The Emerald Isle

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  A dim flush raced like a fever across Patrick’s strong face. “I never wanted to be anything but your son, Dad. And if it’s all right, I’d like to stay on at the farm. I want you to rest and enjoy Maddie’s wedding.”

  For a moment the older man’s expression darkened with a host of unreadable emotions, then he stretched out his arms. Rising from the chair, Patrick gently lowered himself into his father’s embrace. I stood at the foot of the bed, crying like a baby, and then felt Mrs. O’Neil’s solid arm slide around my waist.

  “I don’t know what you’ve done to our Paddy,” she whispered, tilting her head toward my shoulder,“but bless you for it, love. I’ve been praying years for this miracle.”

  The next month passed in a flurry of pre-wedding activity. The bed-and-breakfast officially closed, the“public” rooms becoming“family” rooms for all to enjoy. James came home and rested in a bed we moved to the sitting room so he could watch all the goings-on and enjoy the company that stopped by to deposit bridal gifts. Taylor wrapped up his Kipling studies and mailed a heavy manuscript to New York City College, along with a note to remind his depart ment head that he’d be returning in time for the beginning of second semester.

  A week after the cattle fair, a new bull, an ebony Scottish Angus, arrived to fill Graham Red’s bullpen. A day after the bull’s arrival, I sat outside on the picnic table and watched Patrick paint the weathered sign that had hung at the beginning of the drive. In bright red lettering, the sign now proclaimed,“Ballyshannon—Home of Graham Red II.”

  After seeing to the new bull, Patrick took a few days and drove to Limerick to settle his affairs and vacate his apartment. He asked me to go with him, but by that time I was knee-deep in obligations to Maddie. She had recently changed her mind and decided that I should be maid of honor. Not a bad promotion—from unwanted houseguest to chief lady-in-waiting in a matter of days.

  The night before the wedding, the other bridesmaids came to the house to escort Maddie to an impromptu hen party, this one at Dugan’s Pub, the center of Ballinderry social life. Thankfully, Maddie excused me from this little tradition.

  Ordinarily the groom’s friends would have taken him to the pub for a stag party, but since Taylor had no Irish friends (and, truth be told, no desire to make any), he was perfectly content to sit in the front room and read while James and Fiona watched American movies from the video rental. Taylor’s mother was too involved with her new husband and his career to make the trip to Ireland, but if her absence bothered him, I couldn’t tell. Patrick hadn’t yet returned from Limerick, though his mother and sister had threatened him with certain bodily harm if he didn’t return by morning on the big day.

  After dinner, I went to my room and began organizing my clothes, mentally preparing to pack for the trip home. Tomorrow I’d see Taylor and Maddie safely down the aisle and married, then I’d sincerely wish them well as they departed for their honeymoon. None of the O’Neils had mentioned my departure from Ballyshannon, and I had a feeling I would be welcome if I wanted to stay a few more days and finish my work on Cahira. Eventually, though, I’d have to sort through my feelings and discard a few things—and a few feelings—as I readied myself for the long trip back to New York.

  Might as well begin.

  I picked up a photograph Patrick had given me. The photo, snapped in the moment before James fell, showed a confident, smiling Irishman with his hands braced in his vest pockets. The cow that nearly killed him filled the background.

  I stuck the photo between the pages of my Bible so I’d see it often in the months and years ahead. I’d see it and remember to pray for the O’Neils, and then I’d think of Patrick.

  I couldn’t deny that I had developed strong feelings for him. We had been through so much together—his acceptance of Christ, his struggle with his father, and that moving reconciliation scene in the hospital. My life had become entangled with his at several crisis points, so the sooner I got back to New York, the sooner I could untangle myself and pick up the strings of my blissfully ordinary life.

  My life wouldn’t be the same though. Patrick probably didn’t realize how his insistent questions had forced me to reevaluate many of the things I’d been taught since childhood. I didn’t think I would ever again accept a preacher’s opinion without wanting to hear supporting evidence. My faith, after all, wasn’t blind. It was based upon the Word of God, upon the testimony of ancient witnesses, upon the evidence of God’s creation and the order I saw every time I looked across these rolling green hills.

  The longer I stayed in Ireland, though, the more I realized that far too many people felt it was wrong to question established traditions. Patrick was an exception, but he was right. God couldn’t be afraid of honest questions. As the creator of curiosity and human intellect, how could he ever fear us? And if he is the Truth, as I believe he is, our curious questions certainly can’t upset him.

  So I was going back to New York with a new outlook on my life. I had always thought I’d settle down and marry some academic type, but now I wasn’t so sure I wanted to get married at all. Maybe I could pursue a career in historical research after I published the Cahira books—if I ever published the Cahira books. Or maybe I could take a job for the Times and win a Pulitzer. Anything was possible.

  A knock sounded on my door, and I called“come in” without even bothering to look up.

  “You shouldn’t invite strangers into your room.”

  I whirled at the unexpected sound of Patrick’s voice. “Patrick! When did you get in?”

  “Just now,” he said, his face smooth with secrets. He stepped into the room, a stalking, purposeful intent in his walk, and I gasped in surprise when he reached out and drew me into his arms. “Mum tells me you handled the milking tonight.”

  “Well”—I looked down to hide my self-satisfied smile— “Taylor helped me drive the cows in. But I did the actual milking, yes. And I’ll confess—I borrowed your Wellies for the job. They were muddy, so you’ll find them on the back porch.”

  He cocked a brow at me. “They fit?”

  “I wore double socks and stuffed the toes with newspaper. But yes, you could say I managed to fill your shoes very well.”

  “You’re amazing.” His hand, sure and strong, caught my jaw and lifted my face to meet his. We stood together, breathing each other’s breath, then he pulled me closer and gently pressed his lips to my forehead.

  “Patrick,” I whispered, my emotions rioting within me,“what are you doing?”

  “Kissing you.” His lips seared a path from my forehead to my temple, then swept to my cheek. “Do you mind?”

  Mind? Why should I mind if you break my heart?

  Pulling away, I looked into his eyes and saw that they were dark and blue and soft with emotion. In an effort to still the trembling that had begun somewhere at my center, I lifted my hands and clasped his upper arms. “What’s come over you?”

  “I’ve had a lot of time to think.”

  “And?”

  “And I love you, Kathleen O’Connor. I want you to marry me and remain here at Ballyshannon. To paraphrase what Ruth said to Naomi, ‘Your God will be my God, and my people will be your people.’”

  Clinging to him, I looked away and tried to throttle the dizzying current racing through my veins. I had dreamed of being crushed in his embrace, my body had ached for his touch, but never had I imagined that he’d propose. This was crazy, unthinkable! His emotions were still raw from the encounter with his father, and perhaps the advent of Maddie’s marriage had affected his thinking.

  “Patrick.” My eyes closed as his lips brushed my brow and trailed over my eyelid. “Patrick, you’re not yourself.”

  “I know. I feel like a new man.”

  “No, I mean you haven’t thought this through.” I brought my hands to his chest and literally pushed him away. That abrupt movement startled him enough to break the spell.

  “Think, Patrick.” I glanced away, unable to bear the pain and disappointment in
his eyes. “Your father believes Ireland is in danger of losing her uniqueness. Your people—everyone in this county—expects you to marry a local girl like Erin Kelly. The folks at the pub who complain about American television won’t be happy if you take a Yank for a wife.”

  “I don’t care.” His teasing eyes caressed me again. “The world is shrinking, Kathleen, and the past is past. Ireland will never be what it once was. We’re already part of the European Union, and Ireland will never again be an island unto itself. The world is changing, and I’m ready to change with it. But I want to face the future with you.”

  He pulled me to him again, but I kept my hands on his chest, keeping a careful distance between us. “I was thinking, Patrick, about going home. You taught me that a woman is more than just a helper, so I want to try life on my own for a while.”

  “Ah, Kathleen!” His eyes were blazing with an inner fire, brighter than the lamp on the bureau. “Take it from a man who’s tried life on his own long enough. Two can accomplish more together than either could alone. We would make a grand team, you and I.”

  My lips trembled with the urge to smile. “Really? Like horse and cart—where I’m the horse?”

  His hands locked around my waist. “Och, nothing like that. More like the sea and the shore. One ends as the other begins, and both need each other.”

  “You’re so poetic.”

  “Not really.” His smile softened, and his eyes grew serious. “I don’t want you to go, Kathleen. I want you to marry me.”

  I listened, I believed him, and in truth, I loved him too. But things weren’t as simple as he wanted them to be.

  “Your family won’t like this.”

  “My family loves you. You saved Dad’s life, and Mum loves you like a daughter.”

  “Maddie won’t like this.”

  “Maddie loves you. Aren’t you her maid of honor?”

  I grasped at a last desperate straw. “Young Erin definitely won’t like this.”

  “Erin who?” He kissed me then, and the touch of his mouth was as tender and light as an autumn breeze over a field of Irish heather. His lips were more persuasive than words could ever be. By the time he lifted his head to look into my eyes again, my heart was ready to promise him anything…but my head still wasn’t convinced.

  “’Tis your destiny to be with me.” His breath tickled my ear as he pressed his cheek to mine and held me close. “Deny it no longer, love. Say you’ll marry me.”

  “But we’re so different.” I closed my eyes, shutting off the streaming sensations evoked by his touch. “I’m neat; you’re sloppy. I’m American; you’re Irish. I like words; you like numbers.”

  “Didn’t you tell me opposites could complement one another? I seem to recall you saying that about Maddie and Taylor.”

  “But we can’t get married! We haven’t even dated.”

  “So? We’ve talked enough to know we believe the same basic things. You are strong, Kathleen, and bright and beautiful and everything I could ever want in a wife.”

  “I’m an outsider here.”

  “You’ve found your way into my heart. And I don’t care about the others.”

  “I care. A lot.”

  I lowered my head, pulling my lips—and my brain—away from the powerful force field that seemed to surround him. “At least give me some time to think. It’s a big decision. I can’t answer that kind of proposal without praying about it. I have to be sure I’m doing the right thing.”

  Apparently an appeal to the Almighty worked where an entreaty to logic would not. Patrick released me and backed away, though his lips still wore a confident smile.

  And as he left my room and closed the door behind him, I collapsed on the bed in a molten pool and wondered how in the world I had arrived at this place.

  I hadn’t come to Ireland to stay forever. In the hope that I might find some clue about why I bore the mark of all her descendants, I had come to finish my story about Cahira O’Connor.

  In a barely comprehensible flash of insight, I realized where I could find my answer.

  Monday, February 5, 1235

  Rathcroghan

  Do you think you’re ready to go out?” Cahira asked, a shadow of concern in her eyes. “I don’t want you to use up your strength, not with you being so soon over your fever.”

  “I’m fine.” Colton heard the sharp edge in his voice, and instantly regretted his tone. Cahira had been a kind and devoted nurse in the month of his convalescence, but he had married to protect and serve her, not to be served and protected.

  Sometimes, when night fell and she lay sleeping beside him, Colton lifted his eyes to the thatched roof of their small hut and wished he had died on the road. He nearly had, for blood spurted from the cut limb with alarming force, but Murchadh rode forward like a madman and tied a rope around the bloody stump. Just before Colton fainted dead away, he saw his former friends and comrades turn their horses toward Athlone, leaving him to bleed his life away in the grass.

  Now he heard that Richard had left Athlone as well. And although Colton had been utterly sincere in his disavowal of that lord and his principles, some part of him still felt abandoned. He loved Cahira with all his heart, but even love could not change the fact that he was the only Norman in these hills, a stranger among people who did not speak his native tongue or understand his references to places and people a world away.

  For weeks he lay in his sickbed and closed his ears to the melodic sound of Gaelic, a language he could not follow. Even when the men of Rathcroghan spoke English, they used phrases and terms he did not understand. And no matter how graciously Felim’s family treated him, he did not enjoy feeling foolish or being patronized.

  He found his only joy in Cahira. Sometimes, as they walked together in the winter sunshine or lay beside the window and looked out at the stars, he could almost forget the sorrows that shadowed his life. The gently rising mound of his wife’s belly comforted him, but occasionally he would reach out to caress that living flesh and find nothing at the end of his arm.

  Richard, that cruel lord, had taken more than Colton’s hand. With it he had also taken Colton’s strength, livelihood, and honor. His left hand, the weaker one, was all that remained to caress his wife and hold the reins of a horse.

  Would he even be able to hold his child? Feeling clumsy and awkward, he shuddered at the thought. He’d probably drop the babe on its head.

  “What are you thinking there?” Cahira sank onto the bench beside him, her pretty brow creased with worry.

  “Nothing.”

  “Something surely put that frown on your face, and I’ll not have you hiding it from me. Speak, Colton, for we are man and wife. There should be no secrets between us.”

  He looked away, wondering if he should burden her young heart with the bitterness that tinged his own. How could a dream go so sour? He had hoped their marriage would eventually illustrate that two different races could come together. Instead it had wrecked his life and separated the two races even further. And they had not heard the last of Richard de Burgo. Richard did not like to lose, and he would not slink away in surrender. He would return to enforce his claim upon the land.

  Colton took a deep breath and let it out in an audible sigh, then gave Cahira a weary smile. “I was just thinking that you would be better off if Richard had killed me. I wouldn’t be a burden to you or your people.”

  “A burden?” She threw back her head and placed her hands on her hips. “I never thought to say so, but you’re talking like an eejit, my love. How could you be thinking such a thing? You are no burden, none at all. You are my own joy, and I’m happy to help you always. Besides,” she gentled her tone, “you won’t be needing my help much longer.”

  “I can’t even pull a bowstring.” He met her gaze, finally willing to let her see the helplessness in his eyes. “I can’t use a sword, or wield a dagger, or lift one of those battle-axes your father’s men like so much. I’m useless to you and your family. ’Twas only pity convi
nced your father to count me as your husband.”

  “My father has never felt pity a day in his life.” Her smile vanished, and he could see no trace of amusement in her black-lashed eyes. “He shows mercy to those who deserve it, but he demands that each man pull his weight. And you shall, Colton, we all know it. So ’tis not pity that drives him to welcome you, ’tis respect. And if not love, ’tis at least liking. He was mightily impressed with the things you said to Richard.”

  “Richard will be back,” Colton said dully. “He’ll come back with an army, Cahira. I don’t know where he’ll get one, but I’d wager he’s working on the problem right now. He’ll go from baron to baron, promising land and money or support in exchange for archers and knights and foot soldiers. When he is certain his force will outnumber your father’s, he’ll come back to Connacht.”

  Her green eyes shimmered with light from the window. “Ah, Colton, don’t you think we know it? My father paints a brave picture for the simple folk, but he knows the Normans. We have only to look at the treachery of those who have invaded the southern provinces to know Richard will not rest until our land is his.”

  “Then why isn’t your father doing anything to resist?”

  One corner of her mouth twisted upward. “What else would you have him do? He’s prepared his warriors and sent his other men home to work in their fields. Our people have to eat, no matter what trouble looms on the horizon.” She reached out and gently fingered a lock of his tangled hair. “Perhaps the best thing he’s done is take a Norman knight into his home. You think like a Norman, love, though you love like a Gael. My father trusts that you will be able to help us when Richard comes again.”