Irish Meadows (23 page)

In the shadows of the setting sun, Rylan walked down the road toward the home of Reverend Filmore's sister. He'd spent countless hours at the church on his knees in prayer, and still he couldn't shake the guilt that ate at his soul. He'd betrayed a sacred promise to God.

What he needed was absolution—to confess his offense to a priest and receive a clergyman's counsel. It was the only way to make up for his sin and find a way to move forward.

Anna Filmore Brookes and her husband lived in a modest dwelling on the outskirts of town. Their two grown children now lived in homes of their own, granting them the space to put up the good Reverend until the repairs on the rectory were complete. Rylan had met Anna at Sunday services, but never her husband. He was relieved when the plump, gray-haired woman answered his knock at the front door.

“Good evening, Mrs. Brookes. I'm sorry to bother you, but would Reverend Filmore be in?”

Her weary face broke into a smile. “He is. Please come in, Mr. Montgomery.”

The delicious smell of fresh bread and some type of cooked meat met Rylan's nose as he removed his cap and stepped inside, and he realized it might be the supper hour. “I hope I'm not interrupting your meal.”

“Not at all. We finished moments ago, and the men are having coffee in the parlor. Can I get you a cup?”

“No, thank you. I just need a private word with Reverend Filmore, please.” The desperation in his voice must have been evident, for she gave him a curious look before she nodded.

“I'll tell him you're here.”

She disappeared down a short hall and into another room. Murmuring voices reached him, and seconds later Mrs. Brookes reappeared followed by a man Rylan presumed to be her spouse.

“This is my husband, Albert,” the woman said.

He shook the man's hand, noting his tall, thin frame and stooped shoulders, the opposite of his wife's short, round stature.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Montgomery. I understand your sermons are a big hit at St. Rita's.” Mr. Brookes chuckled. “Sad to say, I'm not much of a churchgoer, but Anna has told me how good they are.”

“That's kind of you to say.”

“Please go on into the parlor. My brother-in-law is expecting you.”

“Thank you.” Rylan made his way to the cozy room and found Reverend Filmore seated in a large armchair by the fire.

He stood as Rylan entered, a look of concern on his face. “Rylan. This is unexpected. Is there an emergency?”

“Not in the way you mean, sir. But I have a personal matter that can't wait.” Nerves dampened Rylan's palms.

“Of course. Please come and sit down.”

Rylan took the end of the well-worn settee, across from the chair that Reverend Filmore now reclaimed. The glow of the fire cast a rosy hue in the small room, giving the space an intimate air. Though desperate to speak a moment ago, Rylan now found the words wedged tightly in his dry throat. He ran the rim of his hat through his fingers and stared into the flames.

“You seem troubled, Rylan. What is the matter?”

Rylan raised his eyes. “I never meant for this to happen. You must believe me on that, Reverend.”

Reverend Filmore frowned. “I believe you. What has you so rattled?”

Rylan clenched his molars together, as though saying the words out loud would change the course of his life forever.

“Whatever it is, son, you can tell me. In all my years of ministry, there's nothing I haven't heard.” An air of empathy surrounded the older man.

Rylan stared at the braided carpet. “Have you ever heard of a priest falling in love?” His voice was so low, he wasn't sure he'd actually spoken aloud. When he raised his head, he saw raw sorrow etched into the lines of Reverend Filmore's face.

“Yes, I have,” he said quietly. “In fact, I've lived it.”

Rylan stared. “You were in love once?”

The pastor folded his hands across his ample midsection and sighed. “Sadly, yes. It happened many years ago, in my first parish. She was a troubled young widow who came to me for counseling. Before I knew it, I'd developed all these feelings for the woman. Feelings I didn't know what to do with.”

Relief bubbled through Rylan's tight chest, loosening the bands of tension. If Reverend Filmore had gotten through it and survived, then surely he could, too. “That's exactly what's happened to me, Father. But what did you do about it?”

The man shook his head. “The only thing I could. I requested a transfer to a different parish . . . and never saw her again.”

A slash of intense pain hit Rylan like a physical blow. The mere notion of never seeing Colleen again was too excruciating to bear. But the thought of abandoning his vocation was worse. “Did the feelings ever go away?”

“Eventually—after a lot of time and prayer.”

That didn't make Rylan feel any better. He lowered his head again. “Something happened today, Father. I . . . I kissed her. I never intended to—it just happened.” Misery seeped through every pore as he pictured the disgust that must be evident on the older priest's face.

“And the kiss changed everything.” Reverend Filmore said it in such a way that Rylan knew he'd experienced the same thing.

“Yes.” He met the priest's gaze, sure his tortured soul must show in his eyes. “What am I to do, Father? I've been praying for hours at the church and nothing's helped.”

Reverend Filmore leaned forward in his chair, his hands folded over his knees. “Well, son, this is not a decision you can make lightly. Since you haven't yet taken your final vows, your situation is different than mine. Theoretically, you still have the option to leave the seminary, if that's what you decide.”

“Leave?” The dazed question hung in the air. He hadn't let himself truly consider that possibility until this moment, afraid the temptation to make such an impulsive decision might overtake his good sense.

“I believe the wise thing to do now is take time to reflect—seek God's counsel on His will for your life. Return to Boston and take a private retreat to pray for your vocation. I'm sure the clergy there will help you discern your true calling.”

Go back to Boston? Why did that feel like such a failure? The image of his mother's beaming face on the day he'd left for the seminary came to mind. What would it do to her if he abandoned his vocation?

“Rylan, may I ask what made you want to become a priest?”

For the first time since Rylan had left the orphanage, tears formed. “My mother had fallen ill with pneumonia. With my father dead, she was all we had, my brothers and my sister and I. We sat by her bedside night after night and prayed for her recovery. Finally I made a bargain with God. If He spared her life, I would dedicate mine to His service.” He smiled weakly. “God came through with His end. Now I'm keeping mine.”

Reverend Filmore said nothing for several seconds, then tapped a finger on the arm of his chair. “While that's admirable, I'm not sure it's the best reason to become a priest.”

Shards of resentment pricked at Rylan. Why would one reason be better than another to give one's life to God?

“The only way to discern whether you have a true calling or not is to step away from the situation, away from the woman who evokes these strong emotions. In the silence of the sanctuary, listen for God's purpose for your life. He will provide the answers you seek.”

Rylan hung his head. “I'm so sorry I've let you down, Father.”

A large hand squeezed his shoulder. “Don't be too hard on yourself, lad. It's not your fault—as I well know. Give it some time and prayer, and things will fall into place the way God intended.”

As Rylan made his way back to the O'Learys' later that night, he wondered how he was going to break the news to Colleen that he was leaving, and he prayed his departure wouldn't be too much to bear after already losing Delia.

A
T
PRECISELY
TEN
O
'
CLOCK
the next morning, James O'Leary arrived at the Hastings Bank. As Gil watched him enter through the main double doors, his stomach clenched into knots. He would give anything to spare James the devastation the next few minutes would bring. Losing this loan would effectively toll the death knell for Irish Meadows. Sorrow swept over Gil at the idea of losing the stables and the beloved horses. He could only imagine how distressing this would be for Bree and the rest of the family. He straightened his back against the wooden spokes of his chair and vowed to spend every spare moment over the next few weeks trying to come up with viable ways to keep Irish Meadows afloat.

For fifteen minutes, Gil stared unseeing at the work before him on his desk, his whole focus tuned to Mr. Hastings's office. From the corner of his eye, he'd be able to see when James came out. At one point, heated voices became audible through the closed door. Gil's fingers tensed on his pencil, ready to interfere if need be. But less than five minutes later, the door crashed
open and James stormed out. He looked neither left nor right but strode straight out of the bank.

Gil grabbed his jacket and immediately raced after him, determined to ensure the man was all right before letting him go. On the crowded walkway, Gil dodged pedestrians, as well as a newsboy and several vendors, while trying to keep James's broad shoulders in sight. When James sprinted across the street in front of a streetcar, narrowly missing a horse and carriage, Gil held his breath. Gil waited for the streetcar to pass before he could make his way across. He swiveled his head, trying to catch a glimpse of James, but the crowd had swallowed the man.

Gil scanned the storefront windows until he came to O'Malley's Pub. He recalled James mentioning the drinking hole a few times. He'd just received bad news, so maybe he'd gone there.

Gil stepped inside the door of the pub, stunned to find so many people at the bar this early in the day. Squinting to see better, he moved farther into the gloomy interior, hazy with smoke and reeking of spilled beer. He dodged a couple of scantily dressed women and kept his focus on the end of the bar, where James sat slouched on the last barstool.

Lord, help me get through to him.

Gil approached with cautious footsteps. He pulled himself onto the stool beside James, taking note of the amber liquid he swirled in a low glass.

A bartender with a stained apron over his large belly wielded a dishrag over the surface of the bar. “What'll it be, mister?”

“A ginger ale, please.”

At the sound of his voice, James jerked his head up to pin Gil with a hard stare. “What the devil are you doing here?”

Gil didn't blink. “Making sure you don't do something stupid.”

James downed the contents of his glass in one gulp and crashed the tumbler onto the polished surface of the bar.
“Another round,” he barked at the man behind the counter. “In fact, bring the bottle.”

“You don't want to do this. It won't change anything.”

“No, but it'll sure take the edge off.”

The bartender arrived with Gil's ginger ale and the bottle of scotch, which he placed in front of them. James took several bills from his wallet and thrust them at the man. “For the both of us. Keep the change.”

“Thanks, pal.” He slid the money into his apron pocket.

Gil fingered the glass in front of him, searching for the right words to reach the man who was like a father to him. He eyed James swilling back another shot of scotch. Gil couldn't help but remember his own father slumped over a bottle of Irish whiskey more nights than he cared to count. For that reason alone, Gil rarely drank anything stronger than soda pop. He took a small sip of his drink and set the glass back down.

“I'm sorry the loan didn't go through.”

James stopped in the middle of refilling his glass. “How hard did you try to persuade Arthur to change his mind?”

Gil let the initial wave of guilt ride over him before he hardened. “I'm a new employee at the bank. I don't carry a lot of clout.”

“As the man's future son-in-law, you surely do. How hard did you milk that connection? Or did you even bother?”

The arrows shooting from James's already bloodshot eyes hit their mark, igniting the burn of anger in Gil's chest. How dare he say that? After all Gil had sacrificed for him?

Every ounce of hurt and resentment that Gil had repressed for months boiled up into a fine rage, leaving him powerless to stop the words that poured forth. “Do you ever listen to yourself, to the things you say that wreak pain and havoc on those you claim to love?”

James jolted on his stool, his hand sloshing the liquid over the side of his glass.

“Adam and Brianna have left home because of your bullying tactics. My leaving is your doing, as well. If you hadn't been so opposed to me courting Bree . . .” A sudden thought wisped through his brain. “Or was it because you needed me to do your dirty work with Mr. Hastings? My betrothal to his daughter was your trump card. Is that why you destroyed your daughter's dreams and my integrity? All for your blasted money?” Gil's hands shook as he let loose the bitterness that had been building since the day he'd returned from college. “Do you care about anyone but yourself?”

James jerked up from the bar, his stool toppling over as he rose. He grabbed Gil by the front of his shirt and raised him off his seat with one hand. “How dare you question me after I took you in and raised you like my own son?” Red blotches bled over James's cheeks. His eyes held a type of wildness that shot a streak of fear through Gil. Was the man so desperate he'd resort to physical violence?

The bartender approached. “Keep it civil, lads. Or take it outside.”

Gil realized then their voices had escalated to the point that the other patrons were staring. He yanked himself free from James's grasp and stepped back, adjusting his clothes. “Take some advice for once. Go home to your wife and children and be grateful for what you've got, instead of wallowing in what you don't.” With one last glare at James, still puffing like an overheated steam engine, Gil stormed out of the pub.

Colleen poked her fork into the mashed potatoes on her plate, one eye on the door to the dining room, wishing Rylan would come breezing in with his familiar grin and apologize to her mother for being late for dinner. Wishing he'd come in and act as though nothing were wrong and tease her about something she'd said to Sister Marguerite, or tell one of his silly jokes.

Maybe then her fears would be put to rest. Maybe then she could breathe normally again.

Ever since he'd kissed her with such passion yesterday and then promptly bolted from the room, she hadn't seen a trace of him.

For one brief moment, Colleen allowed herself to relive the thrill of his kiss, an embrace so intense it seemed she'd given up part of her soul. In all the kisses she'd shared with other men, she'd never experienced anything close to that type of bliss.

Her insides roiled with confusion, swirling like the mess she'd made of her mound of potatoes. How in the world had she fallen in love with a priest? With a sigh, she pushed her plate away, turning her attention to the few remaining family members at the table.

Deirdre and Connor chatted away to her unusually sullen mother. Lately Mama hadn't been herself. Colleen noted the deep shadows under her eyes and remembered overhearing heated words coming from her parents' bedroom the night before. She could never remember her parents fighting like that. What was happening to their family?

“Where's Daddy tonight, Mama? Working late?” She tried to keep her tone casual.

The little bit of color in her mother's cheeks drained away. She sent Colleen a nervous glance. “I'm sure that must be it.” A frown marred her features. “What about Rylan? This is the second night he hasn't come home for dinner.”

Colleen attempted a casual shrug. “I wondered the same thing a few minutes ago.”

Mama laid down her napkin. “Deirdre and Connor, you may be excused.”

The pair scrambled down from the table and tore out of the room.

“Remember to wash your hands.” Her mother's admonition
echoed through the room, and she shook her head. “Those two will either keep me young or make me gray before my time.”

Colleen couldn't muster a smile. Deirdre reminded her too much of Delia.

“Did something happen at the orphanage?” Her mother's sharp gaze missed nothing.

Colleen tugged at a curl hugging her shoulder. “One of the children left unexpectedly yesterday. Rylan and I were both very fond of Delia, but we didn't have a chance to say good-bye.” She used every ounce of willpower not to break down in front of her mother. The raw hurt ran deep over the loss of the little girl. She couldn't help but wonder—if she had broached the subject with her parents, would they have considered adopting Delia?

“I'm so sorry. That must have been difficult.”

“Very difficult.”

Her mother stirred a spoon of sugar into her tea. “When you volunteer at an orphanage, you have to be prepared for children to leave. It's best not to become too attached.”

“I'll remember from now on.”

Mama frowned and gave her a long look. “I think this punishment of your father's has gone on long enough. Do you want me to speak to him about it?”

Colleen startled. “No, Mama. I enjoy working at the orphanage. It's not a punishment at all.”

Mama's eyes widened. “I must say I never expected this reaction.” She gave a slight smile. “If you're enjoying it, then I suppose there's no harm in continuing.”

Colleen sagged with relief. “Thank you, Mama. I promise I'll still find time to help you with your charity work.”

“I know you will, dear.”

Colleen bit her lip, debating whether she should tell her mother about seeing Brianna. She decided it would be selfish not to. “I've seen Bree, Mama.”

Her mother's head flew up. “You have? When?”

“She came to the orphanage with Aunt Fiona.”

“How is she? Does she look ill?”

“No. She seems . . . happy.”

A flicker of hurt crossed her mother's features. “Happy?”

Colleen shrugged. “Maybe
content
is a better word.” She watched her mother. “I don't think Bree will ever be happy until she gets Gil out of her system.”

Her mother's expression became pensive. “I'm afraid you're right.”

Colleen gave a soft sigh. It seemed she and Brianna were caught in the same predicament. For Colleen feared she would never be truly happy until she got over a certain dark-eyed priest.