Heart of the Glen

Chapter 4

4

Confusion tugged Owen’s brows together. A young woman—well, younger than he was, anyway—lay hunkered down in a mound of hay and blankets. His blankets. She looked to be maybe late-twenties, with a pair of sea glass–colored eyes peering up at him through a mop of reddish-blond ringlets. He cleared his throat. “ Gabh mo leithscéal ?”

The woman clambered to her feet, tripping over a clump of straw and stumbling in his direction. She puffed the strands of hair from her face and jutted out her right hand. “What I mean to say is, you must be Owen.”

He stared at her hand as the wheels continued to spin in his mind. The woman was soaked to the bone and didn’t appear to be any sort of threat. For a split second he considered whisking her down to the cottage and sitting her in front of the fire. But before he could entertain the idea fully, his protective wall flew back up, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll ask ya again—who are you? Speak quickly.”

She swallowed hard as her hand sank to her side. She dipped a shallow curtsy. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Owen. I’m Saoirse Fagan.”

“That’s thrice now ye’ve used m’ own name before I’ve had a chance to know yours. How d’ye”—he stopped, and a snort of disbelief puffed from his nose. His chest burned as he glanced in the direction of the house. “Aileen,” he growled between clenched teeth.

At that moment, Aileen burst through the door, “Saoirse, he’s comin’!”

“Too late,” Owen said. Aileen slid to a halt right before running right smack into him. Her mouth bobbed like a fish as she looked between him and the strange woman hiding in their barn. His sister twitched as though she was going to stand next to the interloper, then again as though she would take her place next to him.

She finally settled into a spot equidistant to them both. “I-I see ye’ve met.”

Owen shifted his arms to fold tighter across himself and then leveled his gaze on Aileen, hoping the derision he felt registered loud and clear.

“Alright, alright.” Aileen stepped closer to him, her hands up, palms facing outward. “I was hopin’ to talk to you about it today, anyway. I met Saoirse on the road home last night, and she’d nowhere to go.”

Owen’s lips screwed up to the side. “So, ye ... ye told her she could live in the barn?”

“Och!” Aileen rolled her eyes. “No, ya dolt! I was goin’ to bring her in after talking to ya last night, but when I saw yer hand, I got flustered and, sort of...”

Owen bent slightly at the waist, willing her to continue.

She shrugged, a sheepish pink hue flooding her cheeks. “I forgot about her.”

“Ha!” Owen dragged a hand down his face before look ing to the stranger. “And so ya figured ye’d help yerself to my barn?”

Saoirse’s eyes widened, and her mouth fell open. Suddenly, Aileen’s hand was on his arm.

“’Twasn’t like that. When I came back out to see to Fadó and the cart, I told her to stay the night and we’d set things to right in the morning.”

Suddenly, Saoirse sneezed and wrapped the plaid tighter around her shoulders.

Aileen cleared her throat. When Owen glanced her way, her brows soared, and she flicked her head ever so slightly in Saoirse’s direction and then in the direction of the house. Confound the woman and her nonverbal communication. She fancied herself able to tell the whole history of Ireland with just a look, when in reality she was harder to read than a closed book. He scowled and shook his head in silent question.

She repeated the gesture, only more animatedly, which served only to deepen Owen’s annoyance and offer no clarification whatsoever. He shrugged slightly as a request for elaboration.

“Good heavens, man. Tsk . Ye’re as thick as sheep’s wool.” Aileen shook her head. “Will ya not invite the woman in for a cuppa tea to warm her bones?”

Oh, that. He shifted his attention back to their guest—nae, intruder. She was beginning to shiver fairly fiercely, and her eyes silently pleaded with him to take pity on her.

Sighing, he gestured toward the sliding door. “C’mon, then. I can’t have ya dying of exposure in my scioból .” He lumbered outside without looking back to see if the ladies were following him.

****

Saoirse fought the hot tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. They weren’t tears of joy, relief, or even fear. They were just tears of ... life. Her current predicament with Aileen and Owen aside, the last month had been a blur of tragedy upon hardship upon upheaval, and everything had left her reeling. She needed to get her mind off all that had transpired.

All that you caused, you mean.

She sniffled and wiped at her eyes angrily, hoping to wipe the thought away too. She focused her gaze on the path leading her to the McCreadys’ house. She took advantage of her position at the back of the trio to scan Owen once more. Even from behind, he was a commanding figure. She could almost see his bright sapphire eyes illuminating the way ahead of them. He was a daunting character, to be sure. She had no doubt he could easily throw her out without giving it another thought. And yet she felt entirely captivated by him ... captivated and safe. She scowled at the idea. It made no sense. Nothing that went on in her head made sense anymore. Not since that day. Confound it, would it never cease to invade her every waking moment? Waking and sleeping , she reminded herself.

The group rounded the corner at the base of the hill, and the front of the home came into view. While by no means was it a luxury accommodation, the thatch on the roof was impeccably clean and the paint and windows in good repair. Golden light glowed and flickered within as smoke from the turf fire curled lazily overhead.

Owen’s shrill whistle pierced the silence, and Saoirse flinched.

“Stout!” Owen called just before opening the door.

Aileen shook her head and snorted. “That dog. C’mon, Saoirse.” She hooked her arm through Saoirse’s elbow and led her inside.

The gentle yet fierce warmth of the home enveloped her like a hug, and Saoirse’s muscles instantly relaxed.

“Go on over by the fire. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Saoirse fought the temptation to sprint to the hearth, instead forcing herself to move at a respectable speed and take in the modest home. Clean and tidy, everything clearly had a place. Dried herbs and flowers hung from hooks on the kitchen wall, as well as from the ends of the mantel, which stood opposite in the open room. Two tall-back chairs flanked the fireplace, and a cailleach was tucked into an alcove along the north wall. Just beyond that, to the right of the hearth, a short hallway led to another bed, or perhaps to a small bedchamber. Saoirse didn’t let herself wonder who slept in the outshot bed and settled herself in front of the blazing turf fire.

Her eyes drifted closed as the blessed heat washed over her frame. She opened the heavy tweed plaid she’d wrapped around herself in the barn and allowed the warmth to seep into every nook and cranny.

Just as the kettle began to scream, a scurry of paws skittered into the house. The border collie stopped short and looked from Saoirse to Aileen and back. His body was black, save for a small white patch on his chest, but his head was completely white. He looked just like her own dog, Finn. Except Finn had been brown and white. Her heart clenched at his memory, and her vision blurred. Forcing a smile on her face, she knelt down. “Hello there.”

The dog huffed once, trotted over to her, and shoved his head onto the palm of Saoirse’s hand to be pet. “Well, who’s a good boy? Are ya a good lad?” His tail thwap-thwapped on the floor.

“Well, I’ll be,” Aileen whispered. “Owen, look.”

Owen came in and shut the door behind him. He hung his flatcap on a peg and started to take his slicker off when he froze, eyes glued on Saoirse and Stout.

“He’s a lovely animal,” Saoirse said as she rose. Stout sat next to her foot and pawed up at her hand. Saoirse chuckled and rewarded him with more scratches on the top of his snowy head.

“Aye.” Owen grunted. “And he doesn’t like anybody.”

Behind him, Aileen shook her head. “He doesn’t.” She crossed the room with a cup of tea and handed it to Saoirse. “I’ve never seen him do anything like this.”

Saoirse smiled down at her new friend.

“I’ve heard dogs can tell a good person from bad,” Aileen called over her shoulder as she poured a fresh cup of tea for her brother.

At that, Saoirse’s smile faltered. Poor Stout must be a terrible judge of character if he liked her.

“That beast has only ever had eyes for m’ brother.” Aileen returned to the kitchen once more for her own cup. “Though who knows why.”

Saoirse eyed Owen, who was now sitting in the chair nearest the cailleach, sipping his tea and staring into the fire. She absently wondered what that meant about Owen’s character too.