Precisely what he wanted. So why did regret and something more ripple across his nervous system when he thought about it? Perhaps he wasn’t so very different from his sister after all?
As if thinking of her had conjured a spell, his mobile rang, and he knew it was Doreen.
“Excuse me,” he apologized, setting his cup and saucer on an end table as he rose to his feet. He turned and stepped away to answer.
“Donovan! Oh God, Donovan!” his sister cried on the other end of the line. “They’ve taken Da to hospital. He’s had another stroke.”
“What?” He nearly dropped the mobile. Blood roared in his ears as the crushing weight of a sledgehammer pounded inside his chest. “When? Where are you?”
“Just now,” she sobbed. “We’re in the car on our way there. Sean’s driving.” Her voice disappeared in a surge of weeping.
Somehow, Donovan made his tone come out even and calm, though his every nerve and brain cell screamed. “I’m in Newtownabbey, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Please hurry,” Doreen sniffed, and rang off.
Feeling as if he were in a bad dream, Donovan shoved the mobile into his pocket and turned back to the crowd in the sitting room, who were all openly regarding him.
“’Tis my father,” he said, clutching the top of the sofa in a death grip. “He’s had another stroke.”
The drive to Armagh City passed in a haze for Rylie as it undoubtedly did for Donovan also. He had insisted on driving, saying he needed to keep his thoughts occupied. She hadn’t tried to engage him in small talk; she knew how useless it felt in this kind of situation. She answered whenever he did speak and tried to encourage him to open up. Of course, he didn’t. Damned stubborn man.
“You don’t have to stay, you know,” he said as he pulled the car into the hospital parking lot.
This was the third—no, make that the fourth time he’d told her the same thing. And for the fourth time she replied, “I know, but I want to.”
Doreen’s husband Sean had called a half-hour after they’d left the Murphys’ house to tell Donovan that Dermot was in intensive care and Doreen was waiting to see him.
Rylie grabbed Donovan’s hand and his grip tightened around her fingers when they walked through the front doors of the hospital. The unmistakable smells of disinfectant, sickness, and despair assailed her as soon as they stepped inside, along with flashes of memories from her mother's illness. She remembered too well the feeling of being alone in a hospital while a parent clung to life. That was why she intended to stay here with Donovan. She would leave when he left, and not a moment sooner.
The ICU was on the second floor, and instead of waiting for the elevator, Donovan opted for the stairs. Reluctantly, she let go of his hand and followed him. She couldn’t keep up, and he was forced to wait for her at the top.
She recognized the man pacing inside the glass enclosed waiting room from the wedding photo she’d seen in Donovan’s apartment. A bit paunchier and with thinning brown hair, Sean Sullivan still looked like the anxious bridegroom. When they entered the room, he glanced up and relief washed over his ruddy face.
“Ah, Donovan, here you are then,” he exclaimed, thumping his taller brother-in-law on the back in a typical male greeting. “They’ve just allowed Doreen in to see himself.”
“He’s stabilized then?” Donovan’s tone was tightly controlled.
“Appears so.” Then Sean saw her and extended his large, work-roughened hand. “And you must be Rylie.” A smile lit his features as he vigorously pumped her hand. “Sean Sullivan, as I’m sure you’ve guessed already.”
“Yes, hi. I’m Rylie Powell.”
“Well done, lad,” Sean muttered to Donovan, blue eyes twinkling. “Doreen said she was a looker.”
Rylie felt her face heat with a blush and was thankful no one else currently occupied the room. Sean’s comment notwithstanding, she was sure whatever Doreen had said about her was not complimentary.
Donovan ignored both of them. “What did the doctor say?”
“Same old bull—” Sean glanced her way and cleared his throat. “Same old medical mumbo-jumbo. Can’t tell the extent of damage yet, not out of the woods for another twenty-four hours.” He looked at Donovan’s stony expression and added, “Personally, my money is on Dermot. We both know he’s a tough old bugger. He’ll pull through.”
“I hope so,” Donovan said in the same emotionless tone.
Since only one visitor was allowed into the ICU at a time, the three of them drifted into the metal and plastic chairs lining the walls and began what Rylie knew would be a long vigil. She picked up a well-worn magazine and thumbed through the pages, not really seeing any of the words or pictures.
After about twenty minutes, Donovan announced his intention of taking his turn at Dermot’s bedside. She didn’t mind being left alone with Sean, who’d proven, in typical Irish fashion, to be quite talkative. She already knew that he was from Dublin, the third of four brothers, and a plumber as his father and older brothers all were. When his father died, he’d taken his share of the family business in cash and come north to go it alone. His life sounded so blissfully ordinary in comparison to hers or Donovan’s, and she was thankful for Sean’s steady stream of talk that distracted her from the grim reality all around them.
Sean was in the midst of recounting how he and Doreen first met when the woman herself swept into the room. She gave Rylie a haughty glare and met her husband in the middle of the room.
“Donovan and I are trading off every hour at Da’sbedside,” she said, as Sean gripped her hands and pecked both her cheeks. “Unless, of course, you’d like a turn.”
“Maybe later,” Sean replied. He craned his neck to include Rylie in the exchange. “What say we all go down to the cafeteria for a cuppa?”
Doreen shot Rylie another glare, then shook her head so that her dark hair obscured her expression. “I’m going to the chapel and pray for awhile. Perhaps you should stay here in case there’s any change.”
“I’ll stay,” Rylie volunteered. “You go ahead, Sean.”
He returned her strained smile with a bob of his head, and escorted his wife out the door. Fifteen minutes later, he returned alone, carrying two styrofoam cups and some packets of sugar and powdered creamer.
“Figured you could use it, but didn’t know how you took it,” he explained, handing her one of the lidded cups. He slid into the chair next to her, as she murmured her thanks.
“Don’t pay Doreen too much mind when she gets on that high horse of hers,” Sean said, his ruddy face pinkening. “She’s not usually like that, it’s just that there’s none who breathe air good enough for her baby brother.”
Rylie’s smile was genuine this time. “Glad to know it’s not just me.”
“Not a’tall, darlin’,” Sean reassured. “And as far as I’m concerned, he’s damned lucky to have you here. Just don’t be telling herself I said so.”
Doreen didn’t return until a few minutes before Donovan’s hour was up. Her absence suited Rylie. However, when Donovan reappeared to wait until his next stint, he proved almost as uncommunicative as his sister. He had not been here when Dermot had suffered his initial stroke in June, and Rylie knew that seeing his father in the midst of all the tubes, wires, and equipment disturbed Donovan deeply. She did drag him down to the cafeteria for tea, but he continued to be quiet and withdrawn.
Rylie purchased a couple of fashion magazines in the gift shop and went back upstairs for the long haul. Over the course of the afternoon, a few people drifted in and out, but mostly only she and Sean occupied the narrow room with whichever of the siblings was not sitting with Dermot. After the third hour, Donovan stopped telling her to go back to her B&B.
Hospital staff changed shifts, and a couple of times a doctor or nurse ejected Doreen or Donovan in order to perform procedures on Dermot. Near the dinner hour, Sean forced Doreen to eat something from the cafeteria. When Donovan came out, Rylie made him go downstairs w
ith her. Neither of them finished their watery soup and cardboard sandwich, but at least the temporary change of scene was a distraction.
As the night wore on, Doreen dozed fitfully with her head resting on Sean’s shoulder. His unflagging devotion made Rylie smile. Sean had admitted to her that he’d proposed to Doreen on their third date, but it had taken him another four months to “coax her ’round” to accepting.
Finally, shortly after midnight, Sean convinced Donovan to go to the Sullivan’s house for some real rest.
“There’s been no change for hours and we’re all exhausted,” Sean argued, pressing his house key into his brother-in-law’s hand. “You and your wee Yank go catcha few winks in the guest room, whilst I drag your sister home by the hair of her head if I have to.”
“Good luck with that,” Donovan muttered.
Rylie squirmed nervously in the uncomfortable chair. “I don’t think Doreen will like me sharing the guest room.”
“I’ll tell her ’twasn’t safe for you to drive any farther,” Sean insisted. “Which ’tis not. Now go!”
In spite of her misgivings, she knew Sean was right. She felt like a zombie and Donovan looked equally as bad. Rising to her feet, she grabbed him by the arm before he could protest further, and dragged him out the waiting room door.
After ten minutes of driving through the deserted, rain-drenched streets, Donovan pulled into the driveway of a dark townhouse, and they got out of the car and hurried inside. The Sullivan’s place was almost identical to the Murphy’s house in Newtownabbey, with sitting, kitchen, and dining rooms downstairs, while two bedrooms and a bath occupied upstairs.
The stairs felt steep as Everest as she followed Donovan to the guestroom, situated in the front overlooking the street. Her exhausted brain vaguely registered butter-yellow walls and frilly lace curtains at the windows as she kicked off her shoes and dropped her clothes onto the carpet.
Clad in only her stretchy white tank top and underwear, Rylie snuggled beneath the prim eyelet-edged duvet, too tired to care how much of a hissy-fit Doreen would throw when she discovered her in bed with her brother. She was asleep even before Donovan crawled in beside her.
The muffled jangling of a telephone woke her, but before she could drag herself up, it stopped.
Excellent!
She flopped back against the pillow and tried to reclaim blissful slumber. Unfortunately, Donovan was gone, leaving a chilly expanse where his warm body had just been. With a groan, she clutched his pillow to her chest and curled herself around it. But she still hadn’t managed to go back to sleep when he came into the room and switched on the bedside lamp. Rylie groaned again and squinted her eyes against the light.
“Good news,” he said. Though he still looked tired, the tension in his jaw was gone. “They’re moving Da into a regular room.” A huge sigh of relief heaved out of her while he continued. “Sean’s driving Doreen and me to the hospital now, then he’ll take me back to Ballyneagh before he starts work.”
“What time is it?” she asked, stifling a yawn. “And what about me? I’ll take you back to Ballyneagh.”
He flashed one of his killer smiles, the kind that left her feeling boneless with pleasure. “’Tis almost six and you need to get yourself back to your B&B and get some more sleep.” When she started to protest, he raised his hand in a silencing gesture. “No more arguing. As soon as I see Da is settled, I’ll go home and rest too.”
“Why don’t I wait for you there?” she insisted, scooting closer to the edge of the bed.
“Because then neither of us is likely to rest, and you know it.” He tried to look severe but couldn’t quite stifle his grin. She reached for him, but he shied away. “No, don’t get up. You’re far too distracting, and I really need to go.”
Shivering from the chilly air on her bare arms, she pulled the duvet back up to her neck and mused, “Your sister actually trusts me alone in her house?”
Donovan’s expression grew serious. “After all you did yesterday, she wouldn’t dare speak a word against you.”
“I didn’t do it for her.”
“I know.”
Her mind replayed the events of the previous day, bringing her up short when she remembered his visions and how he’d seen McRory’s death. She bit back a gasp, but from the sudden flash in Donovan’s eyes, he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“I’ll call you for lunch,” he said, turning for the door.
“Donovan, wait!” Her command momentarily froze him in place. Then, he warily turned to look at her, blue eyes guarded. “Please, promise you won’t go into the fens without me. Promise me?”
Chapter 13
DONOVAN STOPPED RUBBING THE TOWEL OVER HIS WET HAIR and cocked his head. He’d heard right, his mobile was ringing. Hastily draping the damp towel around his hips, he stumbled for the bedroom and grabbed the phone off the nightstand before it went to voice mail.
“Donovan, did I wake you?”
Just the sound of Rylie’s voice sent a surge of pleasure through him that settled directly in his groin. “No, I was in the shower. Wish you were here.”
“Sorry,” she murmured, obviously ignoring his salacious invitation. “I know you said lunch, but I heard from the PI about my . . . about Christy Reilly. He is in Maghaberry Prison outside Belfast.” She took a deep breath and completely switched topics. “How’s Dermot?”
“Fine,” Donovan replied, fumbling to pull on boxers and sweats. “Yelling some fairly clear curse words at the nurses, last I saw him. I’m guessing he’ll be back at Holy Family in a day or two.” He bent to mop up his wet footprints with the discarded towel. “Are you calling the prison, then?”
“I just did,” she replied, her tone tentative. “I can see him at two o’clock. Can you still come with me?”
A wave of protectiveness swamped him. “Are you sure you’re up to that?” he asked before he could curb himself.
She gave a nervous little giggle. “I guess it’s that or the fens. Some choice, huh?”
“Rylie—” he began, but she cut off his protest before he could finish it.
“Can you be ready by the time I drive over? Then we can go see Dermot first.”
“I’ll be ready,” he said, and rang off.
Dermot was asleep when they arrived at the hospital, though Donovan was mystified how he could pull off such a feat in the midst of the noise and bustle. Not to mention the fact that he had various lines and wires still attached to him. However the old man had managed it, Donovan couldn’t bring himself to wake him, and after about ten minutes he decided to leave his father to his rest. The charge nurse reconfirmed that Dermot would be released back to the Holy Family facility within a couple of days.
With one final look at Dermot’s grizzled face, Donovan took Rylie’s hand and together they left the hospital. She seemed pensive and withdrawn, not at all her usual self as they drove toward Belfast.
“I supposed you’ve worked out everything you’re going to say to him,” Donovan ventured.
She worried her teeth over her bottom lip a moment before she replied, “I planned to let him do most of the talking.”
“What makes you think he will?”
“He’s Irish,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward. “You’re the closest to a taciturn person I’ve met in this entire country.”
“True enough,” he admitted. But in his mind, he kept seeing a hard-boiled tough in one of those old prison movies, and he didn’t want her hurt by some SOB like that. “Just realize he’ll probably lie to you, at best. And most likely he’ll try to plead money out of you.”
“Donovan.” Her hand on his arm stopped his words, while the way she breathed his name nearly stopped his heart.
“I’m not that naïve,” she admonished. “Don’t worry.” Then she let go of his arm and added, “I don’t know if I can eat anything, but do you think we have time for coffee?”
He glanced at the dashboard clock. “’Tis not even noon, we’ve plenty of time. Starbu
cks, then?”
The way she smiled when she nodded left him feeling weak in some places and decidedly stiff in others. Good thing she would be leaving in a few days.
And perhaps if he repeated that to himself enough, he might actually start to believe it.
At a quarter before two, Donovan parked the car in the designated lot, facing the concrete-block compound of the maximum-security prison. The coffee he’d drunk churned in his stomach in an acidic wave, and he guessed Rylie’s did too. He had called on his mobile before they left Starbucks and confirmed the scheduled visit.
Rylie had given both their relationships to Christy as cousin, and had used Dermot’s stroke as well as her impending return to the States to leverage their hasty visit. A dozen cars dotted the visitors’ area and they followed the other people scurrying toward the gate in the tall razor wire topped fence.
Though her expression was inscrutable, Rylie’s hand trembled a little in his. He tried to give her a smile of encouragement, but he couldn’t manage much more than a reflection of their grim surroundings. The events of the past twenty-four hours crowded his mind: the vision of McRory’s dead face, Lynch’s thinly veiled threats, Dermot’s struggle for life amid the noise and desperation of the ICU. He wouldn’t let himself speculate what might come next inside Maghaberry Prison.
Going through the security check took twenty minutes. They wouldn’t allow Rylie to carry in her purse or her envelope of pictures. Donovan had to surrender his mobile, wallet, and the contents of his trouser pockets. They also both left their jackets, and were forced to follow single file behind their escort to the visitors’ room.
Metal tables sat in a long line across the back of the otherwise empty room. Prisoners in orange jumpsuits sat singly on the far side of the tables with guards standing at intervals behind them.
“That’s himself just there,” said the escort with a nod of his head toward a burly prisoner on the extreme left.
Donovan’s eyes skimmed over the man, whose head sported little more than dark stubble on top. With broad shoulders and a thick neck, he reminded Donovan of a bull, the one from Irish legends, powerful and dangerous. The man turned his head to survey the room, displaying a dark tattoo of a Celtic cross that ran from behind his ear into the neckband of his shirt.
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