An Irish Blessing: The Irish Sisters Trilogy (Montana Sky Series) Page 6

  Henrietta leaned forward. “You haven’t seen her in the sick room, Patrick. I can assure you our Alana is plenty determined there.”

  The wryness in her tone made everyone laugh.

  Uncomfortable with his admiring gaze, Alana appreciated her aunt taking Patrick’s attention off her. “I’m determined to see ye well, dear Aunt.”

  “Our niece has been such a godsend,” Henrietta said to Patrick. “I don’t know how we would have managed without her.”

  Heat warmed her face, and Alana knew she must be blushing.

  Patrick gave her a pointed look. “Outside the sickroom, where luckily I’ve no experience of you, for tonight doesn’t count,” he said firmly. “You have a gentler way about you than your sister.”

  How would you know? I’ve practically glared at ye since your arrival.

  The appreciative look in his eyes flustered her. So different from Timkin’s friendly acceptance.

  Guilt swamped the pleasurable feelings, and she looked away from him. How can I possibly compare Timkin to Patrick?

  Alana remembered the comfort she took in Timkin’s presence, in the strength of their bond, their long familiarity, how well he understood her, and their silent ways of communicating. No, Patrick is not at all like Timkin. But for the first time, the shiny memory of her lost love seemed tarnished.

  The change made her uneasy. Grateful to him or not, the sooner Patrick Gallagher leaves, the better!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next morning, Alana stayed in bed as long as her conscience would allow. She had no desire to see Patrick Gallagher before he left.

  In a quiet moment last night, Henrietta had told Alana to sleep late. Her aunt intended to rise early to make breakfast and see the children off to school.

  Although Alana had protested, almost to the point of scolding, she couldn’t dissuade Henrietta from her determined position. When her aunt, with a wistful expression, commented how much she’d missed being a wife and mother, Alana had given in. But she’d taken the twins aside and whispered instructions, so their mother could think she was doing the work, but the girls would actually perform the tasks.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t sleep past the time everyone stirred—the open loft meant she heard what was happening in the room below, including Patrick moving around and getting dressed in the semi-darkness.

  But she waited until the men went outside to see to the livestock and the children dressed and climbed down the ladder before she rose, dressing hunched over to avoid hitting her head on the low slanted ceiling. She had to sit on her bed to brush her hair, plaiting a braid that she coiled into a bun by feel, and stabbing in hairpins, for no mirror hung in the loft.

  The smell of frying ham and coffee drifted her way, and her stomach grumbled. Her appetite had returned a few weeks ago, and now she looked forward to breakfast, especially since they’d gone through most of the provisions she’d brought with her from the Thompson ranch. All that had been available in the last week to cook for the family were eggs and porridge, for Rory had no success with hunting.

  The sound of the front door opening and heavy footsteps on the wooden floor told Alana the men had returned.

  “This ham you brought will sure be a treat, Patrick.” Henrietta had a lilt in her voice. “We finished our last one right before I became ill.”

  Alana couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction at Henrietta’s recovery. With the children attending school today, where they’d see the Thompson children, the news of her mother’s recovery would reach Sally before nightfall. She straightened the sheets and blankets on her pallet, and then climbed down the ladder.

  The pink-gold light of dawn filtered through the frost-etched windows. The lamp on the table pushed back the shadows into the corners.

  The men weren’t in sight, but the sounds of masculine voices in the bedroom told her they were washing up.

  Her aunt presided at the stove, scrambling eggs. Her color looked good, and her balance more stable than yesterday. But as soon as the children left for school, Alana intended for Henrietta to rest.

  The girls were busy setting the table and gave her conspiratorial looks, secretly jabbing their fingers at the middle table, where a pot of porridge and a platter of fried ham awaited.

  She smiled and nodded, proud of them for helping their mother.

  The men emerged from the bedroom, and Rory sniffed the air. “You’re cooking up a feast.”

  “That I am. And grateful to be doing so—both for my recovery and for the provisions Patrick brought.”

  Charlie nudged his father. “I think we should stay home from school another day in celebration.”

  “Oh no, you rascal. The celebration is you and your sisters going to school and giving us some peace and quiet.”

  Charlie made a comical face of disappointment, and everyone laughed.

  That was Alana’s opening. “Good morning,” she said to her family and, with a glance, included Patrick.

  They smiled and greeted her.

  Her aunt tilted her head in askance. “Did you have a good sleep?”

  “Aye, although I feel guilty shirking.” With a mock frown, Alana gestured toward the stove.

  “Nonsense. You’ve worked hard these last weeks and deserve a bit of a rest.” Henrietta glanced down at the skillet. “Now, everyone, breakfast is ready. Sit yourselves down.”

  Alana helped her aunt bring the rest of the bounty to the table.

  Unlike supper, breakfast was mostly a silent meal. Everyone tucked into the food, with obvious appreciation. As soon as they finished, Henrietta dismissed the children to do their chores before they left for school.

  Rory turned to Patrick. “If you could spare the time, I’ve been needing the strength of another man. I’m building an addition to the barn. It’s slow going, for I’m only making progress when I can afford more wood. I’ve a beam to put up that’s too much for Charlie and me to lift on our own.”

  Patrick took a last slug of his coffee before setting down his cup. “No problem at all. Glad to oblige.”

  Alana didn’t know whether to wish the man would take his leave or feel glad he was sticking around for a few hours. While she and her aunt cleaned the breakfast dishes and worked in silent harmony, Alana thought of Patrick, and of Bridget’s engagement to James, and of her own beloved Timkin.

  Strangely enough, her memories of Timkin had lost their vividness. He seemed almost a shadow man compared to Patrick, who was so full of life—in a way that disturbed her, not at all like the secure connection she’d felt with Timkin. Concerned that her feelings for him might be fading, Alana made a concerted effort to remember cherished memories and felt again the familiar ache in her heart. Better the pain than to forget him.

  The children rushed in to grab their books and slates, kissed Henrietta and Alana good-bye, and ran out the door. She didn’t envy them the long trek to town, far colder and a greater distance than she and her sisters had to walk to the village school. But their neighbor Erik Muth, a dairy farmer who hauled milk to the mercantile, would give the children a ride in the wagon.

  After the last dish was dried and put away, Henrietta smoothed down her apron. “I’m going to sit and see to the mending, which will be restful, so you’ll have no need to hover over me.” She made a shooing motion toward the door. “Go outside and get some fresh air.”

  “A walk sounds wonderful.” Alana glanced out the window. The sun had appeared again, and it looked to be another mild winter day—mild, that is, for Montana.

  “Rory always likes a cup of coffee about now, when we have beans to spare, of course. You can take some to the men. You go get ready, while I brew more coffee.”

  Not wanting to see either Patrick or his horse, Alana drew out donning her coat, scarf, hat, and gloves for as long as possible. Finally, she had no more excuses, for to linger would only make Henrietta curious. She took the two Mason jars of hot coffee, wrapped in towels, and left the house.

  Outside, a chil
l wind whipped tendrils of hair into her face, and the breaths she took cut sharp with cold. Alana shivered, grateful for the warmth of the hot coffee jars pressed against her chest. And they tell me this is unseasonably warm for the winter.

  After crossing the muddy yard, she reached the barn and wrenched open the door, stepping into the dim interior, grateful to be out of the wind. A single lantern hung from a beam in the roof, throwing enough light for her to see Patrick working on Thunder in a nearby stall.

  Alana looked away from the horse and tiptoed down the aisle, lest she draw the man’s attention. Following the whistling sound of “The Minstrel Boy,” she found her uncle in the back of the barn, stacking odds and ends of lumber. Even in the shadowed light, she could see the haunted look Rory worn so often since her arrival had vanished.

  “Ah.” He made a sound of pleasure and reached for a Mason jar. “I was just about to go inside and check on your aunt.” He unscrewed the top and took a sip.

  “She’s fine, Uncle Rory. I left her mending one of yer shirts.”

  “I need to see my beloved with my own eyes.” He winked. “And with everyone out of the house, I can do a bit of canoodling with my beautiful wife. Do you think you can give us a few minutes before you come back inside?”

  A giggle bubbled out, surprising her with the girlish lightness of the sound. “I can give ye more than a few minutes. How about an hour?”

  “I wish for such a long time, but there’s work to be done. I’ll take half an hour.” Tossing her another wink and whistling the ballad, he sauntered out of the barn.

  She glanced down at the jar of coffee and reluctantly walked over to the stall where Patrick was grooming Thunder. She could hear him crooning to the Thoroughbred while he worked. Why can’t he be doing something else like chopping wood, where I could bear to stop and watch, instead of having to approach that great beastie?

  Although why would I want to watch Patrick Gallagher?

  Discomfited by the thought, Alana squared her shoulders and moved to give the man his coffee. She knocked softly on the frame of the stall, hoping Patrick would step out rather than continue working and make her come to him.

  He looked up and smiled, his dark eyes warm.

  Ignoring a flutter in her stomach, Alana held out the jar. “I’ve brought ye some coffee.”

  “Just what I need.” He moved the currycomb over Thunder’s back and jerked his head in an invitation to enter.

  Her feet remained planted, while her insides still quivered.

  His eyes narrowed, and he set down the comb on the crosspiece of the stall wall. “You can come in. Thunder won’t hurt you.”

  Alana shook her head, refusing to look at the Thoroughbred.

  “Is it just Thunder, or are you this way with all horses?”

  “All.” Only the single word slipped out. “But worse with Thunder.”

  He crossed his arms over his expansive chest. “Why are you so scared?”

  Alana couldn’t tell him. Her explanation of her fears would only sound ridiculous and make her appear superstitious and silly. Patrick, the avid horseman, wouldn’t understand.

  He uncrossed his arms and leaned closer, taking the jar of coffee from her and setting it next to the currycomb. “Did you have an accident? Fall off?”

  She shook her head, not meeting his eyes.

  “See someone else fall off or get hurt?” Although Patrick fired the questions at her, his voice was unexpectedly gentle—the same tone he used with Thunder.

  The thought almost pulled a smile out of her. Alana gave Patrick a quick sideways glance but saw only concern on his handsome face. “Ye’ll think me foolish.”

  “I already think you foolish,” he teased. “For allowing your fear to keep you from experiencing the joy of horses.”

  Frowning, Alana stared at the ground. “I see no joy in the creatures.”

  “That’s sad. Of all God’s gifts to His people, horses are the biggest blessing.”

  She couldn’t help laughing at that. “I think yer missing a few more important blessings…like family.” Like love.

  “Well, except for my older sister who is married and lives in San Francisco, mine have all passed away. So Thunder and my other horses are my family.”

  Compassion softened her rigidity. Alana sent up a quick prayer of thanksgiving for Bridget and for her uncle’s family who’d become so dear. And surely, someday, we’ll hear from Catriona.

  “Tell me why,” Patrick pressed.

  She gave a quick glance upward to see the encouragement in his eyes. “I wasn’t always so fearful. Not that I was ever horse-mad like our Bridget. As a young girl, I rode now and again.”

  “What happened, Alana?”

  The man is certainly persistent. She sighed and gave in. “A wandering storyteller came to our village, and Da took the family to the pub to hear his tales. At first I thought them splendid. He told of the Tuatha Dé Danann, Darby O’Gill and the Good People, and of our last great king Brian Boru, then….” Remembering made her tongue freeze, and her body followed into paralysis.

  “Alana.” Patrick reached out and took her hand, giving her fingers a squeeze. “Best spit out the story, darlin’. Lance it quickly, as you would a boil.”

  The image made her chuckle in spite of his brazenness in touching her. The rigidity left her body, and the laughter gave her the impetus to spill out a few words. She pulled away her hand. “He told of the Pooka…”

  “Pooka?”

  “Ah, ye American! Don’t ye know yer Irish history?”

  “My grandparents came over from the old country, but they died when I was young.”

  “A pooka is a faerie.”

  “A fairy,” he repeated, his eyebrow cocking in obvious amusement.

  “Not—” Alana held her thumb and forefinger a few inches apart “—a sweet wee one with wings. But a dark Unsídhe shapeshifter. A sleek black horse with a long wild mane.” She waved toward Thunder but didn’t look at the horse. “Much like that one, I imagine.”

  Patrick waited, his gaze on her.

  Something about the big, handsome man focusing on her, listening with his whole being, made her feel protected. If any human could stand fast against the wiles of the Unsídhe, that man would be Patrick Gallagher.

  “We’d always heard stories of the pooka being a mischievous sort. Apt to stop and have a conversation, or even do good deeds if ye treated him right. But the old storyteller told of a malicious pooka, who magicked a young girl into riding him—a beautiful horse, she’d thought. Then the creature turned into an evil beast with sulfurous yellow eyes. The Pooka kidnapped her and gave her the most terrifying ride of her life. Never again did the girl venture out of doors, even in bright daylight, for fear of encountering the pooka.”

  “The story frightened you?”

  “Aye. Terrified me. The old man stared straight at me with a piercing glare, as if warning me I’d be next. That night, I had a nightmare…nightmares…. ’Twere those that did the worst of the damage. I’d wake up screaming after dreaming a pooka kidnapped me.” She shuddered. “I couldna bear the sight of a horse, especially a black one.”

  “Do you still have nightmares?

  “No…. I had some when we left Ireland. I guess, ye could say that the ship was a kind of pooka bearing me away from my homeland, so to speak. But I don’t scream anymore. Even Bridget doesn’t know. She thinks I outgrew them.”

  Staring at the stall wall, Alana waited for Patrick to make fun of her admission. Silence stretched out. Finally, she succumbed to curiosity and risked a glance at him.

  He watched her, one hand on the horse’s neck. An unexpected tenderness showed in those long-lashed dark eyes. “I’m honored that you confided in me.”

  Relief rushed through her, accompanied by another warm emotion—one she couldn’t identify. “Honored, ye say? Confided is what ye call it, eh?” She spoke sharply to cover the emotion welling up from his words. “I think ye poked and prodded and badgered the
story out of me.”

  “I did,” Patrick said with a cocky grin and a lift of an eyebrow. “However, you could have refused to tell me. Even fled back to the house and left me standing here. But you didn’t.”

  He’s right. Alana didn’t want to think what confiding in him might mean. Why, I never even told Timkin of my nightmares.

  What is it about this man that made me open up to him?

  Patrick smoothed a hand down Thunder’s neck. “Come, Alana. Make friends with my boy, here. Unlike most Thoroughbreds, he’s as gentle as the day is long—at least until you get him on a racetrack.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a carrot. With a challenging grin, he broke the carrot in half and gave her a piece. His hand extended, he waited for her to respond.

  In a childish reaction, Alana tucked her hands behind her back, but she slid a glance toward the horse.

  Thunder turned his head and looked at her reproachfully with soft brown eyes, as if she’d hurt his feelings.

  Reassured by the horse’s calm demeanor, she rolled her eyes and snatched the carrot from Patrick. “Fine. Then maybe ye won’t be a pesterin’ me anymore.”

  He laughed.

  With a huff to hide her nervousness, she turned to face Thunder. Instead of jerking away her gaze, she looked at the horse—the intelligent dark eyes in a well-chiseled head, the long neck and deep chest. For the first time, she saw the Thoroughbred and not the creature from her nightmares.

  Alana straightened her trembling hand. With the carrot resting on her flattened palm, she held out the treat.

  * * *

  Seeing Alana’s pinched expression and the fear in her eyes bothered him. An unexpected feeling of protectiveness seized Patrick so strongly that he had to clench his jaw to keep from backing down. He’d seen her solicitous behavior toward Henrietta and the children, seen her laugh out loud, and admired her pretty looks and musical accent that reminded him of his grandparents. But her vulnerability tugged his growing affection into something perilously deeper.