Storyteller / Shared NPC
Mr. Kaufmann heard his new assistant call the order out.
"Yes, yes, I will get right on that now!" he called back. His fellow was already making a sale, that was a good start.
"No Irish!"
He lugged the beef to the back to announce to Mr. Kaufman, "She wants four pounds of tenderloin and a dozen sausages. Might want somethin' else, too."
Mrs Wigfall had watched the handsome young butcher's assistant go into the back, enjoying the sight of his lean rump steak as he went. Yes, she would insist that Brendan, and not that little sprat of a delivery boy, personally deliver the meat right into her pantry, and when he was there, she would make it clear that she was free, available and willing! He wouldn't be able to resist her!
It was unfortunate that Mrs Mary Wigfall didn't quite realise that these days, in the parlance of Brendan's new trade, she was 'mutton dressed as lamb' but love, or lust, is blind. Her schemes to get her harpylike claws into the firm, bronzed flesh of the ex-cowboy would fill her waking thoughts and the dreams of her fitful, lonely nights over the next week. Her husband and children would notice it, she would be more on edge than ever, and they would wisely keep out of her way.
Oooh, he was coming back, and she had suddenly remembered something else she had heard about the good looking cow-poke.
She gave him her best smile. It hurt. She was out of practice.
"Mister Connelly, is it true that you are what is sometimes called a 'horse whisperer?' I wondred if your charms also worked on cats?" Well, they certainly worked on cougars.
After a brief respite from the hot, feverish gaze of Mary Wigfall, Brendan returned. Was she feeling poorly? That smile looked like a possum's...in other words, disconcerting.
A horse whisperer? Was that what people called him? Brendan felt his chest swell slightly. It was much better than a criminal, or debaucher of young women, or other things that Granny Miggins had called him. He began to feel slightly more generous towards Mrs. Wigfall. Only slightly.
"Shucks," he said again. "I don't know as I'd call it that. I just know what they like and what they don't. I know how to get 'em to do what I want. But horses is easy. Gentle creatures, they are. Need a firm hand sometimes, but what they really want is for you to be gentle back."
Normally he wouldn't pontificate on the tenets of horse whispering. Nobody cared. But Mrs. Wigfall had asked. But she'd also asked about...cats?
But what in heck did horses have to do with cats? Brendan was nonplussed, but tried to hide it by shrugging. "I s'pose they might work on cats. Never had much use for cats except to catch mice. Never been around 'em much. 'Fraid I'll step on them."
"No Irish!"
"Shucks," he said again. "I don't know as I'd call it that. I just know what they like and what they don't. I know how to get 'em to do what I want. But horses is easy. Gentle creatures, they are. Need a firm hand sometimes, but what they really want is for you to be gentle back."
Mrs Wigfall drank in the man's words, feeling like she too would like to be one of the wild horses in Brendan's corral, to feel his firm hand and his gentle whispers.
"I s'pose they might work on cats. Never had much use for cats except to catch mice. Never been around 'em much. 'Fraid I'll step on them."
"What a thoughtful man you are, Mister Connolly. Worrying about treading on a dear little pussy cat. Perhaps you would consent to try having a word with my Grainger. He's really getting quite lazy and plump but I can't get through to him. He's quite given up on chasing rats an mice." She realised how ridiculous that request sounded, but any old port in a storm.
She suddenly looked all around the place with interest.
"So... where do you live, Mr Connolly? Above the store?"
"You tried catnip?" The words burst out before Brendan could stop them. He didn't know if catnip would solve Grainger's problem, and to be honest, he didn't really care. He cared about taking Mrs. Wigfall's money for the meat, making arrangements for the delivery, and making her leave.
She really didn't want to leave, it seemed. Didn't she have important landlady things to be doing? Things other than standing here gawping at him?
"So... where do you live, Mr Connolly? Above the store?"
Now why did she want to know that? Brendan frowned, not just because it was more of a personal question, but because of how hard it was to answer. He'd planned to take up residence in the old funeral parlor, but at Caroline's urging had gone away for a few days. When he'd come back, he'd discovered Arabella had beat him to it. There were probably rooms aplenty for both him and her if he'd asked, but upon reflection it hadn't seemed right to start living in the house of a man some people said you'd murdered. At least not so soon after Crabbe's death.
Since then, it'd been mostly haystacks and back porches for him, with the occasional night at the livery where he shared a stall with his horse Fiona.
"No, ma'am," he said finally. "I'm sorta...sorta lookin' for a place." He nodded once, pleased at how succinctly he'd answered her question. Now, he knew that the woman in front of him ran a boarding house, but it hadn't crossed his mind to inquire about rooms there. He might not be able to afford a room from her.
"No Irish!"
"You tried catnip?" The words burst out before Brendan could stop them.
"Yes, but it has absolutely no effect on me." she answered truthfully. Since the death of Mr Richard Orr and the consequent cessation of his twice-weekly visits to the boarding house, where she used to clandestinely let him enter through the back way, she'd tried all sorts things to calm her nerves: herbal tea; hot baths; cold baths; laudanum; even smoking one of Jemima's cigars.
She had realised that there was only one thing that could replace the thrill of being held in a strong man's rugged embrace: being held in another strong man's rugged embrace. And Mr Brendan Connolly looked like his embrace would be very, very rugged indeed.
"So... where do you live, Mr Connolly? Above the store?"
"No, ma'am," he said finally. "I'm sorta...sorta lookin' for a place." He nodded once, pleased at how succinctly he'd answered her question.
You could have heard a pin drop. Mrs Wigfall clasped her hands before her.
"Oh you poor man. Cast out and homeless, all on the wings of careless rumour!" She leaned in confidentially "Now, Mr Connolly, you listen to me: I have a small box room, I can't rent it out as it is so bijou. It's just sitting there getting damp and dusty: rooms have to be lived in, you know to keep them right. You would be doing me an enormous favour if you would consent to come and live there for as long as it is convenient to you."
She held up a warning finger.
"I wont take a single red cent for rent, it is my Christian duty to shelter a worthy man like you who has been tossed about on the waves of misfortune and unhappy circumstance. You could, of course, do a few little odd jobs for me around the house, on occasion: you look like you are probably very good with your hands: and Jemima's always out at work and Hector's good for nothing." She didn't even mention her husband. Why bring that waste of space into it?
"Oh please do say 'yes'. You can move straight in, bring your luggage with you when you come with the meat." she suggested. She didn't imagine that he would have much to pack. "Oh and add something else to the order..." she said, waving vaguely about the meats on show "... something you really like, so I can give you something special for your supper." she beamed those big, strong, bite-y teeth. "We want to keep your strength up!"
"Yes, but it has absolutely no effect on me."
Brendan stared at her and then guffawed, throwing his head back to show his bronzed throat and the underside of his jaw. If he thought about it later, he'd have realized that was a mistake. Like a woman who was already being ogled by men and then lifted her skirts just a little too high, he'd probably only encouraged Mrs. Wigfall in her admiration of him. But he couldn't help laughing at the unexpected comical relief. Catnip was for cats, not people!
He quickly stopped laughing after realizing his new customer might take offense. He could only hope she wouldn't. And it appeared she hadn't, as she wanted him to come stay at her boarding house. He started to refuse her offer of the room, shaking his head. He couldn't afford it. He needed to be saving his money to take care of Bridget. But Mrs. Wigfall hadn't finished her offer yet. She offered a free room in exchange for fixing things around the house. What luck!
"Well, I am pretty good with my hands," he said, shrugging modestly. He couldn't fix everything, but he had the general know-how all men had back in those days and also prided himself on the gentleness of his hands when it came to animals...and women.
"Oh please do say 'yes'. You can move straight in, bring your luggage with you when you come with the meat. Oh and add something else to the order..." she said, waving vaguely about the meats on show "... something you really like, so I can give you something special for your supper." she beamed those big, strong, bite-y teeth. "We want to keep your strength up!"
He made a spur of the moment decision, which he'd later be able to justify by thinking that it would help him seem more worthy in the Wentworth's eyes if he had somewhere to live, even if it was just a boarding house.
"Well...yes, then." He grinned self-consciously. It wasn't every day you got a job and a decent living situation dropped in your lap. "I like tenderloin just fine. But if you had mashed potatoes, I'd be mighty grateful. I'd kill for a good serving of mashed potatoes." He tightened his fingers around the counter and shook his head fervently.
"No Irish!"
"Well...yes, then." He grinned self-consciously. It wasn't every day you got a job and a decent living situation dropped in your lap. "I like tenderloin just fine. But if you had mashed potatoes, I'd be mighty grateful. I'd kill for a good serving of mashed potatoes." He tightened his fingers around the counter and shook his head fervently.
Mary felt her foolish middle-aged heart beating in her breast faster and harder than it had done in many a moon. She fiddled around in her purse for the right money, plus an advance tip for Brendan, and handed over the coins: more than aware of the warmth of his big, strong hand as she deposited the metal into it, lingering a second longer than she needed to.
"Then tenderloin steak and mashed potatoes it shall be!" she grinned madly.
"Oh, do hurry on over as soon as Mister Kaufmann will allow it, Mister Connolly: we shall all be so happy to see you." 'All'? Poetic license, perhaps. She suddenly felt a little dizzy, not used to having the blood pumped around her body this quickly and took her leave.
She stopped at the door and looked back.
"Tenderloin and mashed potatoes... I shan't forget!" she smiled like the mad deluded old bat she was. And yet she felt like a young girl again: it was Spring 1850, her name was Mary Blodwyn ap Evans, and she was in love for the first time, running along the streets of Kalispell to meet her beau.