Sinead’s voice was low and foreboding. The fire in her eyes unnerved Moira to the core.
“But why would someone wish me ill? What have I done to anyone in this town?” She huffed and slumped her shoulders.
“I don’ know, dearie. But I’d say ye need to watch yer back and make sure ya say yer prayers. Saint Michael’s yer man for that, so he is.” She rested a hand on Moira’s shoulder and gave a little squeeze. “I’d best be off now. I’m sorry to be the one to bring ill news.”
Moira gave a weak smile to her new friend. “Good night, Sinead. And thanks.”
Did she really mean that? Was she really thankful for the strange interpretation Sinead had given her?
She made her way to the bedchamber and pulled her small, worn Bible out of the dresser, searching for one of her favorite passages. Now more than ever she needed a reminder of who was truly in control, even when everything seemed to spiral into confusion. She thumbed through the worn pages, the smells of home wafting up from within, and finally landed on the book of Romans.
She read aloud: “‘For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.’”
She clamped her eyes shut and clutched the book to her breast. “Please, God, let this be true in my life.”
Deep within, strength began to build again. The more she rolled the words in her mind, the more peace settled in her heart.
God had brought her here, and He had a purpose in that. Moira wasn’t going to let some superstition distract her from whatever it was God was going to do in her life and in this village.
Chapter 17
The following two days passed in a blur, with no major hiccups to mark them differently. At last, Friday dawned, bringing with it the promise of rest and respite from the mundane.
Mundane? A sour laugh escaped Moira’s lips at the thought. In mere weeks, she had moved to a new country, into a new house, started a new job, and discovered someone might be wishing her harm. A far cry from her old life.
She tried her best to force the acrid thoughts from her mind. But the more she tried to shake them, the tighter they gripped her. Doubt. Disquiet. Regret. The toxic mixture seeped into every corner of her spirit.
The church bells began their toll. Their incessant knell sounded more like a death march than a call to worship. In the fog of fatigue and worry, she gathered her things and headed for the school.
The walk seemed inordinately short. She was not prepared to face the day. Ready to finish the day? Yes. But to start it? Not quite.
She took a deep breath in hopes that the frosty morning air would bolster her energy as she pushed the heavy oak door.
After dropping into the chair behind her desk, she cradled her head in her hands.
Lord, I need Your strength to get through this day. Please, God, help me.
“Ahem.”
Moira gasped, catching herself just before falling off her seat. “Good grief, Áedach, you frightened me!”
A caustic sneer curled one corner of the lad’s mouth. Moira’s stomach fell at the sight of it.
Moira stood, forced a sugar-sweet smile on her face, and willed her voice steady. “What can I do for you? Did you need help with yesterday’s writing assignment?” She clasped her hands behind her back lest he see them trembling.
“What can ya do fer me?” His eyebrows arched and his eyes widened. “What ya can do is know what it is I can do to ye.” His sneer spread into a sickening grin as he placed one foot in front of the other, making his way toward her.
“Áedach.” The firmness in her voice surprised her. “I think perhaps you are mistaken. You might want to rethink what you are doing.” The large desk provided a welcome barrier between them. Moira gripped the edge of it.
“Tsk! Tsk! Tsk! ” He wagged a filthy finger at her. “Ya need to be keerful how ya talk to me, Miss. Ya see, I know yer saicrit.” A combination of giddy delight and power swirled in his ice-blue eyes. The hairs on Moira’s arms stood as if stirred by a lightning storm.
Anger roiled in her belly at the audacity of the boy. Rather than air her ire, she mustered every ounce of patience she possessed. No telling what the lad was capable of. “I have no secrets, young man, and I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Psh! ’Dats nonsense and ya know it. Watch yerself ’round me, Miss, or I’ll spill yer saicrit to the whole of Ballymann.”
He closed the distance between him and the desk. Pressing his hands hard onto its surface, he leaned forward until his nose was inches from hers. The stench of stale drink poured out on his foul breath.
Moira’s breakfast threatened to come back up.
“I’ll tell the priest hisself, so I will. Don’t cross me, woman. Ye’ve been warned.”
Áedach straightened to his full height, then clicked his tongue as he sauntered from the schoolhouse.
Curiosity tempted Moira to run after him, grab him by the shoulders, and shake whatever secret he thought he held.
How could I have a secret I don’t even know about?
A deep breath did nothing to steady her nerves. Her teeth chattered. The room started to spin, and her stomach lurched. She bolted outside just in time to be sick in the gorse bush below the window. Mortified, she rose, thankful to see no one else around yet. Unsteady feet carried her back into the schoolhouse, where she attempted to focus on the day before her.
Áedach didn’t return for lessons that day. And Moira was deeply grateful not to have to face the boy and his sneering gaze.
As the afternoon waned, the wind picked up, rattling the windows of the schoolhouse. The gorse bushes and maidenhair trees rocked violently in the tempest. Moira welcomed the dark weather. It mirrored her mood. If she couldn’t vent her anger and frustration to the world, she was glad to let the world do it for her.
Walking home proved difficult, though, as the gale-force winds shoved her this way and that, threatening to toss her off the path. Ahead, the sanctuary of home beckoned.
As Moira opened the door, the wind ripped the handle from her hand, shoving her inside the chalet like a used rag. It took her full weight against the door to close it and secure the latch.
With shaky hands, she smoothed the tendrils of hair that had been blown across her face. Without caring about an evening meal, she stoked the fire, then collapsed on the bed, still fully clothed.
Sleep fell upon her swift and fierce, while outside the storm continued to roil.
Moira jolted awake. Disorientation whirled in her mind. The shutters on the living room window flapped in the maelstrom, slamming against the house. Rain splashed into the room and ran down the wall. She jumped out of bed and shrieked. Icy cold water covered her feet, with more pouring off the canopy over her bed.
“You can’t be serious!” The torrent of the gales and percussion of the shutters on the house swallowed her voice.
She ran to the window. A branch must’ve broken through the glass. Moira grabbed a platter from the table. She placed it up against the hole in the glass and set a heavy book against it, praying it would hold.
One crisis averted, she returned to her bedchamber. The waterfall from the ceiling drew her attention. She gawked at the gaping hole in the roof.
What am I supposed to do with that?
She rushed to the press, snatched some towels, and tossed them on top of the canopy. Then she dragged a chair from the dining table to a spot near the bed.
Standing on the chair, she placed her hands on top of the canopy and hopped. Her upper body landed on the hard surface with a splat. Her midsection stuck on the edge leaving her feet dangling. With only flat wood and canvas under her hands, there was nothing to grab and pull herself up. Swinging her feet like a pendulum, she eventually built enough momentum to carry her legs up and over the ledge. She prayed it would suppor
t her weight.
Working as fast as her chilled muscles allowed, Moira shoved towels into the opening of the roof. The deluge slowed to a trickle. Then stopped.
“That’ll have to do until morning.” She scooted to the edge of the canopy. It hadn’t seemed so high when she had climbed up. Turning onto her belly, she slithered off the edge. Her toes searched for the chair. Lying on top of a soaking-wet canopy, with her rump dangling over a chair she couldn’t find, she chuckled in disbelief. Her body bobbed up and down with her laughter, causing her to giggle all the more.
How do you always seem to get yourself into these situations, Moira Girl?
At last, her toes found the chair, and she slid the rest of the way off the canopy.
The remaining towels in the press served as mops as Moira tried to sop up what water she could from the floor before fetching her nightgown.
“That’s one good thing about sleeping in your clothes. At least your nightdress is still dry.”
Bríd had been right about that canopy keeping out the damp. Though the top of it was soaked, the mattress was still quite dry.
Dressed in warm, clean clothes, with crises abated for the moment, Moira buried herself deep in the covers and waited for morning.
Chapter 18
At long last the sun peeked its head over the horizon. Moira pried herself from the covers and braced herself for the frigid, watery floor. Thanks be to God. Much of the water had dried up during the early morning hours. It left in its wake, however, a slick, frosty footpath. Traversing it to fetch her shoes from the press proved an unpleasant task.
As she fumbled about, her thoughts worked to untangle how to repair the damage. Disappointment settled in her heart as her dream of a quiet, relaxing weekend vanished amid visions of time-consuming—and likely expensive—repairs.
“Yes, Moira Girl, it looks like all work and no play for you this weekend.”
She looked wistfully at the broken window. “But at least you won’t be alone. You’ll need to have experts help you. You’ll need to find a tha—”
Images of Sean’s eyes, green as the Irish countryside, filled her mind. Her hands drifted to her cheeks. Burning again. This time, however, she knew no fire was to blame.
She thought back to the first time she’d seen him, silhouetted in the gale that welcomed her to Ballymann. Drenched in rain, running a strong hand through his thick mop of hair, he’d been altogether enchanting—and infuriating. Her heart beat in her chest like a bodhrán driving a reel. She dreaded the thought of seeing him again. Or did she? He’d been such a dolt. Then again, he had come to her rescue at the beach with Buach. And again at the schoolhouse with the fire.
A deep sigh puffed from her chest. She shuffled to the mirror to set her hair and freshen her face.
You must present a tidy appearance to uphold your sense of professionalism.
She didn’t believe herself for a second.
“Sean!”
Sean craned his neck to peer over the western edge of the O’Malleys’ roof.
Colm squinted up at him.
“Aye?”
“I’ve another job for ye.” The old man shaded his eyes with a hand.
“Land sakes, another one?” Sean dropped his head and muttered to himself through gritted teeth. He nodded. “Aye. I’d say it’ll have to wait. We’ve got enough jobs from the storm last night to last a fortnight.”
“Aye, we do.” Colm cleared his throat. “Do ye not want to know who its fer, then?”
Sean stopped working and sighed. Doesn’t the auld man know there isn’t time for chitchat? Sure, and if he’s so worried about it he can go take care of it.
Remorse filled him for the careless thought—along with gratitude that he hadn’t shot it out of his mouth. He pressed his lips together and peeked over the edge again.
A goofy grin crinkled Colm’s face.
“Who’s it for, then?”
“Miss Doherty’s chalet didn’t fare too well in the gale last night. Tore a hole the size o’ my foot in the poor girl’s roof, so it did.” He arched his shaggy eyebrows.
Moira? Unrest niggled his belly at the idea of her. Of course he would use any excuse to look on her fair face once more. But could he trust himself not to play the fool again—or worse, insult the poor girl, which he seemed to have a penchant for doing? Not to mention he’d have to endure more of her abuses in response to his every action. As much as he tried to stifle it, a smile spread across his face. He dared not look down at the old man again, lest his mentor see his delight.
He kept his head down, his hands busy, and called out, “I’ll be there after lunch.”
“Yer a good man yerself,” Colm called as he headed down the lane. A faint chuckle wafted on the breeze as he disappeared over a hill.
The red door stared hard at Sean. Taunting him. Daring him to knock and not make a fool of himself in the process. He stood there for ages working up the courage while trying to figure out what to say.
Good grief, lad, it’s not like you’re coming to call on the girl. It’s a simple business call. Just think of it as Old Man McGuire’s house.
“Except Old Man McGuire doesn’t have eyes like the sea on a summer’s day,” he mumbled. Just as he raised his hand to knock, the top half of the door flew open.
“I thought I heard someone out here!”
His breath caught in his chest. Moira’s eyes sparkled even more than he remembered. Steady, lad.
“Sorry to beat you to the punch,” she continued. “Someone has been skulking about the place lately, leaving little . . . treats for me. I thought maybe you were the guilty party.” She shrugged and smiled.
How had he not noticed her dimples before?
“Not a bother, Miss.” Could she hear his heartbeat in his voice? “Eh . . . Colm said you had some damage from the storm? I see the tree took offense at the chalet being in its way.” He nodded to the broken window and chuckled.
Eejit.
“Yes, it was quite the rude awakening. Please, come in and I’ll show you.” She gestured toward the back room. As he made his way back, he noticed she left the door open.
“The floor took quite a beating too.” She swept her hand in a low arc. “There was probably half an inch of standing water in the bedchamber.”
Was she blushing? “The floor looks alright, but we need to address that roof.” Sean’s cheeks burned. After all, it wasn’t everyday he stood in a single woman’s bedchamber—a beautiful single woman, at that. No wonder she left the door open.
Moira pointed to the damaged area, and Sean stepped closer to take a better look. She remained in front of the fireplace. The dim light offered no help. He needed to get closer still.
“I need to fetch my ladder. I’ll be back in a wee while.”
Upon returning, he carried the ladder to the bedside and leaned it up against the wood frame of the canopy. As soon as he placed his full weight on the first rung, its feet slid out from underneath him. The ladder fell over him and nearly landed on his head, but it somehow hovered in midair. He looked up to find a petite hand holding firmly onto a rung and a cheeky grin on Moira’s face.
“Well now, I suppose this makes us even?” she said.
Her laugh was like water over rocks. Sean stood and brushed off his breeches.
“Well, yes, I suppose it does, Miss Doherty.” Though sure his oversized smile painted him every bit the simp, he couldn’t hold it back. “But I do believe you’re about to owe me again.”
Her face clouded.
“I can’t be certain until I get a closer look, but it seems I’ll be working my fingers to the bone to repair it.” He let a wink slip.
A lovely shade of pink filled her cheeks and she ducked her head coyly. “If you say so.”
The two stared at one another, swapping silly grins.
At last, Sean shook himself back to reality. “If you’d be so kind as to hold the ladder for me while I investigate things up there?”
The blush o
n her cheeks deepened, and she eyed the open door. “Yes, of course. We can’t have you killing yourself before the job’s done.”
Sean started up the ladder, one shaky step at a time, his head spinning at the nearness of her. The heady fragrance of lavender that wafted up from her hair didn’t help the matter.
Focus, lad. The roof.
Once atop the canopy, he surveyed the damage and made note of the needed supplies before descending. Thankfully the journey down was much smoother than the way up.
“I’ll fetch the supplies and be back in a jiff. Colm will join me.” He wanted her to know he cared about propriety and her reputation. It just wouldn’t do for him to spend so much time alone in her chalet, whether she was there or not. Especially with the way tongues wagged in this village.
Moira dipped her head and smiled. “Thank you, Mr. McFadden. I’ll be sure to have the kettle on when you both arrive.”
Chapter 19
How long could it take to fetch thatching supplies? A sense of urgency for the men’s return churned inside Moira, and she chided herself for it.
The kettle hung over the fire, ready to brew the finest cuppa in Gweedore. A small selection of tea cakes, biscuits, and brown bread lay in a flower-shaped pattern on a dainty platter.
Moira presumed Sean respected his mentor a great deal. Though a hand-trade, thatching was a highly respected profession in Ireland. She was determined to make a good impression.
Are you sure that’s all it is?
Anytime Sean’s name came up, those eyes floated in her mind, stealing her breath. Her attraction to the man made no sense. While she couldn’t deny the ruddy thatcher was handsome, she barely knew him. And most of the time she had known him, he had infuriated her.
The argument is better than the loneliness, her mother’s voice sang in her head. Moira remembered well her mother’s oft-used phrase. Moira first heard it when, as a child, she inquired about her parents’ playful, flirtatious banter. However, it then became a regular part of the reconciliation ritual after the more heated debates not uncommon to an Irish marriage.
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