Irish Meadows Read online

  As Rylan made his way back to the O’Learys’ later that night, he wondered how he was going to break the news to Colleen that he was leaving, and he prayed his departure wouldn’t be too much to bear after already losing Delia.

  24

  AT PRECISELY TEN O’CLOCK the next morning, James O’Leary arrived at the Hastings Bank. As Gil watched him enter through the main double doors, his stomach clenched into knots. He would give anything to spare James the devastation the next few minutes would bring. Losing this loan would effectively toll the death knell for Irish Meadows. Sorrow swept over Gil at the idea of losing the stables and the beloved horses. He could only imagine how distressing this would be for Bree and the rest of the family. He straightened his back against the wooden spokes of his chair and vowed to spend every spare moment over the next few weeks trying to come up with viable ways to keep Irish Meadows afloat.

  For fifteen minutes, Gil stared unseeing at the work before him on his desk, his whole focus tuned to Mr. Hastings’s office. From the corner of his eye, he’d be able to see when James came out. At one point, heated voices became audible through the closed door. Gil’s fingers tensed on his pencil, ready to interfere if need be. But less than five minutes later, the door crashed open and James stormed out. He looked neither left nor right but strode straight out of the bank.

  Gil grabbed his jacket and immediately raced after him, determined to ensure the man was all right before letting him go. On the crowded walkway, Gil dodged pedestrians, as well as a newsboy and several vendors, while trying to keep James’s broad shoulders in sight. When James sprinted across the street in front of a streetcar, narrowly missing a horse and carriage, Gil held his breath. Gil waited for the streetcar to pass before he could make his way across. He swiveled his head, trying to catch a glimpse of James, but the crowd had swallowed the man.

  Gil scanned the storefront windows until he came to O’Malley’s Pub. He recalled James mentioning the drinking hole a few times. He’d just received bad news, so maybe he’d gone there.

  Gil stepped inside the door of the pub, stunned to find so many people at the bar this early in the day. Squinting to see better, he moved farther into the gloomy interior, hazy with smoke and reeking of spilled beer. He dodged a couple of scantily dressed women and kept his focus on the end of the bar, where James sat slouched on the last barstool.

  Lord, help me get through to him.

  Gil approached with cautious footsteps. He pulled himself onto the stool beside James, taking note of the amber liquid he swirled in a low glass.

  A bartender with a stained apron over his large belly wielded a dishrag over the surface of the bar. “What’ll it be, mister?”

  “A ginger ale, please.”

  At the sound of his voice, James jerked his head up to pin Gil with a hard stare. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  Gil didn’t blink. “Making sure you don’t do something stupid.”

  James downed the contents of his glass in one gulp and crashed the tumbler onto the polished surface of the bar. “Another round,” he barked at the man behind the counter. “In fact, bring the bottle.”

  “You don’t want to do this. It won’t change anything.”

  “No, but it’ll sure take the edge off.”

  The bartender arrived with Gil’s ginger ale and the bottle of scotch, which he placed in front of them. James took several bills from his wallet and thrust them at the man. “For the both of us. Keep the change.”

  “Thanks, pal.” He slid the money into his apron pocket.

  Gil fingered the glass in front of him, searching for the right words to reach the man who was like a father to him. He eyed James swilling back another shot of scotch. Gil couldn’t help but remember his own father slumped over a bottle of Irish whiskey more nights than he cared to count. For that reason alone, Gil rarely drank anything stronger than soda pop. He took a small sip of his drink and set the glass back down.

  “I’m sorry the loan didn’t go through.”

  James stopped in the middle of refilling his glass. “How hard did you try to persuade Arthur to change his mind?”

  Gil let the initial wave of guilt ride over him before he hardened. “I’m a new employee at the bank. I don’t carry a lot of clout.”

  “As the man’s future son-in-law, you surely do. How hard did you milk that connection? Or did you even bother?”

  The arrows shooting from James’s already bloodshot eyes hit their mark, igniting the burn of anger in Gil’s chest. How dare he say that? After all Gil had sacrificed for him?

  Every ounce of hurt and resentment that Gil had repressed for months boiled up into a fine rage, leaving him powerless to stop the words that poured forth. “Do you ever listen to yourself, to the things you say that wreak pain and havoc on those you claim to love?”

  James jolted on his stool, his hand sloshing the liquid over the side of his glass.

  “Adam and Brianna have left home because of your bullying tactics. My leaving is your doing, as well. If you hadn’t been so opposed to me courting Bree . . .” A sudden thought wisped through his brain. “Or was it because you needed me to do your dirty work with Mr. Hastings? My betrothal to his daughter was your trump card. Is that why you destroyed your daughter’s dreams and my integrity? All for your blasted money?” Gil’s hands shook as he let loose the bitterness that had been building since the day he’d returned from college. “Do you care about anyone but yourself?”

  James jerked up from the bar, his stool toppling over as he rose. He grabbed Gil by the front of his shirt and raised him off his seat with one hand. “How dare you question me after I took you in and raised you like my own son?” Red blotches bled over James’s cheeks. His eyes held a type of wildness that shot a streak of fear through Gil. Was the man so desperate he’d resort to physical violence?

  The bartender approached. “Keep it civil, lads. Or take it outside.”

  Gil realized then their voices had escalated to the point that the other patrons were staring. He yanked himself free from James’s grasp and stepped back, adjusting his clothes. “Take some advice for once. Go home to your wife and children and be grateful for what you’ve got, instead of wallowing in what you don’t.” With one last glare at James, still puffing like an overheated steam engine, Gil stormed out of the pub.

  Colleen poked her fork into the mashed potatoes on her plate, one eye on the door to the dining room, wishing Rylan would come breezing in with his familiar grin and apologize to her mother for being late for dinner. Wishing he’d come in and act as though nothing were wrong and tease her about something she’d said to Sister Marguerite, or tell one of his silly jokes.

  Maybe then her fears would be put to rest. Maybe then she could breathe normally again.

  Ever since he’d kissed her with such passion yesterday and then promptly bolted from the room, she hadn’t seen a trace of him.

  For one brief moment, Colleen allowed herself to relive the thrill of his kiss, an embrace so intense it seemed she’d given up part of her soul. In all the kisses she’d shared with other men, she’d never experienced anything close to that type of bliss.

  Her insides roiled with confusion, swirling like the mess she’d made of her mound of potatoes. How in the world had she fallen in love with a priest? With a sigh, she pushed her plate away, turning her attention to the few remaining family members at the table.

  Deirdre and Connor chatted away to her unusually sullen mother. Lately Mama hadn’t been herself. Colleen noted the deep shadows under her eyes and remembered overhearing heated words coming from her parents’ bedroom the night before. She could never remember her parents fighting like that. What was happening to their family?

  “Where’s Daddy tonight, Mama? Working late?” She tried to keep her tone casual.

  The little bit of color in her mother’s cheeks drained away. She sent Colleen a nervous glance. “I’m sure that must be it.” A frown marred her features. “What about Rylan? This is the
second night he hasn’t come home for dinner.”

  Colleen attempted a casual shrug. “I wondered the same thing a few minutes ago.”

  Mama laid down her napkin. “Deirdre and Connor, you may be excused.”

  The pair scrambled down from the table and tore out of the room.

  “Remember to wash your hands.” Her mother’s admonition echoed through the room, and she shook her head. “Those two will either keep me young or make me gray before my time.”

  Colleen couldn’t muster a smile. Deirdre reminded her too much of Delia.

  “Did something happen at the orphanage?” Her mother’s sharp gaze missed nothing.

  Colleen tugged at a curl hugging her shoulder. “One of the children left unexpectedly yesterday. Rylan and I were both very fond of Delia, but we didn’t have a chance to say good-bye.” She used every ounce of willpower not to break down in front of her mother. The raw hurt ran deep over the loss of the little girl. She couldn’t help but wonder—if she had broached the subject with her parents, would they have considered adopting Delia?

  “I’m so sorry. That must have been difficult.”

  “Very difficult.”

  Her mother stirred a spoon of sugar into her tea. “When you volunteer at an orphanage, you have to be prepared for children to leave. It’s best not to become too attached.”

  “I’ll remember from now on.”

  Mama frowned and gave her a long look. “I think this punishment of your father’s has gone on long enough. Do you want me to speak to him about it?”

  Colleen startled. “No, Mama. I enjoy working at the orphanage. It’s not a punishment at all.”

  Mama’s eyes widened. “I must say I never expected this reaction.” She gave a slight smile. “If you’re enjoying it, then I suppose there’s no harm in continuing.”

  Colleen sagged with relief. “Thank you, Mama. I promise I’ll still find time to help you with your charity work.”

  “I know you will, dear.”

  Colleen bit her lip, debating whether she should tell her mother about seeing Brianna. She decided it would be selfish not to. “I’ve seen Bree, Mama.”

  Her mother’s head flew up. “You have? When?”

  “She came to the orphanage with Aunt Fiona.”

  “How is she? Does she look ill?”

  “No. She seems . . . happy.”

  A flicker of hurt crossed her mother’s features. “Happy?”

  Colleen shrugged. “Maybe content is a better word.” She watched her mother. “I don’t think Bree will ever be happy until she gets Gil out of her system.”

  Her mother’s expression became pensive. “I’m afraid you’re right.”

  Colleen gave a soft sigh. It seemed she and Brianna were caught in the same predicament. For Colleen feared she would never be truly happy until she got over a certain dark-eyed priest.

  25

  THAT NIGHT A SMALL BREEZE stirred the cotton curtain in the window of Gil’s stuffy room in the boarding house. Stretched out on the ragged quilt atop his bed, he could feel no cooling effect. He lay there, hands folded beneath his head, staring at the cracked ceiling, wishing he knew what to do with all the guilt he was feeling. Why had he added to James’s misery with his angry accusations? And why hadn’t he insisted on taking James home? At least then he’d know the man was safe. For all Gil knew, he could still be slumped over the bar at O’Malley’s while poor Mrs. O’Leary paced the floor with worry.

  When sleep wouldn’t come, Gil sat up and peered at the face of his pocket watch under the light of his bedside lamp. Nearly midnight. He hung his head, wishing the room were big enough to pace. With all his restless energy, he needed somewhere to expend it. If he were home, he’d go out to the barn and saddle up Midnight for an evening ride. The thought of country air and lush meadows made Gil’s throat burn with sudden homesickness.

  Bree. He could never think of Irish Meadows without thinking of her. How he missed her face, their easy communication, her rich laughter whenever he told a silly joke. A selfish part of Gil wondered if losing Irish Meadows would change James’s mind about Gil being good enough for his daughter. Or would it only make him more determined than ever that she marry a wealthy man?

  Loud rapping on his door jerked Gil up from the bed. “Who is it?”

  “Mrs. Shaughnessy. There’s a telephone call for you in the parlor.”

  His heart raced as he yanked on his shoes and grabbed a shirt. Who would be calling him at this time of night? “Be right there.”

  “Some time of the night to be getting telephone calls.” Mrs. Shaughnessy grunted as her footsteps shuffled off.

  By the time Gil reached the parlor, there was no sign of his landlady. He picked up the receiving end of the phone and leaned in toward the mouthpiece on the wall. “Hello?”

  “Gilbert? It’s Kathleen.” The high-pitched hysteria in her voice sent shivers of alarm down Gil’s spine. Had his worst fears come true and James hadn’t made it home? Another sickening notion made his stomach lurch. Had something happened to Brianna?

  “What’s wrong?” His tone came out harsher than he’d intended.

  “Oh, Gil. It’s James. He’s . . .” Sobs drifted through the end of the phone.

  Icy talons gripped his chest. “He’s what?”

  “He’s in the hospital. They think it’s his heart.”

  Gil clutched the edge of the piano beside the phone. His mouth became as dry as the dust that coated the instrument, and he had to swallow before he could get a word out. “Where are you?”

  “I’m outside the waiting area. The doctors are examining him.” Her voice broke. “They don’t know how bad it is.”

  Gil took a breath and forced a calm he didn’t feel. “Everything’s going to be all right. Which hospital are you in?”

  “Long Island Memorial. Gil, I need you to come. I can’t find Adam. Colleen and the younger ones were asleep, and I didn’t want to wake them.” The frailty of her voice shook Gil to the core. “Rylan’s here, trying to get some information . . .” She trailed off.

  “I’ll leave right now. Just hold on a while longer.” He paused, hesitating to bring up the subject but knowing it was the right thing to do. Rylan wasn’t a priest yet, and Mrs. O’Leary would want the man she relied on for her family’s spiritual well-being. “Do you want me to contact Reverend Filmore?”

  More sobs fractured her response. “Y-yes, p-please.”

  “I’ll get there as quick as I can.”

  “Thank you, Gilbert.”

  With unsteady hands, he hung up the receiver and ran back to his room. As he threw on his suspenders and a jacket, and stuffed his wallet inside the pocket of his pants, his thoughts turned to Brianna. She would never forgive him if he didn’t take her with him.

  He placed a quick phone call to Arthur Hastings before letting himself out the front door and onto the darkened street.

  It was going to be a very long night.

  Brianna stirred from her sleep, not knowing what had woken her. She lifted her head off the pillow, listening. In the chill of her room, she shivered and pulled the quilt more firmly under her chin.

  “Brianna, dear. It’s Aunt Fiona.” The door creaked open, and her aunt stepped inside.

  Brianna sat up, rubbing her eyes in the darkness. “What time is it?”

  “It’s after midnight. Gilbert is downstairs asking for you.” She moved to the side of the bed, frowning. “It seems there’s a family emergency.”

  Alarm chased all notion of sleep from her brain. She swung her legs off the bed. “What’s the matter?”

  Please, Lord, don’t let it be Mama.

  “He wouldn’t say. He’s waiting to tell us both at once.”

  Brianna tugged on her slippers and dressing gown, belting the waist tight, and followed her aunt down the narrow staircase to the parlor below. As she entered the room, she became conscious of the untidy state of her hair and ran a hand over her head to smooth the stray pieces that had esca
ped her long braid. Her heart thumped a crazy beat, half from nerves at the news to come, half at seeing Gil again.

  He stood by the unlit hearth, his shoulders hunched. A candle flickered on the mantel by his head, casting a glow over his dark hair. At the sound of their footsteps, he turned to face her. His curls stood in disarray, as though he’d been running his fingers through them as he often did when agitated. A faint shadow of stubble hugged his jawline, accenting the beloved cleft of his chin.

  She clutched the lapels of her robe with icy fingers. “Gil. What’s wrong?”

  His bleak expression told her the news would be grim.

  He crossed the carpet to where she stood and reached for her free hand. The warmth from his skin radiated through her palm and up her arm.

  “Sit down, Bree.” His tender gaze moved from her to her aunt, who hovered by the doorway. “You, too, Aunt Fiona.”

  A sob rose in Brianna’s throat, fighting for release, but she pushed it back. “Please tell me no one has died.”

  He guided her to the sofa. “No one has died . . . but your father is in the hospital.”

  She gasped. Gil sat beside her and reached for her again. She clung to his fingers like a lifeline.

  “I’m sorry to spring bad news on you like this.”

  Aunt Fiona lowered herself to the edge of her chair. “What’s wrong with my brother?”

  “The doctors are trying to determine that. They think it might be his heart.” He turned back to Bree. “Your mother telephoned and asked me to meet her at the hospital. I figured you’d want to come. That’s why I’m here.”

  Brianna shot to her feet. “Yes, of course. Give me a minute to change.” She faced her aunt. “Will you come, too?”

  Aunt Fiona shook her head sadly. “I don’t think I’d be welcome. I’ll do more good here by praying.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Go on now. Don’t keep Gilbert waiting.”