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Amber huddled with Grace at the door to the hotel, grateful to whoever had brought her a blanket, and tightened her grip on Grace’s small form. Grace had collapsed in the grass outside the house after they escaped. Her body wadded into a ball, she’d screamed and cried, then vomited at her feet.
A shiver raced up Amber’s spine, and she pulled the blanket higher.
“I’ve secured rooms.” Anne said, appearing through the open doorway. She was as drenched as everyone else, yet she didn’t act like she noticed. “This way.”
Amber followed her through the lobby toward the wide, carpeted stairs. Townspeople whispered as they passed, hateful words.
“Wonder whose baby that is. Surely, not the preacher’s.”
“Shameful, her parading around like that.”
“She ought to hide herself. I’ve never seen such.”
Amber ignored it and tended to Grace instead. She was the thing of value right now.
Grace stumbled on the stairs and gave a sob. Encouraging her upwards, Amber guided her down a hallway to where Anne stood outside a room on left.
“You’ll want Grace with you?” Anne asked, unlocking the door.
Amber nodded.
“I’ve set about to find us some dry clothing. I’ll bring back what I can.”
“Anne,” Amber interrupted. “How’s Michael?” Several men had toted him away, and she’d heard cries to get the town doctor.
Anne’s countenance sagged. “Patrick saved his life.”
Patrick. Patrick was always saving lives, but that was part of his calling, to save people. First, Grace. Then Michael. Now, herself.
She shook her head. No, it stopped with herself. There was nothing to save.
She couldn’t marry him. She wouldn’t marry him. He’d asked only out of obligation. He didn’t know whose child she carried, and that would change everything. He wouldn’t want her then, and more than anything else, she wouldn’t hurt him. She also wouldn’t hurt Michael, and the truth would hurt him worst of all.
She destroyed everything she touched. Hadn’t she already done that? Wasn’t the fire her fault? She glanced at Anne. “The baby?”
Anne patted her hand. “He’s fine. The doctor’s wife is watching him for me.” She swung open the door with a glance at Grace. “Amber? Are you ... all right? Joe ...”
Amber closed her eyes. She didn’t want to talk about Joe.
“The doctor doesn’t know if he’ll make it,” Anne continued. “Amber, what was he doing in the house?”
Amber gave no response, and Anne stilled. “I’ll return,” she said at last.
Amber moved Grace to the bed and began unfastening the girl’s clothing. She must get her dry and warm. It promised to be a long night, and an even longer couple of days. Grace would take up all of her time, and for once, she was grateful. With something useful to do, she could set aside all her other thoughts. She didn’t want to think about Joe, or people’s opinions of her. Her heart beat hard in her chest. Or Patrick’s proposal.
“Here, climb in and wrap up,” she said, tucking Grace beneath the sheets. She took her small hand in hers.
Nothing. She would think about nothing, but helping Grace.
“I proposed to her.” Patrick leaned over Michael as if being closer would awaken him. “She’s expecting. How could she not tell me?”
Hadn’t he shown her how much he cared for her? They shared that kiss, and she’d said—
He sighed, the thought evaporating. How could she not find him trustworthy?
Michael breathed in, the effort ragged and frayed.
“You gave me a good scare tonight. You shouldn’t have gone back for the manuscript. It’s not worth your life.” Patrick lifted Michael’s hand in his. “I’ve made so many mistakes. I was jealous of you, greener than Ireland’s hills, and that was wrong. Forgive me, and please get better. Anne needs you. Young Michael needs his papa. I need you.”
He willed Michael to move, ignoring the discomfort of his own sodden state, and closed his eyes. He muttered a prayer for his friend, a prayer for Anne’s strength, but a few minutes in, his words changed, becoming forceful.
He shifted in his seat, his grip on Michael’s hand constricting. Evil. There it was again, the same sense he’d felt days ago. His eyes shot open. Wasn’t this evil enough? What else could there be?
Beneath his breath, he muttered the words of Psalm 91. “He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust. Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night ....”
He paused—terror by night. What had happened tonight? Why was Joe in the house?
God, help him. Help him? How could he pray for Joe when he, Patrick Finnegan, minister of the faith, had simply stood there and let him fall? Joe might be dead because of that. I must ask forgiveness. Forgiveness for not doing enough, for letting it happen when he could have stopped it.
Yet he wavered. Not tonight, not while his friend was so ill. That was Joe’s fault. If Joe hadn’t—
He simply didn’t have it in him.
Patrick glanced down at Michael, and laying his hand on his head, began to pray in the spirit. He prayed for the anointing to settle on him and for God’s healing power to mend and restore his best friend to full health.
Because he must recover. Michael was placed on earth to sing. The devil couldn’t win this, nor whatever else was coming. And he wouldn’t, if he had anything to say about it.
As to Joe ... he’d deal with that eventually.
Pat bowed his head at Michael’s side, sleep tugging at his body. A few minutes’ rest wouldn’t hurt. He drifted to sleep, awaking to a gentle tap on his shoulder.
“Pat.” Anne cradled the baby against her chest. “Pat, go rest and put on something dry. I’ll sit with him.”
Patrick stretched his limbs and nodded. “You’ll let me know if anything changes?”
“I will. Now go.”
He stumbled from the room, exhaustion weighting his body, but stopped in the doctor’s front room to adjust to the brighter light.
The doctor bent over his desk, writing in his journal. He gave a curt nod. “Reverend.”
A battle formed inside. He should ask about Joe, then pray for him. But that was the last thing he wanted to do. Seventy times seven. That was the number the Scriptures said he offer forgiveness.
Patrick forced the words through his teeth. “Doc, how is Giarello... the other fellow? Is he ....” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
The doctor pushed wire-framed glasses higher on his nose. “No. He’s not dead, but he is paralyzed from the waist down.”
“Paralyzed.” Patrick rubbed his fingers on the hem of his coat.
The doctor sat up, a peculiar expression on his face. “Reverend,” he said. “What happened in that house?”
Patrick gestured toward a wooden chair set against the wall. “May I?” he asked.
The doctor nodded.
Drawing the chair over toward the desk, Patrick settled himself with a groan. “The truth is, I’m not sure, and what I do know I ... I maybe shouldn’t say. I don’t want to hurt people, you understand.”
“Of course,” the doctor said. “What can you say?”
“We struggled, and he fell.” Patrick pulled aside the collar of his rumpled shirt, revealing the finger marks around his neck.
The doctor paused. “That looks like more than a struggle. Can I ask why?”
“Yes, but I can’t answer,” Patrick replied.
The doctor’s steady gaze rested on his face. “So without telling me why then, answer this. What happened after you struggled? What sent him over the edge?”
“The house was old, and the railings were loose. Michael ...”
“O’Fallen was involved?”
“He saved my life.” And I saved his. Patrick swallowed, one question pressing on his mind. “Doc, will Michael sing again?”
The doctor’s face turned grave. “I can’t say, Reverend. I’m not even sure at this point what damage there’s been to his brain. But we’ll think positive. If he survives and functions normally, then it’s possible with time and therapy he might. But I think he’s in for a very long road.”
A shuffle behind them brought their faces toward the hall. Anne emerged, her eyes bright. “Doc. Michael ... he’s awake.”
The warm, yellow light encircling the bed brought comfort to the tiny room, and that was a good thing because the rest of him was anything but comfortable. His head hurt. His eyes burned. Every joint and muscle ached. And worst of all, he couldn’t find his voice.
Anne had cried over him and fled. Where’d she go?
A cough built in Michael’s chest and he hacked, groaning at the pain piercing his throat.
Anne reappeared along with the doctor and Patrick.
“Michael,” Pat said. “You gave me a scare.”
The manuscript. Michael tried to form the words to ask about it, but nothing came. He lifted his hand to his throat, then dropped it with a whump. It took too much effort.
The doctor pressed his fingers to the base of Michael’s neck. “So you can’t talk,” he said.
Michael opened and closed his mouth, then shook his head.
“It’s as I thought then. You’ve scalded your voice box. Now ... we’ll see what happens in the next few days, but the best thing is for you not to speak. Rest your voice and give it time to heal. Concentrate on regaining your strength. Then maybe I can make a more accurate assessment of the damage.”
Damage? Had he lost his voice forever? He glanced at Patrick. Hadn’t Pat warned him about stepping out of God’s will? Was this judgment then?
He closed his eyes, weariness pulling at him, and heard the doctor send everyone from the room.
“Let him sleep,” the doctor said. “It’s the best thing.”
But the best thing would be to know if he was mute. God, Michael prayed. I’ll do what you ask. Just please, please don’t let this be the end.
The end often comes when you aren’t expecting it. Joe Giarello railed against his condition for the next three days. He cursed and swore at his aunt. He argued with his uncle, and raged at the doctor when he came and went.
His aunt hired a caregiver to do the menial tasks he used to be able to perform, and that was humiliating. It put him in an even fouler humor, which grew only worse with time.
“I don’t know why you had to play the hero like that,” his aunt said. “Simply calling out about the fire would have been enough. It was a long fall, and you could have cracked your skull. You are blessed to not be dead or insensible.”
But this wasn’t a blessing. The prospect of being locked in a bed twenty-four hours a day was more than he could stand; not to mention he’d never sleep with a woman again.
“What do you mean, it’s over?” he’d asked the doctor.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Giarello, but your injuries have incapacitated that part of your body.” The doctor spoke to him sternly, and for once he’d shut up.
Amber. The thought of her out there free, sleeping with someone else, especially that preacher, ate at him. It gnawed at his insides until he couldn’t stand it anymore. Someone had to stop her, ruin her plans, and if it couldn’t be him, then he knew who would.
He asked for pen and paper. He needed to deal with things in New York, he said. Then he prepared a letter.
I know where you can find Amber Dawes.
Amber moved toward the hotel room door with a glance back at Grace who smiled from her seat on the bed, a pillow hugged to her chest. It had taken her a day or so to relax in her new environment, yet interestingly enough, she seemed happy here.
“You should be proud of yourself,” Amber told her. “Look at how well you’re doing. You’re out of that house and that takes strength. Maybe one evening, you’ll feel up to going down for dinner.”
But the pale look on Grace’s face suggested not.
Anne had found them what clothing she could. The dress she’d located for her was too snug and displayed her pregnancy too much. So she’d taken to wrapping herself in a shawl when she left. But despite that, people continued talk.
They talked even more when Patrick tried speaking to her in the hotel restaurant last evening. She’d done her best to hold him off. “No, Pat. It’s too much too soon.”
In response, he’d backed away.
Yet she’d have to face him. Her problem was, exactly what to say when that moment came.
The knock repeated, and so she pushed her tumbled thoughts away and opened the door. She froze at sight of Patrick in the doorway.
“Amber, we need to talk,” he said.
She hesitated. “Pat ... there’s Grace.” She waved toward the girl. Grace was a convenient excuse, one she hoped would suffice.
He looked past her into the room, a smile rising on his face. “Hello, Grace. How are you?”
Grace slipped to his side, wrapping her arms about his waist. “Hi, Uncle Pat. I’ve missed you.”
He smoothed her hair and touched her cheek. “I’ve missed you too. Are you feeling well?”
“Much better. Uncle Pat? Where are we going to live?”
Amber returned her gaze to Patrick’s face. That was the question they’d all been asking, and she knew it weighed on him a lot. Being the man he was, he’d feel pressure to house them all.
“I’m working on that,” he said. He glanced back at Amber. “Grace, would you mind if Amber and I went for a walk? We won’t go far. I promise.”
Grace smiled up at him. “Is this about the baby?”
Patrick’s cheeks reddened, and Amber hid a smile. She’d grown accustomed to Grace’s forthrightness.
“Not exactly,” he said. “Thirty minutes? Is that good?”
Grace nodded. “It’s fine.”
“Good. Then we’ll see about supper. Would you like that?”
Amber sighed. Thirty minutes was too long, simply too much time to figure out how to put him off again.
Grace waved, and Patrick closed the door. Then taking Amber by the elbow, he steered her toward the stairs.
However, a few feet from the landing, Amber halted. “No, Pat.”
His hand arrested in midair, he turned toward her, his eyes drawn into a v. “Amber, hear me out.”
“There’s nothing to say. What you did was kind and I ... I like you. You’re different from the others. But we’re two different types of people. We don’t fit together. People hate me, and marrying you won’t change that. Besides, this isn’t your problem to solve. I don’t need your pity.”
His face changed, something vehement settling on it, and he stepped up beside her, placing one hand in the small of her back. He maneuvered her toward the stairs.
Shaken, she complied, allowing him to direct their steps to another floor. He unlocked a door and waved her inside. Her heart raced in her chest.
He closed the door behind them, then spun around and pressed her against the wall.
His expression threw her. He was angry. But Patrick Finnegan never became angry. “Pat, I ...”
He laid a finger on her lips. “No. It’s my turn to talk. I understand why you said what you did. What I do not understand is how you, of all people, can put me in a box like that.”
“A box?”
He nodded sharp. “You’ve done to me what you say others do to you. You’ve decided who I am, how I’ll react, what I’ll do next. Don’t deny it.”
She stared at him in silence.
“Look at me. LOOK at me.” He shouted the phrase.
She jumped.
“I’m a man. Can’t you see that? Do I have to prove that to you?”
He claimed her mouth, insistent, assertive, pressing into her, his hands sliding along her throat, and she writhed beneath him, her body responding to his craving with one of her own, and longing she’d determined no longer to feel. An ache arose in her gut. Expanding, it climbed into her throat and choked her.
He made to back away, but she drew him back in. She’d have more. She’d feel that again ... the magnetism between them, the mind numbing sensation that drove all her other thoughts away. Tears pooled in her eyes. What was this? Her breath fled and her thoughts scattered.
“Am I a man now, Amber?” he said softly. “Am I?”
“Yes, Pat.”
She reveled in his breath blowing warm in her face, on the lingering taste of his skin on her tongue.
He raised his hands to her cheeks and cradled her face, his tone relaxed and even. “The strongest men are those who exercise self-control. Over their passions. Over their bodies. They’re men who know the rules and abide by them because it’s right. It takes far more courage to obey than it ever does to let go.”
He took her hand in his and folded their fingers together. “I may be many things—a minister, a friend, an uncle— but never again doubt that I am a man. I love you, and I want you as my wife, not because I’m obligated or because you need protecting, but because you are so beautiful and I need you.”
Heat swept over her skin and into her cheeks, and she gave into it. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone,” she said. “You can’t know what that’s like for me.”
“No, I probably don’t. But you don’t know what this is like for me either,” he replied. “Everyone expects me to be a certain way all the time. It’s not that they don’t think I’ll get married. I could have married at any time in the past. Instead, it’s that somehow because I wear a collar I should be half a person. They look at Michael and adore him. It’s ‘so romantic’ that he sings to his wife. And you know I love Michael, but no one sees me that way.”
“I do,” she said. “Pat, ask me again.”
He leaned into her face, his lips hovering over hers, the whiskers on his chin tickling her skin. “Amber Dawes, will you marry me?”
“Yes, Pat. I will.”