CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The man was standing by her horse, inspecting the saddle and running a large hand down the horse’s legs. Sarah stood motionless in the doorway and watched him, the gun in her hand but by her side. She waited for him to notice her or make a move. Unless he’d been talking to himself, voices meant there was another nearby. Sarah focused on the man, the tactical environment, and counted on her other senses to locate the second man.
The man by the horse saw her.
“Good day, missus,” he said, moving away from Dan.
Sarah resisted the urge to point the gun at him.
“Can I help you?” she said. Why do we Americans say that?
“Help me?” The man frowned, his eyes catching the glint of the Glock at the end of her arm.
“Are you looking for Devon?” Where the hell was the other guy?
“Devon’s dead, poor bugger.”
“I know.” Obviously, I know. I’m in his cottage.
“And you are…?”
“I’m a friend of Devon’s sister-in-law.”
“She’s the American.” A younger man in his late teens came from the direction of the car shed. “The ones rented the McKinney place, right?” He didn’t smile but something about him didn’t feel threatening to Sarah.
“That’s right.”
“So, you’ll be knowing Dierdre?” The older man spoke again and Sarah felt the hand that held the gun relax a bit.
“She’s my neighbor. She asked me to check on Devon. They hadn’t seen him in awhile.”
“Cor, she’s got a pistol, Dad. You see that?” The younger man came closer, not taking his eyes off the gun in her hand but absent-mindedly patting Dan on the neck.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I’m being careful.”
“Too right,” the older man said. “I’m Mike Donovan and this here’s me son, Gavin. We’ve come to bury the old man. We mean you no harm, missus.”
“I got the keys to his car, Dad. They were on the top shelf where he always kept ‘em.”
Donovan looked at Sarah.
“He’ll not be needing the car,” he said. “And we can trade its parts for food and supplies.”
Sarah didn’t care who took whose car. The light was fading fast and she needed to be mounted and on her way. From here, she could see by the open flaps that Donovan had examined the contents of her saddlebags, and knew she had a king’s fortune in rifle and handgun rounds. She didn’t dare take her eyes off him but she was tempted to look to see if they’d brought shovels, which would to confirm his story.
“Fine,” she said, not moving. “I’ll let you get on with it.”
The young man charged up the porch stairs and Sarah, startled, jerked her gun arm up.
“Whoa! Whoa! Gavin, you moron, she’s got a gun, for Chrissake.”
Gavin looked at Sarah with surprise and then turned to his Dad.
“I know, Da. But we need to…”
“Slowly, son. Let the woman get off the porch before you mow her down. I’m sorry, Missus,” Donovan shoved a hand through his thick hair, knocking his cheese cutter cap to the ground in the process. Sarah looked for any guile in his eyes and thought she saw only weariness and anxiety. “Gavin, get down here and let her pass,” Donovan spoke slowly as if talking to a feeble-witted child.
Sarah would have preferred they both left or at least moved away but she realized there would be no other opportunity.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’ve had cause not to trust people recently.” She shifted the gun to her other hand and wiped the perspiration from her palm on her jeans. She moved down the porch, her eyes never leaving Donovan’s and, grabbing Dan’s reins, jerked them free from the porch rail. The man touched his son’s shoulder and motioned for him to move back a few steps and give her space.
If they were going to rush her, she thought, the moment she attempted to mount would be the time. She knew she couldn’t get up without tucking her gun away. Quickly, Sarah positioned Dan between herself and the two men, shoved the gun into her holster, grabbed the cantle, jammed her foot into the stirrup which was nearly as high as her waist and swung up in what seemed like slow motion. Once in the saddle, she could see the men were patiently waiting for her. She left the gun where it was and gathered up the reins in both hands. Pulling back, she forced Dan to back up a few steps.
“Do you know how he died?” she asked, feeling more comfortable now that she was mounted and armed.
Donovan shook his head.
“Aye, no,” he said. “Maybe a heart attack? And then the hyenas came down to pick the bones.” He waved a hand at the cottage. “Sure it doesn’t look like foul play, just bad luck. I hope you’ll be telling Dierdre that. Tell her Mike Donovan will make sure he’s buried proper.”
The light was nearly dusk but still Sarah lingered.
“How do you know Dierdre?” she asked.
“It’s Seamus, really,” Donovan said, turning and pulling a long handled shovel out of a ruck sack Sarah hadn’t seen before. “He was my teacher. Well, everyone’s. Did you not know he was the village schoolmaster? Everyone round these parts was schooled by Seamus at one time or another.”
“I’m sorry, again, I’m sorry for…” Sarah indicated the porch.
Donovan waved her off.
“Not a-tall,” he said. “These are times to be untrusting. You’d best get on where you’re going. There’ll be no moon tonight.”
Sarah paused. She hated how she had acted. These were good people, doing a difficult job and she’d practically held them at gunpoint and, worse, nearly shot the boy. As she turned Dan west to pick up the main road from Balinagh, she found herself vowing not to let whatever “these times” were turn her into something less than human.
Mike watched Sarah ride off and shook his head in amazement.
“How do you know about her?” he asked as he handed Gavin the shovel.
The boy shrugged. “It’s all over town,” he said. “Being American and all.”
“Is it just Herself?”
“No, there’s a husband and a kid, too. Why?” He grinned at his father. “Took a fancy, did ya, Da? And her a pistol-packing Mama and all.”
“Shirrup, ya ejeet,” Mike said affably, pushing him in the direction of the backyard where the grave needed to be dug.
Gavin trotted ahead of him, displaying all the energy and resilience of youth. Mike couldn’t help but look again in the direction that Sarah had gone.
For whatever reason, he had to admit that there was something about her, the way she spoke or carried herself, something that he couldn’t put his finger on that, he might as well admit it, had…excited him.
He turned to the task at hand and grabbed the shovel back from Gavin, hoping the chore would banish further thoughts along those lines.
“Go back and find something to wrap poor Devon in,” he said to his son.
Gavin made a face and hesitated. “Aw, no, why, me?”
“Go on, Gavin, he won’t bite you.” Donovan pierced the earth with the shovel and threw the load of dirt behind him. Gavin retreated to the house, muttering unhappily under his breath as he went.
Mike dug for a full five minutes without thinking, then jammed the shovel into the earth and rested his arm on the handle while he waited for Gavin to reappear. It was almost like he’d seen the episode on the porch he’d just experienced in a movie or something. An American movie.
He glanced again in the direction she had gone.
A really interesting American movie.
It rained nearly the whole way back to the cottage. The dark night and the rain had reduced Sarah’s visibility to just a few feet in front of her but she took solace in the fact that Dan knew the way home. It was a strange feeling, she noted, with rain and darkness all around—and wickedness, too—to just let Dan carry her home without worrying about how. As a long cold finger of rain finally found its way down her collar, she thought it just might be the first time she ha
d ever voluntarily let someone or something else handle things. She just knew she couldn’t do it herself. It was enough to stay upright on the horse—she was so tired—without trying to figure which road to take. Her earlier plans to trot all the way back were abandoned because of the wet roads and slick trails. She let Dan pick his pace and his path.
About a quarter mile from where she estimated the cottage should be, she felt something was different about the ride. As bumpy and uneven as it had been up to now, it felt now that Dan was limping. Groaning at her bad luck, Sarah stopped him and slid to the ground. Her legs instantly gave way beneath her and she landed in a cold puddle of dirty water in the road. Snow was piled up along the sides of the road. With shaking hands, she ran her fingers down his hock and lifted his front left hoof. A sharp rock the size of her thumbnail was pushing against his frog. Without a pick, and the rain sluicing down her face, she used her fingers to pry it out and tossed it away. Even so, she decided not to remount, whether because she doubted she would be able to haul herself back up or because Dan’s hoof needed the break, she wasn’t sure. She led him a hundred yards up the first rise where she saw something that made her gasp and stop. Tears sprang to her eyes.
Their cottage appeared in a ghostly shadow less than an eighth of a mile away, a thin curl of smoke came from the chimney, a welcome and a promise of warmth and love that filled her with strength and joy, and a feeling of God’s presence as strong as she had ever felt before in her life.
With the rain dripping off her jacket, the mud covering the tops of her boots, she led her limping horse toward the cottage and home.
Dear Mom and Dad,
I cannot even tell you how cold it is here! Somehow, when I thought of Ireland, I thought of the rain but I didn’t think of the bone-piercing cold. I asked John if we were at the same parallel as Canada but he just gave me one of those looks he gives when he thinks I should at least try to act like the parent and know more than he does!
We’ve been getting along pretty good since I last wrote you. It’s hard work but we’re healthy, we’re (relatively) warm, and we have enough to eat. I went into town yesterday to swap some nonessential things we had (wine, mostly) for some things we could really use (tools, mostly). Seems the Irish considered the wine in the “essential things” category and I did very well in my trading! I’ll be hard pressed to just pay the marked prices for things when I get back to civilization. I’m really getting the hang of haggling. (Smile.)
Anyway, I met a young woman at the market who has a major problem and it turns out we were in a position to help her. Her husband was killed earlier in the month and she has two small children who depend on her. She seems to have enough provisions and she says her little farm is easily run by just herself (although I cannot imagine how…these people are a different breed from us, y’all. They are tough and resourceful.) But part of her well caved in and she can’t repair it on her own. She suggested a week’s worth of work from David (seems there are a few other things she needs doing while she’s got an able-bodied man) and she’d give us one of her dairy cows. I know it sounds absurd, probably, from your end, but having a cow would make a BIG difference in our lives here. It’s hard to describe to you but the milk would open up new worlds of food for us. John needs the milk; the young woman—Julie—needs the help. So, this is a long way of saying that David left this morning for a week away from us. I can’t say he was thrilled with the idea but he did reflect in an amused tone: “Who would’ve guessed I’d end up being more prized for my brawn than my brain?” Thought you’d get a chuckle out of that, Dad. Anyway, he just left this morning and already I’m counting the days until he’s back. As hard as it is here, it’s a lot harder when 50% of your workforce is gone! (Ha ha!)
So I must leave you until next time. It’s late (the only time I really have time to write) and my candle is down to a nub. Take care of each other, I pray you are both well, and that, whatever happens, you won’t worry about us over here. We are surviving very well.
Love,
Sarah
Sarah folded her letter and carefully tucked it away with the rest of the unmailed letters home. The rain was tattooing out a gentle beat against the kitchen windows. She wondered where David was sleeping tonight, she hoped he did better than the barn or shed at Julie’s place. She looked over at her son, asleep in the big bed and smiled.
Before David left, they had decided to mark out the garden for the spring planting upon his return. Dierdre had promised them cuttings and seeds and David had found more seeds in the root cellar. Since Julie had said she had several rifles and all her husband’s tools, David only took a knife with him for protection on his ride to Balinagh. She smiled again thinking back at the moment that John determined (incorrectly, she told herself) that that meant one of the two guns left behind was his.
Tomorrow, she and John would step off the garden boundaries in anticipation of preparing the ground. Sarah was not a big gardener back home and she found herself wishing she had Dierdre’s opinion on where to position the plot.
Sarah pulled her sweater tighter around her and went to check the stove. She decided they would not use the fireplace while David was gone. Too much heat got lost with the fireplace. The little potbellied stove was more efficient for warming up the room. She opened the little stove door with an oven mitt and wedged in another couple of sticks of wood. She closed and latched it carefully. The stove would be ice-cold when they awoke in the morning, but the mountains of blankets—and each other—would keep them snug and warm until then.
Ten days later, David still hadn’t come back.