Chapter 17
17
Stout’s howls reached the wagon long before the dog could be seen.
“What’s that auld coot on about now?” Aileen said, annoyance lacing her voice.
Owen stared hard into the darkness ahead of them, the light from the wagon lantern barely reaching more than a foot or two. “Somethin’s not right,” he muttered. “He doesn’t bark like that for no reason.”
Snapping the reins, he shouted a command for the horse to speed up. Beside him, Owen could hear Saoirse murmuring something indecipherable. But from the cadence and intensity of her words, he gathered she was praying.
Stout met them on the road about twenty yards from the house. He sprinted alongside the wagon, and when Owen tugged them to a stop, Stout hopped in three circles and barked once more.
Owen sprang down and knelt to the dog’s level. “What is it, boyo?”
Stout yapped again, then ran into the shadows.
“Oi, come ’ere, Stout!”
The collie returned to Owen with something in his mouth. Owen carried it over to examine in the lanternlight. A swath of gray frieze had been torn from something. Owen balled it up in his fist, recognizing the scrap. “Haggerty,” he ground through gritted teeth. He sprinted toward the field where he’d left the sheep that afternoon, ignoring the calls of Saoirse and Aileen behind him.
As he trudged through the darkness, he couldn’t help the smile tickling the corner of his lips, despite the dread swimming in his gut. He was curious if Stout had been able to take a bite of anything more than Haggerty’s trousers, and he bargained that Haggerty might think twice before hitting Owen’s flocks again after taking a blow in the backside twice in a row.
The muted trotting of Stout next to him as he crested the hill settled a strange comfort over Owen. But as he climbed over the stone wall hemming the flock in, the smile fell from his face, and his gut twisted. Nearly half his sheep were gone. He wandered the field, taking stock of which animals were left. The wee black lamb and his mother were gone, along with a few dozen of his best sheep.
Anger seethed in his gut, threatening to set him ablaze as his teeth clenched, and he paced with ever-quickening speed. A guttural scream built up in his chest, and he finally released it as he kicked a metal feed bucket that had been used to supplement the winter grass. His shout echoed in the night, the bucket flew and tumbled down a small knoll, and searing pain flashed in his foot. That was all he needed, a broken toe to add even more insult to injury.
Owen scolded himself for his outburst even as the pain tempted him to lash out once more. He chose, instead, to sink onto the stone wall. Ignoring the damp chill seeping through his breeches, he let his head fall into his hands. What else could go wrong? What was he supposed to be learning that he wasn’t grasping? Was God trying to show him something but Owen was too thick to see it, and therefore God sent more calamity his way?
Owen’s head wagged slowly back and forth. None of it made a lick of sense and, if he was honest, he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. Wiggling his toe in his boot, he was relieved to find that, while sore, it did not seem to be broken. Thank God for small miracles.
An ice-cold nose on the back of his hand jolted Owen out of his contemplation. Stout had positioned himself between Owen’s knees and tipped his head up to look at his master. A nervous whine squeaked from his throat.
“It’s alright, boyo,” Owen said, scratching Stout’s head. He knew every one of the dog’s sounds, and this whimper was not one of pain or injury, or even impending danger, but rather concern over Owen’s well-being. “I’m alright.”
Owen scanned the field once more. The fleece of his flock shone softly in the silvery moonlight as he counted them each again. Eighty head, from what he could tell. Just over half his flock remained. Pulling in a deep breath, he allowed the musty scent of the livestock, the earthy aroma of the grass and bog, and the damp sea-laden air to fill his lungs and bolster his spirit for the journey back. His heart sank again.
He was going to have to relay yet another one of his failures to the two women who mattered most in his life. Pausing, he let that thought roll in his mind, examining the idea from every angle. Could he truly say Saoirse was one of the most important people in his life? The past few weeks with her passed before his mind’s eye like a moving picture. Owen watched the phantom images, realizing just how much Saoirse had worked her way deeper and deeper into their home, family, and, indeed, his heart in a very short amount of time. Aye, he would give just about anything to avoid having to tell her about his latest foul-up. But he also knew nothing good came of lies and half-truths, so he gathered his courage, wishing he had a wee dram of whiskey to help with the task, and mustered his wits for the conversation that was to come all too soon.
He released a shrill whistle—the wordless command to Stout to head home—and started back down the hill. The journey over far too quickly for his liking, he stood outside and stared at the door for a long moment, trying to figure out if there was any way he might come out of this situation not looking like a daft fool. Before he could solve that puzzle, the door flew open.
“Owen Sean McCready, what in all creation is the matter wit’ ye?” Aileen grabbed his arm and tugged him inside. “Ya rush off in a flurry, leavin’ me and Saoirse to our own worries, and then ya just stand out here like nothin’s going on?”
Owen opened his mouth to tell her that he was alright, and everything was fine, but shut it again and grimaced. While physically unharmed, he was far from alright. “Sorry, kid.” He brushed past her. “Is the kettle on?”
Her sharp tsk echoed against the walls of the house. “O’course it is.”
Owen glanced at Saoirse as he hung his hat and coat on the peg. The light in her eyes when she saw him warmed him to the core.
“Thank God ye’re okay,” she said. “Is everyth—” She met his gaze again and paused. She must’ve read the heaviness in his eyes because she instead asked, “What happened?”
Aileen slipped a steaming cuppa into his hand as he paced the room. Saoirse and Aileen’s gazes trailed him like Stout watching his sheep. He adjusted his grip on the cup to wrap his hand around it, hoping the heat would both thaw his chilled fingers and infuse him with courage. He finally settled himself in front of the fireplace.
“Haggerty struck again,” he began, his voice low, his stare trained on the floor. The fire crackled behind him as weighty silence filled the room. Owen absently wondered if he could simply slip away and hide in the blaze, pulling its flames over him like a blanket. He forced himself to look in his sister’s eyes when he answered. “He got ’em this time.”
Aileen’s hand flew up to her chest. Saoirse rose and stood next to her. “All of them?” Aileen asked.
“No,” he said around a mouthful of tea, “but he got away with about half.”
A quiet sob slipped from Aileen’s mouth, and she slowly sank. Saoirse managed to slip a chair from the dining table under her so she sat on it instead of landing on the ground. Saoirse stood behind her, rubbing her hands in comforting swipes up and down Aileen’s shoulders and upper arms.
“Which ones?” Aileen asked with a sniffle.
Owen rattled off the ones he knew for sure were gone. “The ewe and her lamb—”
“Not Dubhín!” Saoirse cried.
Owen blinked and confusion pulled his brows together. “Du—what?”
Saoirse shrugged. “It’s what I’d named the wee lamb,” she said, looking a mite sheepish herself.
Owen couldn’t help the smile that tickled the corners of his lips. Not only had she named the lamb as if it were a dog, she’d come up with the most childlike name on earth. “Ah” was all he managed to eke out. He was afraid if he said more, he’d end up pulling her to him, kissing the spot on her forehead where her worry showed the most, and holding her tight. He took two big chugs of tea, ignoring the searing heat as it trailed down his throat. He needed to get ahold of himself. Not only did he have no business having those kinds of thoughts about Saoirse, he certainly had no business entertaining such thoughts at a time like this. Half his flock had just been heisted—a catalytic event that would lead to devastating losses in their weaving next season due to lack of wool for the yarn, among other things.
“We’ve got to alert the gardaí,” Aileen said, shooting to her feet.
Owen held his hand up. “We will, we will. But I’m not leavin’ ye two here at night while I ride back into the village in the pitch-black. It’s not safe for you lot to stay here alone, and I’m not riskin’ life and limb on that road. If Haggerty’s clan doesn’t get me, the drop-off the side of the road into the Poisoned Glen surely will. We’ll handle it tomorrow.”
“But—”
“What is Sweeney goin’ to do right now, anyway? Eh?” Owen crossed the room and set his empty cup on the counter with a thud. “He can’t very well look for clues or follow tracks in the dead o’ night, can he? We’ll summon him tomorrow. That’s all we can do.”
Aileen huffed and stomped to the kitchen. “It’s just not right, I tell ya. Not right ’tall.” She shuffled dishes and pots around the kitchen under the guise of tidying, muttering her discontent all the while. She’d retreated into herself, her words nearly unintelligible, but Owen knew she was giving Haggerty a piece of her mind, and it was in Owen’s best interests to just leave her be. After one final clang of the large stew pot on the stove, his sister blustered her way back through the sitting room and into her bedchamber.
Owen stared after her, even as he warred with the temptation to throw caution to the wind and head into town. He knew it would do no good. Even if he managed to reach the guard station safely, all Sweeney would say is he’d be out first thing in the morning.
“I’m really sorry, Owen.” Saoirse’s voice shattered his thoughts. “It’s awful.” Warmth radiated along his side as she came up next to him.
“Aye, ’tis.” He glanced down at her. “And thanks.”
“But I’m really glad it wasn’t worse.”
He looked at her, questioning.
She gestured to his right hand. “If ye’d have caught him in the act, it could’ve gone much more badly this go-round.”
Owen hadn’t even thought of that. He raised his right hand and studied it.
“How is it?” She faced him.
Sighing, he concentrated, trying to get his fingers to obey his command. They moved but only just. “Still mending.”
Saoirse cradled the back of his hand in her palm and ran her fingers over his, much like he’d done when she’d knotted herself into the thread. Fire shot up his arm at her touch, but not pain. A blazing, wonderful sort of heat that he never wanted to end. “Well...” She continued to study his hand, then drew in a long breath. Owen wondered if she was weighing what she wanted to say next. She licked her lips briefly in thought, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away. “It’s still relatively early days yet. We’ll keep praying for God’s complete healing.”
Her eyes floated from his hand up to meet his gaze.
With great effort that Owen hoped didn’t show on his face, he managed to bring his thumb down to brush the backs of her fingers that still rested on his hand.
“Ye’ll be alright,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze swept over his face.
Owen’s other hand drifted up and rested on her forearm. He wanted to thank her, but words refused to form in his brain. All he could do was nod.
“Will she?”
Owen blinked quickly, the spell broken. “Will ... who?”
Saoirse lowered her hands and jutted her chin in the direction of Aileen’s room.
It was only then that Owen realized his sister was still stomping around, as was her habit when she was so angry she didn’t know what to do. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “She will be. She just needs to get it out of her system.” He leaned closer to her ear and added, “Stout does the same thing when I forget to save him the bones from my chicken.”
Saoirse laughed. “Good to know.” The clock on the mantel began to chime. “I should be going. It’s gettin’ late.” She stepped around him and headed for the door.
He hurried to reach the door before her. “Goin’? Where?”
“I’m tired,” she said, tugging her cloak from the peg. “I was going to go to bed.”
Owen pressed his lips into a line and shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be stayin’ out in that barn alone after all that’s happened.” He tried to ignore the guilt gnawing at his gut that he hadn’t just invited her to stay in the house from the very beginning.
Saoirse flapped a hand. “I really think I’ll be fine.” She reached for the handle, and his hand landed on top of hers. He noted that she didn’t pull away.
“Not after all that’s gone on. It’s not safe.” He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. “I should’ve never had you sleepin’ out there. You can share Aileen’s room. It’ll be a bit tight, but ye’ll both be safe, and that’s what matters.” He lowered his voice. “I’d never forgive myself if somethin’ happened to you. Promise me you’ll stay in here with us?”
Her eyes were trained on their hands, both still on the handle. She looked up and met his gaze, searching his for something he couldn’t decipher. “I promise.”