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Patrick spun around in the street, his heart pounding, and trained his gaze on the diminishing back of the boy. Had he heard what he’d heard or not?
Several passersby glanced at him furtively, the ladies with pink cheeks and nervous hands, the men in a huff.
He clenched his fists at his sides. Out of the frying pan into the fire. How much would he have to endure?
He held his head high and finished crossing.
Was he being paranoid or were people in town really looking at him strangely? This morning at the hotel, he’d noticed it too, the turned heads and shaded eyes. People had moved to the other side of the room as if he was tainted.
Amber. The night of the fire, the entire town saw her standing there barely clothed and obviously expecting. He hadn’t gotten the image from his own brain and he loved her, so he understood that. Yet then again, he didn’t.
His stomach sank like a rock thrown to the bottom of a very deep pond.
After the words in the newspaper were printed, the wheels of gossip hadn’t really stopped churning. No retraction could remove it from people’s minds. Shamefully, he’d missed last Sunday’s service because of it. He simply couldn’t bring himself to face the crowd.
Glancing up, he met the gaze of a woman wearing a crimson dress, her lips smeared bright with rouge. At sight of him, she pulled to a halt. “I seen you,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
She pressed in close, and the fragrance of her perfume stung his eyes.
“I seen you the night of the fire. You’re the one with the whore.”
Patrick stumbled back, his pulse swishing in his ears. He detested that word.
“Not that I’m judgin’,” she continued. “We all gots our secrets. But that’s what they’s sayin’.”
His next words snapped out. “Who is ‘they’?”
The woman tilted her neck and coiled a strand of her orange hair around her forefinger. “They.” She waved toward the town. “I heard it first at the grocery. The man there said, ‘You heard ‘bout the Reverend?’ And his friend says, ‘Yes. I saw her that night. Been hearin’ he had a woman in his house. ‘Course he’s an honorable man, so I didn’t b’lieve it. But then his house catches fire an’ that must be a sign from God ‘cause she’s standin’ there for the whole world to see.’”
A sign from God? As if God needed to burn his house down to prove a point. Patrick snorted.
She continued. “Heard it from two ladies outside the milliner’s too. One says, ‘He’s gonna marry that woman. You watch.’ And the other says, ‘Awful.’ Just like that with her lip all pulled up like. But you know, I been thinkin’ on it myself. If’n she marries you, then she’s not what she was and seems like that makes things all right.’” She tossed her curls about her face.
Patrick’s face heated. Shoving the woman aside, he plunged down the street. He had to cool off, put his mind on other things. Yet his walk somehow had the opposite effect, for the words stewed in his brain, repeating over and over until he’d worked himself into quite a dither.
He arrived at the lumberyard, his mind churning. The smell of fresh wood and sawdust coated his nostrils. Stepping around disorganized piles of discarded scraps in the open yard, he crossed toward a metal-roofed shed situated at the back. The buzz of saw blades deafened his ears.
An older man with a head of gray hair gave him a nod, then ran a length of board through the saw. Holding the wood fast in his left hand, he pushed it out the other end with a stout pole. There, he peeled it away and tossed it onto a pile. He waved at a younger man nearby who immediately took his place. Dusting his hands off on his equally dusty shirt, the man motioned Patrick forward, away from the noise. “Reverend,” he said.
Patrick exhaled his frustration. He had to relax. This fellow would help him. He would get it set up to rebuild the house and things would be all right again. “I guess you heard about the fire?” Patrick began.
The man nodded and wiped his brow with his sleeve, smearing sawdust into the folds. “I did.”
“Well, I want to rebuild, and I’m looking to hire someone. You come highly recommended. I have plenty of money. I will more than double your price.”
He’d decided on that last evening. If he offered enough, he’d get better work, and he was particular about what he wanted the house to look like.
The man made a strange face. “That’s more than generous,” the man said. “But I’ve got to be honest with you Reverend. I don’t agree with what you were doing in that house.”
Patrick’s hands curled into fists. “And what would that be?”
“You bein’ a man of the cloth ought to know better than to be sleepin’ around.”
Patrick’s composure snapped. Hauling back his fist, he let it fly, landing it squarely into the man’s jaw.
The man staggered backward, clutching his cheek. “I’ll be d*mned,” he said.
And Patrick stared at his fist as if it was no longer his. What had he done? He’d struck someone, and never had he behaved that way before. He flattened his fingers.
“I’m ... sorry,” he said. “I have to go.”
You did what? Michael’s face screamed the words. Not that he wouldn’t have done the same.
“I hit him.” Patrick held out his hand before him, his gaze fixed on the offending member.
Michael reached out and tapping Patrick’s hand back into his lap, shook his head.
Patrick continued to babble. “I’ve never lost control before. I mean, on the walk there people kept talking, saying the worst things, and then a boy threw a rock at me.”
Michael’s eyebrows rose at that.
Patrick sighed. “No, he missed, but ... but I never ... I mean, he said I was ... and it was too much. Fighting is your department.”
He threw this onto the end, and Michael choked back his laughter, a hand on his throat. He grunted in pain.
Patrick reached past him for the water pitcher and filled a glass. “Here, drink,” he said.
Michael swallowed the liquid, at the same time wiping tears from his eyes.
“It’s really not that funny,” Patrick said.
But it was, and Michael couldn’t stop laughing.
Before long, Patrick started to chuckle. “Oh boy,” he said. “How in the world am I going to explain this one?”
“Explain what?” Anne stepped into the bedroom from the hallway, the baby wriggling in her arms.
Michael pulled back his fist and launched it slowly at Patrick’s cheek, stopping inches away.
She studied him, and then looked at Patrick. “You hit someone?”
Patrick smiled. “The lumberman, squarely in the jaw.”
She giggled. “Patrick, they say love makes a man crazy, but this tops it. What did you do afterward?”
He threw his hands wide. “Nothing. I ran.”
She readjusted her grip on the baby and shot Michael a look. “You quit laughing. You’re not helping things.”
He grinned. This was the best he’d felt in days. Patrick was growing up it seemed. First marriage. Now, street fights.
“Well, I have good news,” she said. “I assume you didn’t find any place for us to live?” She directed this question at Patrick.
Patrick exhaled loudly. “No. I didn’t take the time. Why?”
The baby squirmed yet again, and she passed him down to Michael. “You take him,” she said. “He’s becoming like his father, too much to handle.”
Michael cuddled the little one in his lap and received a gurgle in response. Seeing his son was another happy thing. He’d missed the little fellow. He refocused his gaze on Anne.
“I’ve found something,” she said. “It’s small and needs cleaning. Plus, there’s a catch.”
A catch worse than cleaning? Young Michael curled his fingers around his father’s thumb.
“We have to babysit a cat.”
Michael looked up at her.
“That’s right,” she said. “C-A-T. Gaelic or English.”
He smiled.
“It belongs to old Mr. Jones. He’s going to visit his grandchildren, but he can’t take his cat along. He says we can stay as long as we need, but we have to feed Mr. Puss.”
And once again, it all became too much. He and Patrick fell out with laughter.
“That’s quite a cat.” Amber said. She clenched Grace’s trembling hand in her own and moved inside the bungalow. The cat flicked his tail and made no effort to get up. “I’ll be he weighs fifteen pounds,” she added. He seemed docile, however.
Anne moved past them into the tiny front room and standing there, turned in a slow circle. “Well,” she said. “It’s ... quaint.”
Quaint was a good description. Bungalows like it were a dime a dozen. Small, square, wood-framed houses. If you’d seen one, you’d seen the next.
The floor creaked, and Michael and Patrick entered. Suddenly, the place seemed crowded. How were five people and a baby supposed to live here for what would amount to months? And who knew how many because apparently Patrick’s attempts at finding a builder had failed, though his telling of the story was sketchy.
“It’s dirty,” she said.
The dirt of time. Years had accumulated around the old man in the form of books, tools, and other assorted knickknacks. He’d had nobody to care for but himself, and nobody to please but himself. She knew how that was.
She gazed down at the worn furniture and then across at the cracked, peeling paint. “Looks like we’ll be spending our time fixing up this place,” she said.
Leaving the others where they stood, she led Grace through the room into a pair of bedrooms. There were three in the house. The first, and largest, was connected to the tiny living room. The other two, strangely enough, were entered from a short hallway in the kitchen and were connected together by a door.
Things would be cozy. Wandering from the first bedroom into the second, the room farthest from the front door, she swept aside a stack of newspapers resting on top of the bed. A cloud of dust arose. She seated herself, and Grace promptly descended at her side. She laid her small head on Amber’s shoulder.
Amber patted her cheek. “There now. You’re all right. You did that very well. And we’ll be here for a while, so you can settle in and not worry about having to go anywhere else.”
Grace sighed and nodded.
Amber held her firmly. She’d talked to her about the move this morning and hadn’t liked the fear in the girl’s eyes. Fear was at the heart of everything Grace did. Spending days and nights with her over the last couple weeks had shown her that. It wasn’t that she had any disease, like some thought. Instead, she was afraid. Afraid of death. Afraid of failure. Familiar feelings Amber remembered.
The day her father turned up dead in an alley, she’d been consumed by fear. Even as bad as he was, he was someone to care for her. Yet with him gone, she’d have to fend for herself.
The memory came rushing in—long shadows on the pavement, her nervousness standing outside the bar, the huge choice she’d had to make. Fourteen and on her own. Fourteen and having to survive alone.
They’d carted her da off in the big wagon, not giving him a glance, and she’d stood there numb, watching, finally calling out “I love you” as his body disappeared. I love you to a man who had put her there in that place.
It’d taken her two days to get up the nerve to go inside the bar. But at that point, she was starving. Never had she felt as hollow as she did then. Desperation finally drove her inside.
“Hello? Is anybody here?” she’d called out.
Her young voice whisked vivid through her memory and she pictured it all: the narrow room; the shuffling noises from the back; and sight of the man standing there, holding a rag in his hand and a crate of glasses.
She’d dressed the part, trying not to overdo it, knowing she couldn’t pull off the look of an older, more experienced woman. Yet the low neckline of the dress she’d chosen and her already hefty bosom spoke well enough.
“Can I help you?” the man had asked.
Sam. He’d been her friend until Michael killed a man there. Fed her. Watched over her. But he hadn’t wanted the trouble death brought or the danger her presence remaining would risk.
“I’m looking for work,” she’d said that first day. Fateful words.
“You’re too young,” he’d replied.
But she’d insisted she knew her way around, all the while exposing her cleavage. After all, he was a man like all the others. He’d know a good thing when he saw it. And eventually, they’d struck a deal, a week’s trial. A week. A week of sleeping with whoever came in that door. A week of making a good enough impression.
In the end, she’d doubled his business and her life had spiraled out of control.
So many faces. So many long, unhappy nights. Until a certain Irish boy entered.
Water under the bridge. She couldn’t take her life back or change the past. But she could look toward the future. She was engaged to Patrick Finnegan, and she trusted him. She even cared for him, yet her deepest secret she kept to herself.
Patrick didn’t know everything. He didn’t know who the baby’s father was, and that would change everything. No one would forgive her then. Given that, why had she agreed to marry him? Could she stand at the altar and say her vows with this secret in her heart?
She shut her eyes to close off the problem, but it rose before her even larger.
What about Joe? Joe knew who the father was. What would he do? Would he forget or ... She breathed deep to calm her fluttering heart ... or would he tell?
She laid her palm over her belly and rubbed slow circles to still the baby’s movements.
How long did she have? How long to decide whether this was best told or kept buried deep inside?
Church sanctuaries were by nature quiet places. Patrick had always loved that about them. Years ago, in his own pulpit, he often came and sat in the pews simply to soak in the silence. Yet the silence today was deafening; it clashed against the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears and the rapid thudding of his heart.
He selected a pew near the front and settled, casting his gaze toward the altar. The pine boards of the wooden pulpit cast golden afternoon light around the room.
How many years had it been since he’d stood behind one and preached? Too many. He missed it in many ways. Speaking God’s Word to the people was an honor like nothing else.
“Reverend,” a booming voice said.
Patrick lifted his gaze to an elderly man in the aisle. “Thank you for seeing me, Pastor Eldridge.”
Pastor Eldridge seated himself ahead of Patrick and laid his arm over the back of the pew. The bench groaned. “How can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m getting married.”
Pastor Eldridge didn’t appear surprised by this announcement. “My congratulations.”
Patrick nodded. “Thank you. I realize this is short notice, but I wish to be married quickly.”
This, he’d thought about. If Joe sent a letter within days of his accident, it would be at least a week on its way. It’d take whoever read it another couple weeks to arrive. That gave him a month’s grace. Not much time.
Pastor Eldridge moved his arm to his lap. “Reverend, your bride to be, she’s the woman who has been staying with you?” He asked the question lightly with no rancor in his voice.
It hurt just the same. “Pastor, the woman is a friend of a friend,” Patrick said. “I did not invite her. But at the same time, I could not turn her away. She had nowhere else to go. In the interim, my feelings for her have grown.”
Why did he feel the need to defend himself? He’d had no control over his heart.
Pastor Eldridge looked at him evenly. “I must speak the truth, Reverend, I’m concerned about her salvation and yours.”
“You know of mine,” Patrick replied. “God is foremost in my life. As for hers, she ... she’s not had an upbringing in the church, and its people have treated her unfairly. I fear it will take time.”
Time he didn’t have.
“Reverend.” Pastor Eldridge’s voice became soft. “You know what the Scriptures say. I know you are a man of God, and I trust your judgment. If you feel God wants you wed to this woman, then I will not question that. However ...”
Patrick braced himself. Hadn’t he known this was coming? He’d have counseled the same to any who approached him. It was odd being on the other side of the issue.
“However, I cannot perform a ceremony of that nature. It goes against God’s laws.” His statement finished, the pastor waited.
Patrick bowed his head and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “I respect that. Pastor, if I might ask you a question?” He raised his head and focused his gaze on the pastor’s face.
“Go ahead,” Pastor Eldridge said.
“Which is right? For me to take her in, protect her and her unborn child, give the child a home and a name, or deny my feelings and cast her out into a society that doesn’t accept her? She wishes to change her life. How is she to do that unless someone steps in to help?”
Pastor Eldridge smiled. “You said you had feelings for her, so I assume helping is not your only motive.”
“I do, and it isn’t.”
“Then as I said, you must do what you feel God has asked of you. I will pray for you both this week.”
Patrick rose to his feet. He’d expected this but had been compelled to ask. They’d have to go before a judge, which was done easily enough, but it denied her the grace and beauty of a wedding. He’d wanted to give her that.
“Thank you,” he said as he moved to the aisle.
He turned his back and walked toward the exit. At the door, he glanced over his shoulder and met the pastor’s gaze.
“Reverend,” Pastor Eldridge called. “If once your wedding is complete, you wish to return to the church with your wife, you are both welcome. Christ was a friend to both saints and sinners. This place will be the same.”
Patrick nodded sharply and slipped out the door.
“There’s a letter for you,” a man grumbled, dropping an envelope in the Irishman’s lap.
The Irishman glared at him then stared at the envelope curiously. Who would write to him? He studied the post mark. Florida. This letter had come a long way.
He slipped his finger beneath the flap and slid it across. The paper tore easily, and a single page fell out. He scanned it first for the signature and leaned back sharply in his chair at the sight. “Well, isn’t that interesting?”
Giarello. He’d heard Joe had gone south. Something about visiting his aunt. What could he possibly have to write about?
Lifting his glass, he took a swig, the yellow liquid slipping easily down his throat. But he slapped the glass down hard after reading his opening words.
I know where you can find Amber Dawes.
Amber. Hatred simmered in the Irishman’s gut, an unquenchable fire. How dare she run out on him? And steal his money, too.
He’d searched the city for her high and low, but no one seemed to know where she’d gone. It was like she’d vanished into thin air. With his baby in her. His baby.
His gaze darkened. He hadn’t wanted it at first, but after thinking about it, decided this was his namesake. The child deserved to know his papa.
He stared back down at the page.
I’ve met with an accident at her hand.
An accident, huh? Well, that explains why Giarello would write. Giarello had always been sweet on her. What could she possibly have had to do with it though? Amber wasn’t the violent type.
The letter continued. I cannot walk and fear it is permanent, so any reprisal on my part is not possible. However, I knew you were looking for her and thought you’d want to know where she is keeping herself and with whom. She is with O’Fallen.
O’Fallen? There was a name he hadn’t thought of in a while. O’Fallen was supposed to be dead. How did his plans for O’Fallen go so far off course? He wasn’t supposed to survive. The Irishman shook his head.
“So you went running to him,” the Irishman said to himself. Should have figured it. Should have known that’s where she’d go.
She’d talked about him in her sleep. Tossing and turning, she’d call out his name, and that only made him angrier. So angry. O’Fallen. It was time to shut him up ... permanently, and if no one else could do it right, then he’d do it himself.
“Never fancied traveling south.” But if that was where she was, that’s where he’d go.
He gripped the page and it crinkled in his palm. The final sentence stared up at him and his blood started to boil.
Unfortunately for her, O’Fallen is married, so she’s shacked up with a preacher who word says plans to marry her. You’d better hurry or your kid won’t be your kid much longer.
He tossed the letter in the floor and stood to his feet. It was time to end this. Forever.