An Irish Blessing: The Irish Sisters Trilogy (Montana Sky Series) Read online

  “What are ye doing?” Her voice rose.

  He kept his gaze on his task. “Seeing to my horse like a man’s supposed to.” He couldn’t help the bite to his tone.

  Alana grabbed the cloth from him. “I’ll do that!” With her hip, she shoved him aside.

  He couldn’t help a hiss of pain.

  She stopped and stared at him, eyes wide in obvious consternation. “Patrick, I’m so sorry!”

  Clenching his jaw, he held up a hand in a forgiving motion.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she shook the rag in his face. “Ye shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “Far worse would have to be done to me before I’d neglect my horse. Besides treating him right as a man should his faithful mount, the majority of my livelihood comes from Thunder—not just the stud fees for his services but also the purses he wins in races.” He ran a hand down Thunder’s sleek shoulder. “His loss would have devastated me.”

  The horse turned and snuffled at Patrick’s arm.

  “He’s irreplaceable.”

  Her mouth formed into an O.

  Patrick wanted to bend and kiss her but figured by the time he got his stiff body to move, she’d step away, and he’d be smooching air. Instead, he tried to recapture the rag.

  Alana jerked the cloth out of his limited reach. “Oh, no ye don’t.” She placed a hand on Thunder’s back and began to rub. “Ye stay there and tell me what to do.”

  Looking at her determined expression, he couldn’t help but marvel and feel her sink deeper into his heart. “Is this the woman who wouldn’t even look at my horse this morning?”

  “A lot has changed since then,” Alana said tartly, running the cloth along the horse’s sides.

  She didn’t look at him, but he could see a blush creeping into her cheeks, which gave him a sudden feeling of hope. Does that include her feelings about eventually marrying me? Have her affections changed?

  Maybe this situation isn’t so bad after all. It will give me time to court Alana. He opened his mouth to say so, but then had a sudden fear that her feelings had only softened toward him because he was wounded and she was his nurse. No, I’ll wait to speak until I’m healed, and she has no choice but to see me as a man, not as a patient.

  The eagerness he felt somewhat eased the pounding in his temple, although Patrick couldn’t help wondering how long his recovery would take.

  * * *

  Not until they’d entered the house and Patrick struggled to remove his coat did Alana realize far more was wrong with him than a head injury and general soreness from his fall. She took his coat, surveyed the muddy back, and hung the garment so it wouldn’t touch anything. Later she’d drape it over a chair by the fire to dry, so she could brush off the mud.

  She glanced down at herself. Her skirt was damp and dirty from kneeling in the mud. The front of her coat would also have to be dried and cleaned. Later, after I see to Patrick’s wound.

  Alana narrowed her eyes and studied his body, realizing he was favoring one side. She skimmed her fingertips over the area, only touching his shirt. “I want to see yer injury.”

  Henrietta, who’d joined them, waved toward the fireplace, where a fire warmed the room. “Over there, so Patrick can take off his shirt and roll down his long johns but won’t catch a chill. I’ll fetch the witch hazel.”

  Alana expected Patrick to protest, but she caught the thoughtful glance he gave her aunt and, as if she could read his mind, realized he’d figured out that if Henrietta was fussing over him, she wouldn’t be fretting about her family. Sudden gratitude made a lump rise in her throat. Not one man out of ten, no twenty, would act in such a thoughtful way.

  Why did I think him so arrogant?

  She bit her lip. Perhaps I was the arrogant one.

  Disconcerted by her realization, Alana walked briskly toward the bedroom. “I need to get out of this coat and wash my hands,” she said over her shoulder.

  “There’s still warm water in the pitcher,” Henrietta called after her. “I just used some myself.”

  Alana shed her coat and dropped it muddy side up on the floor in the corner. Then she removed her gloves, scarf, and hat and left them on the bed. She rolled up the cuffs of her sleeves, poured water from the pitcher into the ewer, and thoroughly washed her hands, drying them on a towel. Glancing down, she rolled her eyes at the condition of her skirt, but she had no time to change.

  When Alana left the bedroom, she saw Patrick standing in front of the fire. She hurried over to him and tugged gently on his arm. “Come.” She led him to the nearest seat—a wooden one that wouldn’t take harm from his muddy clothes.

  He obeyed, walking with her to the chair. Once Patrick sat, he let out a long breath, stretched out his legs, and raised his hands to unbutton his shirt, his movements jerky from pain.

  “Let me.” Alana caught his arm and lowered his hand to his lap. She reached for his top button, conscious of his dark eyes watching her, of the intimacy of her taking off his shirt. She couldn’t help but be aware of an energy simmering between them. She’d removed clothes from injured and ill men before, but this time felt different—sensual. What’s more, he feels different.

  I’ve lost my normal healer’s detachment.

  Shaken by her reactions, Alana pulled his suspenders down over his shoulders, undid his buttons, and untucked the ends of his shirt from his pants. “Don’t move.” Relieved to sound normal, she slid the garment off his shoulders, draping the shirt over the back of the chair.

  Patrick held himself rigid.

  Alana reached for the buttons at the neck of his long underwear, and her fingers trembled. As she opened each one, more and more of a broad chest dusted with black hairs was revealed.

  She became aware of the shallowness of her breath, the quiver in her stomach. Alana kept her gaze lowered, for she couldn’t meet his eyes, afraid her expression might give her away. She eased the long johns from one muscled shoulder.

  Patrick shrugged, trying to help.

  “Let me.” Alana looked at him from under her eyelashes.

  He stilled, but his gaze didn’t leave her face.

  Henrietta bustled over, holding a glass bottle. “I’ve witch hazel and some clean rags.”

  Her aunt’s presence broke their connection, and Alana felt an odd sense of loss. But even a chaperone can’t take away my awareness of this man.

  A spark burst in the hearth. Henrietta pulled over a small table, setting down the bottle and rags for bandages. “Let me help you, Alana. I’ll take Patrick’s right side.”

  Together, as gently as possible, they rolled down his long johns to his waist.

  Henrietta gasped at the sight of the angry purple bruise spreading across his right side. “Oh, dear Lord.”

  “Ye must have hit another rock when you fell.” Alana scrunched her brow, trying to remember if she’d seen the rock in question. “I didn’t notice one, though.” She crouched and gently traced the shape of the bruise, inhaling sharply when she realized he’d been kicked. Her gaze jerked up to meet his eyes.

  He frowned and shook his head, flicking a warning glance toward Henrietta.

  Alana bit her lip to keep from saying something that would cause her aunt to fret. Patrick was right not to add to Henrietta’s worry about the type of outlaws Rory and the children might be facing. “Do you feel a sharp pain when you breathe?” Her voice sounded thin.

  “It definitely hurts, but not as much as I think broken ribs would.”

  “We’ll hope that’s the case. But I’ll still need to ascertain whether or not they are.”

  Patrick gave her a look of resignation, and his shoulders drooped an inch.

  “Please soak a rag in witch hazel, Aunt, and bring the clean linen ye use for bandages,” Alana directed, keeping her voice even. “Then if ye’d be so kind as to bring some ice for his bruises.”

  Henrietta obeyed, pouring witch hazel into a bowl and dropping in the rag to soak. “I’m going to the icehouse. I’ll be right back.” She
whirled to don her coat and yank on mittens. She hastened out the front door, not even bothering to put on a hat and scarf.

  Alana’s legs started to feel the strain from crouching. She looked up at Patrick. “I must press on this area to check for any broken ribs. ’Twill hurt.”

  “Go ahead and torture me,” he said with an obvious attempt at levity.

  “Brave man.” She matched his light tone and pressed her fingers against his side.

  He hissed and then clenched his jaw.

  “’Tis better to breathe through the pain than to clamp down on it,” she instructed. “Pant like a dog on a hot day.”

  Patrick chuckled, and then winced. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Breathe,” Alana ordered, continuing her examination. She hated to cause him pain but knew she had to. Finally, she finished and stood, her legs aching. “Well, I don’t think ye’ve broken anything.”

  “Told you.”

  “I’ll apply witch hazel and then ice.” As she spoke, Alana picked up the soaked pad, inhaling the astringent scent, and held it against his side.

  Henrietta rushed into the house, the handle of a basket crooked over her arm. She shut the door. “I chipped off small pieces.” She hurried over and wrapped the ice in a rag, handing the bundle to Patrick, then rubbing her hands along her hips to warm them.

  Alana guided his hand over the bruise. “Hold the ice in place while I examine your head wound.”

  Henrietta left them to go take off her coat.

  Patrick placed his hand over hers.

  His touch sent warmth tingling into her, a contrast to the cold on her palm from the ice. She waited a few extra seconds before drawing her hand away and untying the makeshift bandage from around his head, catching the coppery smell of blood. “The hem of my petticoat,” she said to her aunt, who’d moved close to peer over Alana’s shoulder.

  “Very resourceful of you.” Henrietta picked up the strips by the clean edges. “I’ll soak them in soapy cold water with a little baking soda. Later, you can sew them back on.”

  “I said I’d buy you a new one,” Patrick muttered. “And I will.”

  “Hush now. There’s no need.” Alana parted his bloody hair to reveal a gash and swelling. “Yer going to need stitches,” she said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “So I figured.” He sounded resigned.

  Alana poured witch hazel on another rag and dabbed at his head wound. “Aunt Henrietta, Could you please bring me the scissors to cut his hair, and then uncle’s razor to shave close to the scalp.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I’ll need light to make sure I’ve gotten all the dirt out.”

  Henrietta moved from Alana’s side. “I’ll bring everything and hold the lamp for you.” She quickly returned with the lit lamp, adding the smell of kerosene to the air.

  Alana had stitched up plenty of head wounds before, and she deftly went about the business, knowing the quicker she finished, the better for her patient.

  Patrick remained stoic, only growling at the first poke of the needle, then keeping his jaw clenched.

  But even as Alana worked, she retained the knowledge that this man was so much more than an ordinary patient, although she wasn’t ready to explore what he might be.

  Leaning close, Henrietta studied the wound. “Such neat stitches.”

  “Plenty of practice.” Alana knotted the last suture and snipped the thread. “There. I’m done.” Stepping back, she smiled at her aunt. “Ye can set down the lamp now.”

  “Just in time.” Henrietta lowered the lamp to a rustic side table. “My arms were getting tired. I still don’t have all my stamina back.”

  “Ye’ll get stronger every day,” Alana assured her. “Now, if ye could fetch the willow bark tea for Patrick….”

  “Good idea. That will help with the pain.” Henrietta patted Patrick’s shoulder. “And then I’d better get back to cooking supper. My husband and children will be wanting a hot meal as soon as they arrive.” Although Henrietta said the words briskly enough, the anguish was back in her eyes.

  Alana’s heart twisted in fear, and she took a deep breath to soothe herself. Don’t borrow trouble.

  Once her aunt walked to the kitchen area, Alana selected some clean linen and bandaged Patrick’s head. She made a second ice bundle. “Ye’ll need to hold this on your head for a bit longer to keep the swelling down.” She moved around to his front and studied his face, noting his paleness and the lines of pain around his eyes and mouth. “Have ye nausea?”

  “I’m trying not to think about my stomach.”

  She frowned. “I’ll add peppermint to the willow bark tea. Then ye should lie down in the bedroom and rest. I’ll wake ye when everyone is home.”

  “I can’t sleep until Rory is back to keep guard, and I know the children are safe.”

  Alana narrowed her eyes at him, torn between ordering him to bed or letting him be. But she figured if Patrick had the same kind of anxiousness gnawing at him that she did, he was better off where he was.

  He quirked an eyebrow. “Well, Doctor O’Donnell, what’s my prognosis?”

  “Excellent.” She leaned in to drop a kiss on his forehead and caught herself just in time, shocked by the naturalness of the gesture. “Provided…” She tried to sound stern to cover up her slip. “Ye take things easy for the next few days, mayhap a week or even more.”

  Even as she said the words, Alana couldn’t help but feel a surge of pleasure at the idea of him being their guest for a while longer.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In a chair by the fireplace, Patrick stared out the darkening window, watching dusk settle over the prairie and hoping to catch a glimpse of Rory driving his wagon, the children riding in the back. Alana sat near him knitting, and Henrietta worked in the kitchen area by the light of a kerosene lantern hanging on a ceiling hook over the stove.

  The tea had taken the edge off of his pain and nausea. His head no longer felt like an anvil to a blacksmith’s hammer, and the spear pierced his side only when he shifted wrong. An inner restlessness made him want to get up and pace, but Patrick knew he was still too stiff and sore to move, even if space existed in the small home to do so.

  He didn’t like the heavy feeling of powerlessness weighing on him. I’m a man who’s used to taking control. Running my own enterprise.

  Patrick tapped his fingers on his thigh. I have ranch hands and a housekeeper I can depend on. Money in the bank. I’ve pretty much arranged everything just the way I want.

  Until robbers crossed my path and unseated me.

  No, before that, when neither O’Donnell sister fell in with my marriage plans. Now, to be sure, he was grateful for Bridget’s rejection. What if we’d married, and then I learned I’d chosen the wrong sister?

  Alana’s healing instincts seemed still on alert, for at the sound of his drumming fingers, she looked up from her knitting and glanced over as if assessing his mental and physical condition.

  Patrick flattened his hand on his leg, not wanting to show his inner agitation.

  She gazed at his face as if searching for what he was thinking. When he didn’t volunteer what was on his mind, she bent over her knitting, appearing fully absorbed in the task.

  He studied her profile—the shape of her nose and firm chin, the curve of her neck. The firelight gleamed on her hair, deepening the hue of the tight curls fringing across her forehead and in front of her ears. An unfamiliar feeling of affection, no, more than affection, surged through him. Between this morning and now, Alana had come to mean so much to him. Well, look what all took place in the space of those few hours.

  Patrick thought of the gold shamrock necklace, stolen before he could give it to her as a courting gift, and had to hold in his anger. Then guilt wracked him. What if the outlaws spotted me in town and followed me to steal Thunder? By riding my Thoroughbred out to see Alana, I brought danger to her and her family.

  She’s safe. Now if only I knew for sure Rory and the children wer
e safe, too. He glanced at Alana again. How can she look so calm when I know she must be even more anxious than I am?

  Just as Patrick thought he was about to explode from waiting, he heard the sharp bark of the dog.

  Gasping, Alana tossed her knitting onto the side table.

  A pot clanged as if Henrietta had dropped it on the stove.

  Alana jumped to her feet, gathered up her skirts, and ran to the door. The bottom of her petticoat showed where she’d torn stripes off for his bandage.

  Henrietta beat her to the door by a step, wrenching it open, and peering out.

  Patrick gingerly pushed his protesting body to stand, clenching his jaw to hold in a groan. He moved like an elderly man, bent over, stabilizing his ribs with an arm until he was able to straighten.

  Henrietta raised her hands to the heavens. “Thank you, Blessed Jesus!” she cried. “Blessed Mary, Mother of God, thank you!” She vanished through the doorway without stopping to put on a coat.

  Alana gave Patrick a quick backwards glance and a tremulous smile. Happy tears made her eyes glow like sapphires. She followed her aunt into the gathering dusk.

  Their joyful reaction eased the tightness in Patrick’s belly. Everyone must be fine. He lumbered toward the door, mentally cursing the stiffness that made him so slow. Like the women, he didn’t stop for a coat. Once outside, he saw the wagon and quickly counted heads. One, two, three, four. All safe. “Thank the Lord,” he said, his tone fervent.

  Rory tied off the reins, set the brake, jumped down, and opened his arms to catch his wife as she rushed to embrace him. He held Henrietta tight, and they kissed.

  Alana hovered a few feet away, obviously giving the couple a private reunion.

  Henrietta burst into tears. “I was so worried!”

  Rory cradled her face with his hands. “I know, A ghrá geal. I know. Stop your crying now, for all is well.”

  The children jumped off the wagon and ran to their mother, tumbling into a hug, arms entwined around her sides and back.

  “There’s some bad men,” claimed Isleen in a shrill tone.

  Henrietta twisted to face them. In the middle of her brood, she laughed through her tears. “Oh, my dears, yes, and it’s so good to see you.” She pulled away from her husband to squeeze her children to her breast and rain kisses over their upturned faces.