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The summer heat blew sultry over the line of wagons headed south. Joe Giarello raked his fingers through his black ruffled hair, and slipped his aunt’s letter into the pocket of his coat. He snorted. Dinner party? Though she’d raised him and put him through school, his aunt acted so frivolous and silly now that he dreaded his visits. He could only imagine what she had planned this time.
He eyed a girl in the wagon ahead, her long, blonde lashes curled around two brilliant blue eyes, and winked at her. She laughed, parting full, pink lips to reveal even teeth. What I could do with her. His insides warmed, and his mind altered her image to one more sordid.
He needed some entertainment, and soon. It had been what? Three days?
The lowing of cattle burst in his ears, and he tightened his grip on seat. Surely, he could find a suitable companion for the night in the next godforsaken town. A companion and a drink.
After all, no one expected a man of his virulence to do without.
Sleep dragged at Michael’s eyelids, and he leaned back in his chair with a groan. Rubbing his eyes with his palms, he stretched out the kink in his neck. Long night. Awful night. Worse morning.
Stupid. Stupid idiot. What had he been thinking? He’d kissed her. He, Michael O’Fallen, married man, had kissed a woman who was not his wife. Worse yet, Anne saw the whole thing.
Was it a gut reaction? He’d said it was. Yet, though Amber had made the first move, he’d stood there and returned it.
The manuscript blurred before him, and he repeated the phrase he’d been reading for the fifth time. “Le mo ghrása mise, agus liomsa mo ghrá.”
Where had he heard that expression?
“Le mo ghrása mise, agus liomsa mo ghrá,” he repeated.
“I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine: he feedeth among the lilies. It’s from Song of Solomon.”
He twisted his head and met Patrick’s gaze. “Come to rescue me, are you?” And boy, did he need it.
Patrick smiled in the doorway at him. “Do you need rescue?”
“Aye. Mama used to say, ‘Michael O’Fallen, Av al' de boys in dis city, ye are de most 'ard-‘eaded.” And after earlier today, the stupidest.
“I think your mama was on to something.”
Michael winced and waved Patrick toward a chair. “Sit, my friend, and tell me what’s up.”
“I think I’m the one needing rescue. This dinner Friday, I’m ... at a loss. I know nothing about females. How do you do it?”
Michael crossed his arms behind his head. “How do I do what?”
Patrick sighed. “You look at them, and they melt. I haven’t any advantages, no marvelous voice, no amazing green eyes, only verses of Scripture and the ability to speak in sentences.”
And integrity, which is more than I have right now.
Michael shook his head. “I’ve never seen you so insecure. Seems to me you do pretty well. As for the green eyes and the singing: the eyes I can’t help. They are what they are. The singing I try to reserve for my wife. You’re too hard on yourself. Amber agreed to go. If she didn’t want to, she’d have said so.”
“Maybe that’s what frightens me,” Patrick replied. He ran his hands down his pants legs. “Plus, she ...” His voice trailed away.
Michael sat forward. “She what, Pat?”
“She’s in love with you.”
Michael frowned, his gut twisting. “I was nice to her, and whatever caused her to flee New York painted me in a more heroic light. I’m no one’s hero. Frankly, I’m tired of the idol worship, and I’m not particularly looking forward to Mrs. Compton’s dinner on Friday. But she and her husband are pillars of the community, and it’d be foolish to make enemies of them just because I can’t eat dinner, smile, and make conversation.”
Patrick eyed him, his expression solemn. “I’m over-reacting. I know,” he said. “But I’ve never been this nervous before. Well, except for the first time I had to stand before a congregation, and that was partially because my father was there scowling at me the whole time.”
Michael ran his hands over the manuscript and looked away. “Your father was too hard on you.”
“While we’re talking,” Patrick said. “There’s something else bothering me.”
Patrick averted his gaze for a moment and counted the glimmering spines of the many books spanning on the shelves. He hated to ask this, but it was bothering him. “How does it look with her living here?”
Michael shifted in his chair. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
Patrick stared at him for a moment. What is up with you? It wasn’t any of his business, but Michael was acting strange. Could be a simple lack of sleep. The baby had cried for several hours.
“I’m unmarried. She’s unmarried. People will talk,” Patrick continued.
Michael flicked his hand. “She’s our guest, Pat. That’s all you need to tell anyone.”
Patrick studied him. There it was again, edginess. Michael held something inside.
“Besides, I thought you weren’t worried about your reputation.”
“Not mine,” Patrick replied. “Hers.”
“Hers?”
Patrick sighed and ruffled his hair. Why couldn’t he get her out of his head? She consumed him.
Michael stood to his feet and stretched his back with a resounding crack. Circling the desk, he patted Patrick’s shoulder on his way out the door. “Relax. You’ll be fine.”
But he didn’t feel fine. There were only three days until Friday, two if you discounted the present one, and he was already sweating.
He turned his thoughts another direction, mulling over Michael’s behavior. He was missing something and not just about Michael. Everyone seemed strange today. Michael was short-tempered and snappy. Anne didn’t come down for lunch, which wasn’t like her, and neither did Amber. Even Grace seemed off.
What was wrong with the people in this household?
It’s in my head. But was it? He should pray for a while and ask God to send peace. It seemed they all needed it, himself included.
He shut his eyes, the weight of prayer burdening his thoughts. Dear Lord, what is it? What is the matter here?
He prayed in the spirit, unknown words that only God would know and understand, powerful words of strength and might.
Darkness crawled up his spine and slithered around his heart. Evil. Something really evil was coming. But what is it? And why? He prayed yet more, casting away the powers of darkness that would threaten his family and friends.
Then from deep inside came a quiet voice, a mere whisper in a warning. Do not rely on man. No man, the voice said. Rely on me, and I will carry you.
“I will,” Patrick replied. I will.
Angry voices crowding Amber’s head scraped her insides raw, and she threw her hands over her ears to cover the noise. But they came from inside, from a memory she longed to forget.
She had lots of memories, both good and bad, but this one frightened her the most. Life or death, it had required she take steps to protect herself and her unborn child.
Uncomfortable, she paced the floor of her room, willing the thought away. But the voice grew louder, insistent. I’m not bein’ saddled with another mouth to feed. You get rid of that. The baby’s father had snarled the words, spittle flying from his mouth spraying over his unshaven chin. It’d been unlike him to let it grow out, but then, he’d taken to drinking too much.
No, please, I want this child.
Lost in the memory, Amber cradled her growing curves. She’d lost two babies over the years. He hadn’t understood this might be her only chance.
His face reemerged as it had been that night, his nostrils flared crimson, his mouth set in a line. Talk back to me. Will you? He’d removed his belt, and curling it into a loop, backed her onto the bed.
Don’t. I won’t do it again. I promise.
Blind in his rage, he’d flailed the belt until the tip of it turned red and spotted with blood, and she’d screamed and screamed, her hands covering her waist, wishing it to end.
He’d gone back to his drinking after, and she’d crawled beneath the sheets, her body wracked with spasms, waiting for him to sleep again. And he had, his head tipped back, his mouth open.
Then she’d heard the voice, soft and gentle, from somewhere deep inside. “You’re better than this. Go.”
She’d known then that she either left or both she and the baby would die.
Sliding from bed, she’d tiptoed to his dresser and opened the top drawer. She taken money he kept there, careful to not make a sound, and folded it into a cloth then tucked that to her chest. Wrapped in an old robe, she’d dashed for the doorway, escape a hairsbreadth away. But sight of the newspaper headline had stopped her—THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN VOICE. On the spur of the moment, she’d scooped it up.
He’d stirred, snorting in his sleep, drool running down his chin, and the voice had returned. “Go. There.”
Michael O’Fallen, the Irish tenor, the paper had read. Michael. Her eyes and filled with tears, then not looking back, she’d fled into the night.
Amber dashed new tears from her cheeks. No one ever wanted her. Her da had given her away. Old Sam had thrown her out. She’d been forced to escape the baby’s father. Yet after what she’d done, Michael and Anne had bid her to stay? Why? Why hadn’t they thrown her out? It made no sense.
Maybe it was to torment her because she couldn’t look at them now. Despite her ever-present hunger, she’d avoided dinner, wanting to be alone. But then Patrick had arrived with tray of a food.
“I was concerned about you,” he’d said. “Are you not feeling well?”
She’d lied, saying her stomach was upset. But the only upset she had was her guilt. Guilt which ate at her like a cancer.
“Well, Anne made you a tray. She said you shouldn’t go without, and I told her I’d bring it. I’ll fetch it later. Do you need anything else?”
Anne made her a tray? Why would she offer food to a woman like herself? Someone who’d done nothing right since coming here.
The low light of evening crept into the room, and Amber looked at the empty tray. She’d eaten every bite.
It had to be because of the baby. That was Anne’s reason. She knew the baby needed nourishment, so she’d sent the food. It didn’t mean anything, and she shouldn’t expect more than that anyway.
“Amber?”
Amber’s gaze shot to the doorway and the face of Patrick’s niece. “Grace? You’re ...” Not in your room.
Amber moved toward her, wrapping her in an embrace. Grace laid her cheek against her chest, and Amber brushed stray hairs away from her cheek.
Grace stretched out her fingers toward Amber’s belly. “Can I feel?”
Amber startled at her question. “F-feel what, sweetheart?”
Grace’s eyes lit up. “The baby.” She curved her small palm over Amber’s rounded abdomen.
“Grace.” Amber stared down at Grace’s innocent face. “You can’t tell anyone. Not Uncle Pat. Not Mr. O’Fallen. No one. Promise me.”
Grace drew her brows together.
“Promise.”
Grace nodded slowly, her eyes solemn.
“It’ll be our secret for now. Would you like that? For you and I to have a secret?”
“I can keep a secret,” Grace said. “I keep them for Uncle Pat all the time.”
Amber pursed her lips. What secrets could he possibly have? He didn’t strike her as someone apt to get into trouble and definitely not someone with a past like herself. No, he was a considerate man who thought only of others.
She brushed a finger down the tip of Grace’s nose. “I’ll bet Uncle Pat appreciates that.”
Grace twisted around on the bed, her slim ankles dangling above the wooden floorboards. “Uncle Pat is lonely,” she said. “I keep him here when he should be doing things.” She glanced up at Amber and back at her small feet.
She speaks of Uncle Pat, but not herself. Did the child not think of her own freedom? She should be going to school, making friends, finding a beau. Amber had wanted those things for herself: birthday parties with frilly dresses; Christmas celebrations sharing gifts; school dances. She’d had to grow up too fast.
Amber wrapped an arm about the girl’s slender waist. So much pain held itself in Grace’s mind, pain she shouldn’t have to bear. Yet here she was, worried about Patrick and not herself.
“Your Uncle Pat loves you,” Amber said. “I don’t think he has any regrets.”
“He loves you too.” Grace’s eyes spread wide, and she clamped a hand to her mouth. “I ... I should haven’t said that. It is a secret.” Her eyes filled with tears.
Amber tightened her jaw to prevent its falling slack. He loves me? That can’t be. They’d only known each other two days.
Grace’s distress increased, and with a cry, she threw herself face down on the bed. Amber reached for her, running a hand down her slim arm. “Grace, look at me,” she said.
Grace turned her tear-stained face upward.
“Did he ask you to keep that secret?” She wiped at the girl’s damp cheeks.
Grace sniffled and shook her head.
“Then you did nothing wrong. How about you read me more of that story you started last time?” she asked. “I want to know what happened next.”
And more than that, she needed to get her mind off her troubles. The past. The present. The future. All of it was too much to bear. One hour with a story would be one hour she could forget.
Grace climbed up on the bed, settling at her side, and Amber placed an arm around her. How could she possibly continue to think so much of herself in the face of this precious child?
The third stair from the top creaked beneath Patrick’s feet, and he stared downward. It was an old house with many such places. He slid his fingers over the balustrade to the newel post at the top. An old house, but one finely made.
It had sat vacant for quite some time when he purchased it. Of course, he knew it was too big for only him and Grace, but he liked the acre lot with the vegetable garden in the rear, though it had been overgrown, and the rose bushes down the side. He also liked the hand-crafted workmanship in the cornice boards and window trim. Someone had taken a great deal of time and expense to build this place.
He hadn’t changed it much since they moved in, a lot of decay remained. The walls needed painting. A spindle or two on the staircase landing was loose, and a window in the east bedroom was cracked. He hadn’t any talent for woodwork or repairs anyway. But he liked to imagine what the house could become if he did.
His steps took him around the landing toward the murmur of Grace’s voice. He recognized the story. Little Women. She’d read it many times, said it was her favorite.
He approached the doorway to Grace’s room and halted at the scene before him. Amber leaned back on the headboard, her hand caressing Grace’s head. She looked ... right sitting there. And beautiful. A knot formed in his throat.
What was happening to him? Why did he feel this way?
He turned lest she see him gawking and wandered across the landing to the rail. Leaning over, he met Michael’s eager face.
“Oh, there you are,” Michael said. “Can you come down here? I think I’ve found something in your father’s manuscript.”
Obedient, Patrick retraced his steps downstairs, walking at Michael’s heel inside the office to the side of the desk.
Michael spun the manuscript around, his finger pointing to the page. “I thought it odd your father would write in Gaelic, Gaelic being more of an oral language than a written one. I mean, where’d he learn to write it to begin with?” He held up his hand. “I know you said his family had money, so I figured perhaps there were connections I didn’t know about. Maybe even you didn’t know about.”
He rested himself on the corner of the desk. “Then it seemed like the contents are all jumbled together. A bar song. A Scripture verse. An Irish poem. A handful of proverbs. All of it interesting, but I kept asking myself, ‘How does all this fit together?’ And I saw a pattern.”
“A pattern?” Patrick glanced down at the yellowed paper.
“Yes. See how he’s broken it up? That was the other thing that bugged me. Why not write all the way across? But instead he made these columns. Today I noticed if you take this and switch it ...”
Michael reached onto the desk for a sheet of paper and thrust it into Patrick’s hand. “You have to translate the words into English after, but that’s roughly what it says.”
“Written for my laomdha son.” Patrick said. “Are you quite sure?”
“Yes, I don’t know the word before ‘son’ means and need someone to ask, but that’s the premise of it.”
“I said I’d send you to New York, but you refused.”
Michael’s face straightened. “It’s too risky, Pat. I know they say things are changing politically, but what if?”
Patrick smoothed out the paper on his knee. “Life is full of ‘what ifs’, Michael. What if you trust God to protect you? You’ve done that before. How is returning to New York any different?”
“It’s different because I have a family to think of. I have Anne, young Michael, and the baby on the way.” He clenched and unclenched his hands.
“God’s the same no matter where you are. Either you believe in Him or you don’t. He wants to take what man meant for your destruction and make of it something great. I’ve told you that. But you resist performing for others, and that worries me because there will come a time when you’ve stepped outside of God’s will for your life. I don’t think you want that.”
Michael breath released in a whoosh. “I wish I could be as calm about it as you.”
Patrick smiled. “Yes, well, I wish I had your flair, so we’re even.” He looked back at the page in his lap. “Do you think there’s more?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. My question is, ‘Why?’ Why did he go through all this trouble?”
Patrick returned the translation paper to the desk and resisted the urge to call his father a name. That wouldn’t do. As his son, he needed to respect him. But his father had always made life difficult. Even his mother, as much as she loved him, had admitted at times she became frustrated.
“My mother once told me my father was the most private man she knew, and I’d agree with her assessment. He was never ... affectionate, I guess is the best word. When I decided to enter the ministry, he’d play this game with me.”
Patrick crossed his ankle over his knee. “He’d throw out a verse and make me quote it to him in reverse.”
“Whatever for?”
Patrick shrugged. “I think to stump me.”
“And did he?”
He shook his head. “No.”
Michael glanced down at the manuscript. “So do you think this is a game? Is it that simple?”
A game. A tedious game. Patrick rubbed his forehead, lightly compressing his temples. “I think my father, bless his departed soul, is somehow still managing to test me.”
He reclined in the chair, extending his legs out before him. “Did I ever tell you how my mother died?”
Michael shook his head. “No.”
“I was twelve. My sister was sixteen. Mama took us into town to buy new material to make my sister a dress for some party. I went along to drive the buggy. Mama was always afraid of horses. Well, she’d come out from her shopping and was crossing the street when a wagon appeared out of nowhere. The horses were out of control. The driver sawed at the reins all he could, but he couldn’t stop them in time. And just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “She was gone.”
“I’m sorry, Pat.”
Patrick glanced away. “My father mourned her, so I guess he loved her in his own way. But what frustrated me was he blamed the whole thing on God, as if God had some use for her being gone. I’ve never understood that mentality. God is good. He is love. He didn’t need my mother. We needed my mother.”
He stood to his feet and wandered toward the door. “Tháinig mise chum go mbéadh beatha aca agus go mbéadh sí go fairsing aca.”
Michael smiled and clasped a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “’I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.’ Beatha agus fuascailt. Life and deliverance. That’s what we all need.”