The Emerald Isle (49 page)

I had always thought of Cahira’s heirs as superwomen, but perhaps they were just like me, blighted by a freakish white streak of hair but perfectly content to follow life’s road…until something unexpected happened. Until God led them in a different direction.

Please, God, not me.
I lowered my head as the truth crashed into my thoughts like surf hurling against a jagged cliff. I didn’t want adventure. I didn’t want to love a difficult man, mend a fractured family, or make peace in a foreign community. I just wanted to tell a story, be with my friend at his wedding, and help where I could. I didn’t want to be extraordinary.

Are you afraid?

A quiet voice inside me insisted upon an answer, and I curled my hands into fists, resisting the question. Of course I wasn’t afraid. I was a New Yorker, at home in crowds, in subways, even in high-rise elevators where a suspicious-looking character could hop on at any floor. I could handle almost anything in New York. But this was Ireland, and I was like a fish out of water here.

Still, I could get used to this beautiful place. Something in me had prickled with jealousy to think Taylor might actually be offered an opportunity to stay here. And while I could certainly see why he
wouldn’t be happy in Ireland, perhaps I could be. And with someone like Patrick by my side, I wouldn’t be afraid of anything.

I stood and moved to the single window at the front of the house, then looked out across the lawn. Mrs. O’ Neil was coming out of the garden, a woven basket on her arm. The bright heads of roses dipped over the edge of the basket and swayed with every step she took. Though the country was remarkably conservative, Ireland had always acknowledged the strength of its women, even electing a woman president. Ireland was filled with strong women who worked hard, supported their husbands, raised their children, patiently prayed in silence…and loved without reservation or conditions.

How fitting that the Emerald Isle had given birth to women like Cahira O’ Connor. She, too, might have been an unremarkable woman if the Normans had not crossed her path. She might have married her kinsman, reared a castle full of kids, and died of old age, never to be mentioned in the history books.

I ran my hand through my hair, watching Mrs. O’ Neil disappear into the house, then went back to my desk. I turned on my laptop, then clicked my nails against the case as the machine booted up.

It would be nice if people were as forthright today as they had been in the thirteenth century. I could go up to Patrick and say, “If you want to marry me, I’m open to the idea,” and he could say the same. We’d go to the preacher and get married, then sort everything out later.

Of course, if Mr. and Mrs. O’ Neil didn’t approve, I suppose they could always banish us.

The computer beeped, and I frowned, looking around at the little house— my space by day and Patrick’s by night. Maybe they already had.

An uneasy peace ruled at dinner that night. Maddie and her mother bobbed together at the end of the table over sketches of her bouquet and the church flowers. Staring straight ahead, Taylor ate with the
enthusiasm of a robot, while at the end of the table Mr. O’ Neil stirred his soup and didn’t say much.

At my right hand, Patrick was equally silent. We ate quietly, pretending a polite interest in Maddie’s babbling conversation, though none of us, with the possible exception of her mother, cared a thing about orchids and white roses and baby’s breath.

During a break in Maddie’s conversation, Mrs. O’ Neil looked up and threw her husband a pointed look. “Taylor,” she said, her gaze still fastened to her husband’s face, “James and I were wondering if you and Maddie might give a thought to staying in Ireland for a bit after the wedding. You could live here, of course, and we could give you a helping hand while you manage to set a bit of money by for the future.”

Surprise siphoned the blood from Taylor’s face. “Live here?” he repeated dumbly, his gaze flying to meet mine. “But—”

“It’d be wonderful, Taylor,” Maddie interrupted, squeezing his hand. A rush of pink stained her cheek as she leaned toward him. “You could go the university in Dublin or even take correspondence courses. You could still finish your doctorate, but you’d do it here, where we could live rent free.” She lowered her eyes. “And I could be with my dad.”

I looked down at my plate, aware that she had just struck the deathblow to Taylor’s plans. He didn’t want to stay in Ireland, but what could he say to a woman whose father was dying? He’d seem like an inconsiderate brute if he insisted they return to New York.

“Who knows?” Mr. O’ Neil’s deep voice croaked through the thick silence. “You might come to like farming, after all. We might make an Irishman of you yet!”

Taylor looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, but as Maddie kissed his cheek and Mr. O’ Neil thumped his back, no one else seemed to notice his panic.

But Patrick, who had said nothing during the exchange, abruptly stood and slammed his way out of the kitchen.

P
atrick wasn’t hard to find. I knew the cows had already been milked and turned out to pasture, so I headed toward the barn where the calves were penned. An overhead light was burning when I opened the door, and in the dim light I could see Patrick’s long and lanky form hunched over the railing of the bullpen at the back of the barn.

“He won’t stay,” I called, startling the calves as I passed their pen. “Taylor’s not a farmer. He’d be lost here.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Patrick pulled a piece of hay from a bale beside him and stuck it into his mouth, chewing the end like a nervous accountant worrying his pencil. “Dad’s made his point. He’d rather give the place to a Yank who knows next to nothing than leave it to his only son.” Raw hurt glittered in his eyes as he looked at me. “The point was well made, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what your father is thinking.” I came closer and stood beside him at the fence, then crossed my arms over the top rail and studied the old bull. Graham Red stood as still as a statue, his white head bowed low, and I was shocked to see that a milky white film covered both eyes. The famous O’Neil bull had gone blind with age.

“Tell me what first came between you.” I stepped closer until my shoulder nudged Patrick’s. “You told me about the girl you wouldn’t marry, but you also said you and your father had been having
trouble for a long time. So what is the root of the problem between you?”

“If I knew—” His voice trembled, as did the hand he lifted to his forehead. “If I understood him, I’d be happy to explain. But the old devil gets things into his head, and I’m not understanding a bit of it. He doesn’t like the new ways. He doesn’t want to part with his old bull; he wanted me to marry a girl I felt nothing for. We never got on too well when I was a lad, but we started having regular arguments when I went away to university. Dad went all weird when I came home with new ideas. He fell into a desperate bad humor whenever I tried to suggest changing things ’round the place. And when I told him and Mr. Kelly that I wouldn’t be marrying his daughter, that was the end of it. We had a terrible row, and he went into a dither, screaming about this and that. Then I said he could keep his farm and his name, too, for I’d be no son of his.”

His head dropped on his folded arms. “And that was the last time I saw Dad, before I came home and found you and Taylor here. I wouldn’t have come even then, but Maddie rang me up and insisted. She said she wouldn’t be marrying without me, and she wanted me to squire the American woman about.”

The unexpected confession stung enough that I flinched. Suddenly his abrupt appearance made perfect sense. Maddie had felt threatened by my presence, so since she couldn’t exactly ask me to leave, she did the next best thing. She called her handsome brother and insisted that he come home, knowing the brooding Irishman would turn the foolish American woman’s head.

I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the truth. “So you’ve been spending time with me only because Maddie asked you to?”

Patrick didn’t answer, but his answering sigh told me all I needed to know.

“Well,” I pulled away from the fence,“thanks for baby-sitting me. I enjoyed our time together, but I know you probably want to get back to Limerick. Don’t worry about Maddie; I have a feeling she’s
quite content. If you leave, though, Taylor won’t have a choice. He’ll have to stay at Ballyshannon and look after the farm.”

“Kathleen—”

“No need to say anything else.” I stepped back, my own feelings too raw to discuss or evaluate. “I’m tired, Patrick. I think I’ll go in now.”

“Wait.” An urgent tone entered his voice, and the sound of it stopped me. Patrick lowered his head and stared at the bull, then leapt the fence in an easy movement.

“Patrick!” I called, alarmed. “Should you be in there without a tranquilizer gun?”

Patrick leaned forward, his hands on his knees, then he reached out and touched a dark spot on Graham Red’s face. The bull snorted and shied away from this intrusive touch, and Patrick straightened, a grim look on his face as he studied his hand.

“Go into the house, will you, and tell Mum to call the vet. The bull is sick—I’d be surprised if he’s not dying.”

Fear spurred my feet to action.

I had just reached the kitchen and gasped out my news when Patrick’s shadow loomed over mine. “We’ve got to call Dr. Murray,” he said, moving past me toward the phone. “I think it’s a virus. There’s a discharge running from his eyes, and the hay is stained as well. At his age, he’ll not be able to fight an infection unless we act quickly—”

“Put the phone down!” James O’Neil’s dry voice cracked through the kitchen, startling even his son. “I still run things here.”

Patrick halted in mid-step, and a light seemed to dim in his eyes as he turned to face his father. James leaned forward over the table and slowly pushed himself to his feet, his hand trembling as he reached out to his wife. “Fiona, help me out to the barn. Let me look at the creature myself.”

“Do you not think I know a sick beast when I see one?” Patrick’s soft voice was filled with a quiet resentment, the more frightening for its control. “I tell you, Dad, we must call the vet.”

“And for what?” The older man’s nostrils flared with fury. “Do you think I want him strung up to some tube and kept alive by drugs and painkillers? Let him go in his own way, in his own stall, in God’s own time. I’ll not prolong his suffering.”

Mrs. O’Neil lifted her hand. “James, Paddy’s not saying we’d do that to the poor creature. But neither is it right to ignore his pain—”

Mr. O’Neil’s blue eyes darkened like angry thunderclouds. “Graham has lived a full life, and I’ve not been blind to the fact that he’s failing. But I’ll not call the vet for him. He would only prolong the agony or kill the creature outright.”

“Maybe you’d have me call the knackers, then.” Patrick’s hand gestured toward the phone on the wall. “Let them pick him up and toss him into a truck.”

“Since when have you been so concerned about the bull?” Even in his weakness, Mr. O’Neil bristled with indignation. “You wanted me to sell him off. You’ve never cared about Graham, the glory of this farm! You’d see us raising a bunch of skittish Angus heifers with nary a bull on the place!”