Chapter 19
19
Saoirse stifled a yawn as they rumbled down the path into the village. She and Owen had worked in the shed for several hours the past two days, and she was exhausted. Her body ached and her mind was numb after such intense focus for so long. She had been looking forward to the time with him, but the task required such concentration, especially as her speed increased, that they’d hardly spoken the whole time. Now, with the wagon rocking from side to side, it was like Naomh íde herself was singing a lullaby just for her, making it almost impossible for Saoirse to keep her eyes open. Every now and then, a rut or rock in the road would jolt the rig and shake her back to her senses—for which she was grateful. If she fully gave in to the pull of sleep, she’d either fall over the side of the wagon or end up lying on Owen’s shoulder. Not that leaning into his strong form, his warmth wrapping around her as he secured an arm around her waist, didn’t sound enticing. Heat spread up her cheeks, and she was grateful no one else could read her thoughts.
She had almost declined when Owen said they all needed to head into town. The thought of catching a quick nap in the quiet by the fire had sounded like just what the doctor ordered. But Owen insisted she come.
“I’m not about to leave ya here to yer own devices with those scallywags terrorizing the county like they own the place,” he had said. “You and Aileen can go for a walk, visit the church to pray, or call on Bridie. Ye’re just not stayin’ here alone.”
So, the three of them crammed onto the wagon together as it rolled down the hill now, past the church, and into Glentornan. Owen had a doctor’s appointment to check his right hand and arm. Saoirse snuck a glance at him from the corner of her eye. His gaze was trained forward, his expression neutral. Except that the muscles in his jaw were taut, and the creases between his eyebrows were just a mite deeper than usual. She fought the urge to reach for his hand and encourage him that everything would be alright.
Suddenly he turned, and his eyes met hers. Apparently her glance had turned into staring. She offered a shy smile. “Don’t be nervous,” she said.
He scoffed slightly. “I’m not.”
On the other side of him, Aileen snorted. “Aw, sure, and what’s there to be nervous about, eh? Ye’re just about to find out if yer livelihood is in danger or not.”
Owen swatted his sister’s arm playfully at her attempt to defuse her own fears or discomfort.
“Alright,” he said, turning back to Saoirse. “I might be a wee bit nervous.”
Saoirse smiled and bumped his shoulder with hers. “It’ll be fine. I know it.”
He returned her smile, and his gaze dipped briefly to her mouth before bouncing back up to her eyes. “Thanks.”
The wagon rumbled to a stop, and the trio alighted. Owen made a beeline for Doctor McGinley’s office.
“It’s just yer arm he’s lookin’ at, aye?” Aileen called after him.
Owen stopped and turned back. “That’s right.”
“Right.” Aileen huffed a determined breath and tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I’m comin’ with ya.”
Owen started to protest, but Aileen brushed past him and was at McGinley’s door before he could form an argument. He sighed. “Suit yerself.” He offered a sheepish grin to Saoirse and shrugged.
“Good luck,” she said, then she watched the siblings disappear into the darkened interior of the doctor’s office.
Saoirse spun in a slow circle, once again taking in her surroundings, as she tried to decide what to do with herself for the next while. She looked to the northeast, in the direction of the church. Time in solitude and prayer sounded lovely, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to trek back up the hill alone to do it. Turning more northward had her looking in the direction of Bridie and John’s home. While she thoroughly enjoyed their company, she’d also experienced their hospitality, unannounced, twice now. And she did not feel like she knew them well enough to simply call on them, especially knowing that Bridie would insist on filling her with tea and biscuits. Saoirse couldn’t, in good conscience, consume any more of their much-needed supplies. Finally, she faced due west and decided to follow the winding road through the village. Dunlewey Lake stayed on her right, its unseasonably calm waters reflecting the sky and peak of Mount Errigal like a mirror.
A dozen or so stone houses lined both sides of the narrow street, and no one else was about. Saoirse figured most were working indoors, or out in the fields. At the end of the road, tucked up against the foothills, stood another stone building with a thatched roof. Muffled singing floated up out of the chimney, mingling with the turf smoke as it curled lazily in the still air of the late afternoon. A small stone sign next to the door read “ Scoil Mhic Dara .”
“Saint MacDara’s School,” Saoirse muttered to herself. “Interesting.” While it was not uncommon for schools to be named after saints, Saoirse found it interesting that one in this part of the county was named after the patron saint of seafaring and fisherman. Though, if legend was to be believed, MacDara’s first name, Síonach , was an old Irish word referring to stormy weather. That alone made sense, as this part of Donegal was known to get some of the worst squalls on the island.
The sound of church bells shattered the air. The door of the school burst open, and half a dozen children ranging in age from five to ten erupted into the fresh air. The form of a tall, slender gentleman filled the doorway and called out some sort of instruction or parting word to the children, but Saoirse couldn’t make out what he’d said. She had to jump to the side of the road to avoid being run into by the squealing students as they sprinted past her.
“ Tá brón orm ,” the man called and waved.
Saoirse waved back, smiling to let him know she accepted his apology and wasn’t cross.
“Those wild Donegal children’ll kill ya if ye’re not careful.”
Saoirse yelped and spun around. Aileen stood there, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. Saoirse pressed a hand to her chest. “I think you’ll be the death o’ me first, Aileen.”
Aileen laughed. “C’mon, doc’s all done with Owen.”
Saoirse studied her friend’s face, searching for any sign of how the visit had gone. But Aileen was looking past Saoirse, staring at the school, her face like a stone tablet, revealing nothing except a slight blush in her cheeks. “How’d it go?” Saoirse asked.
Aileen turned and started walking back toward the wagon, shrugging a shoulder. “Well, the stitches are out and he doesn’t have to wear the bandage anymore, but it’s still too soon to know how much use he’ll have out of it.” Her tone was flat, matter of fact. Saoirse couldn’t tell if she was holding anything back—either news or emotion.
Up ahead, Owen was walking to the wagon, his pace just barely slower than a jog. Saoirse’s stomach clenched. Her gaze dipped to his right hand. The bandages were indeed gone, but otherwise the limb hung nearly lifeless at his side as he hurried toward the rig.
When Aileen and Saoirse finally met up with him, Owen’s stiff posture and the darkness in his eyes made Saoirse pause. He extended his left hand toward her, his gaze fixed on some distant point behind her. She took his hand and allowed him to help her into the wagon, but she could not relish the touch of his roughened skin against hers as her heart thrummed against her chest, worry for him swirling in her gut.
The ride back was silent—an experience that was becoming all too common for Saoirse’s liking. Time and again, she opened her mouth to ask Owen what the doctor said, but fear caused her to clamp it shut again. She wasn’t afraid of his reaction but rather the words he might say. If he had, in fact, lost most of the use of his hand, she wasn’t sure she could bear the weight of the news alongside everything else that had happened of late.
Next to her, Owen shifted and turned his palm up. Saoirse watched silently as he studied his palm before his fingers slowly and stiffly curled inward a mite and then relaxed. He let his hand slide down until it rested on the edge of the rough bench seat, right next to Saoirse’s. The side of his hand bumped up against hers. He shifted, mumbled an apology, and tucked his arm closer to his side. Saoirse studied his profile for as long as she felt able to without drawing his gaze back to her, wishing there was more she could do to ease the burden weighing on his shoulders. He hunched slightly in the seat, as though the physical weight of all he carried was literally pulling him down. She slid her hand in his direction and draped her pinky finger over his.
He didn’t move or look in her direction. But he blinked, and after a long moment, he curled his little finger around hers and shifted so the sides of their hands pressed fully together. His stature softened ever so slightly, and Saoirse couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like a shuddered breath rumbled in his chest, much like the ones that had shaken her as she tried to hold her tears at bay so many times.
Saoirse’s eyes drifted closed, the sheer pleasure of his touch warring with the worry burdening her heart for him. Lord, please help.