by JoAnn Ross
“Stop the presses and notify the pope.” He reached out and took hold of one of those rigid icy hands, linking their fingers together in a companionable way. “It seems that the allegedly saintly Nora Fitzpatrick isn’t quite ready for beatification, after all.”
Despite a bit of fear that remained after finding her son’s bed empty, and her regret for having exchanged such harsh words with both the son and father she loved, Nora smiled. She thought about telling Quinn once again how good he was for her, but knew he’d dismiss her words, and her feelings, just as he had in the past.
“And isn’t that a shame?” she murmured mildly. “Just when I’d gotten so used to wearing that pretty gold halo.”
His answering laugh was rich and warm and slipped beneath her skin, into her blood, melting away the last of the lingering ice.
Kate was waiting outside the house for them, standing in the spreading glow of the porch lamp, a flashlight in her hand.
“He’s in the barn. I found him there asleep and I was going to wake him, but since you were on your way, I thought I’d be leaving that up to you.” She turned to Nora. “She’s a fine mare, Nora. Sturdy, with a sweet disposition, and from the papers Keane gave Quinn, she comes from a good bloodline. I’ll be more than happy to take her off your hands.”
“No.” Nora shook her head, her answer surprising Quinn. “Brady’s right. Rory’s entitled to a pony, and we’ll be keeping her. But I would appreciate it if you could board her until I can get the barn ready for her.” There hadn’t been a horse in the barn since Conor’s accident.
“I’d be happy to.” Kate’s approving smile as she handed over the flashlight hid the feeling she had that something wasn’t right. When she’d first gotten the call from Nora and had found Rory in her barn, she’d hoped the boy’s running away was what she’d been sensing. But if that was the case, why was she still feeling this vague unease? “Your son and the mare—and Maeve of course—are in the first stall.”
And that was where they found him, curled in the straw, his arms wrapped around Maeve’s neck, using the huge dog for a pillow. The wolfhound looked up at their arrival and gave a welcoming thump of her thick tail.
“Rory.” Nora crouched beside her sleeping son and stroked his hair. “Darling, wake up.”
His eyes fluttered open. When he saw his mother, he tensed and tightened his hold on the black, white and gray dog.
Seeing the tracks of tears on his cheeks and the dread in his eyes, Nora bit her lip to keep from crying herself. “Rory, I’m sorry. I’ve tried my best to be a good mother to you, but—”
“But I can’t have a pony,” he interrupted flatly.
“No. I mean, no, that’s not right. What I’m trying to tell you is that I was wrong about the pony. Your father was a great rider, Rory. All the Fitzpatrick men have been. It’s only natural that you’d inherit their love of horses. And Kate assures me this is a very nice mare.”
“Oh, she’s better than nice!” Rory said quickly. “She’s the best mare in all of Castlelough. The best in the county, even.”
The horse, standing at the far side of the stall, nickered softly in apparent agreement.
“She looks as if she may be the best in all of Ireland,” Nora said, and watched as her son’s small, earnest face lit up. “And I think we owe Quinn a thank-you for such a glorious early birthday present.”
“Aye.” Rory looked up at the man standing beside Nora as if viewing some ancient king come back to life. “Thank you. It’s the best gift ever. Even better than the Millennium Falcon model.”
Quinn laughed, feeling unreasonably lighthearted as he bent down and lifted the boy into his arms. “Believe me, Rory, me lad,” he said, “it was my pleasure. Perhaps one of these days, before the filming is over, your aunt Kate will lend me one of her horses and we can go riding together.”
Rory glanced at his mother. “I think that sounds like a lovely idea,” Nora agreed. “Perhaps the three of us could go together. And of course Maeve, as well,” she added as the dog stood up and executed a long blissful stretch.
Rory’s grin was a flash of white in his smudged face. “That’s the best idea you’ve ever had, Mam.”
As the thin arms twined around his neck, bringing with them the pungent aromas of horse and hay and six-year-old boy, Quinn forgot to worry when he found himself silently agreeing with Rory’s assessment.
After being assured that the mare could be brought over to the farm as soon as a stall was ready and the paddock fence repaired, Rory slept in the back seat of the car on the way home.
As Quinn carried him upstairs and they tucked him into bed together, Nora’s unruly heart couldn’t help thinking how good it felt to be with Quinn this way. How right. So right, in fact, that she didn’t hesitate going across the hall into the room that had been hers.
“I owe you an apology,” she said softly so as not to wake the family who’d managed to sleep through the entire adventure. “For taking off on you that way.”
“I deserved it.” Because it had been too long since he’d kissed her, Quinn lightly touched his lips to hers. “I already knew about Conor’s accident of course.” He considered it personal growth that he could say his long-dead rival’s name without choking. “But after Kate filled me in on the details, I understood why you flew off the handle.”
“I was so afraid for Rory.” Luxuriating in the comfort of his strong arms, Nora was as emotionally, physically and mentally exhausted as she’d ever been in her life.
“Believe me, sweetheart, I know something firsthand about fear.” He skimmed his mouth up her cheek and was rewarded by a shimmering sigh. “But although I’ve never been a father, I also know that kids are amazingly resilient.” Quinn considered sharing some of his own past as proof of that claim, then allowed himself to be distracted by her hands slipping beneath his sweatshirt to stroke his back. “You can’t wrap Rory up in cotton batting and keep him tied to your apron strings forever.”
His mouth returned to hers. Tasting. Teasing. Tormenting.
“Even if they are very nice apron strings,” he alleged, untying the apron Nora had forgotten she’d been wearing when she’d left the kitchen to confront him so many hours earlier.
“We’ll have to be very quiet,” she whispered. Remembering how he’d made her cry out in the car, Nora wondered who she was warning. Quinn? Or herself?
“As mice,” he whispered back as he pulled the emerald green sweater over her head in one smooth deft movement. Scooping her up with the same ease he had Rory earlier, he carried her the few feet to the bed.
That was the last thing either Quinn or Nora was to say for a very long time.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tears on the Heather
Nora awoke to the sound of larks singing in the meadows. She opened her eyes and found herself staring straight into Quinn’s.
“Good morning,” he murmured. He brushed some sleep-tousled waves away from her face. “Have I told you that waking up with you in my bed could easily become my favorite thing to do?”
Enjoying the warmth of his gaze and the feel of his hard body pressed so close to hers, Nora smiled. “Mine, too,” she admitted.
“We’re going to have to talk about this.” He cupped her cheek with his palm, the sensual desire she’d witnessed in his eyes turning as serious as she’d ever seen it. “About me.” His thumb traced a melting trail around the mouth he’d spent most of the night ravishing. “And you.” His free arm drew her even closer. “Us together.”
Hope was a snow-white dove, spreading its sun-gilded wings to take flight in her romantic’s heart. “Aye.” Her lips parted and her body began that now-familiar slow melt.
“Later.”
Quinn had given up wondering why it was that he couldn’t get enough of this woman. He’d have expected, especially after last night, he’d be too exhausted, not to mention sexually satiated, to want to start things up again. And it wasn’t just his body, he realized as he felt the familiar hardening in his l
oins. If it had been merely sex, he could have handled it. But his mind wanted her with an identical fever. Not to mention, Lord help him, a heart he’d never been aware of possessing.
Allowing himself one long deep kiss that left him aching, he pushed himself out of the warm bed. “I’m going to take a cold shower before Rory comes bursting in to make certain he didn’t dream last night.” The way she was looking at him—at the part of him that inevitably hardened whenever she was anywhere around—made him groan.
“You realize, of course, if you keep looking at me that way, we’re going to risk having what could be a very embarrassing moment.”
“I know.” She sighed. And then smiled. “I just can’t seem to help myself.” She hitched herself up in bed, not bothering to catch the sheet as it slid down to reveal rosy-tipped breasts he could still taste.
“You’re a truly beautiful man, Quinn Gallagher.” Her warm gaze drank him in, missing absolutely nothing. “I think Michelangelo must have had you in mind when he sculpted David.”
Make that a very long cold shower, Quinn decided. “Remember last night? When I suggested you weren’t going to make sainthood?”
“I remember everything about last night.” Her satisfied smile reminded him of the one with which Vivien Leigh’s Scarlett had lit up silver screens all over the world after having been thoroughly ravished by her husband. “Absolutely everything.”
“I’m finding it more and more difficult to believe you were ever in the convent.”
“I’m finding it difficult to believe, as well.” If she’d had even a glimmer of the thoughts the sight of Quinn’s magnificent naked body could invoke back in those days, she would have been forced to spend all her waking hours on her knees on the stone floor of the convent chapel.
“You’re not only far from a saint. You’re a witch.” His muffled laughter rumbled in his chest even as the ache deepened in his groin. “If you’d been alive during the Inquisition, sweetheart, the Church would have burned you at the stake.”
His control was nearing the breaking point, and before he gave in to the urge to drag Nora into the shower with him, Quinn left the room.
Nora was relieved when it seemed that Brady was going to sleep in. Relieved, but not surprised. After their argument he’d undoubtedly gone off to The Rose, where he could tell everyone what a hardheaded, heartless woman his eldest daughter had turned out to be.
No, she admitted as she went through the motions of preparing her family’s breakfast, that wasn’t fair. Brady had never been one to air their dirty laundry in public, and he was also not one to say negative things about anyone. Let alone his own family.
Didn’t everyone in the county agree that Brady Joyce had a spirit generous enough for a dozen men? Which was why, she considered later, as she waved the children off to the crossroads to catch the bus, he’d dared to risk her wrath by standing up to her about Rory’s need for a pony.
“I’m going to have to apologize to Da,” she said to Quinn as they sat at the kitchen table.
Fionna had just taken off, this time to nearby Casla, where she was scheduled to be interviewed on Raidio na Gaeltachta, the Irish-language radio station, regarding her frightening experience in Derry. Claiming no desire for personal fame, she’d explained to the others that she’d only agreed to the interview because it provided a perfect opportunity to spread the message of Bernadette.
Quinn covered Nora’s hand with his. “He understands you were upset.”
“Just the same, I owe him the words.”
Reminding himself how important words were to the Irish, Quinn knew that he owed Nora more than a few words himself. Words he’d never spoken aloud to any other person. Words he’d never thought he’d be wanting to say to a woman. Words he still wasn’t certain he had the right to say to her. As much as he wanted to believe in a future, having spent an entire lifetime expecting the worst, he couldn’t quite allow himself to look forward to a happily-ever-after future.
Feeling his nerve waver, Quinn decided that, since he’d already waited this long, a few more minutes wouldn’t matter. The one thing he didn’t want was to have Brady come downstairs just when he was trying to tell Nora he’d fallen in love with her.
He got up from the table and refilled his coffee cup. “How late do you think he’ll sleep?”
“I don’t know.” She glanced up at the clock and frowned. “He’s usually up and about by now. Perhaps I should go check on him.” Before she could stand, the phone rang. Since Quinn was already on his feet, he said, “I’ll get it,” and went into the parlor.
When Quinn didn’t return right away, Nora guessed it was Kate calling about the mare. Indulging herself a bit longer, she poured more tea and added cleaning out the stall to her mental list of today’s chores.
“I suppose Rory will be expecting his pony waiting when he returns from school today,” she said when Quinn returned to the kitchen. “I’d best be getting things prepared for her—” She stopped. “Quinn?” His face was as grim as she’d ever seen it.
“It’s Brady.”
“Da?” She glanced past him toward the parlor. “On the telephone?”
“No.” He raked his hand through his dark hair, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere on earth right now but in Nora Fitzpatrick’s cozy kitchen. “It was about your father.”
“Oh.” She still couldn’t understand the problem. Weren’t people calling all the time hoping to book Brady and his tales for their event? “Well, I suppose this settles it.” She stood up. “I’ll just go upstairs and—”
“He’s not upstairs.” Quinn crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe.
She tilted her head. “What do you mean? Of course he is. Haven’t we been waiting for him to come down so we could have our talk?” She’d been as nervous as a barn cat in a roomful of rocking chairs waiting to hear what Quinn had to say.
“Sweetheart.” His tone was as rough as a gravel road. He cupped her face between his large strong hands and, looking up at him, Nora saw the love she’d been hoping and praying for. But something else, too. Sympathy? Pity, perhaps? “Your father’s dead.” When she flinched, his fingers stroked her cheeks in a way meant to soothe, rather than arouse.
“Dead?” Surely that couldn’t be her voice? Nora thought, hearing the unfamiliar high fractured sound.
“He was found on the road just this side of the bridge by a farmer who was taking his cows to his field this morning. The doctor says he’d probably been there since sometime last night.” Quinn took a deep breath. “It was his heart. Dr. Flannery says he would have gone quickly.”
Nora felt the blood literally drain from her face. “I don’t believe that!” She tore away from him and raced blindly out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
She ran down the hallway, past Rory’s door, past her own, past Mary’s and John’s and Fionna’s, finally flinging open the door of the small room tucked away beneath the eaves. The bedroom her father had moved into after Nora had wed Conor, claiming that they should have the couple’s room, after all.
The narrow iron bed had not been slept in. Nora stared disbelievingly at the lace spread that had been a wedding present to her parents from an elderly Joyce aunt. It was as smooth and unwrinkled as it had been when she’d put it on the bed after changing the sheets yesterday morning.
White spots, like snow crystals, began to swirl in front of her eyes. On some distant level she was dimly aware of Quinn coming up behind her. Of him putting his arms around her shoulders, pulling her close, murmuring inarticulate words that could have been Greek for all the meaning they held for her.
The blizzard increased, blinding her while turning her blood to ice. Then Nora Joyce Fitzpatrick, who’d never fainted—not even when she’d gotten word that her husband’s stallion had failed to clear that stone wall somewhere on the far distant rocky coast of Breton—surrendered to the darkness.
Brady had always been a man to honor tradi
tion. That being the case, his death set into motion a ritualized series of events, beginning with a home wake, never mind that such things had passed out of fashion, killed by the influence of modern Catholicism.
Since he was a popular person, known to one and all as kind and generous, the small house became packed with friends from all over the county. Even with some who’d not known him personally but felt moved to join all those gathered at the farm not to mourn Brady Joyce’s passing, but to celebrate his remarkable life.
Guinness and Jameson flowed like water, stories were traded, each one more outrageous than the previous, but none, everyone agreed, told with quite the flair Brady would have shown.
Nora moved through the gathering as she had since first regaining consciousness in Quinn’s arms: on autopilot. Although she managed to smile at all the right times and remembered to thank the women for their gifts of food and the men for sharing those joyous memories, she could not stop thinking about her father dying all alone out on that lonely dark road with her angry threat to move to Galway—which she hadn’t really meant—ringing in his ears.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Quinn told her yet again after he’d gone upstairs and found her sitting vigil beside Brady’s bed. Although she’d agreed to the wake, she’d put her foot down at the idea of her father’s body lying in the center of her parlor all night surrounded by merrymakers.
Although a part of Quinn found the core belief of the wake—that it guarded the deceased’s soul from the devil until internment—a bit ghoulish, he could understand the concept. And there was no denying that, with the exception of Nora—who was proving inconsolable—the wake seemed to bring the family comfort.
Indeed, there was something strangely reassuring in the idea that death was simply one more part of the life cycle. “A necessary phase everyone must pass through before achieving immortality,” said Nora’s brother Finn, who’d come from Australia.
“My words killed him.” Her voice tolled like a funeral knell in the quiet bedroom. It was nearly dawn. A pink pearlescent glow offered the promise of a new day.