Startled, he dropped the axe, nearly hitting the cat, who had stopped right beside him. The dull thud seemed overly loud in the stillness of the barn, as did the startled yowl from Flower, who took off for a quiet, safe corner.
She laughed then sang, “You won’t be needing that.”
He picked it up and just looked at it then smiled as he hefted it in his hands, feeling a little foolish.
“What are you doing out here, Mr. Hannigan, with that?” She nodded toward the axe in his hands.
“I came to check on the horses. Make sure the storm wasn’t disturbing them, and then when I saw the light from under the door, well, I—” The explanation deserted him, and his face warmed with embarrassment.
“Did you think someone was trying to steal my horses?” she asked, as she continued brushing Spitfire.
“The thought had crossed my mind.” He leaned the axe against one of the posts that separated the stalls.
“Thank you, Mr. Hannigan. I appreciate your concern.”
She was still calling him Mr. Hannigan though he had asked her several times already to call him Jake. Perhaps, she just needed reminding one more time. “Jake, please.”
She nodded in his direction. “As you can see, Jake, they’re all fine. All except Spitfire here. She doesn’t like thunder.” She continued brushing, her movements slow and methodical, and once again, all he could do was watch her. She was dressed in one of the suede split skirts she favored and a simple blouse. Her light-brown hair fell over her shoulders like she’d just rolled from bed, which she probably had. The lantern cast its warm glow over her, and she was, in that moment, so beautiful, it made his heart beat a little harder. “And no one would dare to steal my horses. That simply doesn’t happen on Montaña del Trueno.” She gestured toward the tack room behind her. “Grab a brush.”
He quickly did as she asked, then joined her in the stall. Spitfire shuffled slightly, her skin twitching as he began to stroke the brush over her coat.
“What does it mean?” he asked after several moments of silence.
“What does what mean?”
“Montaña del Trueno.”
“Thunder Mountain.” She smiled and his heart thumped harder still. “When it storms, like now, thunder echoes against the mountains and it feels like the sound goes on forever. It’s quite magnificent. At least in my opinion.” She continued brushing but looked at him over the horse’s back. “This ranch has been here for three generations. Regina’s children, my niece and nephews, are the fourth. They’ll carry it forward for generations to come.” Her smile widened, her pride evident. “Already, Toughie—excuse me, young Tomas, Esteban’s son—is learning to sit a horse, when we can get him to be still for more than a minute, despite the fact he’s only thirteen months old, and Miguel is quite accomplished already, though he’s only four. Savannah rides like the wind. It’s never too early to teach children. And they’re so smart, eating up every bit of wisdom from everyone, learning every day.”
“You love this place.”
“I do. I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.” She gave a small sigh and the sound, for a moment, seemed louder than the thunder rumbling outside. “What about you, Jake?”
He never told people about his past. It was just not something he did. No one, aside from Father O’Malley and the good Sisters at the home, knew about his life, but this wasn’t San Francisco. And she wasn’t just anyone. She was different. Special. And the words seemed to tumble out of his mouth without censure. “Father O’Malley and the good Sisters at St.Anselm’s Home for Boys raised me until I was sixteen. After that, I was on my own.”
It was the first time he’d mentioned where he’d come from to anyone and the admission seemed to sadden her. She stopped brushing Spitfire and looked at him over the horse’s back, her eyes full of sympathy. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t a bad life. I had a roof over my head, three meals a day, and an education anyone would be proud to have, thanks to Sister Agnes. She was a taskmaster when it came to learning, whether we wanted to learn or not.” He grinned as he continued brushing Spitfire, surprising himself that he’d told her so much. Perhaps it was the expression of interest on her face and the curiosity dancing in her eyes. Whatever the reason for his lack of verbal control, he found himself wanting to tell her more.
“From Sister Theresa, I learned to appreciate good food. She was an excellent cook. It was simple fare, but filling and tasty. Helping her in the kitchen was one of my chores.”
“So you can cook.”
He nodded. “And then there was Father O’Malley. He was a good man. Still is. He still runs the home, iron-fisted, yet kind. He did his best for us, and we knew it. For a long time, I thought I would become a priest like him.”
“Apparently, you didn’t.” She stopped brushing Spitfire, and stared at him, one eyebrow rising. “Or did you?”
He laughed. “No, I didn’t. Too many restrictions. Father O’Malley always called me a maverick because I didn’t like following the rules. I still don’t.”
She smiled, as if she could see that about him. “Where is St. Anselm’s?”
“San Francisco.”
“I’ve never heard of it, and I was raised in San Francisco. Spent my first twenty years in a house on the Hill.”
She didn’t seem like someone who would come from Nob Hill. He’d met many across a poker table, those who were fortunate to be born to wealth and didn’t mind losing it, but she didn’t act like that. There were no airs, as if she were better than anyone else. Indeed, as far as he could see, she worked just as hard as the men she employed. And if there was wealth behind her, she didn’t flaunt it.
“Well, that’s why you never heard of it. Most folks, especially those who lived on the Hill, wouldn’t know of St. Anselm’s. It’s a far cry from those that live in the big houses. The orphanage was small and located on the outskirts of the city.”
