Heart of the Glen

Chapter 8

8

Owen watched Saoirse dump the soiled bandages into a pot of boiling water to disinfect. She then filled the kettle and set that on to boil as well. She moved so naturally around his home, and he couldn’t understand how or why she would be so familiar with everything.

“These are already looking better than Sunday,” she called over her shoulder to him.

Sunday? “How long was I out?”

She paused in thought, hand poised above the tea canister. “About two days.”

“Two days?” Panic surged through him. The flock must be starving. What state was the garden in? And the weaving shed? He tried to sit up again, but shooting pain throughout his entire upper body forced him to lie back down.

“It’s alright. Aileen and I have been seein’ to the stock and the garden,” Saoirse said, as if reading his mind. “And yer neighbors have all been keeping a weather eye out for Haggerty’s return.” She shuffled over with a steaming cup of tea and set it on the chair she’d been sitting in a few moments ago.

“Let’s sit you up a bit, aye?” She leaned over and hooked one arm around his shoulders and under his left arm. Then she looped her right hand under his right arm. The scent of tea, bread, and lye wafted from her clothes as a tendril of her hair tickled Owen’s cheek. “Nice and easy now.”

Owen gritted his teeth and pushed his feet against the bed to sit up and rest his back against the wall of the cailleach, ignoring the searing heat that shot through him as he did so.

“Good.” She reached for the teacup. “Now, let’s get some fluids in ya.”

He reached out to take the cup from her, but his bandaged hands were clumsy, and he couldn’t grasp it.

“Here, let me. Just sit back.” She sat on the edge of the bed and gently lifted the rim to his lips. As tenderly as if she was holding a newborn babe, she tipped the cup slightly so he could sip the hot liquid. His eyes drifted closed as the tea soothed not only his parched mouth but his battered spirit as well. When he opened them, his gaze locked with hers.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice hoarse and raw from his ordeal and lack of use the last few days.

She nodded and waited a moment before lifting the cup to his lips once more. He fought the urge to slurp the whole thing down in one gulp, as the first sip had awoken a three-day hunger in his belly. When she took the cup away, some of the tea sloshed out and splashed on his chin.

“Woops!” she said. Then, as if by reflex, Saoirse wiped his chin and lower lip with her thumb. Suddenly she stilled, her thumb still resting on the corner of his mouth, her touch as soft as a flower petal. Her eyes were wide, as though she’d surprised herself with the motion. Owen shared her surprise, but he was more shocked at the strength of his wish that she not remove her hand just yet. He wondered if she could feel his heart thundering through his chest.

Her eyes met his again. “More?”

He swallowed hard and whispered, “Aye.”

A sudden knock at the door startled them both. Saoirse jumped up, somehow managing not to drop the cup or spill any more of the steaming liquid on him.

The strange knocking pattern repeated.

Saoirse set the cup down on the table and scurried to the door. She knocked an odd pattern in return and then waited. When two deliberate knocks sounded a second later, she unlatched the door and opened it. Aileen came in and flung her cloak on a peg, Stout trotting in behind her.

Saoirse beamed. “He’s awake.”

As if he understood Saoirse’s words, Stout sprinted to the bed and hopped up so his front paws rested on the side of it. His tail wagged so fiercely, Owen feared it might fall off, and the dog whimpered as Owen carefully scratched his ear.

“Hiya, boyo.”

Aileen screeched and rushed to her brother’s side. “ Buíocihas le Dia !” She bent and pressed a kiss to his cheek, then pushed Stout aside and sat where Saoirse had just been.

“How do you feel?”

He smirked. “Skewered.”

“Och!” She made like she was going to swat him but stopped short.

Owen chuckled. “Ya wouldn’t hit a wounded man, now wouldja?”

Aileen scoffed. “I oughta, ya scallywag!” She laughed, then grew more serious again. “But truly, how do you feel?”

He pulled in a slow, deep breath, stopping when a sharp pinching below his ribs required he exhale carefully. “I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to feel. It’s not nice, I’ll tell ya that much. But I’ll live.” He smirked again. “As long as ye don’t kill me.”

“Wheesht!” Aileen stood and joined Saoirse in the kitchen. She lowered her voice, but Owen could still make out her next question. “How is he?”

Saoirse looked at him and nodded. “I think he’s alright. Though he’s a ways to go before he can get back to all his normal things.”

Just when Owen’s heartbeat had returned to a normal pace, it kicked up again. Not because of Saoirse this time, but at the thought of his duties. How was he supposed to weave in this state?

“Aw, no ya don’t, mister,” Aileen said, shooting him a warning look and wagging her finger. “Don’t be plottin’ and plannin’ how to get back in that shed.”

How did she know that’s what he’d been thinking? Then again, how could he not think about it, with such a massive order and deadline looming. “What about Murphy’s?”

Aileen flapped her hand. “All in good time. We’ll be grand, so.”

He pinned her with a look. How could she say that? Their whole lives hung in the balance.

He tried to ignore her glassy eyes and the hitch in her voice when she said, “We have to be.”

Owen tried to think about anything but the weight sinking in his gut—but to no avail. He hated seeing his sister upset. Hated that this was their lot. That he couldn’t be some highfalutin landed gentleman with nary a care in the world. He needed a distraction. They all did. When Aileen went to double-check that the door was latched, he saw his chance.

“What was all the nonsense before?” he asked, adjusting himself in the bed.

“What’re ye on about?” Aileen asked.

Owen reached down and mimicked the knocking pattern on the wooden frame of the bed. Stout barked, mistaking Owen’s knocking for a real visitor. Owen shushed the pup and patted his head.

“It’s our secret knock,” the women answered in unison. Their tones suggested this should be the most natural thing in the world.

He blinked at them slowly. “And ye have a secret knock because...”

Aileen scoffed. “Fer safety, ya dolt.”

His face must’ve still registered confusion because Saoirse offered some clarification. “With you unconscious, and it bein’ just us two lasses, we needed a way to make sure we knew who we were opening the door to.” She shrugged. “If we didn’t know who was on the other side, we didn’t open the door.”

So much for a distraction. What sort of man wasn’t even able to protect his property and his women? He shook his head. No, Saoirse wasn’t his woman. But she was a woman under his roof, in his charge. Get ahold of yourself, man.

The fact remained, they were vulnerable so long as Owen was laid up. Okay, they had been vulnerable before, hence Owen being in the state he was in. But they’d at least had a fighting chance then. His hands balled into fists, and he let out a gasp as pain shot up his arms.

The two women went to pieces, scurrying over to him. “What’s the matter?”

“Are ya alright?”

“Are ya in pain?”

“Should I send for the doctor?”

Owen growled, and before he could stop himself, he exploded. “Hang it all, lassies, I’m fine! I just moved wrong. Can I not get a moment’s peace?”

Saoirse flinched and stepped back a pace or two. Aileen looked hurt. Blast his short temper.

He sighed. “I’m sorry to shout. But I’m grand. I just need some time.” He flung a quick glance around the small cottage. “And space.”

The two nodded and shuffled off to the kitchen and busied themselves doing who knows what. Owen took the opportunity to really study his wounds—inasmuch as he could—for the first time. His right arm had gotten the worst of it, it seemed. The entire arm was wrapped in bandages. It throbbed and burned almost constantly. He had no idea how many gashes there were, or how serious, but judging from the pain and the difficulty he had in closing his bandaged hand, he assumed the injuries were fairly extensive.

His left arm also had some wounds, but they seemed less severe. The most aggravating at the moment were the ones on his abdomen and sides. Every breath was a new experience in pain, and if he didn’t keep his breathing shallow enough, the gashes screamed out a reminder.

He turned his attention back to his right hand, and his mood darkened right alongside the setting sun outside the window. He tried not to entertain it, but he couldn’t shake the intrusive and persistent fear that his weaving days were over. All at once, a laundry list of all that would change in his world if that were the case flashed through his mind. Selling the farm that had been in his family for generations. Losing his flocks, his horses, Stout. Having to move to Letterkenny or, worse, Dublin. Worse still, leave Ireland altogether. He shuddered. He couldn’t let those thoughts overtake him. He had to fight to hold on to what was rightfully theirs. He had to fight to keep what was left of his family together. He had to fight to heal.

And now, he had to fight to stay awake. Fatigue settled on him as suddenly and heavily as a lead blanket. His eyes refused to stay open, and when he forced them, the room began to spin. At length, he decided to escape into the recesses of sleep and hoped to wake to a better future in the morning.

****

Owen didn’t bother lighting the lantern. He wasn’t even sure he could. It was enough of a miracle that he managed to finagle the door to the weaving shed open. The soft morning light beginning to stream in through the doorway would have to suffice. He walked a slow circle around the loom. All appeared to be in order and exactly as he’d left it last. Sinking gingerly onto the stool he kept at the front of the loom, he winced as his wounds protested. He just needed a minute. The trek up the hill had nearly done him in.

Doc McGinley said you could start moving around a little , he reminded himself. Though Owen knew full well that when the man said that during his visit the day before, he hadn’t intended for Owen to hike up the hill to his work shed. But Owen simply had to get a look at the place for himself. And to inspect the contraption up close. He knew every nook and cranny of this loom, having worked on it since he was a lad, but he wanted to examine it again with fresh eyes, to see if there was any way to rig things so he could still do the weaving. No miraculous solution revealed itself, however. He decided to just see how bad it would really be.

Owen bent down and picked up the shuttle from the basket on the ground. It had already been tied to the warp, and not for the first time, Owen was grateful to his past self for being disciplined enough to prepare the loom at the end of a long day so he might start as soon as he walked in the door the next morning. He was just able to pinch the shuttle between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, but the heddles needed lifting in order for him to pass it through the strands of warp. When he pressed the far-right pedal to do so, he let out a shout, dropped the shuttle, and doubled over. Blast. How could a few superficial wounds on his sides make it hurt to use his legs?

A shadow darkened the doorway. “Ya know, ye’re lucky I’m the one to come across ya and not your sister.” Saoirse’s voice was laced with humor, but he could tell by the stance of her silhouette she was a mite annoyed to find him here. She closed the distance and stood next to him. “What’re you doin’?”

Owen bit back the sarcastic response that first sprang to his lips and chose instead to simply look up at her, presuming she already knew the answer to her question. Compassion and a dram of pity shone in her sea glass–colored eyes.

“Just give it a bit more time,” she said.

Owen scoffed and shook his head. “There is no time. I’ve already lost three days—that’s over sixty yards of tweed not made that should have been made.”

Saoirse winced. “I know.” She shrugged. “Well, I don’t fully know. But I understand you’re in a bind now.”

“I wish I was in a bind. This”—he swept a small arc with his left hand—“this is impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “When is your order due?”

Owen looked past her and stared out the door. “Twenty rolls of finished tweed—in a complex pattern and color scheme—due by Paddy’s Day.” He wagged his head. “That’s over eight hundred yards. I can weave roughly twenty yards a day. Well, I could have.”

Saoirse nodded and slowly walked the length of the loom, her hand running along the frame of it. Then she bent and studied the warp, heddles, and board from which the warp was wound. She reached her hand out to touch the warp but stopped and pulled it back as if the threads were going to bite her.

She pressed her hands to her hips, sucked in a deep breath, and released it in a huff. Her gaze settled on his. “I’ll do it.”