brows in greeting and tugged down his vest before stepping off of the makeshift porch.
"Ah, ye must be Miss Mathilda Hardwicke then." The man’s brogue was as thick as Irish mist. "I’m Tom Cooligan, mum, pleased ta meet ye."
Mattie hoped her disappointment didn’t show. So far, Tom was the only man who even slightly resembled the husband she’d sketched for herself.
‘Tis sorry I am ye’ve come so late," he said, his eyes taking on a melancholy cast, "but I hope ye’ll be likin’ my work."
She frowned. What did he mean?
He caught her by the crook of the arm and led her back toward the shack, chattering away. The rest of the town, apparently unwilling to be left out of the excitement, trailed after them.
"Ye see, we’ve a shortage o’ real tradesmen here in the camp, so I’ve become the local barber."
Ah, he must have given the groom a fresh shave and haircut in her honor.
"Though, sad ta say," Tom continued, "my barberin’ talents are seldom called upon by this sorry lot."
"Uh, Tom..." Swede interjected.
"Well, all right," Tom allowed. "Swede here comes once a week, on Tuesday, ta have his shave, but the rest of ‘em—“
"Tom!" Swede blurted out.
The Irishman waved him away and opened the door of the little shed.
"Ye know, mum," he confided, "we don’t usually go ta so much trouble, but what with ye comin’ an’ all, an’ tomorra bein’ Sunday..."
He swung the door wide and ushered her in.
"Anyway, I hope ye like what I’ve done with him."
Mattie looked up and froze in her tracks.
She could honestly say she liked almost everything about her husband-to-be. He looked remarkably like the drawing she’d made. He was good-sized, not too plump, not too spare. He had a thin, but freshly cut crop of chestnut hair and a tastefully scissored mustache. His face, though weathered a bit from exposure to the elements, was not overly ruddy, and his hands were suitable to his profession, pale and slender. He was attired in a black, embroidered silk waistcoat with a fairly clean white shirt, along with creased pants, a well-tailored cloth coat, and boots so shiny she could almost see her reflection in them.
He was perfect. Tom had done an admirable job. In fact, the only thing she didn’t like about Dr. James Harrison was the fact that he was as dead as a doornail.
Chapter 4
Stupefied, Mattie blinked at the Irishman, who seemed poised for some compliment from her. But she couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Dawning reality slowly squeezed the hope from her like a cider press crushing juice from apples.
Of all the things that could have gone wrong, this one she hadn’t considered. She’d tossed on Atlantic seas wild enough to tear a hole in a vessel as easy as a thumb in pie. She’d watched men die in a matter of hours from jungle cholera. She’d rowed beside ravenous crocodiles, slapped at disease-bearing mosquitoes, and suffered a belligerent mule that could have sent her sliding down a mountain to her death. Yet she’d bucked up, faced it all bravely, and survived. To what end?
Her reward was gone. Mattie the Argonaut had fought her way past peril and misfortune, only to have her Golden Fleece vanish into thin air.
"Is she gonna faint?" Zeke asked, narrowing his eyes for a closer look.
That snapped Mattie out of her paralysis. No, she wouldn’t faint. After all, she was her father’s daughter. But a sudden rush of panic so engulfed her that her legs turned to custard, and she felt an overwhelming need to sit down.
"Oh, lass, didn’t ye know?" the Irishman asked gently. Then he cuffed the tall Swede. "Didn’t ye tell her, ye big lummox?"
Swede glared at the smaller man, then guided Mattie by the elbow back outside through the crowded doorway, towards a three-legged stool tottering on the lean-to’s makeshift porch.
"Give her some air, boys," he said, motioning the others back. He sat her down and fanned her face with his big black hat. "You gonna be all
"Ah, ye must be Miss Mathilda Hardwicke then." The man’s brogue was as thick as Irish mist. "I’m Tom Cooligan, mum, pleased ta meet ye."
Mattie hoped her disappointment didn’t show. So far, Tom was the only man who even slightly resembled the husband she’d sketched for herself.
‘Tis sorry I am ye’ve come so late," he said, his eyes taking on a melancholy cast, "but I hope ye’ll be likin’ my work."
She frowned. What did he mean?
He caught her by the crook of the arm and led her back toward the shack, chattering away. The rest of the town, apparently unwilling to be left out of the excitement, trailed after them.
"Ye see, we’ve a shortage o’ real tradesmen here in the camp, so I’ve become the local barber."
Ah, he must have given the groom a fresh shave and haircut in her honor.
"Though, sad ta say," Tom continued, "my barberin’ talents are seldom called upon by this sorry lot."
"Uh, Tom..." Swede interjected.
"Well, all right," Tom allowed. "Swede here comes once a week, on Tuesday, ta have his shave, but the rest of ‘em—“
"Tom!" Swede blurted out.
The Irishman waved him away and opened the door of the little shed.
"Ye know, mum," he confided, "we don’t usually go ta so much trouble, but what with ye comin’ an’ all, an’ tomorra bein’ Sunday..."
He swung the door wide and ushered her in.
"Anyway, I hope ye like what I’ve done with him."
Mattie looked up and froze in her tracks.
She could honestly say she liked almost everything about her husband-to-be. He looked remarkably like the drawing she’d made. He was good-sized, not too plump, not too spare. He had a thin, but freshly cut crop of chestnut hair and a tastefully scissored mustache. His face, though weathered a bit from exposure to the elements, was not overly ruddy, and his hands were suitable to his profession, pale and slender. He was attired in a black, embroidered silk waistcoat with a fairly clean white shirt, along with creased pants, a well-tailored cloth coat, and boots so shiny she could almost see her reflection in them.
He was perfect. Tom had done an admirable job. In fact, the only thing she didn’t like about Dr. James Harrison was the fact that he was as dead as a doornail.
Chapter 4
Stupefied, Mattie blinked at the Irishman, who seemed poised for some compliment from her. But she couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Dawning reality slowly squeezed the hope from her like a cider press crushing juice from apples.
Of all the things that could have gone wrong, this one she hadn’t considered. She’d tossed on Atlantic seas wild enough to tear a hole in a vessel as easy as a thumb in pie. She’d watched men die in a matter of hours from jungle cholera. She’d rowed beside ravenous crocodiles, slapped at disease-bearing mosquitoes, and suffered a belligerent mule that could have sent her sliding down a mountain to her death. Yet she’d bucked up, faced it all bravely, and survived. To what end?
Her reward was gone. Mattie the Argonaut had fought her way past peril and misfortune, only to have her Golden Fleece vanish into thin air.
"Is she gonna faint?" Zeke asked, narrowing his eyes for a closer look.
That snapped Mattie out of her paralysis. No, she wouldn’t faint. After all, she was her father’s daughter. But a sudden rush of panic so engulfed her that her legs turned to custard, and she felt an overwhelming need to sit down.
"Oh, lass, didn’t ye know?" the Irishman asked gently. Then he cuffed the tall Swede. "Didn’t ye tell her, ye big lummox?"
Swede glared at the smaller man, then guided Mattie by the elbow back outside through the crowded doorway, towards a three-legged stool tottering on the lean-to’s makeshift porch.
"Give her some air, boys," he said, motioning the others back. He sat her down and fanned her face with his big black hat. "You gonna be all
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