A Noble Bargain

Chapter 1

Music and laughter drifted around twenty-two-year-old Oliver Quinn as he tipped his paddy cap to a pretty young girl sitting alone on a bench against the wall. He’d had his eye on her since she’d arrived. It didn’t escape his notice that she seemed to fold into herself, mostly staring down at her hands on her lap. Single lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling cast an auburn glow on her nut-brown hair.

The threadbare plain cotton dress and worn, scuffed shoes spoke of struggles that required no explanation.

The year was 1948, and in the small town of Crossett, Arkansas, local dances drew people from all around the area.

Young men showed up in their Sunday best, hoping to steal a dance and, if they were lucky, a kiss from their favorite girl. Old men came with jars of moonshine, looking for a good card game or perhaps a chance to jaw with their neighbors, while their wives gathered in close-knit circles to share the latest gossip or new recipe.

Folks in Crossett worked hard and played hard.

And Oliver did both.

He’d danced with almost every unattached girl since he’d arrived. He loved twirling them around the dance floor, dipping them at the end of the song.

After escorting his latest dance partner back to her parents, with a hand in one pocket, he sauntered over to the young girl he’d been watching. “Howdy.” He gestured toward the crowded dance floor. “Care to dance?”

She glanced up, her face flushing bright pink, then quickly lowered her eyes, but not before Oliver glimpsed the most striking violet blues he’d ever seen. “Don’t know how.”

“Well, then.” Oliver bowed at the waist. “Let me be the first to teach you.”

“I…” She hesitated. “I can’t.”

Oliver followed her quick gaze to two boys around his age leaning against the opposite wall. “Miss, I can assure you I have the most honorable of intentions. Do I need to ask their permission?”

“No. Please.” Tears pooled and her gaze widened.

“Your brothers?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your ma and pa? I can ask their permission.”

She jerked a thumb toward the back door. “Pa’s out there, but he’s in an awful mood, spoiling for a fight.”

Oliver pulled off his cap and tucked it under his arm. “You got a name? If you don’t tell me, I’m going to call you Violet. You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“Name’s Rose. You’d best be movin’ along. My brothers are heading this way.”

Squaring his shoulders, Oliver stayed rooted. “I’m not afraid, if that’s what you think.”

Her voice barely audible over the fiddles, guitars, and banjos, she pleaded, “Please go. Don’t need no trouble.”

Ignoring her quiet plea, Oliver leaned closer. “Rose, my name’s Oliver Quinn, and I never back down from trouble. Seems to me you came to a dance, and what most folks do at a dance is, well—dance.”

A rough hand on his shoulder spun Oliver around.

“Can I help you?” The question came from a young man with shoulder-length brown hair, dressed in loose-fitting overalls. A dark scowl creased his forehead.

“Don’t reckon you can.” Oliver pointed to Rose. “This your sister?”

The intruder nodded.

“Then you won’t mind if I dance with her, will you?”

Shrugging his shoulders, the boy stuck his hands in his overall pockets. “Up to her, I guess. Just don’t try no funny stuff.”

Oliver turned back to Rose and held out his hand. “May I?”

She pushed to her feet and clumsily followed him around the dance floor. She held her thin body stiff under his hands, keeping a suitable distance between them, yet she still managed to step on his foot more than once.

“You’re stubborn.” She accidentally bumped into another dancer.

“Been called that a time or two.” Oliver expertly guided her to the edge of the crowded area as the song ended.

With a hand on her elbow, he walked her back to the bench along the wall. “Thank you, Rose. That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

“You’re a good dancer. Sorry I stepped on your toe.”

“Never felt it.” Before she could sit, he motioned toward the back of the building. “Say, would you like something to drink?”

Her eyebrows shot up.

“I don’t mean liquor. I see they have a punchbowl back there.”

“Okay. I guess.”

Oliver took her hand and led her toward the long wooden table in the back of the hall laden with refreshments. “Two glasses of punch, please, Mabel,” he said to a gray-haired woman behind the table.

He handed one to Rose. “I could use some fresh air.”

“I can’t go outside with you.” She cocked her head toward the two, still leaning against the wall.

“You let me worry about them. I promise I can take care of myself.” He took a sip of the fruity punch, focusing on her plump lips as she tasted hers. “You’re awful pretty.”

She choked on the punch and coughed. “No one’s ever said that before.”

“Then they must be blind.” He pointed to the door. “Air?”

“My pa’ll kill me if I go out there with you.”

“Why? I can assure you I’m a decent person. I work over at the sawmill, loading lumber onto train cars. Live at home with my mother and two sisters. My mom works at the local bakery, and my two sisters are in school. I can provide references, if that’s what it takes.” He pointed to the gray-haired woman. “Mabel here knows me and my whole family. She can vouch for me, can’t you, Mabel?”

The woman flashed a toothy smile. “Been knowin’ Oliver all his life. No better person in the whole county.”

“There. Feel better?”

“I’m not worth your time or trouble.”

“Let me decide that. What or who in God’s name are you afraid of, Rose? Why’d you come to this dance? Never seen you here before.”

“That’s ’cause I’ve never been here before.”

Oliver pointed toward the door again. “Walk with me.” He placed a hand gently on the middle of her back and ushered her through the wide doorway. Once outside, the crisp fall air prickled his skin, and dried leaves crunched beneath his scuffed lace-up work boots. In the distance, an owl hooted for his mate while crickets chirped and hopped under the single light that shone over the community hall entrance.

He motioned toward a fallen log at the edge of the tree line. “Let’s sit. I’d like to know more about you, Rose.” He brushed away dry leaves from a spot on the log and waited for Rose to sit before joining her. “You got a last name?”

“Name’s Rose Blaine. Moved over here from Hamburg last month. My brothers are looking to find work. Why do you talk funny?”

Oliver chuckled. “My folks are from Ireland. Guess the accent has stuck with me. You haven’t mentioned a mother.”

She choked back a sob. “Ma died over four years ago. It’s been hard ever since. She was the only one that could keep a rein on Pa. And now…”

Oliver sipped his punch. “And now, he’s drinkin’ hisself crazy.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s what men do when they lose someone they love. Seen it before.”

“You got a pa?”

“He died when I was twelve. He got between a blade and a log at the sawmill and didn’t make it. My twin sisters were just babies. Been us four ever since. I help support the family.”

“That’s good of you.”

“Rose! Rose, you out here?”

She jumped up. “Over here, Harlan.”

Oliver stood as the two boys approached.

Without a word, the one she called Harlan drew back his fist. Oliver easily sidestepped to dodge the blow. “I ain’t doin’ nothing disrespectful with your sister. Just talkin’.”

“That ain’t what Pa will think.” Harlan angled toward Rose while the younger brother stepped in front of him.

“Harlan, don’t.”

Harlan shoved his brother aside. “Out of my way, Jack.” He grabbed Rose’s arm. “You ain’t nothin’ but trouble. You know Pa is in a bad way, and here you are makin’ things worse.”

She let out a yelp. “Ouch. Stop it, Harlan. Let me go.”

“Hey.” Oliver took a step forward. “You’re hurting her.”

Harlan whirled back to Oliver, his face a mass of fury. “Told you, Irish, stay away from our sister. Guess you don’t listen too good.”

When he took another swing at him, Oliver caught his arm midair and twisted it behind his back. “Told you I ain’t lookin’ for trouble. Just having a friendly conversation with Rose.”

“And we told you to stay the hell away from her,” Harlan growled.

“Look.” Oliver released his arm. “Let’s start over. I’m Oliver Quinn. I work over at the sawmill, and I’m a decent chap.”

“Listen to him.” Rose bit her bottom lip. “He’s tellin’ the truth. We was just talkin’. Besides, maybe he can help you and Jack get on over at the mill.”

“That true? You lookin’ for work?”

“Maybe.” Harlan spit in the dirt and squinched one eye.

“I’m in tight with the foreman. Can put in a good word. Either of you had any sawmill experience?”

Jack fidgeted. “None to speak of, but we’ve lived in these Arkansas woods all our lives. Ain’t scared of hard work.”

“Come by on Monday, and I’ll introduce you to Mr. Owen. Can’t promise any more than that.”

Jack stuck out his hand. “Sorry for the misunderstanding. We’re new around here.”

“So Rose said. No hard feelings.” Oliver accepted the outstretched hand.

“Still, better git back inside ’fore Pa knows you’re gone, Rose.”

Oliver reached for her empty punch glass and smiled. “We were just heading back.”

There was something about the fear reflecting in Rose’s eyes that sent Oliver’s protective instincts reeling. He’d bet his last dollar she’d suffered at the hands of her drunken father and maybe even the brothers. Call him old-fashioned, but there was never an excuse for a man to hit a woman or treat her unkindly. If anyone ever laid a hand on his mother or either of his sisters, there’d be hell to pay.

And as Oliver told Rose, he didn’t back down from trouble.

Never had. Never would.

***

Rose hurried back inside, scanning the room for her father. She breathed a sigh of relief when she didn’t see him.

Oliver Quinn seemed like a nice boy. No one besides her mother had ever told her she was pretty.

But why would a nice boy be interested in her? Her father was as mean as they came, especially after downing a pint of his special moonshine. He’d often bragged about killing a man with his bare hands after the man refused to pay for a delivery.

He thought nothing of laying a hand on her or her brothers for anything he considered an infraction. The bruises hidden beneath her clothes were the result.

No doubt he’d consider her dancing with and talking to Oliver Quinn a huge infraction to his strict rules.

At this rate, she’d die miserable and alone in their shack in the woods.

At almost eighteen, she felt old—old and tired.

Tired of being a whipping post, of doing the men’s laundry on a rub board and cooking their meals with whatever meager supplies she could scrounge up.

But the beatings were the worst. Her bruises had barely healed from the last time. And all because she didn’t get every tiny lump out of the gravy. God only knows what he’d do if he found out her secret.

Sometimes, her brothers tried to intervene. That’s when things turned uglier. Fear that he would kill them one day kept her stomach in knots.

Glancing up, she spotted Oliver twirling a girl with long blonde hair across the dance floor. She liked the way his chestnut hair curled at the nape of his neck. But most of all, the kindness in his green eyes spoke volumes. And his lilting Irish accent reminded her of a bubbling brook.

He winked and flashed a wide smile that sent a flush to her cheeks.

A commotion from outside the building drew everyone’s attention. Everyone but Rose. She knew. Her father was at it again. No telling who was the victim this time. He’d always had a mean streak in him, but after her mother died, his fuse was so short it was all but non-existent.

With all her heart, she wished she could take an ax and smash the whiskey still to smithereens, then escape from a life that choked and wrung every shred of hope from her.

There had to be something better out there.

As soon as she had that thought, it followed with another.

But you’re a Blaine, white trash, a nobody with no future.

How many times had her pa spouted those words? Too many to count. Yet she dared to hold on to hope.

She sat unmoving as people rushed outside.

Her brothers would fetch her as soon as they could get Ezra Blaine loaded into the jalopy, which they jokingly called a car.

She hoped the sheriff wouldn’t get involved and they could make a quiet exit, although she dreaded the trip back to their shack. Unless her father passed out, it would be pure torture.

Instead of following the others outside, Oliver made his way across the dance floor toward her.

“Your father, I presume?”

She nodded.

“Want I should take you home?”

“Oh no. That would be a disaster.”

“A disaster? What do you mean?”

She twisted her hands in her lap. “He’ll kill you.”