Heart of the Glen

Chapter 7

7

Saoirse lay in the dark barn and stared up at the ceiling. Every bone in her body ached from the labors of the day, and yet—as unlikely as it seemed—she felt accomplished and satisfied. This was the first honest day of work she’d done since losing her family, and it was strangely cathartic.

Her thoughts rolled back to the conversation at dinner. Owen had seemed impressed, or at least pleased, with what she’d done and with her plan for tomorrow. She smiled to herself as she recalled the look he’d given her when he found out she’d been the one cleaning the barn. She hardly knew the man, and yet she couldn’t help but wonder what she could do next to bring that light to his eyes again.

Shifting onto her side, she slid her eyelids closed. In the recesses of her mind, she could still hear the constant clacking of the loom, which turned her thoughts toward the conversation about the latest order of tweed Owen and Aileen had had as they were cleaning up from dinner. Saoirse couldn’t imagine how exhausted Owen must be after such intense physical labor all day long. How many days like that would it take to fill an order of that magnitude? Were the yarns all dyed, or was that yet to be done? What happened if he had to change the pattern? She shook her head against the straw-stuffed pillow, grateful that she wasn’t the one to have to re-string all those threads just in order to be able to start the actual weaving.

****

Ferocious barking tore through the night air, ripping Saoirse from a dead sleep. Heart pounding, she pressed a hand to her chest. Stout.

The dog snarled, growled, then continued barking, his volume increasing by the minute. Then the sound of shuffling. Stout’s ferocity intensified, and the shuffling grew louder as a mix of voices joined in. Bandits.

“Oi!” Relief washed over Saoirse at the sound of Owen’s shout. “Away with ye, chancers! Git!”

Men laughed. A caustic, sickening sound. The ruckus died down, save for Stout’s low growling. Owen’s footsteps drew nearer. “Go on wit’ ye,” he continued. “Ye’ve no place here.”

“Ya should’ve left na caoirigh on the hill,” a gravelly voice said. “But I thank ye kindly fer roundin’ them up for us.” More toxic laughter.

No, the sheep! Saoirse crept toward the side door of the barn. It was both easier to open and quieter than sliding the massive main entrance ajar. As stealthily as she could, she turned the handle and opened the door just enough for her to slip outside. She didn’t know what help she could be, but she wouldn’t abandon her hosts in their time of need. Not again.

Owen was holding a torch, which cast an eerie orange glow over the scene. Saoirse could just make out the silhouettes of three or four large men standing opposite Owen, all seemingly itching for a fight. In the middle, Stout stood, hackles raised, teeth bared. He reminded Saoirse of her childhood dog, God rest him, when a mob of schoolboys had been teasing her for her latest mishap.

Owen waved the torch toward the bandits. “Ye’d best get, Haggerty, before I summon the gardaí .”

A tall man with a barrel chest—apparently Haggerty—snorted. “I could get halfway to Dublin wit’ yer entire flock before the first of the law ever arrived.”

Saoirse ground her teeth. How could people do things like this?

“Now,” Haggerty said, taking a step closer to Owen, “we can do this the easy way or the hard way.” He drew a knife from his belt and held it up.

Owen switched the torch to his bandaged hand and held the other one up, palm toward the bandits. “Look, just leave and no one has to get hurt.”

As the men continued to argue, Saoirse snuck around the backside of the barn, grabbing a shovel on her way, and tried to creep behind the men, hoping she could clock one of them on the back of the head and cause a distraction. But before she could, a bloodcurdling yell rent the air, and Stout started barking and growling again in earnest.

“Owen!” Saoirse screamed and sprinted to the front of the building. Owen lay in a heap on the ground, firelight glistening in the pool of blood that slowly spread from his arm. Stout stood between him and Haggerty, teeth bared. Just then, Haggerty lunged and swiped the knife at Stout. Saoirse desperately wanted to save Owen but she refused to let another dog die on her watch, so she jumped between them and swung the shovel wildly.

A sickening thud told her she’d made contact with Haggerty’s head. He stumbled back a few paces and fell to the ground, his backside rolling into the air. That’s when Stout pounced, landing a healthy bite square on Haggerty’s rump. The man screamed for his cronies to help him. The pair jolted out of their stupor and waved their arms wildly at Stout, shouting. Stout gave his target a good shake before letting go and taking his place at Owen’s side again.

“You’ll pay for this, McCready,” Haggerty growled. “You and yer little tart!” He scrambled to his feet with much difficulty and hobbled into the darkness, his backside covered in a glistening stain that grew bigger with each second.

Saoirse squinted into the blackness, shovel at the ready in case their leaving was a ruse. But Owen’s groan drew her attention.

She hurried to his side and knelt down. “Owen, are ya alright?” Stout lay next to him and whined. Owen was curled up on one side, blood pooling around him. His eyes rolled back in his head and fluttered closed.

“Owen! Owen, stay with me!” Saoirse patted his cheeks, ignoring the coarseness of his whiskers. She picked up the torch, which was somehow still burning, and held it aloft, but it was impossible to tell where the bleeding was coming from, or how badly wounded Owen really was.

“Owen!” she called again. His eyes batted a few times, he groaned again, and then his whole body sagged lifelessly. “No!” she screamed, shaking his shoulder. “Come back!” When he didn’t respond, a sob choked Saoirse, and she clapped a bloodied hand over her mouth. Please, God, don’t let him die.

Next to her, Stout whined again. Saoirse’s eyes flew open. “Stout, go get Aileen!” The dog looked at her, whimpered, and pawed at her leg before looking back at Owen. “Go!” Saoirse pointed toward the house. “Aileen, go get her!” He barked once more and bolted down the hill.

She could hear his strident barking fade as he drew nearer to the house. Saoirse brushed some hair from Owen’s face and let her tears fall freely. She offered the same prayer over and over. Please, God, don’t let him die.

After what seemed an eternity, Aileen came rushing up the hill in her dressing gown, hair disheveled, Stout leading the way.

“Owen!” she screamed and fell at his side. “What happened?”

Saoirse’s breath hitched in her chest. “Bandits.”

Fire flashed in Aileen’s eyes. “Haggerty?”

Saoirse nodded.

Aileen muttered an oath under her breath and cursed the thieves that could have very well killed Owen or, at the very least, destroyed the McCreadys’ livelihood. Then she took off her dressing gown and draped it over her brother’s still form. “Keep him warm. Keep talking to him. I’ll send for Doctor McGinley.”

Panic seized Saoirse’s chest. “Don’t leave me here alone.” She reached out and grasped the sleeve of Aileen’s nightdress. “Please.”

Aileen scrambled to her feet. “Ye’ll be fine. Stout’ll look after ya. I must fetch the doctor or Owen’ll die.” She spun on her heel and sprinted down the hill.

Saoirse swung her gaze from one horizon to another. Still no sign of Haggerty or his men, but that did nothing to quell the churning in her gut. She shifted to sit on her hip with her legs bent to one side so she could lean closer to Owen. His breaths were shallow and quiet, but he was breathing—a welcome revelation since she couldn’t tell a few moments ago. And the bleeding seemed to be slowing. At least the puddle hadn’t gotten any bigger in the last minute or two. “Hang in there, Owen,” she crooned into his ear. “Stout and I are here, and help is on the way. Don’t leave us.”

****

Saoirse stood in front of the washbasin in the McCreadys’ kitchen and stared down at the red liquid. They’d refilled the small tub with fresh water three times already, and the blood never seemed to fully wash away, adding to the unseen stains she already carried.

Owen’s right arm had been almost completely sliced open, and he had other gashes on his left arm and a few in his abdomen. Thankfully, the doctor said, the ones to his belly were fairly superficial, so he wasn’t in any danger of succumbing to those wounds as long as infection didn’t set in. It would be a matter of time before the full extent of the aftermath of his hand injuries was apparent.

Studying her own hands, Saoirse decided they were as clean as they were going to get and turned her attention back to the doctor, who was explaining Owen’s care to Aileen. Saoirse couldn’t even remember how they’d gotten Owen down the hill and into the house. Had she and Aileen done that themselves? Did the doctor have a cart? Did a neighbor help? It didn’t matter now. Owen was home and safe, though not out of the woods by any means.

“Change the bandages twice a day for the next three weeks. And no heavy lifting,” the doctor was saying.

Aileen was writing down his instructions, but she paused, her hand hovering over the parchment. “And weaving?”

Doctor McGinley looked at her like she’d claimed to be the queen. “Aileen.”

“What?” she shouted. “Tell me, we need to know!”

He laid a tender hand on Aileen’s arm. “Let’s leave that for now. We’ll talk about it in a few days, eh?”

Aileen sucked in a shuddery breath and nodded. “Alright. Aye.”

“Let’s get him through tonight, and we can chat more when I come back to check on him.” He turned and Saoirse’s heart lurched at the look he gave her. A look as if to say, “Don’t tell her he won’t be weaving for a good long while. If ever.”

How he could communicate that with just a look was beyond Saoirse, but she could swear that’s what he was saying. Maybe it was just her own fears talking, but either way, she knew there was no way Owen was going to be able to get the Murphy’s order done on time, if at all.

Doctor McGinley began packing his bag. “He’ll likely sleep on for the next couple of days. That’s to be expected, as is the slight temperature he’s running as his body fights to heal. But if his fever spikes or the swelling gets worse, send for me right away.”

Aileen and Saoirse both nodded.

“I’ll be back in a few days if I don’t hear from you before then.” He tugged his jacket from the peg and put it on. “Take care, lassies.” He stopped just before he closed the door. “Make sure yas latch this door tight, aye?”

They shared a frightened glance. “Aye,” Aileen squeaked. Saoirse could only nod. With that, the doctor left them alone to care for Owen and protect their homestead.

****

The next two days passed by in a blur. Aileen and Saoirse traded off taking care of Owen and tending to the meals, sheep, horses, and other chores. Stout refused to leave his master’s side unless forced to help with the stock. But as soon as his duties were finished, he was right back next to the cailleach.

Tuesday morning, Aileen had taken Stout to the barn to keep watch while she fed the horses and mucked the stables. Saoirse was in the house changing the dressing on Owen’s right arm when he began to stir and moan.

She scooted to the edge of her chair. “It’s okay, you’re safe.”

He mumbled something she couldn’t understand, so Saoirse leaned in closer. “What was that? You’re home, Owen, okay?” She brushed the hair from his forehead, willing him to fully wake.

Just as he seemed to settle back down into sleep, his eyes flew open and filled with panic. He released a loud scream, his breaths shallow.

“Shh, shh,” she crooned. “You’re okay. You’re safe. They’re gone.”

Owen looked around, wildness and confusion coloring his expression. Saoirse gently took hold of his hand with one of hers and used the other to smooth the hair away from his forehead. At her touch, he stilled and his gaze found hers. After a long moment, recognition seemed to register, and he calmed.

“What happened?” His voice was gravelly and raw.

“Haggerty,” she replied, not sure what, if anything, he recalled.

“The sheep!” Owen tried to sit up, grimaced, and fell back.

“The sheep are fine. But you need to rest. You’ve been badly injured.” She gently stroked his fingers with her thumb.

His gaze drifted down to watch the motion. His expression darkened when he saw all the bandages winding up both his arms and around his torso. “How bad is it?” He gripped her fingers lightly, though to her it felt less like holding on and more like testing their movement.

“Well, you’re alive,” she said on a sigh. “Let’s start with that.”

“That bad, huh?”

“It could’ve been worse. Much worse, believe me.” She blinked away the unbidden memory of Owen on the ground, unconscious and bleeding, and her begging God not to let him die. Was this her doing? Did she bring her own special brand of bad luck—the deadliest sort—to the McCreadys?

“Thanks for the encouragement, doc.” He chuckled, but the sound faded and was followed by a groan.

“Just take it easy and rest for now, aye? Aileen and I have things well in hand.” She stood and gathered the dirty bandages. “Doc McGinley should be here today or tomorrow to check on you.”