Even in the dark, he saw tears in her eyes. "Just exactly what are your intentions, Mitch?"
He exhaled and leaned back against the seat. "My intentions are to find a woman I can grow old with, a wife to love and care for all the days of my life. I'm not making any promises, Kathleen, and I still need time to sort things out, but eventually-" he swallowed, squeezing her hand "-soon, I hope to find that woman." He paused, then slowly reached out to reel her into his arms. The glistening wetness in her eyes now coated her cheeks. "Kathleen, I think you may be the woman I need."
She rested her head on his chest, her body trembling. "Oh, Mitch, I may be the woman you need, but am I the woman you want?"
He stiffened. Unbidden, thoughts of Charity barraged his brain. He tightened his hold and lifted her chin with his finger. Her tearstained face wrenched his heart, fusing with his anger. With gentle force, he cupped the back of her neck and brought her mouth to his, tasting the salt of her tears. He felt her respond and pressed in, his physical need beginning to kindle.
No, my son.
He jerked back.
"Mitch, what's wrong?"
He stared at her, his chest heaving. In one quick sweep, he pulled her into an embrace and rested his head on top of hers. "Kathleen, you deserve so much. I never want to hurt you again. But I need time ... time to purge my system ... to get over ... things."
Her voice was as soft and frail as a child's. "You mean Charity."
Her words sucked the air from his lungs, crystallizing in his brain.
Bridie guesses you're in love with her.
The muscles in his neck worked furiously. In love with her?
No! Please, God, no!
He crushed Kathleen tighter against his chest. "I don't know. Maybe. But either way, with God's help and every fiber in my being, I'll get past this. I promise ..."
She stirred. He let her go. She sat up and gently pressed her hand to his heart. "No, Mitch, no promises, please. Not until you can keep them."
She turned to scoot toward her door. He grabbed the handle of his and jumped out, intending to walk her in. She put her hand up. "No, please, we're co-workers only. Not lovers or even courting. Please don't lead me on with anything that even remotely looks like it. Thank you for dinner and the ride home. I'll see you tomorrow."
He swallowed hard. "Yeah. Tomorrow."
She turned and ran up the walk to her house, disappearing inside faster than the clip of his heart. He stood and stared at the humble cottage she called home, as if seeing it for the first time. How in the world had he been so thickheaded all these years not to realize what an amazing woman she was? He lumbered to the front of his vehicle, shaking his head. The same way he'd been too thickheaded to see that his feelings for Charity were more than lust. Stupidity. Pure, unadulterated stupidity. And apparently he was lousy with it.
Fatigue weighted his shoulders as he cranked the car to life. He hopped in and stepped on the pedal, moving the throttle forward before easing down the darkened lane. He released a cleansing breath and shot a quick glance at the canopy of stars overhead. "Thank you, God, that you're the one with the brains, because you definitely have your work cut out for us." Rounding a corner, he headed home-to Runt, sound sleep, and undoubtedly, a serious bout of prayer.
Mrs. Lynch's windows were dark when he parked in front of his building. He dragged himself from the car and shut the door quietly, the strenuous pace of the last week finally catching up. He yawned and glanced at his watch. Almost eleven. Felt like three in the morning. He plodded up the steps and inwardly groaned at the thought of rising early just to satisfy Michael's bloodlust for extended hours.
Runt greeted him at the door, his enthusiasm a stark contrast to his own exhaustion. He closed the door and Runt pounced to give him his customary welcome, paws planted firmly on Mitch's chest. A dry chuckle rattled from Mitch's lips. "Yeah, I love you, too, big guy."
Runt sniffed and pushed his snout against Mitch's coat.
"No, I haven't been with any other dogs. You're the only one for me. And to prove it, I brought you something special."
Runt jumped down, his front paws jiggling in excitement. Mitch reached inside his jacket and held out a crumpled brown package, allowing Runt to get a whiff of the steak bone he'd saved. The dog whimpered and sat while Mitch discarded the paper and handed him the bone. Runt clamped enormous jaws on it and disappeared.
Mitch tossed his coat on the rack and struck a match to read a note on the table.
Mitch-Charity called again this morning. She seems quite upset. I know you'll do what's best. Your clean shirts are hanging in your closet. Mrs. Lynch
He blew out the match and wadded the paper, shooting it across the room to the trashcan, along with the crumpled doggie bag. Yeah, he'd do what's "best." He'd save himself from the throes of death.
He trudged to the fireplace to stoke the peat fire Mrs. Lynch kept burning during his long days at the paper. Energy depleted, he shuffled into the moonlit bathroom to get ready for bed. He wrested the tie from his neck and flung it over the side of the tub, along with his shirt and trousers. Yawning, he pulled his pajama bottoms off the hook on the door and put them on, and leaned over the sink to splash water in his face. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. Puffy eyes, scruffy whiskers, sagging jaw. Even his muscled arms and chest slouched with fatigue. He needed sleep bad. He swished some soap and water in his mouth and spit it out. Lord, let me go right to sleep tonight, please. Don't let me think, or my thoughts wander.
Like a sleepwalker, he moved to his bedroom, shoving the covers aside to collapse on the bed and tunnel beneath. He moaned and closed his eyes, then stretched his long legs over the edge. Even the icy bedding couldn't daunt the relief that flooded his body as he lay stretched on his back, drained of anything but the desire to sleep.
Charity.
His eyes popped open. The thought of her name chilled him more than the frigid sheets.
Pray.
The silent command unleashed a flood of feelings he'd fought so hard to ignore. Anger flared in his gut. She was going to marry a man who would destroy her. Why should he care?
Because you love her.
He shifted to his side, jabbing the pillow several times till it bunched in a ball. He curled his arms around it, flopping his head on top. She deserves what she gets.
Forgive.
"That's your pat answer to everything, isn't it?" he groused, causing Runt to jump up and thrust his cold nose in Mitch's face. Mitch huffed out a blast of air and scrubbed the side of Runt's snout. "It's not that easy. She deceived me. She lied."
Love suffereth long ... is kind ... not easily provoked ...
He punched his pillow again. "So now you're hounding me with Scriptures, is that it?"
Silence.
He rolled over on his back, arms limp at his sides. "You're not going to let me sleep until I pray for her, are you?" He sighed and closed his eyes, finally allowing his mind to focus on the one thing he'd struggled so hard to avoid.
Charity. The very name inflicted a sharp ache in his heart. Sky blue eyes that teased and tempted, lips that were the curse of his resolve. A wounded little girl, stubborn and strong, defiant in her quest for love. And all the while, a sensual woman, resilient to the core, fiercely devoted to those she opened her heart to. He drew in a deep breath to ward off the longing. No! He may love her and, yes, forgive her, and certainly pray for her, but he would never trust her. Not enough to make her his wife.
The realization lodged in his mind like a thorn, throbbing with both pain and desire. He knew what he would do. What he had to do.
He would choose Kathleen. Faithful and true, a seeker of God, she was rooted in the same faith as he. Together they would be strong, undaunted by any wind that raged. Unlike Charity, whose faith was little more than stubble or straw or chaff before the wind.
He sat up, straining to remember the Scripture he'd read earlier. Lumbering out of bed, he padded to the parlor where his
Bible lay on the table. He picked it up and plopped onto the sofa, the leather emitting a soft whoosh from the bulk of his frame. He struck a match to light an oil lamp. The soft light filtered into the room, dispelling the darkness. His fingers rustled through the pages until they stopped, pressed on the page before him.
Make them like a whirling thing, like stubble before the wind. As fire burneth a forest, and as the flame setteth the mountains on fire, so pursue them with thy tempest, and terrify them with thy whirlwind. Fill their faces with shame, that they may seek thy name ...
He dropped back against the sofa, his eyes closed and the book open in his lap. There she was, summed up in Psalm 83. A woman whose faith in God was nothing more than chaff blown by her own whims and desires. Mitch shuddered. A woman who consumed him like a fire and set his passions ablaze. There was no question how he needed to pray. God would have his way. He would pursue his wayward child-with terror and shame if need be. Until she sought his name ...
Mitch drew in a sharp breath. Slowly, he bent over his Bible, his head in his hands. "Lord, I'm baffled by it, but beyond all the heat she generates inside of me, I think I may be falling in love with her. She's so lost, so lonely for you. Bring her to know you, your love, your peace. Let her experience all that Faith taught me. She's so stubborn, so proud, I worry ... worry that it's going to take more ... to get her attention." He exhaled slowly. "It's hard to pray this way, God, but I'm asking that you do it. Draw her to you. Whatever it takes."
He opened his eyes, feeling a sense of peace. He smiled and closed the Bible, then glanced up. "Are you going to let me sleep now?"
Kathleen came to mind. He sighed and put the Bible back on the table. "All right, that's another subject we need to discuss."
Runt ambled into the parlor looking sleepy-eyed. He yawned with a half growl and pushed against Mitch's legs.
Mitch reached down to pet him. "Sorry for waking you up, buddy. Let's head back." He blew out the oil lamp and returned to his room, slipping under the covers. Runt put his chin on the bed. Mitch sighed. "All right, just this once. And only because I robbed you of sleep." He patted the covers and Runt bounded up, snuggling against Mitch's backside. Mitch adjusted his pillow and butted closer to Runt's warm body. He stared in the dark.
"I love Kathleen as a friend, Lord, I always have. The attraction is there, and I know it could grow. But she's not Charity. She doesn't make my pulse race nor invade my thoughts at every turn. She doesn't annoy me or rile me ... or stir me. Not like Charity. But she's committed to you, she loves me, and I trust her. I think I could grow to love her deeply. But the decision is yours. Show me what to do. I intend to proceed with my plan to court and marry Kathleen after Charity leaves. So if it's not what you want, let me know. Sooner rather than later. Amen."
He blew out one final breath and closed his eyes. Sleep wasn't far behind.
The clock in the parlor chimed eleven. Charity had been home for almost an hour, yet she still sat in the kitchen with her coat on and her head on the table in the dark. The embers from the waning hearth fire occasionally popped, disrupting the silence that surrounded her. She lifted her head and pushed the hair from her eyes, blowing her nose on a handkerchief that now resembled a soggy dishrag. A halting whimper escaped her lips. He didn't care.
Why had she thought he had? Because he wanted her? She shivered. A bitter lesson to learn. "Wanting" wasn't "loving," apparently. Yes, she could arouse his body with no problem. But not his heart. She slouched over the table, elbow cocked and head in hand.
She groaned and jolted up, suddenly noticing the clean counter where stacks of dishes should have been waiting. Guilt slithered within. Not only had she made a fool of herself with Mitch, but she had disappointed her grandmother and Mima. Flitted off to do her own bidding, completely flaunting their wishes. And after Grandmother had slaved for hours to make a special Thanksgiving dinner just for her. Charity choked back a sob. She was a miserable creature. An ungrateful granddaughter and a selfish human being. She didn't deserve Mitch's love. Why would God even consider it?
She sniffed and dabbed the cold, wet handkerchief to her nose. Standing to her feet, she put a hand to her head and forced herself to think. Maybe she could turn over a new leaf. Perhaps make it up to her grandmother and Mima in the remaining three weeks. She could prepare all the meals, do all the dishes, let them know how very much she loved them. She stopped. In one halting breath, the reality of leaving Ireland struck hard, forcing fresh tears to her eyes. The sodden handkerchief flew to her mouth at a shocking realization: all her hopes had been pinned on marrying Mitch. On staying. Another broken sob issued forth as she collapsed into the chair, sick at the thought of leaving those she loved-Grandmother, Mima, Emma.
Mitch.
"Why, God? Why do you hate me?"
"You're the apple of his eye. "
She shivered. Did she believe it? Mitch did, and certainly Faith, and no doubt everyone else in her family. But did she? She looked up at the ceiling. "I want to believe it, I do. But I don't know if I can." She thought of returning home ... to a sister she'd betrayed, engaged to the man who'd jilted her, and a father who'd probably spurn her more than ever before. She squeezed her eyes shut. "Please, if you're real, help me. Make me know it ... that you love me, that I'm special ... like Faith. Whatever it takes."
She sniffed and opened her eyes. A strange calm settled inside. She cocked her head and looked up. "I know I haven't exactly followed your rules, but ... on the chance that you're real and I am the apple of your eye like Mitch says, can youwould you-make him fall in love with me? And if not" -she took a deep breath- "please help it not to hurt so much."
She stood and yawned, exhaustion taking its toll. She took off her coat and hooked it on the rack by the door. Three more weeks. How she wished she could return to Ireland after Christmas. But she knew Father would never allow it. Not unless ...
Rigan.
The thought jarred her awake. She'd lied to Mitch in the heat of her anger, telling him she was marrying Rigan. But what if she did? He had proposed, after all. And maybe, just maybe, it would make Mitch crazy like Rigan said, perhaps even driving him into her arms.
Charity started breathing hard, and adrenaline surged through her body. She paced the kitchen, her thoughts pumping faster than her pulse. What's the worst that could happen? She would be Mrs. Rigan Gallagher, wife of one of the wealthiest men in Dublin. She could buy Shaw's Emporium outright, expand it, grow it. She could stay in Dublin, take care of Grandmother and Mima and Emma. And in the end, Mitch would see what a success she'd become. He would regret ever turning her away.
She clapped her hands together, a throaty giggle gurgling in her chest.
Rigan.
The giggle died as quickly as it had come.
He loved her. If she married him, she would be his wife. In his bed. Surprisingly, the thought wasn't altogether objectionable. She knew for a fact that if Mitch hadn't been in the picture, she would have ended up there anyway. He was charming, fascinating, witty, and his kisses offered a pleasant diversion, almost a tingle, when he didn't try to force more. And, she could stay in Ireland!
She closed her eyes and lifted her head, hands clasped to her chest. Yes! A completely workable solution. A situation where she could win, no matter the outcome. She hugged herself tightly in the sanctuary of her grandmother's kitchen, not even feeling the chill of the room from embers long since faded. No, she had a plan to keep her warm. A plan to stay in Ireland. A plan to be married. And at the moment, it didn't really matter to whom.
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, THANKSGIVING, 1919
"Collin Timothy McGuire, you're cheating!" Faith arched her brows in a stern manner and tried not to laugh as she wrestled the wishbone from her fiance.
Fiance. The word sounded magical to her ears, even after a year to the day. Soon, at the ripe old age of twenty-two, she would be Collin's wife, a thought that never failed to bring a sense of wonder to her soul. The wishbone snapped, leaving nothi
ng but a splintered fragment in her hand. She wrinkled her nose and wagged the pitiful sliver in his handsome face. "Unfair! Your hand's twice the size of mine and took up most of the bone. And you're stronger."
He grinned and brandished his piece for all the family to see. "Yes, I am." He placed it in the center of the table with great ceremony and leaned back in his chair, sporting a devilish gleam in his eye. "And don't ever forget it, Little Bit. Especially when you're my wife."
"There's still time to change my mind, you know." She pushed her chair in and flashed a smile around the table. "Who wants dessert?"
In the midst of the clamor for pie, Collin stood and pulled her close, his eyes smoldering. "But you're not going to change your mind, now are you?" he whispered.
Faith stared into the eyes of the man she'd loved since she was a child. The usual rush of warmth seeped through her body, shooting straight to her cheeks.
"Mama, Daddy, make 'em stop," Katie moaned, rolling her blue eyes in disgust as only an eight-year-old can.
"I think it's romantic," Beth said shyly, her cheeks tingeing pink as soon as she uttered the words.
"That's because you're fifteen and all you think about is falling in looovvve. I don't want any of that stuff in my life." Katie wrinkled her freckled nose in distaste and puckered her lips in the air, making obnoxious kissing sounds. Beth's cheeks bloomed bright red.
Patrick eyed his youngest daughter. "That's quite enough, Katie. Stop tormenting your sisters-"
"But, Daddy-"
"Or there won't be dessert in your life,' either." Patrick shot a weary look at Faith and Collin. "Thank goodness you two have only a month till the wedding. You act like you're married already, with all your sparring and mooning." He leaned back in the chair and unbuttoned his vest, then winked at his wife. "Woman, bring on the pie."
A Passion Redeemed (The Daughters of Boston, Book 2) Page 15