Heart of the Glen

Chapter 16

16

Soft orange light spilled from the doorway as Bridie welcomed them inside. Owen stepped back, allowing Saoirse and Aileen to go ahead. As Saoirse brushed past, he thought he caught her glance at him from the corner of her eye. Owen curled his fingers into a ball, the absence of Saoirse’s hand far too noticeable. He didn’t know why he never released his grip after she nearly fell. He told himself it was in case she tripped again, but the tingling that remained on his skin said otherwise.

He greeted Bridie and John and followed them to the sitting room where a hearty fire roared in the hearth and a tray of tea and biscuits awaited them on a small table.

“I thought it’d be a wee bit cozier in here,” Bridie said.

As the women exchanged pleasantries and small talk, Owen watched the flames dancing in the grate, a verse the priest had read rattling around in his head.

“If the L ORD be with us, why then is all this befallen us? and where be all his miracles which our fathers told us of ...”

Owen had never related to anything in the Good Book so much. Had he not asked similar questions himself? Though instead of the Midianites, Owen felt abandoned to the hardships of this world and the thieves who had all but destroyed his livelihood.

“So,” John said when the conversation had reached a lull, “what’s goin’ on with ye?”

Owen drew a long breath, weighing how much to share. “Oh, y’know, same ole, same ole.”

John chuckled. “Right.”

“Owen Sean McCready, what’re ye like?” Aileen scolded, then turned toward John. “There’s more than we likely have time to tell ye.”

John reached over, poured himself a fresh bit of tea, and waited.

“We had our first lamb of the season,” Aileen began.

“That’s a mite early for ye, isn’t it?” Bridie asked. “Did it go alright?”

Owen nodded. “Mostly.”

Aileen grimaced. “A wee all-black lamb. Desperate.”

“Och.” John scoffed. “Ya don’t buy that whole malarky about death followin’ the family if the first sheep is black, do ya?”

Heat flashed in Owen’s cheeks. As a man of faith, he should discredit such superstitions. And yet, they were difficult to ignore. After all, those beliefs endured because there had to be an element of truth to them, or they’d have died out long ago, wouldn’t they?

“Come now,” Bridie crooned, “ya canna tell me that the Creator of the universe is going to be derailed by a wee lamb because of the color of its wool?”

Owen chuckled. “It does sound silly when ya put it that way.” He took another sip of his now lukewarm tea. “Anyhow, that isn’t really what’s weighin’ on me.”

“Right, then.” John leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “ Amach leis .”

The corner of Owen’s mouth twitched in amusement. Never one to mince words, John’s request that he come “out with it” landed more as a command than an invitation. Owen appreciated his direct approach. “A letter arrived from Murphy’s today.”

“Ya have another order. Aileen came back with it before the attack, aye?” Bridie asked.

Owen bobbed his head. “But their storehouse was damaged in the storms, and they lost a good bit of tweed.” He scratched the back of his neck. “They’ve pushed up my due date by two weeks.”

“ A thiarcais !” John mumbled. Next to him, Bridie tsked.

“And with this”—Owen lifted his right hand—“it’s nearly impossible. It was nearly impossible as it was. But now...” He wagged his head.

The revelation hung in the air for a heavy moment. Bridie sucked in a sharp breath and turned to Saoirse. “Did ya not say ya were learning the craft? Can ye be of help?”

Saoirse’s cheeks pinkened, and her gaze fell to the floor. “I’m hoping I will be. I’m still very green at the loom though.”

Bridie and John looked to Owen, as if to ask if that were true. “She’s a natural, in all honesty,” he said. Saoirse shot a surprised look at him, and he offered a small grin. “But she’s not ready to take on that amount of demand just yet.”

“Well, Owen McCready, if anyone can make it happen, it’s you,” Bridie replied. Owen wasn’t sure what gave her such confidence in him, especially in his current state. He had to have a woman he just barely knew take over several of his jobs because he wasn’t able to cope.

Aileen sighed. “I’m not sure even Owen can meet this demand.” She turned sad eyes toward her brother.

Owen had no argument against the statement. And yet, hearing it out loud stung like lemon juice in a scratch. Especially since Owen wasn’t sure he’d ever weave again, let alone with the speed and superior quality he was known for. He drained the last of his tea, the tepid liquid doing little to soothe his raw spirit.

John took his pipe from the ashtray on the table, lit it, and sat back, his arms crossed over his chest. The pipe smoke swirled around John’s head like a halo, the sweet aroma of the tobacco mingling with the earthy scent from the fire. “What aren’t ye tellin’ us, lad?” he asked around the pipestem.

Owen blanched. “I’d say that’s about the worst of it,” he said, absently wiggling the fingers of his right hand.

John’s eyes narrowed into slits, and his gaze bore into Owen’s. How could the man tell he was holding back? He’d not told his sister or Saoirse what the doctor had said about the prognosis of his dominant hand. What good would it do to work them up into a lather until they knew for sure?

“Owen.” John’s voice held the same tone Owen’s did when he was trying to coax Stout into giving back a scone he’d grabbed from the table.

Owen tugged the flatcap from his head and raked his fingers through his hair. He really didn’t want to have this conversation. Not now—or ever, really, if he was honest. But it was clear John wasn’t going to let it go. Sighing, Owen came out with it. “The healing on this hand isn’t goin’ quite as well as I would like.”

“What?” The shock and fear in Aileen’s voice confirmed Owen’s reasons for not wanting to broach the subject.

“What did the doctor say?” Saoirse’s voice was more even, but concern swam in her eyes.

“The wounds are far deeper here than they were anywhere else. It will be a longer road until we know what lasting effects there might be.” There. That should hold them. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the entire truth either, which Owen was fine with.

****

Saoirse’s gaze dropped to Owen’s hand, along with every other eye in the room, it seemed. The shadow behind Owen’s eyes suggested he wasn’t being entirely open about what the doctor had said. Not that she could blame him. If time was needed in order to know what lingering effects there might be from his injuries, Saoirse presumed that meant there was at least a chance that his use of it might be greatly hindered. She hadn’t even considered the notion that he might not be able to use his hand again. She blinked the thought away and tried to focus on what they could control in this moment—which seemed to be very little at first glance. However, she was learning to weave and would do whatever she could to ensure the order got finished in time.

“We’ll figure something out,” she said at length. “I’ll weave all night if need be.”

The smile Owen offered her in return held little confidence.

“Aye,” Bridie chimed in. “And we’ll do whatever we can as well. We canna weave for ya—as much as I wish we could.” She turned to John. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to weave. Anyway”—she shook her head—“we can help with other chores and the like. Whatever will help ye the most.”

Aileen reached across and took hold of Bridie’s hand, silent tears shining in her eyes.

Owen shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. He stood and tugged his hat back on. “ Go raibh míle maith agaibh ,” he said. “Well, we should be goin’.”

Aileen and Saoirse shared a glance before rising to their feet. Saoirse suppressed a sigh, but Aileen released hers, eyes fixed on Bridie.

“Right, of course,” Bridie said. She and John stood as well. “We’ll be prayin’ for ye. Do let us know what we can do.”

Aileen nodded and hugged her friend. “We will. T’anks.”

“Thanks for the tea as well,” Saoirse said as she flung her cape across her shoulders.

As they stepped out into the chilly night, Aileen rushed to catch up with Owen, who was already several feet ahead of them.

“That were a bit rude, wasn’t it?”

Owen slowed and looked at his sister, confusion plastered on his face. “Ah, they’re just tryin’ to help. It wasn’t rude for them to offer.”

“Och!” Aileen scoffed. “It wasn’t rude of them, ya eejit. Ye were rude.”

He stopped. “How do ya figure?”

Aileen tossed her hands. “They made a verra generous offer, and you just dismissed it out of hand.”

Shaking his head, Owen started plodding back toward the wagon again. “Aileen, they have their own duties to see to. They don’t have the time or the resources to spare to help us take care of our own farm.”

Saoirse jogged to catch up with the two, who apparently walked faster the more heated the discussion.

“Hang yer pride, auld man,” Aileen said. “Don’t you think we ought to let Bridie and John manage their own time and resources? Ya know ye’d do the same fer them if the tables were turned.”

Owen spun on his heel. “But they’re not!” he shouted. Both Saoirse and Aileen flinched at the sudden outburst. “Don’t ye get it? I should be able to provide for my household! John’s not the one whose hand might never work right again, or the one who can barely feed his family. I am! And I’ll not accept any more charity. I won’t.”

Aileen stared hard at her brother for a long moment before a sob choked out. “That’s the spirit,” she said, then she brushed past him and continued up the hill.

“Aileen, wait!” he called after her.

Saoirse caught up to Owen. She lifted her hand to place it on his shoulder but hovered it there for a moment, unable to decide if she was going to actually follow through. At length, she tenderly laid her hand on his arm. He startled at her touch and whirled around as if he’d forgotten she was there.

His posture softened, and he scrubbed his hand down his face. “I’m sorry for yellin’.”

She pulled in a deep breath, the scent of damp earth, cold air, and the earthy smoke from turf fires pouring from the chimneys of Glentornan bolstering her courage. “I know how hard this is for you.”

Owen’s head hung low. “Do ya?” His voice held a deep sadness and sense of resignation.

“Well, maybe not exactly, but I understand how much you want to be able to stand on yer own two feet. And that’s admirable. Too many folk want to take the easy way out.”

Owen puffed a laugh through his nose and shook his head.

“And I do know how hard it can be to accept help from other people ... especially if you feel you don’t ... what I mean is ... do you think getting some help from the Sheridans might be one of those weird plans from God that doesn’t make sense?”

Owen’s gaze drifted to the sky and he slowly wagged his head back and forth. The soft light from the moon and stars filtering through the drifting clouds set his skin aglow. “Y’know, I might be startin’ to regret going to mass tonight.” He leveled his gaze on Saoirse’s, and the sadness and confusion swimming in his eyes gripped her with ferocity.

Her first instinct was to comfort him. To tell him it’s always best to seek God in the midst of the unknown—or the known, for that matter. And, yet, she could relate to his sentiment in the very core of her being. She smiled. “I know.” She shook her head slightly. “Sometimes it seems like it would be so much easier if God would just reveal what He’s up to, so that it all makes sense from the beginning.”

A single guffaw puffed from Owen’s lips. “Wouldn’t that be nice.” He lifted his right hand and studied it, his gaze tracing the swaths of bandages winding around it. “Then again, I’m not sure I would’ve agreed had He done so.”

The corners of Saoirse’s lips slid upward. She gently grasped his fingers and nodded, even as the faces of her family members drifted into her mind’s eye. She understood completely.