“Very well.” Patrick moved his chair closer to the oil lamp, held the book near the light, and began to read the opening lines. In the poetry of words and cadence only The Bard of Avon could produce, the first paragraph laid out the story and drew the listener in.
Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life….
As he read, Alana couldn’t help but admire Patrick’s smooth voice and how he brought the characters to life, making her appreciate Shakespeare in a way she hadn’t before. Even though she kept her focus on her handwork, from time to time she glanced up and observed him.
Alana hadn’t read the play for several years, and, at first, she found her sympathies lying with Romeo as he spoke of loving a girl who didn’t love him back. When he lamented, “Oh teach me how I should forget to think,” Alana remembered all the times she’d had the same wish about Timkin. Somehow, lately, that wish had started coming true.
With that realization, she sucked in a sharp breath. Why, since Patrick was attacked, I’ve barely given Timkin a thought until earlier tonight.
Her chest expanded, as if filled with lightness and air. My heart is healing. The sense of relief at the insight brought tears to her eyes.
“My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep….” Patrick raised his gaze to lock with hers. “The more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”
Desire stirred in Alana, different from her former longing for Timkin and an emotion she’d never thought she’d feel. The sensation brought up a question from the depths of her heart.
Can I, like Romeo, fall in love again?
* * *
The next evening after supper, the dishes dried and put away, Alana donned her coat and slipped outside, needing some private time. She left Henrietta contentedly knitting by the fire, with the men working in the barn. She headed out to the prairie, trudging through the thin layer of snow, the breeze tugging the curls from under her cap to blow every which way. Her goal was a low hill on the edge of the horizon, where she could perform the ritual that she hoped would finally set her free.
When Alana crested the hill, she took a deep breath of brisk, clean air. The exercise and solitude had done her good, as if her blood now flowed throughout her body with renewed energy.
I must say goodbye to Timkin—a proper good-bye. Alana wrinkled her nose, realizing mayhap good-bye wasn’t quite what she meant. Perhaps, instead, what was needed was a gentle blessing, a soft and loving opening of her hands to release into the wind the man—now seen as a beloved friend—whose memory she would always treasure.
Alana faced what she imagined was the direction of her homeland and used Juliet’s line, although she altered the last bit. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, my dearest Timkin. That I shall say farewell….”
She searched her mind for the perfect send-off of her message. With a sense of rightness, Alana settled on an ancient Irish blessing and closed her eyes. “May the road rise to meet ye. May the wind be ever at yer back….”
Pausing, she stretched her arms toward the old country; behind her eyelids moisture gathered and spilled over. “May the sun shine warm upon yer face.” Her voice grew thick with emotion, and she swallowed before continuing. “And the rains fall soft upon your fields.”
Alana hesitated and then added one more wish for him. “May ye find a love that fills yer heart.” She smiled, imagining a joyful expression on her friend’s face instead of the tormented one he’d worn at their parting. “And until we meet again, dearest Timkin, may God hold ye in the palm of his hand.” Sighing, she lowered her arms and felt warm wetness on her cheeks.
With a smile, Alana wiped away the tears and opened her eyes, looking around her as if seeing everything afresh.
The snow-covered, low hills were broken only by a distant smudge of brown trees, perhaps lining a stream. Layered blue-gray clouds edged in pale gold floated above faraway purple mountains.
So beautiful! She stared at the horizon, unable to even find words to describe the sight. With an ache of loneliness, she wished her sister were here. I’ll have to absorb everything about this moment so I can tell Bridget. Yet Alana wondered if she could possibly render the visage into mere words.
Now, too, Alana knew she could unburden her heart to her twin—reveal the pain she’d carried and how she’d finally made peace with her feelings for Timkin. She could also admit the secret resentment she’d harbored toward Bridget for dragging her from their home, for forcing her into this new life. “I forgive ye, sister.”
Under the clouds, as the sun dropped toward the mountains, the bottom of the golden ball cast pale heavenly light toward the earth. Rays streaked above the clouds and across the sky like a corona.
She tilted her face upward. “What color are ye?” she murmured, not quite able to put a name to the beautiful hue of the sky.
“Indigo,” said a voice from behind her.
Alana hadn’t realized she’d asked the question aloud. She whirled to see Patrick holding Thunder’s reins. Somehow, man and horse had managed to sneak up on her. Heat flooded her cheeks, but she didn’t look away.
“My sister had a dress that color, and she called it indigo.” His eyes intent, he gazed down at her. “Indigo,” he repeated, his voice husky. “The color of your eyes.”
* * *
Patrick saw Alana’s motionless figure on a hill facing west. He rode Thunder in a sweeping angle that placed him toward the front right of her, giving him a close-up view.
She stood with her eyes closed and hands outstretched, her body elongated as if about to soar like an angel into the heavens, and didn’t hear his approach.
Patrick propped an arm on the saddle horn to watch. His elbow nudged the gun holster at his hip. He’d taken to wearing the gun whenever he left the house, even for short rides.
A smile crossed Alana’s face, although her eyes remained closed.
Not wanting to interrupt her silent reverie, he quietly swung down from the horse, and, holding the reins, led Thunder closer, pausing a few yards away.
Too absorbed in her conversation with the sky, she didn’t see him. The setting sun illuminated her face, gilding her curls and the faint freckles on her nose.
His heart clenched at the sight. How could I have thought her interchangeable with Bridget?
When he answered her question, and Alana spun to face him, Patrick was relieved to see she’d come back to earth. By the animation in her countenance at the sight of him, she seemed to have worked through whatever had been bothering her.
He let out a breath, a silent prayer of thanksgiving.
With a dimpled smile that made her eyes even bluer, she held her skirts a few inches from the ground, walked over to him, and stopped to pet the horse, as if the stallion had never frightened her.
“Communing with the sky?” he asked.
“I guess ye could say that. But I was really saying a proper farewell to my former life.” She glanced from Thunder to Patrick. “Promisin’ to find a way to root myself here in America, to face forward and not look behind me.”
I like that idea just fine. “Are you still annoyed with me for the petticoat?”
She flashed him a gamin grin and pointed a toe forward, exposing a worn brown boot. Slowly, she lifted the hem of her dress a few inches to reveal white lace and blue-embroidered flowers. “I should save wearing it for good and not risk dirtying or tearing the lace while doing chores. But I couldn’t resist today.” Dipping her chin, she released her skirt.
“How about risking your petticoat while taking a ride on Thunder?”
“Patrick,” Alana chided with a shake of her head. “As much as I’d like to take a turn on this boyo—” she ran a hand over Thunder’s nec
k “—I can’t ride astride with my dress kilted up. The other day was an emergency.”
He rubbed his chin. “I don’t know if Thunder would take to a sidesaddle, so I guess you’ll need a gentle mare, a ladies saddle, and a riding habit.”
Alana let out a sigh. “Might as well wish for the moon.”
If she were mine, I could give her the moon. “Is that your real wish, Alana?”
“More my sister’s,” she retorted. She glanced toward the sun dropping behind the mountains. “Speaking of the moon, we’d better head home before it gets dark.”
They fell into step, Patrick leading Thunder.
“As for me….” Her forehead crinkled, and she remained silent for a few minutes. “My moon dreams have changed. Now I suppose….” She slid him a sideways look, as if expecting a critical response.
“Go on,” he encouraged.
“I’d like to study medicine.” Her words lingered on the evening air.
“You certainly have the gift of healing. Would you want to become a doctor?”
She shook her head. “That’s not the moon, that’s wishing for the stars.”
“A nurse, then?”
Alana shrugged. “In Ireland there were no other opportunities for learning beyond what my mother taught me. So why waste my thoughts on such dreams?”
“Let’s pretend for a minute…that you could have whatever you wanted. Would you focus just on people? What about animals?”
“Small animals, aye.” She glanced over her shoulder at Thunder. “I never thought to work on horses, because I wouldn’t go near the creatures. But, now…maybe.”
“It can’t hurt to figure out what you want to be, Alana. A wife and mother, of course. But also a nurse, doctor, veterinarian, or something in between. You’re capable of achieving any of those.”
Frowning, she shook her head as if not believing him.
He stopped and set a hand on Alana’s shoulder, turning her to face him. “The more you focus on the obstacles—how far away the moon and stars are—the greater they’ll become. But if you keep your eye on the goal, then life or God or your own will or however you want to describe it, has a way of helping you to make that happen.”
Her brows drew together. “Do ye really think I could?”
He smiled. “I have no doubt.”
A cold gust blew tendrils of hair across her face. He reached up to tuck them into her cap.
She shivered and pulled her scarf tighter.
Patrick released her. “Let’s get going before you freeze.” He held out his elbow, hoping she’d allow him to escort her.
Alana wrapped her hand around his arm, glanced up at him, and smiled. “I will think on what ye’ve said.” She gathered up her skirts with her free hand and tugged to get him moving.
As they strolled toward the house, twilight deepened. The moon peeked over the edge of the horizon and began to rise, milky-pale against the indigo sky, a beacon of hope and promise.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Three days later, Patrick stood at the window of the house, washing the glass with crumpled newspaper dipped in a solution of diluted vinegar, as he watched for Alana to return from her walk. Since their last private conversation, she’d had a thoughtful air about her, as if she’d taken his words to heart and was pondering her future. Yet she’d also acted cheerful and seemed in good spirits, so he figured she wasn’t worried or distressed.
The energy between them had changed—becoming more comfortable—with, on her part he dared hope, an obvious growing attraction to him. Mostly, he’d stepped back, wanting to give Alana time to sort through what was on her mind, hoping that whatever she decided about her future, he’d be included.
As Patrick healed, she allowed him to do heavier tasks, usually assisting her and Henrietta, although she’d still declared he shouldn’t ride too far. Truthfully, Patrick had enjoyed being pampered a bit, even though his headache had dulled and the pain in his ribs lessened. If he were well, he’d have no excuse to stay, and he was far from ready to leave.
To keep from feeling like a malingerer, he helped out as much as he could. This time of year, Rory had little need for an extra pair of hands since the man had exhausted his lumber supply for building the barn addition. So Patrick assisted the women by doing such chores as scrubbing the floor, ironing clothes, chopping vegetables, blackening the stove, scouring pots and pans, cleaning and refilling the kerosene lamps, kneading bread dough, and, now, washing windows.
From this time at the O’Donnells, he’d developed a new appreciation for women’s work. Not that he hadn’t seen women laboring before—hanging up the wash, cooking, ironing. But he’d been ignorant of the multitude of the steps, many of mind-numbing drudgery, that went into keeping a family fed and clothed, and the home efficiently run. This new awareness left him feeling humbled and somewhat ashamed. He remembered his mother and, with regret, wished she were alive so he could express belated thankfulness for all she’d done for her family.
In fact, from this experience, Patrick had started forming a whole new political philosophy beyond his primary belief that the less the government interfered in a man’s affairs, the better. Watching Henrietta and Alana go about their tasks prompted him to give serious thought to the issue of women’s suffrage. He’d concluded that not only should females have the right to vote, they should probably be governing the whole darn country. He had no doubt a petticoat government would run more efficiently and far more peacefully than the one men had cooked up.
He crumpled another section of newspaper to dry the window, peering sideways through the glass to catch a glimpse of Alana. What in tarnation is taking her so long?
Although he knew worry was unreasonable, Patrick couldn’t help a niggling doubt about Alana’s safety that had overturned his peace. He tried to calm his thoughts and check his gut, seeing if his concern stemmed from his intuition or just the conjured vision of imagining his beloved running afoul of robbers or some other danger. I just want to know she’s safe.
Well…if I’m honest, I want to be taking that walk at her side.
“Patrick.”
A hand touched his shoulder. Henrietta—the only other person in the house.
“Do not fret yourself.”
He patted her hand and then shifted to face her. In this last week, with her health and appetite returning, his hostess had gained some weight and had more color in her face. He liked knowing the supplies he’d purchased had tempted her appetite. Patrick gave her a rueful smile. “Am I that obvious?”
She tilted her head and studied him. “I’ve come to know you well in this past week, and I believe you’ve fallen in love with my niece.”
The directness of the statement took him aback, and he responded just as bluntly. “Alana rejected my offer to court her.”
Henrietta drew her eyebrows together in a frown. “Perhaps Alana doesn’t know her own mind.” She paused, bit her lip. “My niece hasn’t spoken a lot about Ireland…but I have a feeling she left behind a man she cared deeply about.”
The thought made his stomach twist.
As if anticipating his reaction, Henrietta raised a hand in a stopping motion. “At the same time, I believe Alana isn’t as indifferent as you might think. Tell me, when did you ask to court her?”
“Before I left. After she rejected me, I was so lost in gloomy thoughts and not alert to my surroundings that the robbers were able to attack.” He shrugged off a prickle down his backbone at the memory and attempted a smile. “But I can’t complain, considering I’ve had a chance to remain here longer.”
A smile curled her lips. Henrietta shook her head in an amused, Oh, Patrick gesture. “I thought you meant you’d recently proposed. A lot has changed in a week—including, I believe—my niece’s view of you.”
“At times, I think that’s true,” he admitted. “But then doubt creeps in. With each day that passes, my love for her grows so much more….” Patrick searched for a description but couldn’t find one that quit
e matched his feelings. He shrugged and abandoned the attempt. “Real, for want of a better word.”
Henrietta’s smile widened. She reached up and pulled his head down to kiss his cheek. “I couldn’t think of another man I’d rather have as a nephew-in-law.” She stepped away, her eyes filling with happy tears. “Even though you’ll take our Alana to live with you, I hope you’ll bring her back for a visit from time to time.”
The picture her words painted made his heartbeat race.
She pointed at the door. “What are you waiting for, nephew? Go to her.”
Anticipation spurred him. Patrick leaned down to kiss Henrietta’s cheek. “Thank you, Auntie.” He grabbed his coat, threw his scarf around his neck, and shoved his hat on his head. Not taking the time to button up his coat, wrap the scarf tight, or pull out his gloves from his pocket, he strode out the door, determined to saddle Thunder, track down his beloved, and ask for her hand in marriage.
* * *
Patrick found Alana were he’d thought he would, on the same hill as before, her back to him, a hand shading her eyes as she watched a red-tailed hawk float in the vivid blue sky. He reined Thunder to a stop. If we lived here, I’d build her a bench in this spot. He imagined sitting with his arm around her, talking or silently observing the natural beauty of their surroundings.
This time she sensed his arrival, lowering her arm and slowly turning. She waited with a smile for Thunder to reach her. “Have ye come to tempt me to ride yer beastie?” she teased, her accent richly Irish and charming.
“What, ride with your skirts kilted up and showing your legs?” Widening his eyes, he pretended to sound shocked. “Of course.”
Alana chuckled, showing her dimple, and patted the stallion. “Hello, me beautiful boyo,” she crooned. “Sorry I am for calling ye a beastie. I was only jokin’ with yer master.”
Happy to hear her laughter, he swung down from the horse.
“You’ve been doing a lot of thinking?”
“I feel I’ve lived a lifetime in this last week. I’ve learned. I’ve changed. I’ve had much to mull over.”
An Irish Blessing: The Irish Sisters Trilogy (Montana Sky Series) Page 14