An Irish Blessing: The Irish Sisters Trilogy (Montana Sky Series) Page 5

  Henrietta touched his arm. “Why, Mr. Gallagher, how thoughtful of you.”

  “No need to be formal. Like I said, call me Patrick.” He bowed again to Alana and looked her over with frank approval. “Miss O’Donnell, I’m glad to see you well.”

  “Mr. Gallagher,” she said in a distant tone, giving him a regal nod, hoping to put him in his place.

  “Patrick,” he reminded her with a charming smile.

  She ignored him.

  Henrietta waved toward the back of the house. “Alana will bring you water to wash up. Please avail yourself of our bedroom to do so. And of course, it’s too late in the day for you to be venturing out again before nightfall. So later, we’ll make a pallet for you in front of the fireplace.”

  Alana wondered if the man was used to such poor accommodations. Judging by what she’d seen of the spacious Thompson house, he’d been sleeping in a fancy guest room for weeks. She wondered what his own house was like, then caught her thoughts and brought her attention back to her task.

  Mr. Gallagher nodded. “Mighty kind of you,” he said to Henrietta.

  Alana peeked up at him from beneath lowered eyelashes to see his gaze lingering on her.

  With a polite smile, she rose. Keeping her eyes averted, Alana moved past her uncle and into the kitchen area. She wrapped a potholder around the handle of the kettle and hefted it off the stove, and then headed toward the bedroom. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see their guest place his burlap bag on the table and then follow her.

  Alana led him into the bedroom. Her shoulder blades twitched as if his gaze touched her back. She stepped to the side to let him enter, grateful that earlier today she’d taken the opportunity of her aunt being on her feet to change the bedding. Although the once white sheets had yellowed with age and usage, she’d ironed the linens to crispness. She’d also folded fresh towels next to the washbasin and opened the window long enough to clear away the musty smell of sickness and let in fresh air.

  This house must be too humble for his taste. Once again her imagination strayed to wondering about his home, which must be as fine as the Thompson’s large two-story one.

  Hoping he wouldn’t notice the chips on the lip of the pitcher that she’d turned to the far side, Alana poured the hot water into the white ceramic basin. That done, she moved to leave the room.

  Mr. Gallagher touched her arm in a gesture for her to remain and gazed into her face. “You’re looking well, Miss O’Donnell. You have roses in your cheeks,” he said in a gallant tone.

  Roses wouldn’t be the term she’d use to describe the heat flushing her face. Alana took a breath lest she give him a tart rejoinder. She wouldn’t want to shame her family by making a guest feel unwelcome. “I’ve recovered from the long journey,” was the best she could do. She pulled away her arm and edged toward the door.

  “Ah.” He lowered his hand. “Traveling from Ireland to Montana must have been an arduous experience.”

  Ye have no idea. Alana gave him a fake turn-up of her lips. “Well, today, ’tis ye who’ve had the journey,” she said with artificial lightness. “By the time ye’ve finished washing up, we’ll have supper on the table. I hope you like rabbit stew.”

  “Rabbit stew will suit me just fine.”

  With a little nod, she stepped out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind her.

  Her aunt and uncle stood together just beyond the bedroom, facing each other in an obvious private moment.

  Not wanting to disturb them, Alana shrank back against the closed door.

  Rory brushed aside the bangs from Henrietta’s forehead and planted a kiss there. “It does my heart good, A ghrá geal, to see you out of bed,” he said in a low voice.

  “I looked in the mirror and received quite a shock. I’m so thin.” Henrietta touched her head. “And where did these gray hairs come from?”

  “You are as beautiful to me as the day I first set eyes on you and vowed to make you my wife. I’m blessed to have you by my side, Henrietta. I want you to take care of yourself, so I don’t have to fear losing you. I never want to live through such dark times again.”

  “We’ve weathered them before, dearest,” Henrietta said, placing a hand on his chest. “And we will again.”

  “Aye, but I’d prefer to avoid them if possible. Promise me you’ll take it slow and steady. Rest when you have need, else I’ll be enforcing my husbandly authority.” His tone sounded suggestive.

  Henrietta’s cheeks flushed.

  For the first time, Alana could see the comely woman her aunt had been before her illness.

  Henrietta reached up and touched Rory’s cheek, her luminescent smile a promise.

  Seeing her uncle look at his wife with such love in his eyes, Alana’s heart ached. She suppressed the image of Timkin that rose in her mind, instead, for the first time, wishing for a different man—a husband who’d care as deeply for her as Rory did for Henrietta.

  “No fussing over our visitor. Let our niece do that.”

  Henrietta stretched close to Rory, and he bent to listen. “The last man who showed up here with food aimed to court our daughter. I’ve no doubt Patrick is another such. I knew we’d lose Alana to a suitor, but I thought we’d have a little more time before she left us.”

  Alana froze. Suitor?

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, A ghrá geal. Rory took Henrietta’s hand. “As much as we might wish to, we mustn’t be selfish about keeping our beautiful girls with us. They must spread their wings and fly. We who are left on the ground can only watch them with sadness and joy.”

  Henrietta leaned into him. “The Good Lord sent Alana to us when we needed her most. Now perhaps he and the Blessed Mother are sending her on to a man who needs her more.”

  Alana’s stomach twisted at the thought.

  Rory dropped a kiss on his wife’s head. “I have no doubt.”

  Unlike her uncle, Alana had plenty of doubts, and she made a resolution to stay as far from Patrick Gallagher as possible and give him no opportunity to engage her in private talk.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Patrick felt pleased with the view across the plank table. For supper, they all crowded on the two benches that lined either side. Alana, Henrietta, and the twins—identified by the color of their dresses—sat on one side, Charlie, Rory, and Patrick facing them.

  The position gave him a good view of Alana O’Donnell, who to his surprise, had filled out since last he’d seen her, although she still was thinner than Bridget. She had the navy blue eyes that all the O’Donnell family members seemed to possess. Her curly, hair, a color between chestnut and palomino gold, was pulled tightly back into a braided bun. Tendrils frizzed across her forehead and framed her face.

  A sense of wellbeing filled him. He’d finally warmed up after the cold ride, and the rabbit stew was mighty tasty and seemed plentiful enough for him to eat his fill.

  Unless he had company, he was used to taking meals—prepared by his housekeeper—alone. Dining with the Thompson family and now the O’Donnells reminded him of the comfort and affection of kinship, of conversing, telling stories, and laughing during supper, when the day’s labor had ended. Patrick hadn’t realized how much he missed having family ties, with his parents gone and an older married sister living in California.

  Henrietta must have decided she’d politely waited long enough for Patrick to take the edge off his hunger, for she set down her fork with a decisive click. “Now, Mr. Gallagher, please tell us of our Sally.”

  “Patrick,” he reminded her.

  Everyone stilled, staring at him in expectancy.

  Sally. He searched for the best way to politely discuss Sally’s delicate condition without actually mentioning her pregnancy. “Uh, according to Bridget, your daughter is still ill in the mornings but feels better later in the day. Sometimes, she, Harry, and Bridget took supper with the Thompsons. On those occasions, I observed Sally’s appetite to be fine, although not hearty.”

  For the first time,
Alana looked directly at him and nodded in apparent approval. “As long as the nausea passes at some point, and Sally takes nourishment, she should be fine.”

  Patrick grinned and then glanced around the table at the family. “Harry is quite the besotted husband. So much so that he’s often the butt of the other cowboys’ teasing.”

  Rory chuckled.

  Once again, Henrietta’s hand fluttered to her chest, and she sighed. “Young love.” She exchanged a memory-filled glance with her husband.

  Patrick tried not to notice how his stomach tightened at the obvious bond between the couple—the same he’d seen with the Thompsons and the newlywed O’Hanlons—the kind he’d begun wanting for himself. He caught Alana’s eye and gave her a charming smile, determined to melt her iciness toward him as the next step in his courtship.

  Her eyes widened. She glanced down at her plate and pushed her food around without taking a bite.

  Undaunted, Patrick filled in the remainder of the tale. “But Harry takes everything they throw at him with a good-natured grin. Truth be told, I think the hands are all jealous of his wedded bliss.” I certainly was. But I also thought to soon have my own.

  Pleased smiles bloomed on everyone’s faces.

  Henrietta patted her chest. “You ease my mind, Mr., ah, Patrick.”

  Rory smiled at her before giving Patrick a nod of obvious approval. “My wife’s fretted so about our darling girl, which I believe added to her illness.”

  Their comments made Patrick feel almost virtuous, as if he’d truly done a good deed, even though he’d come with an ulterior motive. He looked directly at Alana, sure his next bit of news would excite her, bitter though the words tasted in his mouth. “Your sister is newly betrothed to James Whitson.”

  Alana gasped. “Betrothed?” Her hand flew to cover her mouth. Eyes wide, she stared at him in apparent dismay.

  Concerned by her reaction, Patrick rushed out the rest so Alana would be reassured about her sister’s choice. “Before I left the Thompson ranch, I heard the cowboys were placing bets about whether Whitson’s cabin could go up as quickly as Harry’s, and I heard Thompson gave permission for Bridget to plant those potatoes of hers on a piece of land that’s not good for grazing.” Thankfully, he didn’t have any other tidbit of information to offer. He’d escaped the ranch before learning anything more of the couple’s plans.

  Instead, the added details made Alana look worse—pale and drawn—as if the news of her twin’s approaching nuptials had sucked the life out of her.

  “James Whitson,” Henrietta said slowly. “I’m trying to place him.”

  Isleen bounced in her seat. “I know Mr. Whitson. He has the pretty gray Appaloosa.”

  “I know that horse.” Charlie straightened. “Dusty.” At the family’s puzzled looks, he added, “Dusty is the name of his Appaloosa.”

  Isleen waved for their attention. “One time after school when Idelle was still inside helping Mrs. Gordon, I was skipping down the street. Mr. Whitson rode by, and I was so busy looking at his fine horse that I tripped and fell to my hands and knees. My books and slate went tumbling down. Mr. Whitson jumped off his horse and helped me up, making sure I wasn’t hurt.”

  Idelle frowned. “You never told me,” she said, sounding put-upon that her twin would keep a secret from her.

  With a pleased toss of her head, Isleen ignored her sister and continued the story. “Mr. Whitson was so nice. He brushed off my skirt and my hands. Then he gathered my books and slate, wiping them clean with his sleeve. My chalk was broken in two, and I was so upset.” She dipped her gaze and then looked up again. “He took me into the mercantile and bought me a new one.”

  “Isleen Mary O’Donnell!” her mother scolded. “I cannot believe you allowed a stranger to purchase something for you.”

  “I protested, Ma. Really, I did,” Isleen said in an innocent tone, her eyes wide and guileless. “But Mr. Whitson insisted, telling me it was his fault I fell.”

  Rory tried to turn a laugh into a cough but didn’t quite succeed. “Well, because of your mishap, at least we know Mr. Whitson is a gentleman with a care for children and a generous spirit, which relieves my mind. But I still want to give my stamp of approval to my niece’s marriage—make sure he’s not taking advantage of her unsettled situation. After all, Bridget is under my protection.”

  Henrietta smiled at her husband. “I’m sure I’ll be well enough to travel soon, and we’ll see them on a Sunday. Then, as her uncle and protector, you’ll be able to interrogate the poor man regarding his circumstances and intentions,” she said in a teasing tone.

  As much as Patrick couldn’t abide a discussion about James Whitson, Alana’s dismayed reaction worried him far more. He leaned forward. “Miss O’Donnell, my news seems to have come as quite a shock.”

  “A whirlwind romance.” Alana forced a smile. “Mr. Whitson was quite kind when we met.” She glanced at her uncle. “He was the reason, really, that we went to the Thompsons’ instead of coming here. Now that I think of it, he was quite taken with Bridget.” She flicked a narrowed glance at Patrick that said, and so were you.

  Unable to meet her knowing gaze, Patrick looked away, wishing she hadn’t seen his attraction to her sister. Courting Alana might be more difficult than I thought.

  * * *

  They lingered at the table long after the last of the food had been consumed, lighting the oil lamps when the sunlight failed. For the first time, Alana saw her uncle’s family with an air of happiness, their bodies free of tension as they joked and laughed. They exchanged stories and listened to Patrick’s tales of his horse breeding business. He acted at ease with her relatives and that impressed her.

  Although upset by the news of her sister’s betrothal, Alana wouldn’t allow selfishness and fear to mar her enjoyment of the evening. It’s not that I don’t want Bridget to be happy…. I just don’t know what her marriage will mean for me. She shoved the news to the back of her mind to ponder when she was alone and focused her attention on her relatives and their guest.

  Her aunt and uncle had suspended the children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard formality, and the three young ones obviously enjoyed being part of the conversation. That Patrick didn’t seem to mind was a point in his favor. Not that I’m tallying him.

  Alana found herself softening toward the man. She couldn’t deny the thoughtfulness of the gifts he’d brought. The food would help eke out the dwindling supplies in their larder until her uncle would be able to hunt farther afield from the house and the garden began producing.

  The cinnamon cookies were a welcome surprise. She’d not made dessert the whole time she’d lived with the O’Donnells, for she hadn’t wanted to exhaust Henrietta’s small supply of sugar. The peppermint sticks he’d brought, usually a treat only for Christmas, had been an instant hit with the children, although they were shelved for a day when dessert wasn’t already present.

  This evening, the children were blooming in a way Alana hadn’t seen before. She’d known how much their mother’s illness had frightened them…the dread they’d carried—that we all carried—how in spite of all their efforts and prayers, Henrietta was slipping away. The extra chores had lain heavily on the children’s young shoulders. But Charlie and the twins had worked hard without complaint. Under her supervision, they’d still kept up with their studies. Now that their mother was back on her feet, and the weather was better, the three hoped to attend school.

  She kept an eye on Henrietta, at first alert to make sure her patient didn’t overtire herself. But gradually, she relaxed her watchfulness. The evening was good for Henrietta, and Alana took satisfaction in seeing her aunt’s face light up as laughter chased away the malaise caused by her illness.

  Patrick recounted a time when he’d been bucked off an ornery horse he was breaking, who seemed to have deliberately aimed to toss him off right onto the biggest pile of horse manure around. “Definitely a soft landing,” he finished.

  Laughter welled from deep within
her and bubbled up. Her sides ached—an almost foreign experience she hadn’t felt in a long time. I can’t remember when I last felt so merry—when I last belly laughed.

  Alana remembered that she and Bridget had laughed the night before Alana left the Thompson ranch, but that was the first incident in ages. Before that… She rummaged through her mind, trying to remember a time of mirth. She’d struggled with so much…too much to bear, really—nursing her mother through her last illness, followed by the grief of her death; anxiously waiting for Timkin to propose; Catriona’s elopement; their funds dwindling away despite their best efforts; Bridget’s determination to move to a new land; Timkin breaking her heart. Can a year really have passed since I last laughed?

  In her gratitude toward Patrick for bringing the gift of laughter, for providing them with the opportunity to celebrate life, Alana found herself letting down her guard more. Watching him made unexpected sensations swirl through her. Too bad he doesn’t live here.

  As if he read her thoughts, Patrick looked at her. “What do you think, Miss O’Donnell?”

  “Since we are being informal, call me Alana,” she said, forgetting she’d planned to keep him at a distance. “Bridget and I have always been addressed by our given names. At home, being called Miss O’Donnell was a sure sign the speaker couldn’t tell us apart, and we didn’t take that well.” She winked at the twins. “Unless we were purposely trying to confuse people.”

  Isleen giggled, while Idelle tried to look innocent—without quite succeeding.

  “Ah, a test.” Patrick leaned back in his chair, a mischievous grin on his face. “I don’t see how anyone could mix up you and Bridget.”

  “Ye’ve only seen me thin,” Alana hastened to explain. “Bridget and I used to be more alike. If I had a penny for every time someone mentioned we were two peas in a pod….” She sighed. “Well, let’s just say I’d have more coins in my pocket right now.”

  Patrick crossed his arms and shook his head. “Your expressions are different. The way you move. Bridget has more determination in the set of her head, in her step.”