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“Do I have to give him back?” Amber cuddled young Michael against her chest.
Anne smiled and captured him from her arms. “Only for a moment.” She moved into the kitchen, taking a place in a chair and leaning against the wall. The baby’s greedy nursing soon filled the space, and Amber warmed to the scene. That Anne shared her child, Michael’s child, with her meant a lot.
“Was he behaved?” Anne asked. “Because his Papa wasn’t behaved.”
Amber brushed her hand over her expanding waistline. Whatever that meant, she wouldn’t ask. “He was an angel. Thank you for allowing me to take care of him. It was good practice.”
At this, Anne reopened her eyes. “When are you going to tell Patrick? You can’t hide it for much longer, and he deserves to know.”
Amber glanced away. She couldn’t tell him, not yet, though it was more evident every day. Her face was filling out and her hands were more swollen. But she’d carried the secret so long. “I can’t. Not after this morning. He’ll feel obligated.”
That was something she didn’t want—Patrick to step in for her out of some sense of duty. Because that’s the kind of man he was, the kind who would do what he could no matter how much it hurt.
“He gave me his Bible,” she said.
The baby’s gentle coos brought Amber’s gaze back to his small face. He’d detached himself from Anne’s breast, his mouth still suckling. Anne cupped his head in her palm and brought it to her lips. “My precious wee man,” she purred.
“I ... I can’t read it,” Amber continued. “But Grace can, and she read to me ... I think she called them psalms?”
Anne tucked her blouse together with one hand. “What did you think?”
“I didn’t know the Bible had poetry in it. She read me one about a shepherd. I like the idea of such a peaceful place.”
Anne held out the baby. “Do you mind?”
Amber eagerly took the baby from her and curled him to her chest, breathing in the soft scent of his skin.
“You can have that peace in your heart,” Anne said, refastening her blouse. “You only have to ask him to live there.”
Amber pressed her cheek to young Michael’s face to avoid giving an answer. The words Grace read were beautiful. But how could poetry written so long ago possibly help her? All this talk of God living within ... what did it mean?
She avoided Anne’s gaze and stepped ahead of her into the hallway, the baby cradled in her arms. Near the office door, she came to a halt. Patrick stood there, his gaze fixated on her.
Heat swept across her cheeks. How was it with one glance she could feel he knew her every thought? Yet he’d expressed no judgment, only offering encouragement.
For whose benefit? He wore his heart for all to see. He’d certainly made his feelings for her clear, and now ... now, she didn’t know how to act.
Up. Down. Up. Down. Her thoughts and emotions rose and fell like the wind. What should she make of all this? Michael defended her. Anne offered friendship. And Patrick—
She spun in place and offered Anne back the baby. “I’m going upstairs to lie down. I’m ... tired. Thank you.”
Anne gazed back at her curiously, but Amber turned away without speaking. She passed Patrick her eyes averted and hastened her steps toward the stairs.
She needed more time, time to figure out what she really wanted here. Time she probably didn’t have.
Darkness claimed the room with long, hushed fingers, leaving only the light of a faint moon. Michael pulled Anne closer to his chest and breathed in the scent of her, his senses flooding. Brushing her hair from her neck, he indulged himself in the thing he’d wanted to do earlier today. Sliding his hands down her slim throat, he tugged her nightdress away and pressed his mouth, warm and moist, to her soft flesh.
“You are so beautiful,” he said.
The events of the day came flooding in, and he sucked in his breath. He had to ask. All this time gone by, yet he wanted to know as badly as ever. “Anne, what do you remember?”
She sighed. “Must we rehash the past?”
They must because she didn’t know the entire story; she didn’t know what happened after the storm or the torment it had given him. “I have to tell you something, something I kept to myself,” he said.
She squirmed beneath him. “Tell me what?”
His eyes stung with the remembrance of that fateful day. The most awful day of my life.
“When I found you after the storm, you were naked, and Ferguson was dead, shot through the heart. But that’s not all.” He paused. “His pants were ... around his ankles.”
She inhaled sharp and rolled over in his arms. “Is that why ... Oh, Michael. I never knew. All this time you thought ...” She cupped his cheeks in her hands. “You dear, sweet man. I never meant to torment you. In fact, I thought by not bringing it up I was helping. I can see I was wrong.”
She kissed him then, her lips smooth against his. “He came at me, yes, but he never succeeded. We struggled, and I somehow captured his gun. I don’t remember shooting him, only holding the gun. The rest is a blur. I only have scattered images of the storm and the wind.” She met his gaze. “You are the only man I’ve ever been with.”
Overcome, he pressed her flat to the bed, raising himself overtop. Unfastening her nightdress, he traced a serpentine path down her flesh, on her belly, splaying his hand flat.
“A chúl álainn tais na bhfáinní cas,
is breá 's deas do shúile
's go bhfuil mo chroí a shlad mar shníomhfaí gad
le bliain mhór fhada ag tnúth leat;
dá bhfaighinnse ó cheart cead síneadh leat
is éadrom gasta shiúlfainn-
Is é mo mhíle creach gan mé is tú ...”
“Hair soft and lovely, in twinning curls
Eyes so clear and fine,
My heart is racked for want of you,
Like a twisted twig for a year.
If I'd right and license to stretch beside you
Airy and quick would I step!
A thousand pangs, my love ...”
“That’s the first time you’ve translated anything,” she said.
He smiled. “I wanted you to know how I felt.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“As are you.” He pressed his mouth to her skin, kissing lightly over her curves, tasting the nectar of her skin. At her naval, he raised himself until he hovered over her face. Her mouth opened, and he licked her supple lips.
“Mo ghrá thú,” he breathed between breaths. “A chuisle, a chroí, a chara.”
I love you. My pulse, my heart, my friend
From Patrick’s place at the end of the landing, he could hear it all. Every creak and thump, tap and thud, and tonight, the distinct sound of Michael making love to his wife. He rolled over in bed and tried to block out the noise.
How had he forgotten he was a man? Always he’d been his father’s son, his sister’s brother, or Grace’s uncle. He’d been the preacher, Reverend Finnegan, and good friend Pat. But he’d never been a husband or a lover. He’d never had the opportunity to share with the woman he loved the thoughts of his heart and to receive hers in return. He’d also never dared indulge in physical fantasies; he’d had none, in fact, until Amber.
Night claimed the house and the moans through the wall ceased. Yet sleep evaded him, and alone, awake, Patrick mulled over his personal torment until it reared up before him, ugly and loathsome.
Jealous. He, Patrick Finnegan, quiet, studious man, memorizer of Scripture, student of God’s Word, was incredibly jealous of Michael O’Fallen. And jealous for reasons he’d never thought possible.
It was wrong. So very wrong to covet what another man had. But he did. He coveted Michael’s happiness, his ability to overcome things by simply being himself, his having a wife to share things with in the darkness.
Michael. A man he loved. His best friend. And someone he tried now not to despise.
He rolled over and stared at the wall. He wouldn’t. God could answer the cry of his heart.
His reservations and misgivings reentered. Answer it with whom? If he wanted a wife, God would provide her; he believed that. But this was larger than that now. He didn’t want anyone, he wanted Amber. Yet the road to her heart was long and fraught with many twists and turns. She didn’t trust him, or anyone.
Patrick closed his eyes. “God, take this from me,” he said. Take the pain of loving someone who might never love him back. It was too much to bear.
He fell asleep, but slept troubled, awakening too early. Unable to relax, he rose and went downstairs. He exited onto the front porch and retrieved the paper, then moved into the kitchen. Settling in a chair, he concentrated on the news, determined to drive away his thoughts of the night before. Yet he hadn’t read down very far before an advertisement leaped out at him. And below it another. And a third.
This was Michael’s doing.
The office door clicked in the hall, and Patrick’s gaze wandered that direction. Rising from his chair, he sucked in a breath and walked to the office. He entered, unapologetic, and didn’t stop in his stride until he’d reached the desk.
He slapped the newspaper on top of the manuscript at Michael’s fingertips. A bit too hard. “They’ve printed your retraction and handsomely I might add.”
Michael perused the page without looking up and smiled. “Couldn’t make it much larger than that, could they?”
Patrick’s mood soured further. That infernal happy smile. He retrieved the paper and calmed himself. He shouldn’t be angry. The stories were good news, not bad.
He flipped to the next page and reinserted the paper in Michael’s view, his finger tapping the other ad. “Then there’s this.” He quoted it. “‘May celebration starring the golden voice of Michael O’Fallen.’”
Michael clutched the sides of his head. “Ouch. Guess I’m on the hook now.”
Patrick once again retrieved the paper. Shifting it higher, he returned it. “One more.”
Michael studied the page, his eyes scanning back and forth, then he whistled. He glanced up at Patrick.
“How is it you can break an entire window in a public fracas with an ‘unknown stranger,’ it make the paper, and that enhance your reputation instead of destroy it? How do you do that?” Patrick asked.
Michael’s grin widened.
Patrick stuffed down his snappish behavior. He wasn’t being fair and should act better. He removed the paper from the desk and folded it under his arm. He waved at the manuscript. “You’re up early.”
Michael glanced down. “I wanted to reread something I stumbled on last night. I wish I’d paid more attention when I was taught.”
Patrick settled himself in a chair. “How were you taught? I know you said your father died.”
“Of typhus,” Michael returned. “Mama spoke mostly Gaelic, English more as I got older. But she couldn’t read. She sent me to school, such as it was. She was determined I’d better myself, which was hard to do in that environment. Riots between factions, Protestants fighting Catholics, labor strikes—fights broke out all the time in some quarter. Add to that the fact she couldn’t watch me constantly, not with doing whatever work she could find. I’m amazed I turned out decent at all.”
He dangled his hand over his crossed leg. “I have to put any reading ability down to a studious neighbor, an older man who thought keeping Irish alive was important. He used to gather us kids around the Irish-American newspaper and make us read the Gaelic column aloud.”
“Sounds like God had his hand on you.”
Michael tilted his head. “I suppose he did. I’ve never thought of it that way.”
“After she died, what happened?”
Michael’s face changed, growing long. “It never becomes easier thinking of her,” he said. “She died so sudden. One day she was there, the next she wasn’t. I ... I lost my way.”
“Was she Catholic?”
Michael’s gaze drifted. “When she and my father came over, yes. She converted later. Some street preacher spoke a sermon in Gaelic, and she gave her heart to Christ. Of course, others were converting out of political pressure, but for her it was real.”
“And for you?”
“I heard the words and didn’t take any of them seriously. But they were in there, I guess.”
Patrick’s anger dissipated. “Seeds,” he said.
“Seeds planted in my heart. Pat, are you all right? I mean, when you came in here you seemed ... upset, and I wondered if you and Amber ...”
It all came flooding back, his jealousy, his sleeplessness, the uneasiness that he, Patrick Finnegan, would never be the man Michael was, might never have what Michael had.
“I’m fine,” Patrick replied evenly.
“Look, I’m sorry, Pat. It’s your business. I shouldn’t have asked.”
Patrick rose from his chair and stepped to the door, his parting words pointed barbs. “No, you shouldn’t have.”
Joe Giarello focused his dark gaze on the newspaper, his fingers gradually wadding it up in his fists. O’Fallen. Golden voice. Golden boy. With an apology that big it seemed even the melee at the café was forgiven.
His aunt entered the kitchen, her slippers scuffing on the tile, and he smoothed the paper back out. She stopped before him, gripped his chin, and stared at his nose.
“It looks swollen,” she said. “You’ve broken it.” She reached toward it with a fat finger, but he twisted his head away.
“That hurts,” he grumbled, his voice nasal. Of course, he’d broken it, or rather O’Fallen had.
She released him and patted his shoulder. “You really should watch those steps next time. You don’t want to trip again.”
Steps. Right.
Ice formed around his heart. It was time to move his plans up. If Amber wouldn’t come out, he’d have to go in. The idea lit in his mind, and he turned it around. Could he do it? Could he simply take what he wanted?
He tented his fingers. It was a notion worth a great deal of thought.
His aunt slid into a dining chair and dipped from the breakfast tray. “Your uncle and I are going out tonight,” she said. “We’re having dinner at the club. Will you be able to entertain yourself? I did think you and Mr. O’Fallen would spend more time together while you were here. Pity, he’s so busy, as you said.”
“A pity,” Joe repeated. “Yes, I’ll be fine. In fact, I might go out as well, if that’s all right with you?”
She paused in the midst of buttering her bread. “Fine. Fine. But where will you go?”
He smiled, “I do have friends, you know, dear aunt.”
She returned to her meal. “Of course, you do. You always were popular.”
He rose from the table, and Amber’s face rose in his mind. He licked his lips.
“You are going to stop waffling around and do what it is you want to do.” Patrick gave himself a pep talk in the bedroom mirror, his insides going from hot to cold.
There was nothing wrong with this. Any man in love with a woman came to the point he needed to express it, and being a minister made him no different. Listening to Michael and Anne together had made up his mind. He wanted what they had. He no longer wanted to be alone.
It could be God was waiting on him to make the first step, and as long as he waffled around, he’d stay in this torment. He didn’t like his behavior with Michael this morning, didn’t like being angry at his friend. That had bothered him all day, and now he faced a long night again.
He couldn’t handle more sleeplessness. So he’d made up his mind. He would do this and head in the right direction.
But would she accept it or reject it?
“Accept. She will accept,” he said, forcing confidence into his manner. She would accept and know he was serious about her. At least he hoped so.
Patrick ran his fingers through his hair, a fruitless exercise because it sprung back in place, and straightened his collar. “No more doubt. No more doubt.” Because doubt was killing him. Doubt was the reason he’d not done this already.
All the arguments raging in his head resurfaced. She’d been with other men. He wouldn’t compare. She had knowledge of things between a man and a woman he didn’t have, and he’d look foolish. She didn’t want someone clean and serious like him. She needed excitement, and he wasn’t that.
Then again, she’d indicated she was through with that lifestyle and wanted something different, something settled. You couldn’t possibly get more settled than him.
No, this would work. She would see he was sincere, and that was the best thing he could do—be himself.
His nerves rattling, he left the room muttering positive phrases beneath his breath and crossed the hall. He raised his knuckles to the door and hesitated only a second. He knocked sharply, forcing confidence into his manner, and prepared the words he’d practice.
But her beauty in the doorway, emptied his mind of all thought, and frozen in place, he stared at her, a million emotions clouding his head.