A Woman's Heart (24 page)

Next door, in the room that had once been Conor's, she found her son also sound asleep. But his sheets were twisted in a way that suggested he'd been restless as well. She untangled him from the bed linens as best she could without waking him, removed the toy laser-light sword Quinn had brought him from Derry that was making a lump of his pillow, kissed him as she had Brigid, then tiptoed out of the room.

Stopping in the hallway at the top of the stairs, she stood stone still and listened again. Nothing seemed amiss in the house. Yet, unable to shake the continuing feeling of unease, Kate returned to her bedroom and stared out the window into the night. Wondering. Worrying. Waiting.

 

The house was dark when Nora finally returned from her drive, which had included a long contemplative time spent at her secret place at the lake. The solitude and the mystical presence of her surroundings had calmed her restless mind, as they so often did, allowing her to think more clearly.

Although she dearly loved her family, it hadn't been easy taking on her mother's role at such a young age. When she'd first returned home from the convent, everyone was so devastated by Eleanor's death, she'd buried her own feelings of
loss and tried to provide an atmosphere of calm support, even though deep inside, her heart was shattered. Looking back, Nora realized she'd given them all the mistaken impression that she was unsinkable. That whatever the problem—from a broken doll to a dead husband—steadfast practical Nora could handle it.

But heaven help her and God forgive her, she thought as she cut the car engine, she was so very weary of handling things.

She went into the house, finding the note her grandmother had left on the kitchen table assuring her that Rory had gone to bed like the good little lamb he was, and that she'd said a prayer to Bernadette to ease the pain between mother and son.

Wishing she possessed the unwavering faith Fionna seemed to have in the martyred nun, Nora read on. “Although I've gone to bed as well, darling,” her grandmother had written in that spidery script that still held a vestige of the penmanship method taught by the Sister of Mercy nuns, “if you should feel the need for conversation when you return home from your drive, feel free to wake me.”

Knowing the offer came from the heart, Nora opted against seeking out whatever comfort Fionna might be able to offer. The regrettable truth was, as she'd sat beside the moon-gilded waters, she'd taken a long hard look at the fear that had been part of her for such a long time, and realized that although she'd always prided herself on being a good mother, she hadn't been fair to her son.

Although Conor had been a great deal older than she, Nora could recall stories of Mel Fitzpatrick—his paternal grandfather—taking him riding before he could walk. Everyone in the county always said that Conor had been born to the saddle. And wasn't his blood running in his own son's veins? How could she have let the dread that had put
such a stranglehold on her keep her from understanding Rory's lifelong dream for a pony of his own?

She owed her son an apology. And, she'd reluctantly accepted, a horse. As she'd driven home, she'd decided that if he'd managed to fall asleep after the emotional evening, she'd wait until morning for the long-overdue conversation. But now, standing alone in the dimly lit kitchen, she changed her mind.

“No time like the present,” she murmured as she turned off the light Fionna had left burning for her and left the room, headed upstairs.

Rory's door, like all the others along the darkened hallway, was closed. Nora entered the room, feeling the usual surge of maternal emotion she felt whenever she watched her son sleeping.

“Rory.” She leaned over the bed, instinctively reaching for him in the dark. On some distant level she found it odd she couldn't hear his breathing. “Wake up, darling. Mama has something she needs to tell you.” Her hand touched the pillow, stuffed with feathers from hens that had ended up on the table. It was strangely cold. “Rory?” Reaching out, she turned on the lamp on the nearby nightstand. When she saw the empty bed, icy fingers clenched her heart.

 

Quinn heard her drive up. Heard her enter the house, and after a few moments, come upstairs. He'd been waiting up for her, but when he heard the faint squeak of Rory's door across the hall, decided to give her an opportunity to make things up with her son before they had their necessary talk.

He was prepared for her continued censure. After all, there wasn't anything she could call him that Quinn hadn't called himself while driving the mare over to Kate's farm. A conversation with Nora's sister-in-law, filling him in on a few more of the details of Conor's death—including the
way he'd lingered in a coma for three long months—had left him feeling even guiltier.

Although it was an unpalatable idea, he belatedly realized that he'd bought the horse as much for himself as for the boy. It was more than a little obvious that, while certainly not poverty-stricken, the family lived mostly hand-to-mouth. He'd gotten off on playing the rich American, bestowing gifts like some bountiful Santa Claus.

He'd let her blast him for as long as she needed, he'd decided as he'd tried, unsuccessfully, to work on his new novel while waiting for her to return. Then he'd agree to everything she might say.

And then, if he was lucky, since he'd already determined she possessed a kind and caring nature, she might even be willing to forgive him. And if he was very very lucky, perhaps she might even be willing to make the argument up in his bed.

He'd begun to fantasize about all the things he wanted to do with her when his bedroom door burst open and he saw her standing there, her face impossibly pale.

“It's Rory.” Her eyes were as wild as an escapee from an asylum; her complexion that of a wraith. “He's gone missing, but I called Kate, thinking that he might have followed the mare to her farm, and she found him in the barn, with the mare.”

He was out of bed in a shot. “Give me two minutes to throw on some clothes and we'll go get him.”

“I was hoping you'd say that.”

As he pulled on a sweatshirt and jeans, Quinn acknowledged that Nora was capable of handling the matter of a runaway boy in her own brisk, effective manner. But that didn't stop him from being immensely relieved that after what he'd done, she'd want him with her. Obviously Kate was right. Nora was not a woman to hold grudges.

“Rory isn't the first boy to run away from home,” he assured her. Hadn't he done exactly that too many times to count by the time he'd reached Rory's age? Unfortunately the sheriff's deputies, or cops, or social workers always took him back to his parents. “And he won't be the last.”

After jamming his feet into his boots, he gathered her into his arms and pressed his lips to her temple. She was as cold as ice. And trembling. “Come on, sweetheart, let's go bring your son home.”

“It's all my fault,” Nora murmured five minutes later as she stared out the windshield of the Mercedes. She wasn't seeing the rain that had begun to streak down the curved glass, only the stricken look on her son's young face when he'd run back into the house earlier.

“I've never been one for assigning blame,” Quinn said mildly. “Personally I've always thought it a waste of time. But if someone has to be at fault, it's me for bringing the damn horse home in the first place.”

“Perhaps you should have asked me,” she allowed, clasping her hands more tightly in her lap. “But I've been unnecessarily rigid.”

“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?