he called out, “I’ll sing you ‘Brennan on the Moor’ next set, Michael. Will that be doing you?”
She held her breath. Ridiculous. Nothing’s going to happen. But still she didn’t breathe. Warily, she watched the elderly man addressed as Michael slide off his stool. The red-bearded man seemed to coil, as if preparing to spring. McCrea held totally still, his face unreadable.
But Michael only doffed his tweed cap to McCrea with great ceremony before returning it to the nest of white tufts and resuming his seat.
Air rushed out of her lungs in relief. Relief over what, for heaven’s sake?
McCrea responded with a brief salute, then turned to rearrange his instruments. Eleanor considered his back for a puzzled moment, but it told her nothing. Nor did the now-relaxed profile of the red-bearded man at the next table. Had she imagined the whole thing?
She turned, studying faces at the bar. Certainly no one there seemed to consider that anything out of the way had occurred, least of all Michael. The little man sipped from his beer mug between emphatic comments to companions on either side of him, nodding approval or thumping an adamant fist on the bar.
“What’s the matter with ‘I’ll Take you Home Again, Kathleen’?” came Valerie’s voice.
How would she know? She turned to ask Val that very reasonable question, but never said the words. Val hadn’t asked her; she’d asked Cahill McCrea.
He stood looking down at her and smiling. With only the scarred wooden table separating them, he appeared more powerful, his shoulders wider, his chest broader, his arms thicker. And, tilting her head back, she added taller to the list.
Experiencing his smile from close range gave her a new understanding of Val’s enthusiasm for the man.
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