An Irish Blessing: The Irish Sisters Trilogy (Montana Sky Series)

by Debra Holland

  Patrick turned from the road toward the house and saw the yellow glow of lamplight in the window. Suddenly, he became aware of the icy wind whipping around him and tugged up his collar. Knowing he no longer wanted to be a solitary rider, Patrick strode toward light and warmth and Alana.

  * * *

  Two days later, as the setting sun gilded the frosty windows in gold and pink, Patrick kept his ears pricked for the sound of horses’ hooves and wagon wheels, hoping Erik Muth would deliver the supplies from the mercantile today. He couldn’t wait to see the delight on the women’s faces—especially Alana’s.

  Preparations for supper were made—the salt pork parboiled and floured, the cornmeal mixed and ready to fry in cakes, the stewed pumpkin in a pot to heat before serving, the beans and greens simmering on the stove, and the watermelon rind pickles set out on the table. He’d helped with cutting the salt pork into strips, mixing the cornmeal, keeping the stove fed, and setting the table.

  All women’s work. But neither Henrietta, or Alana, nor the girls teased him about his lack of expertise, although he often saw a twinkle in their eyes or heard a giggle, quickly suppressed.

  Soon the children would arrive from school, and Rory would return from hunting the rabbit whose tracks he’d seen earlier. When everyone was home, Henrietta and Alana would finish cooking the meal. But until then, the women and Patrick had a bit of a lull to sit.

  Not that the women were resting. Henrietta mended the torn sleeve of Rory’s shirt that caught on a nail yesterday, and Alana knitted lace from pale-blue thread. He could tell by the aprons they still wore that he was no longer considered a guest, else they would have removed the protective garments when they left the kitchen area.

  Instead of feeling restless and irritable from being cooped up to recover from his injuries, Patrick found the quiet company of Henrietta and Alana soothing and calming. Two words he wouldn’t normally have applied to his life but needed now because his head and ribs continued to ache, although his headache didn’t hurt like the dickens any more.

  Patrick suspected he’d be going stir crazy were he anyplace other than here on this little farm in the middle of nowhere. If he’d been home, he probably would have done his best to push through his pain to take care of his normal responsibilities—directing the care of the horses, seeing to their training, corresponding with the owners who wanted Thunder’s services for their mares.

  Although annoyed by his limiting injuries, he also blessed them, for they provided the opportunity to spend time in Alana’s presence, getting to know her, as well as quietly court her. An unusual courtship to be sure.

  Amazing all the ways they touched when working together. He’d stroke her fingers when holding wide loops of yarn while she formed them into balls. She molded her hands over his when teaching him to grind the beans into coffee or to peel potatoes. When they folded laundry, their hands would brush when bringing together the edges of heavy clothing and sheets.

  Best of all was the feeling of her hands on his bare skin when icing his bruises and changing the bandage binding his ribs. From the way her eyes lowered or color rose in her cheeks, Patrick knew Alana was just as aware of those moments as he was, and he took hope from her attentiveness.

  At loose ends without a newspaper to read or something to occupy his hands, Patrick leaned toward Alana, feeling the pinch of pain in his ribs, and admired the fine lace forming in delicate scallops. “Beautiful.”

  Giving him a sideways glance, she tossed her head, causing the wispy curls framing her face to dance. “This is for the hem of my petticoat to hide the mended places,” she said in a defiant tone.

  Thinking of his secret, Patrick almost laughed. But with great forbearance, he refrained. She’ll have a new one soon enough, maybe within the hour if Muth arrives today. “When you’re finished—” he said with mock gravity “—I’m sure there’ll be no sign that your petticoat once suffered from being made into bandages.”

  Alana rolled her eyes, but a smile played about her mouth.

  From outside, Patrick heard Sian bark. Then came the sounds he’d been waiting for. Yes! He fisted his hand. The way I’m excited, you’d think Thunder was about to race for a hefty purse, instead of my anticipating the arrival of supplies and a few gifts.

  Henrietta lowered the shirt. “That must be Mr. Muth. I can’t imagine anyone else coming around at this time. He must have brought the children from school. So thoughtful of him.”

  Slowly, Patrick pushed to his feet. “I’ll go help your neighbor unload,” he said in a casual voice.

  Alana narrowed her eyes at him. “Unload what?”

  “Some supplies I ordered from the mercantile.”

  Her brows dipped. “Are they heavy?”

  Henrietta beamed at the two of them. “I’m sure Mr. Muth will carry in anything that’s too much for Patrick.”

  Good manners kept him from growling at the woman. But by the gleam in her eyes, he could tell she was teasing him. “I can manage,” he ground out.

  Alana bundled up the lace, yarn, and needles, placing them on the side table. She stood and removed her apron. “Never mind. I’ll go with you and supervise.” She folded her apron and set it next to her lace before taking quick steps to the door.

  “You do that, dear,” Henrietta encouraged, setting aside the shirt. “I’ll make some tea.” She stood. “I’m sure Mr. Muth will enjoy something warm.” She sent Patrick a grateful look. “Having tea to serve a guest is such a treat.”

  Warmed by the compliment, he moved toward the door.

  Alana, already in her outerwear, held his coat open.

  Patrick eased his arms into the sleeves.

  She hefted it over his shoulders and moved around to his front to do up the buttons, as if he’d broken his hands instead of bruising his ribs and knocking his head. “Best not wear a hat and disturb the bandage. You’ll only be outside for a few minutes.” She took his scarf and wrapped the length around his neck, her fingers brushing his neck. Her gaze met his. Color rose in her cheeks, and she lowered her eyes.

  Even through the wool of her gloves, Alana’s touch sent a tingle down his spine. Is it my imagination that her hands are lingering, as if she’s enjoying touching me?

  Charlie burst through the door and skidded to a stop. “Mr. Muth has a huge load of things. He says they’re for us.” The boy’s eyes were as big and bright as silver coins. “He’s brought almost the whole store!” He didn’t wait for a response, but popped back outside, slamming the door behind him.

  Patrick stooped to let Alana pull his woolen hat over his head, wishing he could give her a thank you kiss. If only we were married. He imagined the pleasure he’d take in giving and receiving kisses in the midst of performing ordinary tasks—provided no one was around, of course, actions that would be much easier in the privacy of his big house. With that wistful thought, he followed Alana through the door, the cold wind chilling his face.

  Outside, the winter dusk spread purple and blue shadows over the prairie. The twins swarmed about Patrick, their eyes excited, noses pink from cold. “Is everything in the wagon really for us, Mr. Gallagher?”

  “Well, I doubt Mr. Muth will part with his milk cans.” Patrick teased, and then shooed them toward the wagon. “Start unloading the parcels.” He took a few steps to meet the neighbor, who’d removed his rabbit fur hat to greet Alana, exposing shoulder-length pale hair.

  She greeted him and then performed introductions.

  The men nodded and shook hands.

  The dairyman was about Patrick’s age and size, perhaps burlier, although he couldn’t tell with the bulky fur coat the man wore. Muth had bright blue eyes, a ruddy face, and a blond beard. Patrick had imagined a somber German or Scandinavian, so the man’s wide grin caught him by surprise.

  Muth jerked his head toward the wagon, hitched to a pair of brown horses, one with white stockings. “Have a heap of parcels, bags, and crates back there for you.”

  “What?” Alana hurried to
the wagon, placed her hands on top of the side, and looked over, her expression curious. “Oh, my Lord!”

  While Patrick would have preferred to keep watching her reaction, politeness made him focus on Erik Muth. “Mrs. O’Donnell has some hot tea for you, and Charlie will see to your horses if you step inside for a bit.”

  “No need for that. I won’t say no to tea, though, but I’ll help you unload first and then be on my way. I’ll have Mrs. O’Donnell pour the tea in a jar and take it with me. My wife—” he favored the word “—frets if I’m too late. Daisy seems to think I’ll be attacked by a grizzly or such.”

  The fatuous look on the man’s face told Patrick that Muth didn’t mind humoring his wife.

  “Daisy expected me to be gone longer than usual, because I delivered milk to some far locations. But the horse on the right—” he tipped his chin to the horse with white stockings “—threw a shoe. Turns out to be a good thing. I was late enough that I could haul the youngsters back from school.”

  Charlie passed them, carrying a flour sack in one hand and a parcel tucked under his other arm. “I’ll tell Ma you can’t stay, Mr. Muth, and to put your tea in a jar.” He hurried toward the house.

  “My Daisy is with child,” Muth explained, with a proud smile. “She’s never taken to the wild wilderness.” He emphasized the two words as if quoting her. “But in her condition, she frets more. I’m sure, she’ll settle soon.”

  Patrick hoped for Muth’s sake that was true. The isolation and sheer brutal labor of breaking the untouched prairie land into a prosperous farm beat down far too many women. He strode to stand next to Alana, grinned at her, and then leaned over the side of the wagon and rummaged through a wooden crate of cans of food to find one of peaches. He straightened and extended the can to Muth. “Maybe this will sweeten the delay. I hear your wife’s partial to peaches, and I’m appreciative of you acting the teamster for my goods.”

  Muth gave the can a bewildered glance. “No need for that. Mighty glad to help out.”

  “And I’m mighty glad to send you home with a surprise for your wife.”

  From the glint in his eyes and the sudden grin breaking over his face, the man foresaw a pleasurable evening with a happy wife. With a nod of thanks, he accepted the can.

  Rory trudged up, the rifle over one shoulder. He saw Patrick eying his empty hand and shrugged. “Eagle or fox got to the rabbit first.” He greeted the dairyman and then looked back and forth from the children running to and from the house carrying the brown-paper parcels and burlap or cotton bags. “What’s this about?”

  “Muth delivered a few supplies I ordered.” Patrick made himself sound matter-of-fact.

  Rory’s eyes bulged. “You call this a few?”

  “I have a big appetite,” Patrick said deadpan, although sure the glee in his eyes gave him away. “Now put up your gun and help with the unloading so your neighbor can get home to his wife.”

  His mouth tight, Rory looked about to argue but then shook his head, grabbed a heavy sack, and headed to the house.

  Muth glanced from Patrick’s ribs to his bandaged head and met his eyes. “Heard what happened. I’m keeping the news from Daisy, though, else she’ll not let me out of her sight.” He set the can of peaches on the driver’s seat. “She’ll learn soon enough, but ’til then, I’d like some peace.” Moving to the side, he leaned over the wagon and hefted the crate containing the cans. “Looks like we’ve got all you ordered.”

  Seeing Patrick hadn’t lifted a thing, Alana gave him a satisfied nod and moved toward the house.

  Mr. Muth raised his eyebrows and looked from Alana to Patrick but said nothing.

  Alana held open the door for the men to file through.

  Inside, Patrick saw the laden table, although the bowl of watermelon pickles had been removed to make way for bags, a crate, and the packages. The children had taken off their outerwear and stood around the table with expectant expressions.

  Henrietta moved around them to hand Mr. Muth a Mason jar wrapped in a towel. “Are you sure you won’t stay?”

  The dairyman shook his head. “If we have a day that’s clear and warmer, I’ll bring Daisy for a visit. She’s not up to driving over by herself.”

  “We’d love to have her,” Henrietta said warmly. “I haven’t seen her all winter.”

  “When the baby comes, I know we’ll need your help—at least until Daisy’s mother arrives, which she’s bound and determined to do.” Mr. Muth rolled his eyes, as if indicating he wasn’t looking forward to his mother-in-law’s arrival, and raised the jar in a thank you. To a chorus of good-byes, he opened the door and walked out.

  Isleen danced close and tugged on Patrick’s arm. “May we please open up everything?”

  “Go right ahead.” He raised his arms to unbutton his coat, only to have Alana forestall him by pushing down his hands and doing the task herself.

  Her color was high, and she didn’t meet his eyes. But a smile played about her lips. She turned from him to hang up their outerwear.

  As if to embrace the whole table, Isleen spread out her arms. “This is better than Christmas.”

  Rory frowned at Patrick and seemed about to voice a protest.

  Patrick held out a hand to forestall him. “You all saved my life. A few supplies and presents aren’t enough to repay that. Not to mention that you are forced to put up with me for a while.”

  Rory shot him an exasperated look, followed by a wry shake of his head.

  “Allow me to express my appreciation.” Patrick found himself almost pleading, so he took a breath. “I don’t have a family to indulge and planning this surprise has given me great pleasure and taken my mind off my troubles. I certainly can afford it.”

  Shifting his weight, Rory studied Patrick’s face, then his gaze roved over the pleading expressions of his children, at last locking with his wife’s gaze in a silent communication.

  Henrietta nodded and smiled, as if in encouragement.

  Rory grinned. “Guess we’re about to experience Christmas in February. Not much different than December, anyway. Still cold and snowy.”

  The children cheered and scooted to sit on the benches at the table, the twins together on the kitchen side, and Charlie opposite them.

  By tacit agreement, the adults stood back and let them explore. They made quick shrift of poking through the staples, such as beans and flour but stopped to exclaim over the oranges and lemons.

  Standing behind the girls, Henrietta reached over Isleen’s shoulder to pick up a lemon. She sniffed the rind and smiled. “This brings back memories of Virginia—those afternoons of sitting on our porch and drinking lemonade.”

  “Surrounded by your beaus,” Rory cut in with a playful scowl.

  She met his gaze. “But I chose you.”

  Rory moved around the table to join her. “And I had to whisk you away to Montana to escape your other suitors.”

  Her cheeks pinked, and she glanced at Patrick and Alana, shaking her head. “Don’t you believe him. We didn’t move here until years later.”

  “To escape your swains,” Rory repeated. Then he winked at Patrick. “They kept coming around, ’til it was either shoot ’em or head west.” He reached Henrietta’s side and, with a casual arm around her waist, pulled his wife near, until they stood hip to hip. Although they turned their attention to their offspring, a bond resonated between them.

  Living intimately with this family in a small space had given Patrick an opportunity to observe the O’Donnells’ relationship—unlike his parents’ more reserved one. Henrietta and Rory had opened his eyes to the affection possible between a husband and wife. He enjoyed the couple’s sense of humor and obvious love. His gaze slid to Alana, who watched her young cousins with a fond expression.

  As if sensing his regard, she glanced at him, a soft look in her eyes.

  Warmth settled heavy in his belly, rising to fill his chest. Their gazes held, and only Henrietta speaking drew their attention.

  “Ch
ildren, mind you be careful with that paper and don’t tear it,” she warned. “We’ll find plenty of uses for it later.”

  Obediently, they untied the string and unwrapped the packages before handing the brown paper to their mother to fold into neat squares.

  Charlie had the first one open, exposing a pile of fine white cotton and some glimpses of blue embroidered flowers and frothy lace. “Eww!” he exclaimed, holding up Alana’s new petticoat.

  Isleen giggled, her shoulders bouncing.

  “You can have it.” Charlie threw the undergarment across the table at his sister.

  “Charlie!” his mother reproved.

  He flashed her an unrepentant grin and waved the paper in Henrietta’s direction for her to take.

  Isleen caught the petticoat and spread out the hem, fingering the row of blue flowers and machine-made lace. “This is so pretty.”

  “That—” Patrick told Isleen “—is for your cousin Alana to replace the one she ruined by making bandages for my wound.”

  “Oh,” Isleen half stood so she could reach over the table and hand Alana the petticoat. “I want one like that when I grow up. I’d wear it to parties and to church on Sundays.”

  Red flooded Alana’s face. She crumpled the petticoat between her hands.

  Patrick enjoyed her blush and waited for a happy smile, even if she was too embarrassed to admire the undergarment in front of the men.

  Instead, Alana dropped the petticoat on the table, not even bothering to look at it. With an annoyed expression tightening her face, she turned to him and fisted her hands on her hips.

  Uh, oh. Patrick’s throat went dry. This isn’t turning out the way I expected.

  “Mr. Gallagher, I told you not to buy me a new one,” she snapped.

  The rest of the family stilled, obviously startled by her uncharacteristic behavior.

  Patrick couldn’t figure out why Alana was stirred up over a gift, even if the item was a feminine undergarment. Blushes and embarrassment, he could have understood. But not anger. If she’s this upset over the petticoat, which I think good manners would indicate I replace, how will she react to the dress material?