stood at her side. He was tall for his age and long-limbed. His sandy brown hair was uncombed and curled to a natural cowlick at the back of his head. His eyes were pale green and pouchy from lack of sleep, for he had taken the same cold as Iron Hand O’Keefe. Despite his illness he watched O’Keefe with keen interest, for even at his young age he had heard tales of Iron Hand, the white chief of the Choctaws.
“This is Johnny Fuller,” said Madame LeBeouf, indicating the young lad with a wave of her hand.
“Indeed. And when did you drop a pup?” O’Keefe asked, peering at the woman and boy over the lip of his pewter mug. He hadn’t seen the widow LeBeouf for nigh onto a year, and anything was possible where Olivia was concerned.
“I’ll thank you to keep a civil thought in your skull. He ain’t mine.” She glanced at Raven and continued. “Well, now he is—since his mama caught the grippe and passed away. Consumptive she was, the poor dear. Coughing all the time.” The woman tousled the boy’s hair and patted his shoulder. “Johnny’s a good lad, ain’t you?”
The boy shrugged and continued to study O’Keefe with interest from behind the protection of Madame LeBeouf’s dress. He carried two stoneware bowls and a pair of spoons and two-pronged forks. He wore a sleeping gown and was barefoot. He scratched his left ankle with the toes of his right and then fell into step alongside LeBeouf as she crossed the room to O’Keefe’s bedside.
“Up you go now, and try not to muss the covers and be sure not to spill any of your dinner in bed, for you’ll be sleeping on these very linens.” The widow placed the tray of food on the table near the bed. She took care not to meet O’Keefe’s openmouthed stare.
“See here. I ain’t no wet nurse!” he protested. He looked at his daughter for help, but Raven covered her smile with the back of her hand and fled the room. “Raven. We haven’t settled the matter of these men… uh… Daughter!” He scowled. “Goddammit!”
Madame LeBeouf reached out and caught Iron Hand O’Keefe by his ear and gave it a terrible tweak.
“Yeow!”
“Watch your mouth—there’s a child present,” the widow painfully reminded her former lover. “The kind of sweet boy we might have had if only you’d been willing to surrender your heathen ways and live among your own kind.” Madame LeBeouf sniffed as if to hold back her mock tears. O’Keefe wasn’t fooled for a second. He glared at the eight-year-old who crawled up to take his place in bed alongside the burly Irishman.
“Any child of ours would’ve been full of piss and vinegar, wild as a wolf cub with twice the bite.”
“I would have refined him,” Madame LeBeouf flatly replied. Then she filled a plate with ribs and corn dumplings for Johnny, who silently accepted his meal. It was obvious he was as uneasy about this sleeping arrangement as the big man next to him. O’Keefe watched the widow load a plate for him and then hand it over.
“Enjoy your meal. My guests are below and it would be rude for me to tarry.”
“When you coming back?” O’Keefe surreptitiously nodded in the direction of the lad who was hungrily devouring dinner.
“I can’t tell. It depends on whether or not that handsome Mr. Belouche has arrived. They say he taught the Laffite brothers all they know of swordsmanship. I, too, should like to test his mettle.”
“I’m under your roof but one night and already I am the cuckold,” O’Keefe complained.
“Heal yourself, Peter O’Keefe, and I might change my mind—you hairy old bear.” The widow winked, and tugged his beard and kissed O’Keefe on the forehead, and then left the room with a swirl of her lace-trimmed dress. A trace of rosewater and lilac lingered in the air to mark her passing.
“Hrumph!” O’Keefe grumbled, and fixed the boy in a steely stare. “I aim to eat, then drink me another hot buttered rum and then sleep. You don’t interfere and we’ll get
“This is Johnny Fuller,” said Madame LeBeouf, indicating the young lad with a wave of her hand.
“Indeed. And when did you drop a pup?” O’Keefe asked, peering at the woman and boy over the lip of his pewter mug. He hadn’t seen the widow LeBeouf for nigh onto a year, and anything was possible where Olivia was concerned.
“I’ll thank you to keep a civil thought in your skull. He ain’t mine.” She glanced at Raven and continued. “Well, now he is—since his mama caught the grippe and passed away. Consumptive she was, the poor dear. Coughing all the time.” The woman tousled the boy’s hair and patted his shoulder. “Johnny’s a good lad, ain’t you?”
The boy shrugged and continued to study O’Keefe with interest from behind the protection of Madame LeBeouf’s dress. He carried two stoneware bowls and a pair of spoons and two-pronged forks. He wore a sleeping gown and was barefoot. He scratched his left ankle with the toes of his right and then fell into step alongside LeBeouf as she crossed the room to O’Keefe’s bedside.
“Up you go now, and try not to muss the covers and be sure not to spill any of your dinner in bed, for you’ll be sleeping on these very linens.” The widow placed the tray of food on the table near the bed. She took care not to meet O’Keefe’s openmouthed stare.
“See here. I ain’t no wet nurse!” he protested. He looked at his daughter for help, but Raven covered her smile with the back of her hand and fled the room. “Raven. We haven’t settled the matter of these men… uh… Daughter!” He scowled. “Goddammit!”
Madame LeBeouf reached out and caught Iron Hand O’Keefe by his ear and gave it a terrible tweak.
“Yeow!”
“Watch your mouth—there’s a child present,” the widow painfully reminded her former lover. “The kind of sweet boy we might have had if only you’d been willing to surrender your heathen ways and live among your own kind.” Madame LeBeouf sniffed as if to hold back her mock tears. O’Keefe wasn’t fooled for a second. He glared at the eight-year-old who crawled up to take his place in bed alongside the burly Irishman.
“Any child of ours would’ve been full of piss and vinegar, wild as a wolf cub with twice the bite.”
“I would have refined him,” Madame LeBeouf flatly replied. Then she filled a plate with ribs and corn dumplings for Johnny, who silently accepted his meal. It was obvious he was as uneasy about this sleeping arrangement as the big man next to him. O’Keefe watched the widow load a plate for him and then hand it over.
“Enjoy your meal. My guests are below and it would be rude for me to tarry.”
“When you coming back?” O’Keefe surreptitiously nodded in the direction of the lad who was hungrily devouring dinner.
“I can’t tell. It depends on whether or not that handsome Mr. Belouche has arrived. They say he taught the Laffite brothers all they know of swordsmanship. I, too, should like to test his mettle.”
“I’m under your roof but one night and already I am the cuckold,” O’Keefe complained.
“Heal yourself, Peter O’Keefe, and I might change my mind—you hairy old bear.” The widow winked, and tugged his beard and kissed O’Keefe on the forehead, and then left the room with a swirl of her lace-trimmed dress. A trace of rosewater and lilac lingered in the air to mark her passing.
“Hrumph!” O’Keefe grumbled, and fixed the boy in a steely stare. “I aim to eat, then drink me another hot buttered rum and then sleep. You don’t interfere and we’ll get
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