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The hair on Michael’s neck prickled, and nervous, he shoved his hands in his pockets.
Court your wife, Mr. Farmer had said.
He inhaled. He still wasn’t sure how to do that. For that matter, standing in the hallway outside her room, his feet had rooted in place. Mr. Farmer, not far behind, waved him on.
Build on what you have, he’d said last night. Work towards the future.
Michael released his breath and yanked at his collar, which suddenly pinched too tight. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair. He could use a haircut.
He gulped and stepped into the room. At the sight of Anne, the air whooshed from his chest. Dark circles sat beneath her eyes, bruises crisscrossed her arms. Yet to him, her golden hair spread out on the pillow, she remained beautiful.
His heart surged. He loved her so much, but couldn’t say that yet. He either kept control of his emotions, or he’d botch this up.
“Well,” she said. “You going to stand there or talk to me?”
Michael walked further into the room. “I’ll talk.”
Anne motioned to a chair beside the bed. “Sit then. You’re giving me a kink in my neck.”
She sounded angry. At who? Him? He dropped into the chair, folding his hands in his lap. She was even more frail when seen up close. Tiny veins spiraled down her neck and arms. Creases had formed at the corners of her eyes.
What had happened to the pair of them? He choked on the thought. He missed her persistent chatter, the clumsy way she fell over her words. He didn’t know her as she was now.
“I ...” Unsure what to say, his words failed.
“You what? You love me?”
He winced at her tone and gave a nod.
“I don’t know you,” she continued. “I don’t know anyone but the Farmers. I have one memory of you, maybe two. I remember being outdoors somewhere .... I was ... you know ... and you were watching me, and I remember us ... us ...” Her cheeks reddening, she looked away.
She remembered the spring? Michael cleared his throat. “That w-was before we wed ... at the spring near your house.”
She spun back around, her face pale, her eyes wide. “Y-you s-saw me ... like that be-before we wed?”
This wasn’t going right. She misunderstood. Michael rushed to explain. “No. I mean, yes, but it was an accident. I didn’t know you were there. I looked up and you were in front of me. I ... I turned around. I didn’t mean it to happen.”
“And the other?” she whispered.
His cheeks grew hot. “A-after. Much after. I ... you know, and you ... It was mutual,” he blurted. “We ... we were wed. What was wrong with it?”
Her gaze didn’t flinch, and her voice emerged in barely a breath. “That I don’t remember you.”
Hearing the pain in her voice, he couldn’t look away.
“Tell me,” she said. “Who am I?”
“Anne Sawyer O’Fallen,” he replied. He could give her a name, but not much else. He only knew the little they’d told each other to pass the time, and that seemed trivial now.
“O’Fallen. You’re Irish?”
Uncomfortable in her stare, Michael ducked his head. “Aye.”
“Well, Irishman, tell me about our wedding.”
The wedding? She didn’t remember the wedding? He squirmed in his chair. “You don’t remember?”
“No, I don’t remember. Was it in a church? Did my family come? What about your family? Did I have a beautiful dress? I want to know!” Her volume rose as she spoke, anger in her words.
This was wrong. How could he describe it? As upset as she was, she wouldn’t understand what’d happened. What did the wedding matter, anyway, if he loved her?
“Well?” she demanded.
“I ... We ...”
Michael muttered a prayer beneath his breath. Please, God, help her understand.
“There wasn’t a church,” he said, frank. “No family attended, and you didn’t have a wedding dress. You wore your nightdress. An evil man put a gun to your back and one to my head and told us to repeat the vows.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks. Michael stretched out his hand toward her. “But Anne, it doesn’t matter to me. I love you. From that moment on, I’ve loved you.”
Couldn’t she see that? They had each other, years together, to be happy. Nevertheless, her next words ripped his heart from his chest.
“It matters to me,” she replied. “Because I don’t love you back.”
Anne studied the top of Michael’s head, noting the way his hair curled over his collar, the tint of red which emerged when the sunlight struck it, and she wished she could take the words back. He was the most handsome man, but then, her memories of him had already told her that.
To see him deflated like this was too much. She’d hurt him, but she’d only told the truth. How could she love him when she didn’t know him at all? It seemed simple in her thinking. Yet the raw emotion on his face spoke differently. Bess had said he’d wept over her, and now she believed it. She cleared her throat. “Michael.”
At the sound of his name, he raised his gaze.
“I want to know the rest.”
But uncertainty sat heavy on his features, and she knew. If their wedding was bad, the rest must be worse.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
No. She wasn’t sure. But any key to who she was seemed important. Their lovemaking was mutual, he’d said. So she’d given herself to him on purpose. Had she loved him then? Her hand crept down to her belly. What of the rest of her memories?
“I’m sure,” she said. “I remember a man, older. He kissed me, and it was horrible. He ... did other things. Who was that?”
Michael clenched his fists, his teeth grinding, and worked his jaw back and forth. He knew who it was and didn’t like him.
“Ferguson,” he replied, sharp. “He’s dead.”
“Did he do something to me?” she asked.
Michael blew out a breath. “I ... no, he didn’t.”
She cocked her head. He’d changed his thought mid-stream. What did that mean? “The baby ... it’s yours?”
His face colored. “Yes.”
He didn’t sound convinced. Why? Did he hide something else from her? Did it matter if he did? He said the baby was his, then surely it was.
She wrinkled her brow. Being married made the baby legitimate. People wouldn’t talk about her. Wasn’t that better than how she’d felt before, being alone? But marriage, absent of her feelings for him, seemed wrong as well.
You don’t have to go through this alone, Bess had said. He will be a good father. Don’t you want that?
Didn’t she?
“Close your eyes,” he said.
Questioning, she blinked. “Close my eyes? Why?”
“Just do it,” he replied.
She shut her eyes and started as he sang, clear and sweet, an Irish lilt to his words.
“’Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter,
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love’s shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?”
His voice stilled, and for a moment, Anne lay there, breathing in the magic. When she opened her eyes, she pushed up onto her elbows because the room sat empty. He was gone.
“Michael?” she whispered. But no one responded, and a strange hole opened in her heart.
Michael ducked into the hallway and ran out the front door, not looking back. Stumbling down the steps, he dashed through the garden gate and into the lane. His footsteps took him into the swamp. Until he was ankle deep in muck, he didn’t stop to breathe.
Quivering, he shut his eyes and listened to the rapid beating of his heart. What had possessed him to sing? The Farmers had said to court her, and that song had come to mind. He’d taken the coward’s way out though, asking her to close her eyes. He didn’t think he could make it through to the end with her looking back at him. Then, with the words all said, he’d panicked.
An insect latched onto his neck, and he slapped it away.
His mama was forever singing something. As a young lad, she’d rock him in her lap and croon, mostly in Gaelic. He hadn’t realized until now how much he missed it, or how much of it he’d forgotten. To actually sing by himself before another person was daunting, though. He hated the attention. But Anne had liked to hear him speak in dialect before, and singing seemed like part of that.
Over time, his pulse slowed, and taking a deep breath, he turned around and wandered toward the house.
She said she didn’t love him. But what had he expected from her? She had only the faintest recollection that they’d been together.
The baby. It’s yours?
Even in that, she’d had to ask, and he’d almost fed her doubts. What happened to her during the storm was his alone to bear. Let her think the baby was his. Probably it was. He wanted her back, and those doubts would only make their separation worse.
Mr. Farmer stood on the front porch, a cup of coffee in his hand. His fuzzy eyebrows wriggled. “That was fine singing,” he said. “I’ve never heard such.”
Michael’s face heated. Giving a nod, he slouched against a post.
“A voice like that is a gift,” Mr. Farmer continued. “Did you sing to her before?”
Michael averted his face and shuffled his feet. “No. I’ve sung for no one but my mama. She used to say I sounded like an angel, but I figured she was prejudiced.”
“Well, all I have to say is, you sing like that to any other female, and they’ll be eatin’ out of your hand.” The old man chuckled.
Michael gave a crooked smile.
A shadow crossed at the door, and Bess Farmer emerged. She swiped floured hands on her apron. “My darling boy,” she said. “Anne’s askin’ for you, blathering really, and she won’t shut up. I can’t say I blame her.”
“Sing it again,” Anne begged. His voice was the most amazing thing she’d ever heard. Her mama used to sing the hymns, but she couldn’t carry a tune. Michael, on the other hand, could sing finer than anyone she’d ever heard.
Michael shook his head, a hint of a smile on his face. “Another time.”
She caught her breath. Happy, he was too handsome to believe, and her heart skipped.
His eyes twinkling, he coughed into his hand. “One performance a night.”
“Then you owe me one tomorrow,” she said.
He inclined his head.
Her curiosity climbed. “Did you do that for me before?” Surely, she’d remember something that marvelous.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
He laughed, the sound curling delicious around her soul.
“Ferguson would’ve liked that.”
“Oh, I didn’t think ...” Maybe she shouldn’t have reminded him of that.
But he waved his hand outward. “Forget it. It’s in the past.”
In the past. He’d resolved whatever had happened to them then.
“Where’d you learn the song?” She brimmed with questions now.
Leaning over his lap in the chair, he rested his elbows on his knees and folded his hands, one atop another. “My mama was always singing.”
“Is she alive?”
That seemed like a natural question, but the twinkle in his eyes died, and her heart sank. She knew the answer before he spoke.
“No.”
No, and he’d loved her very much. Silence descended, and the minutes stretched out interminable. Uneasy, Anne opened and closed her mouth, searching for something to say. “Where are you from?” she finally asked. He’d probably told her that before.
“New York.”
Florida was a long way from New York. Then again, she didn’t know where she was from either. She could have come just as far.
A knock at the door drew their attention. Bess, smiling widely, entered into the room with a tray in her hands. “Your supper’s ready,” she said to Michael. “It’s in the kitchen. I’ve something to feed your wife, so you just go right ahead and I’ll take care of it.”
But Michael stood and grasped the opposite side of the tray. “You go,” he said calmly. “I’ll do it.”
Michael engaged Bess’s curious expression with a determined one of his own. Anne was his responsibility, his wife, and he’d take over some of her care. She clung to the tray, for a moment, however, before releasing it. Then with a glance past him at the bed, she turned and left the room. He set the tray down on the dresser.
“Surely, you can feed yourself,” he said. “I don’t recall you breaking your arms.”
Anne smiled at him, amused. “It’s hard to do lying down.”
“Then we’ll sit you up.” He surveyed the bed and reached around her to rearrange the pillows.
Her face paled, and she threw a shaky hand to his arm. “My legs.”
He gasped at her touch, flames racing across his skin. “I’ll be careful,” he whispered. She tightened her grip. “I promise,” he said, overcome. “Trust me.”
Tucking one arm behind her back, he lifted her small frame upright. “T-that better?” he asked. How had he forgotten what her touch did to him? The sweet agony of it.
“It’s fine,” she replied. “But you look ...”
Michael turned away, willing himself calm, and released a shaky breath. He reached for the tray and, setting it in her lap, spoke lighter than he felt. “Don’t make a mess.” He settled in the bedside chair again, his hands in his lap.
Anne glanced at the food, but made no attempt to pick up the spoon. “Michael? What’s wrong?”
How did he say, I need you. I can never get enough? “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked instead.
She looked down again. “I’m afraid my appetite isn’t so great.”
But not eating wasn’t good for the baby. “How about we make a trade?” he asked.
“A trade?”
He nodded. “You eat the food, and I’ll quote you one of my mama’s famous sayings.”
Her face perked. “She had sayings?”
“Dozens of them. Always full of advice, my mama.”
Anne touched the spoon’s handle. “I’ll try.” She pressed the spoon to her lips and gulped. “One down, three thousand to go.”
Her food looked like a mountain and sat in her gut like a lead weight, but curiosity about what Michael intended to say kept Anne going. She was supposed to hate him, but already, after an hour in his presence, felt so comfortable. It was more than his handsome face or the hope of hearing him sing again. He had a spark of life that fed something deep inside her.
She forced herself to take another bite and smiled at the nervous expression on his face. He’d turned crimson red when he’d lifted her, sweat beading upon his brow.
He was attracted to her. Was that surprising? They’d made a child together, and according to him, she’d participated. Why did that make her feel smug?
Distracted by her thoughts, she choked on a bite and groaned, her hand clutching her belly.
Michael laid a hand on her back. “Are you all right?”
She startled at his touch. If he was affected by her, it seemed she was the same. “I’m f-fine,” she stuttered.
“Is it the baby?” he asked.
The baby. Not our baby. When would that change for either of them?
Anne sighed and nodded. “Bess says it’s normal to feel such malaise, but probably worse with my injuries. I really hate food.”
To her surprise, he grinned.
She scowled at him. “You’re amused, are you? You try carrying another life inside you.”
Though she’d spoken playfully, his mood altered yet again. His breath sucked inward, and his hands trembled.
“Can I ... look?” he asked.
Gooseflesh rippled across her skin. Look at what? What did he want to see? She hesitated, for an instant, but couldn’t refuse. Clearly, this mattered to him.
Anne nodded, and Michael set the tray aside and peeled back the bedcovers. At the sight of the splints on her legs and the bruises crisscrossing her flesh, he uttered an oath.
The word lay flat in the air, an expression of all that had gone between them.
Tears sprang to his eyes. Silently streaming down his cheeks, they dripped from his chin onto her nightdress.
“Michael ...”
She wanted to comfort him somehow. Say, I’m alive because of you. But he placed a finger on her mouth. Hovering his hands over her the surface of her skin, he traced his fingertips down her thighs, along her calves, to her feet. He trembled with it, his shoulders vibrating, his breaths rapid. A sob escaped his lips and he collapsed, his head buried in her lap.
Anne’s heart clenched, and she stifled a cry of her own. How could she hate someone who cared for her this much? If the baby was his, then he had a right to be here. Didn’t she owe him that?
Michael hadn’t meant to cry. But at the sight of Anne’s injuries, it all came bubbling out – the fear, the grief, and strangely enough, the joy. Joy that she was here, alive.
When she rested her hand on his head, his tears ran afresh, and he gave in to the emotion flooding his soul. She left it there, her fingers twining through his hair, and traced the tips across his cheek when he turned his head.
“I’m sorry,” he choked.
“Don’t be. I didn’t think about you not having seen all this.” She waved her hand at her legs. “It’s better than it was, really.”
Through the tears on his lashes, he turned his gaze to her belly. A child. Though he couldn’t tell it now, a child grew there. A song emerged in his mind, and unthinking, the words fell from his lips.
“Má thagann tú choiche ná tar ach san oiche,
is siúl go réidh is ná scanraigh mé
gheobhaidh tú an eochair faoi shá shair an dorais,
is mé liom féin 's ná scanraigh mé.”
“Níl pota sa mbealach níl stól ná canna
ná súgán féir, ná ní faoin gréin
tá an madra chomh socair nach labharfaidh sé focal
ní náir dó é, 's maith mhúin míse é.”
“Tá mo mhaimí 'na codladh 's mo dhaidí á bogadh,
's ag pógadh a béil, 's ag pógadh a béil,
nach aoibhinn di-se 's nach trua leat míse,
'mo luí liom féin ar chlúmh na n-éan.”
He cupped his hand over her belly, the last strain tumbling out.
“What ... what did you say?” she whispered.
He smiled and pulled himself upright. “It’s a lullaby for a child. I’d forgotten it until now.”
“Did your mama sing it?”
“Many times.” He rubbed his jaw. “See now, you’ve forfeited tomorrow’s performance, dragging that out of me.”
“You volunteered,” she said.
He laughed beneath his breath and pulled the bedcovers back over her, returning the tray to her lap. “Eat,” he said, tapping the bowl.
She stared lifelessly at the spoon. “I hoped you’d forgotten.”
“No, we made a deal. Remember?”
“I remember,” she said.
As the last bite entered her mouth, Anne held up her finger and grunted. She shoved the tray away and covered her mouth to extinguish a yawn.
“You’re tired,” Michael said, his eyes softening. “I should go.”
He made to rise, but she grasped hold of his hand. “You promised.”
His palm lay warm over hers, calluses rasping against her skin, and his fingers tightened on hers. She cleared her throat. “I held up my end.”
He didn’t speak, but instead, fastened his gaze on her face.
“S-so what did she say?” Anne asked.
At that, he reclined in the chair, her hand still wrapped in his. “She said many things, much of it aimed at correcting me, but she talked of my father sometimes. I never knew him. He died not long after they arrived, so she’d tell me stories.”
“What kind of stories?”
He cocked his head and adopted a burr. “Oh, stories av de auld country, whaen they met,” he purred. “She'd say me da wus de ’andsomest paddy in al’ av Oirlan’.”
Anne giggled. “Did she sound like that?”
“Aye, always.”
“I wish I had her advice.”
He raised an eyebrow, and she rushed to explain. “Because she raised you on her own, and look how you turned out.”
His expression changed then, and something unreadable whisked over his face. “She’d rather have had my dad around than to prove she could go it alone.”
Anne flinched beneath the weight of his words. She hadn’t meant it like that.
She’d thought she could do this by herself, but who was she fooling? Her body would heal. However, then she’d have the baby ... her baby ... she trembled ... their baby ... to deal with. She had no idea where or who her family were, nor how to find them. She didn’t even know if they’d want her back, if Michael should let her go, and she suspected he wouldn’t. He’d proved that today.
So what of their future? Could she love him? She certainly could spend time with him well enough. He was nice to look at and seemed sweet and kind. He was amusing at times, and oh, how he could sing. But his love for her was so strong. How long could he maintain himself once she was well if her feelings never became more than they were today? And was that fair to him?
Anne shut her eyes against his gaze, yet felt it burning on her cheeks. “Is that what I’m doing?” she asked. “Going alone?”
He folded her hand tighter in his. “Not if I can help it.”
The night descended around him, shadows washing the house, the fence, and the distant swamp a dozen shades of blue. Michael reclined on the steps and cast his head back at the myriad of stars. God, I love her, he prayed. Help us mend what’s broken between us.
He’d seen some light today, a promise of something like what they’d had, but her lack of memories held her commitment back. It would take time, and they had their whole lives before them.
But what if she never loved him again? Could he settle for halfway? Could he stand by her side and be content, never touching her or holding her?
The thought tossed within him.
And what of the child? The child, or his child? He corrected himself. Her child. What of her child? Could he be a father to it, always doubting the truth?
Trust me.
A small voice echoed in his heart.
Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. The verse rose up within him. A Proverb by a wise king. If a king, in all his wisdom, needed that verse, then how much more should an Irish boy from New York?
The questions remained though: what he was to do with his life, where they’d go once she was well, and a multitude of difficulties of fatherhood. Yet surely, a God strong enough to deliver him from all he’d been through so far could fix this as well.
Raising the spear aloft, Chief aimed for a fish poised in the shallows. The tannic water swirled with the flick of its tail. Steady. Steady. Soon, he’d have some food.
His hand tightened on the spear. Blast that boy. Blast Old Jack. Whichever one had taken his horses and left him with this. It was taking too long to get there this way. He should’ve known walking would be much slower. Beneath his breath, he cursed.
Sweat beading on his scalp dripped down into his eyes. The salty drops burned his vision, and he flung a sleeve to his face. With his movement, the fish startled and made a hasty retreat into the low-growing grasses.
Chief stomped his feet and flung the spear to the ground. Nothing. A waste of time. That’s all this had been. Someone had to pay. The girl. The boy. Someone. He retrieved the spear and fell down beneath a tree. Two days at the most and he’d get there.
“Have patience, my friend,” he mumbled to himself. “Your time will come.”
He chuckled. How sweet it will be. How sweet indeed.