A Heart Revealed

by Julie Lessman

  Rory advanced, his confidence restored by the blade in his hand. “Afraid, are ya? Well, I would be too, Yank, if I were you. Because I’m gonna take my Emmy away, and you’re gonna be left with naught but a bleedin’ heart . . .” He awarded Sean with a handsome gleam of teeth. “Not to mention a bleedin’ body.” And in a catch of Sean’s breath, he charged, the slash of his knife a mere whisper in the air as it nicked Sean’s hand with a scarlet gash.

  His blood pooled and slithered down his arm, and something sinister rose within, bringing him face-to-face with an evil he had courted before, suffocating him with the desire to kill. Gasping for air, he felt it swallow him up, a blackness in his brain that blotted out everything but the need to avenge, the urgency to right a wrong. I promise not to kill him, he’d said, but it was a promise he couldn’t keep . . .

  Pulse roaring in his ears, he bent to heave the coffee table high overhead, arms bulging from the effort and adrenaline surging through his veins. With a guttural groan, he heaved it at Rory’s head, buckling him at the knees. His merciless kick sent the knife in Rory’s hand clattering across the room while the Irishman clumped into a heap on the floor. Chest heaving, Sean launched a foot into Rory’s gut, leveling him flat on his back with a garbled groan. But it wasn’t near enough. Suddenly he saw Uncle Paul and Rory and men like them, preying on women, defiling them, abusing them, and a vehemence rose so strong that it stole the breath from his lungs.

  With a mindless power that seemed to take control, he descended upon Rory with his fists, bludgeoning him until he lay limp on the floor, his groans dying to a whisper.

  Kill him, he heard his mind say, and a surge of power shot through him, vile and cruel, luring him with a depraved pleasure that empowered his rage. A rage that had lain dormant until the war, a vile and ruthless time when he’d been trained to kill. A soldier who’d been nothing more than a machine, schooled to destroy. And yet, he’d survived it all, moments in hell that changed a man forever, haunting some with distant memories and nightmares. While for others—those with a demon inside—branding them as killers forever. Killers like him, bearing silent shame until someone unleashed the monster within.

  Someone like Rory.

  Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer: and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him.

  Gasping for air, Sean froze, hands clenched and covered with blood.

  Finish him . . . now . . . to vindicate Emma . . .

  His fist hardened to rock, ready for vengeance . . .

  Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.

  Rory’s eyes fluttered open and spanned wide as Sean drew his fist back, ready to take a life that wasn’t worth living.

  Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.

  He froze midair, muscles quivering with hate, no strength to halt his need to avenge.

  He teacheth my hands to war . . . a bow of steel . . .

  A spasm traveled his arm that felt like fire, and in a violent heave, his fist shuddered to his side, all air wrenching in his chest. Sweat trickled the back of his neck while harsh breaths rattled from a throat parched with the thirst to revenge. He slowly rose to his feet, Rory’s blood and his coating his hands. Swiping his mouth with the side of his arm, he trudged down the hall to Emma’s bedroom and retrieved a battered suitcase and men’s clothing out of the closet and drawers. Returning to where Rory lay, he tossed the suitcase on the floor and threw the clothes in his face. “Get out now,” he rasped, “and if you’re here when I come back or you ever come near Emma Malloy again, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

  With labored breathing, he retrieved the knife across the room and carefully closed it, the blade bearing his blood an eerie reminder of how close he had come. Not in the pain to his body, no, but in the pain to his soul in taking another man’s life. Dropping the knife in his pocket, he moved to the door and slipped his coat from the rack, suddenly aware he had won.

  My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.

  Without looking back, he quietly closed Emma’s door, his arm as taut as a bow of steel. He drew in a cleansing breath and lumbered down the steps and out the front door, understanding for the first time in his life, that the strength to conquer one’s sins had never been his.

  No, he thought, oblivious to the bitter cold for the warmth flooding his soul.

  It was God’s.

  20

  Lord, give me the grace to get through the holidays.

  Emma sighed, peering out the window of the crowded motorbus in an attempt to see past the flurry of snowflakes that obscured her vision. Saturdays were supposed to be her easiest days, but with the arrival of the holidays on the heels of Sean’s departure, nothing was “easy” at Dennehy’s anymore.

  A snort sounded, and she glanced at the sleeping man beside her. She smiled at the jingle of bells on his red and green sock hat while he snored with a bag of Christmas gifts in his lap. Now there’s an idea for catching up on my rest, she thought with a twist of her lips. Between extra holiday hours at Dennehy’s and several evenings with Rory, there seemed to be less and less time for sleep these days. Emma rested her head on the back of the seat and closed her eyes, choosing to follow the example of the holiday Rip Van Winkle in the next seat.

  Her thoughts immediately drifted to Rory, and a shiver danced down her spine that she couldn’t quite blame on the cold. Rory Malloy had been nothing but kind, doting on her every need and tempting her with his charm, and yet Emma remained uneasy. He had no qualms about praying with her, going to church with her, and she’d even found the Bible open several times on those rare occasions she’d visited him at her apartment. He seemed to be genuinely grieving the tragedy in Dublin, for he was noticeably reluctant to talk about it, and so Emma didn’t pursue it, but she wasn’t completely convinced the resultant conversion was real. No, that would take more than a few weeks of wooing as far as she was concerned, although Rory didn’t seem inclined to give her more time.

  He had begged her to start a new life with him in Killarney, and despite the grief over leaving those that she loved, she was actually mulling it over. With conditions. They both would find jobs and live separately while he courted her, until she was dead certain that he had changed. And never again would they become intimate until their vows were renewed . . . by a priest. He had readily agreed, and yet he quietly persisted in pursuing intimacies she wasn’t ready for—the stroke of his thumb to her palm, the touch of his hand to her waist, a look in his eye, a stolen kiss. Intimacies that, in truth, she wasn’t sure she would ever be ready for.

  Except with Sean.

  Her eyes popped open at the thought, and she felt a swell of heat in her cheeks. She peeked at the sleeping man beside her, grateful for the snores that grew in volume despite the bag jostling in his lap. She exhaled slowly and stared straight ahead, lips cemented like her will, which assured her she would do what she needed to do.

  She would leave.

  And Rory was the perfect excuse, the perfect reason . . . the perfect sacrifice.

  A ragged breath wavered from her lips. Then Sean would finally have his store. And someday, God willing . . . a wife.

  “Huntington and Tremont,” the bus driver called, and the motorbus lurched to a halt, jolting the sleeping man awake.

  Digging a dollar from her purse, Emma lumbered to her feet with a nod at the bleary-eyed man beside her. “Merry Christmas,” she said before inching her way down the aisle. She waited for others to get off before slipping the dollar bill in the flap pocket of the bus driver’s bomber jacket. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Tuttle, I haven’t seen you on this route in a while.”

  The gray-haired gentleman grinned with a lift of his salt-and-pepper moustache. “Mrs. Malloy! Now you don’t need to be spending your hard-earned money like this . . .” He attempted to fish the dollar from his pocket. “Seeing your pretty face is tip enough for an old man like me.”

  She blushed and plucked the bill
from his hand, tucking it back in his pocket with a grin. “Then use it for the eyeglasses you so obviously need. When I board a bus, I want to make sure the driver can see.”

  A rich chuckle parted from weathered lips as he gave her a wink. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, patting the bill in his pocket. His smile sobered. “You’re one of those angels everybody sings about this time of year, Mrs. Malloy, and make no mistake about it. Merry Christmas.”

  She tossed a smile over her shoulder as she descended the steps. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Tuttle.” She was still smiling when the bus pulled away, the bitter cold unable to dampen her spirits as she plodded her way to Charity’s house. Giving was what Christmas was all about, she thought, gingerly sidestepping a sooty snowdrift. And nothing brought more joy than giving. Especially to Sean . . . A sweetness like nothing she had ever known ached in her chest, filling her up with the overwhelming need to give of herself to the one man who loved her just as she was.

  And to Rory? Her smile faded as she reflected on the early years of her life. Yes, especially to Rory. To give of herself to a man who desperately needed to be loved for just who he was. A shard of fear pricked in her heart, as cold and biting as the snow now stinging her face. Yes, she was afraid, but God had not brought her full circle for nothing, and now she had the chance to be his instrument in Rory’s life. God’s grace had changed her, and she knew deep in her soul that it could change Rory as well. Had, in fact, already begun, if Rory’s presence here was any indication. But only time and prayer would tell, she realized, a lesson she’d learned once when she’d had nothing to give. And yet, in the midst of her pain, God had not only sustained her with the gift of his Son . . . but with the habit of giving, saving her from a lifetime of bitterness over what she did not have. With a rush of joy, she closed her eyes, wishing with all of her heart that people knew. Giving of one’s self—like Jesus had—was the only love that healed.

  Unconditional love.

  A sad smile touched her lips, along with the ice crystals that fell from the sky. And the one gift I can give Sean this Christmas . . .

  Ribbons of lamplight spilled from Charity’s windows onto a crystalline blanket of snow, welcoming her home. Stomping her boots on the brick porch that Mitch had obviously shoveled, Emma peeked through the etched-glass door into Charity’s polished foyer, experiencing a twinge of grief over leaving these people she loved. She opened the front door to the sound of Charity’s voice, and a gloom instantly settled despite the soft glow of a Tiffany lamp that graced a marble table. Emma bent to slip off her snow-crusted overboots and set them on the rug by the door, placed there for that very purpose. Rising to her full height, she stood for a brief moment, eyes closed to embed in her memory the sound of her best friend’s laughter. A lump immediately formed in her throat. Oh, Charity, I will miss you so . . .

  “There you are!” The object of her thoughts posed in the parlor door, peeking at the watch on her hand. “I thought you fell into a snowdrift, and we’d have to send out the St. Bernard.”

  Emma smiled and tugged off her gloves, shoving them in her pockets before she hung up her coat. “Without the brandy, I trust,” she said with a crooked grin. She glanced around, head cocked as she listened for Mitch and the twins. “It’s awfully quiet—where is everybody?”

  Charity’s voice faltered, but not her smile as she linked an arm through Emma’s. “Mitch took Hope and Henry to spend the night at Faith’s because Mitch and I have a special guest.” She ushered Emma into her holiday-ready Victorian parlor where a ceiling-height Christmas tree dazzled with endless strings of lights and countless glass ornaments shimmering in their glow. The nostalgic scent of pine mingled happily with that of gingerbread men on the tree, while the hint of hickory lent coziness from a wood-burning fire that crackled in a brick hearth.

  Emma halted at the edge of the pastel Oriental rug, eyes spanning wide at the sight of Father Mac reclining in one of Charity’s gold wing chairs. “Father Mac!” she said with a welcome smile. Mischief tugged at her tone. “Uh-oh . . . what trouble has Henry gotten into now?” She shot Charity a sloe-eyed smile. “Or maybe it’s his mother?”

  Father Mac rose, his smile far dimmer than Emma’s. “I’m happy to report that Henry’s in the clear for the time being, Emma, and so is his mother.” He glanced at Charity with a twinkle in his eye. “Although it’s a close call as to which of the two garners more of my attention.”

  Charity jutted her chin. “I’ll have you know, Father McHugh, that I have been incident-free for well over a month now.”

  “I’ll vouch for that,” Mitch said as he strolled in from the kitchen. He looped an arm around Charity’s waist and planted a kiss on her head. “Although it hasn’t been easy, I’m sure.”

  “Mitch Dennehy!” Charity elbowed him away. She squinted her eyes. “You did remember to tell Faith to restrict Henry on chocolate, I hope?”

  “Yes, dear,” he said with a droll smile, giving Emma’s shoulder a squeeze. “Cold enough out there for you, Mrs. Malloy? I told you I would have been happy to pick you up.”

  “I know, Mitch, but I’m never sure these days just when I’ll be heading home.”

  “Did you eat?” Charity asked, arms folded as if she were addressing Henry.

  Emma smiled. “Yes, Mother. You packed both a lunch and a dinner, remember?”

  “Good. Then how about coffee or tea? I have peach cobbler . . .” She wriggled her brows.

  “Uh-oh, my favorite dessert,” Emma teased, eyes narrowing. “What do you want?”

  The bob in Charity’s throat didn’t mix well with the smile on her face. She spun on her heel to address Father Mac. “Father, warm cobbler with or without ice cream and coffee or tea?”

  “Coffee, black sounds wonderful,” he said with a wink. “And keep in mind it’s a sin to serve cobbler without ice cream.”

  “Yes, sir.” She offered a quick salute and turned to her husband. “Mitch, would you mind doing the honors while Emma and I visit with Father?”

  “Absolutely.” He squeezed Charity’s arm before he left for the kitchen.

  Emma’s stomach did a flip. Oh, no—what’s she up to now? More than a wee bit nervous, Emma seated herself on the couch, and Charity followed suit, her friend’s chattiness definitely at odds with the stiff smile on her face.

  Emma slid her a curious gaze. “So, what’s on your mind,” she said with a quick glance in Father Mac’s direction, “that you need to call out the clergy?”

  Charity exchanged looks with the priest before she turned to face her friend dead-on. Inching closer, she laid a gentle hand on Emma’s arm. “Emma, we need to talk . . .”

  Pinpricks nettled her skin. “I hope this isn’t about Rory again, because I already told you it’s time I move out of your home.” Emma exhaled her frustration at the relentless meddling of her friend, then forced a light tone. “Although I suspect the real reason you don’t want me to go is you like having an accomplice when you raid the kitchen at night.”

  Tears welled in Charity’s eyes. “No, the real reason is that I love you . . .”

  A knot formed in Emma’s throat as she embraced Charity hard. “I love you too, more than I can say. But it’s time to get on with my life . . . and that might mean with Rory.”

  “No . . . ,” Charity whispered over her shoulder, her voice thick with sorrow. “It doesn’t.”

  Emma pulled away, studying her friend’s face. “What do you mean?” Her stomach clenched as tight as the fingers she now gripped to Charity’s arms.

  Charity squeezed her hand. “Emma, there’s a good chance that Rory may be deported.”

  The lights on the tree blurred into one as Emma stared beyond Charity’s shoulder, trying to process the words coagulating in her brain. “What? Why?”

  Charity averted her gaze while Father Mac cleared his throat. “Emma,” he began quietly, drawing her eyes to his, “Steven arrested Rory at a speakeasy this afternoon.”

  White spots that weren’t part of t
he tree danced before Emma’s eyes. Her eyelids quivered. “Was he . . . drinking?” She swallowed hard on the word, praying that it wasn’t true. He promised me . . . promised me he had quit. “Because an arrest at a speakeasy doesn’t mean that he was drinking, you know . . .”

  “He was very drunk, Emma,” Father Mac said softly, his gaze more than gentle. “He tried to assault Steven’s partner, so they locked him in a private cell.”

  She found herself struggling for air. “But . . . but raids happen all the time, Father, and they don’t just ship people out of the country.”

  He drew in a breath and released it slowly. “No, no, that’s true . . .” He paused before he spoke the words that stole the wind from her pipes. “Only immigrants wanted for questioning in the death of a child.”

  A gasp stung in her throat. “No! It isn’t true . . . it was an accident, he told me so.”

  Father Mac leaned forward, hands clasped. “Be that as it may, Emma—Steven verified it with Dublin authorities. And the truth is, at some point soon, Rory will have to go back.”

  She closed her eyes and water stung beneath her lids. Her body was stiff, barely registering that Charity still held her hand. “It was an accident,” she said numbly, refusing to believe the worst of a man so in dire need of mercy. “The guilt is eating him raw, I’m sure of it.” She looked up then, her heart in her throat. “But he’s been sober until now, Father, and he can be again, I know it. He just needs someone to help.”

  “Maybe,” Father Mac whispered, pausing too long. “But there’s also another woman.”

  She stared for several moments, the words paralyzing her pulse, and then with the gentle touch of her friend’s hand, she crumpled into a heap. Clutching her close, Charity soothed with gentle words while Emma wept against her chest and agony ripped at her mind. Not over a man she hoped to love, but over a man she hoped to heal. And, she thought with a painful stab in her heart, a man who could have healed her of a lifetime of guilt.