Chapter 3
3
Early morning mist hung suspended in the air, dampening the usual symphony of Owen’s animals waking and searching for their breakfast. Beads of dew stretched across the ground like a blanket of diamonds and decorated the rustic wooden barn like the tinsel he’d seen once in a storefront in Dublin. Immune to the cold that held permanent residence in his bones, Owen tugged on the heavy door. Behind him, Stout’s strident bark ripped his attention away.
“What is it, boyo?” Owen asked as he lumbered over to the canine. The fur lining Stout’s back stood up, and he peered intently at the bushes cresting the hilltop between the barn and the house. “Bandits?”
Stout stood still, tail frozen in a straight line behind him, one front paw curled in midair. Slowly, he extended his paw and crept forward. A low growl rumbled in his chest.
Glad he’s on my side. The thought flitted through Owen’s mind like an autumn leaf on the wind as his pulse kicked up. It would be just like those blighters to lie in wait to ambush his house while he tended his flocks and worked in the weaving shed. The racket from the loom would drown out any pleidhcíocht the brutes might get up to. Instinctively, Owen’s hands balled into fists as he wished he had a shovel or hurley with which to protect himself.
Suddenly Stout lunged at the bushes and chaos erupted from the branches.
“Oi! What’re ya like?” Owen yelled, fists swinging wildly. Fur and barks flying, Owen fought valiantly against his foe until the realization struck that a pair of red squirrels had leapt from the plant, sending his dog into a lathered frenzy.
Owen dragged a hand down his face and sucked in a deep breath as he willed the pounding in his chest to slow. “Confound it, dog,” he muttered. “C’mon, boyo.”
Owen made his way back to the barn door, eager to return to his intended task. “Squirrels.” He chuckled as he headed inside.
****
Saoirse pressed her hand over her mouth as she peered over the low stone wall. The motion was meant to both cover the sound of her huffed breathing and also to stifle her laughter. She’d never seen such a hilarious encounter between man and nature.
Her gaze flitted to the sky, and she offered a silent prayer of thanks for the dog distracting the man. She’d overslept and was just about to head to the place Aileen had told her about when she heard footsteps approaching. The canine—who was apparently called Stout, if she’d heard correctly—had barked just in time, pulling his owner’s attention in the opposite direction, allowing her to slip from the small side door unnoticed. And then she’d been treated to a wee com edy show to start her day with slightly lighter spirits than she’d anticipated.
Turning, she sank back against the wall and pulled her knees to her chest, a smile still creasing her face. But as the pounding in her chest slowed and her breathing returned to normal, a chill snaked its way up her spine and settled at the base of her head.
Muise, that was close , Saoirse.
She had no idea what the man would’ve done had he discovered her. He looked harmless enough from the distant view she’d had. She craned her neck and risked another peek over the wall. He was nowhere to be seen, and the barn door was closed. She wasn’t in any danger, was she? Surely not. Though Aileen had mentioned bandits or thieves or something, hadn’t she? Suppose her brother mistook Saoirse for one of them? She shivered as her gaze drifted across the landscape, taking in the scene before her.
She was hunkered in a small square field, bordered by a low stone wall. Just beyond the north edge, the trickling of the stream Aileen had mentioned floated on the gentle morning breeze. In the neighboring field to the west, a flock of sheep wandered and munched on their breakfast of wild grasses. Beyond that stretched an endless patchwork of fields and land in as many varied shades of green as stars in the sky. To an outsider, it would seem Aileen’s and her brother’s farm was plopped down a thousand miles from any sort of civilization, but Saoirse knew the next farmland would be just over one rise or another.
She wondered if this community was as tight-knit as the one she’d left behind in Westmeath. The earthy scents of a turf fire, damp earth, and livestock filled the air. Saoirse’s eyes drifted closed, and she drew in a deep breath, once again allowing the aroma to settle her. She loved the smell. It was the aroma of childhood and Ireland and home. Such a soft, delicate fragrance, while also heady and deep. Not harsh like ... her stomach sank, and a cold sweat beaded on her forehead and upper lip.
No, not now. Don’t think of that now. She gripped the damp earth, grounding herself in hopes of avoiding the spiraling despair that threatened to suffocate her every time she remembered it. Remembered them . She squeezed her eyes tighter, trying to stop the thoughts from overtaking her, even as the image of a rolling black column invaded the fortress of her mind. Her history of drawing the short straw in situations was nothing compared to the calamity she’d caused that day. She never dreamed her unique skill for making mistakes would ever harm anyone else, let alone—
The sound of the barn door scraping open jolted her back to the present.
“Stout! Goitse !”
Saoirse slouched even lower and grimaced. The farmer’s footsteps lumbered just beyond the wall. Stout’s trot-trot-trot across the turf grew louder, and Saoirse slowly tipped over to curl up on the ground. The dog snuffled around the other side of the wall for a moment, stopped near where Saoirse lay, and sniffed three or four times in quick succession before huffing out a hearty exhale.
“Stout!” Saoirse’s unknowing host called again.
One more round of sniffing, and the dog trotted away.
Saoirse waited several minutes after the cadence of man and beast faded over a distant hill before moving an inch. The inordinate fear that she’d sit up to discover Aileen’s brother and his dog waiting to catch her kept her pinned to her spot far longer than was likely necessary. Finally, she peeked over the top of the stones. Seeing the coast was clear, she stood, brushed off her skirts, and once again surveyed her surroundings before heading north to the stream, extremely parched. She’d not had anything to eat or drink since the carriage ride up yesterday afternoon.
Once at the water’s edge, Saoirse knelt and scooped up an icy handful. She relished the frigid chill that trailed her throat and quickly slurped down three more scoops.
“Oh, good, ya made it!”
Saoirse’s head whipped around, and she was relieved to see Aileen stepping over the wall, a basket slung on one arm.
“I was afraid Owen’d run ya off.”
Owen. Saoirse seared the name into her brain. If she was to have any hope of convincing the man to let her stay until she could make a plan, she’d need to remember his name.
“He very nearly did,” Saoirse said on a laugh.
“No.” Aileen hurried to Saoirse’s side and lowered herself down, questions pinching her face. “What happened?”
Saoirse shrugged. “It’s m’ own fault. I overslept. Thank God for Stout!”
“Och! That dog.” Aileen shook her head.
“No, I’m serious! He trapped a squirrel or somethin’ in the bushes, which distracted Owe—your brother—just long enough for me to slip out the side door.”
Aileen shifted to sit cross-legged and began unwrapping the towel covering the opening of the basket. “Well, at least the dog did somethin’ right.” She lifted out a plate loaded with three pieces of brown bread smeared with butter, two hardboiled eggs, and some tomato slices. “Thought ya might be hungry.”
Saoirse’s stomach rumbled.
“And ya are, I see.” Aileen laughed and held the plate out toward her.
Heat flooded Saoirse’s cheeks as she sheepishly took it. “Thanks.” She sank her teeth into the dense-yet-pillowy bread, and her posture sank in delight. “Oh, that’s lovely. Thanks again.”
Aileen flapped a hand in her direction. “Don’ mention it.” She reached back into the basket and produced a rustic metal teapot and cup. Steam flooded the air around them as she poured a serving and handed it to Saoirse.
“Oh, God bless you. I could cry at the sight o’ that.” She pulled the cup close and inhaled the pungent aroma. The first sip was pure heaven, and Saoirse was surprised at the sense of calm that washed over her.
The pair sat in silence for a long while as Saoirse finished her much-appreciated breakfast.
Far in the distance, a dog’s bark floated on the breeze. “I thought sheepdogs were usually pretty good.”
Aileen looked at her, brows pressed together. “Pardon?”
“Ya said earlier that at least Stout had done somethin’ right. Is he not a good work-dog?”
“Oh, no, he’s the best work-dog,” Aileen said, eyes wide. “He just can’t be bothered with anyone except Owen.”
Saoirse laughed. “ Dáiríre ?”
“Yes, really!” Aileen started packing up the basket. “Never mind that I’m the one that makes sure he has enough food and gives him scraps from the garden an’ all that. He’s only got eyes for yer man.” She stood and Saoirse joined her.
“Thanks again. Ye’re a lifesaver,” Saoirse said, handing her the empty dishes. “Truly.”
“Don’t mention it.” Aileen slid the basket over her arm. “Lay low here for the day. When the sun goes down, it’ll be safe ta head back into the barn, if I haven’t been able to chat with him by then.”
Saoirse nodded and Aileen waved and slipped back over the wall.
****
Saoirse gasped and sat up straight. Ice-cold rain lashed down upon her, waking her from a deep sleep she hadn’t even realized she’d fallen into. With the heavy clouds overhead, it was impossible to tell if the sun was close to setting, but she couldn’t stay here. She’d catch her death. Scanning the area to ensure the coast was clear, she scrambled over the wall and scurried toward the barn. No light seeped through the slats as she approached, and all was quiet—save for the pounding rain—so she sprinted toward the side door and slipped inside. The immediate warmth was welcoming, and she could only imagine how much nicer it would be with a fire burning in the stove. Saoirse let her eyes adjust to make certain she was alone.
Seeing that she was, indeed, by herself, she headed back to the stall she’d slept in the night before and made quick work of curling up in the hay and wrapping herself tightly in the blankets Aileen had given her.
The rain continued to pour, and the wind picked up even more. As she warmed, sleep threatened to overtake her again. Just as she began to drift off, the large barn door scraped open. Saoirse’s heart leapt in her chest, and she looked for any way to escape. Seeing none, she held her breath and tried to lie as still as a stone. Hopefully, whoever it was wouldn’t come this far back.
The ground in front of her glowed the soft orange of distant lantern light, and she rolled her lips together to stop her breath from giving her away. A deep baritone voice hummed a quiet tune as the light grew brighter. A man came into her view.
With the lantern held aloft in his left hand, he searched the shelf on the far wall for something. Then he turned and stopped short. A pair of piercing blue eyes pinned themselves on her.
Saoirse froze, held in a trance by his gaze as her heart pounded in her chest.
His face, which had first registered shock, darkened. “Who are you?”
Saoirse’s voice refused to work, and all words vanished from her mind as she stared back at the man. Finally, one word surfaced. “Owen.”