Fiona posed as a sixteen-year-old boy, using her dead brother’s nickname, Finn. As Finn, Fiona had saved her from a group of bullies intending her harm. Her brother was so grateful that he hired Finn as his driver. Margaret hadn’t known then about her brother’s entrance into the profession of mobster since he used the family restaurant business as a front.
She shook her head, hoped to dispel the pain-filled memories. If Margaret hadn’t been in that precarious situation, Fiona would never have accepted the job. What would her life be like if Fiona had never come into it? Would Fiona’s father have succeeded in beating her to death? Despite the pain and hardships to them all, she couldn’t imagine her life without Fiona and Jo.
No maudlin thoughts, she chided herself. Margaret sighed and said, “I’m so glad you could join us, Tessa.”
With only a slight pause, Tessa broke eye contact with Jo and turned toward Margaret. “Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Cavanaugh.”
“It’s Margaret.” She gave a glance around the yard. “Was Warren able to join you?” she asked, as she hoped for a negative reply. Margaret couldn’t put her finger on why, but she didn’t like Warren, and it had little to do with his rudeness toward them.
Tessa nodded. “He’s on the back porch chatting away with Mrs. Walters. Keeping her company in her beau’s abandonment, he told me.”
Margaret raised an eyebrow wondering if Nicholas cared about the encroachment and his supposed journey into dereliction of his date. She glanced at a smitten Jo. “Why don’t you two get some barbecue and mingle.” She thought about the last part and amended the directions. “Find a quiet corner for yourselves.” At their tandem silent nod, Margaret said, “I’m going to check on Fiona.” Margaret gave a gentle nudge to Jo’s back. “Off with you two.” She stared after them until they reached the long tables of food.
Comfortable Jo and Tessa would entertain themselves—albeit in silence apparently—Margaret turned back to the barn to see Nicholas follow Fiona inside as he pulled an object—his camera most likely—free from his ever-present satchel.
“He must have got her talking about her work,” Margaret said quietly. Her heart lifted as she wondered, Is Nicholas the hope I need to get Fiona to open up about her trouble? If he did get her to talk, she would willingly kiss him full on the lips as a thank you. Margaret shuddered. No, she couldn’t go quite that far, especially not with his mustache, little or no.
Chapter Seven
Fiona sat on the bench outside the double doors of the barn, one opened to allow the scent of cut wood to seep out to her. She didn’t care for the number of people who showed up for this yearly event, hated so many people in one place. She did love the joy it brought to Margaret’s face. The excitement thrummed through Margaret which made her body tremble. Not as if anyone else would know that without holding her; and, heaven help anyone who touched her. But Margaret understood her need for personal space and smaller crowds, preferably family only crowding. And understood Fiona’s need to walk away.
She knew it was past time she told Margaret about what was happening with the headaches and the blindness, especially since the whole matter scared Fiona into being less communicative. Once Margaret became aware, she wouldn’t let up until they had a medical diagnosis. The thing was, in her heart, Fiona suspected the medical conclusion would be worse than the symptoms offered at present. How do you prepare for bad news? More importantly, how do you prepare your loved ones to hear bad news?
From her peripheral, Fiona caught Nicholas Tirrell's approach. He stopped about two feet away and pointed to the empty area of her bench. “Mind if I sit for a moment?” Normally every fiber of her being would telegraph a negative reply, surprised when she automatically nodded instead.
“Margaret has done a wonderful job with the picnic. Brigid tells me it’s now a yearly end of school event.”
“Her way of saying goodbye,” she said. “Margaret gets quite attached to the children.”
“She’s a good woman,” Nicholas said.
“Yes, she’s one-of-a-kind.”
Nicholas unstrung the satchel he always carried from his neck and placed it between them, like a barrier. Which of them, she wondered, needed the barricade? “I noted all the women in your family are quite remarkable.”
The comment elicited a chuckle from her. “Says the man with a bit of a crush on Brigid.”
Nicholas also chuckled, rubbed a finger on one side of his thin mustache. “Quite observant of you. You probably think me a cad.”
Fiona shook her head. “Only if you do something to hurt her.” She glared at him sternly. “I wouldn’t recommend that course of action.”
“At the risk of incurring your wrath even a bit, I need to state Brigid will be the heartbreaker.”
She would vehemently disagree if she didn’t recognize the truth of it herself. Brigid had left her life, her family, all to follow Fiona to Colorado. Her help with Fiona’s healing, with raising Jo. She maintained the homestead while Margaret and Fiona worked outside the home, and while Jo went to school, it was invaluable. But Fiona sometimes wondered if Brigid didn’t believe she left one housekeeper job for another, even if more liberated. She never complained, but Brigid also hadn’t done as much socializing as needed for a young single woman.
Fiona wondered if Brigid felt backed into a corner of responsibility. She felt a modicum of relief when Brigid befriended Ethel Walters at the grocers, where she plucked an excited Richard from climbing the shelf to reach something which caught his eye. Brigid and Ethel purported a friendship, but Fiona wondered, especially when Ethel went out at night and left Richard in Brigid’s care.
Hence, Ethel’s meeting Nicholas, which was also a conundrum, as their pairing seemed off too. Fiona hadn’t missed the wistful glances Brigid gave Nicholas when she believed no one watched. The problem for Fiona was she believed Brigid was attracted to Nicholas more for the thrill than for any true chemistry. “You may be right.”
Nicholas leaned back against the barn wall. A long moment of silence stretched between them before Nicholas spoke. “You may not know this, Fiona, but I’ve done a good deal of traveling in my nearly thirty years.” He paused. Fiona wondered where this conversation was going and stiffened in anticipation. “I’ve seen a lot of tragedy and joy, marked some of my travels with my photography, and garnered a career.”
She always assumed he came from money because of his clothing and the fact you could find him available nearly anytime, day or night. Leading Fiona to conclude work, for Nicholas, was a pleasure, not a necessity. Did he make a great deal of money with his photographs? The silent question was probably written all over her face because he gave a wide grin.
“Don’t expect most people to know who I am since I use a pseudonym, and photographers are usually only celebrities to other photographers. Not popular like radio and silent screen stars.”
“Can you tell me your other name?”
“My full name is Nicholas Allen Tirrell. My photos present under N. Allen. I earn a respectable income as a freelance photographer, but it did take a small inheritance from a relative to allow me the opportunity to eat regularly while building said career.”
“I think I’ve seen a couple of your photos in the paper. They were of tragic events like the aftermath of hurricanes and such, weren’t they?” Nicholas nodded. “You have quite the eye for catching the human condition in the wake of devastation.”
Nicholas snorted. “And you have quite the way of naming me a ghoul who exploits people with my film. Trust me. I’ve heard the negativity before.”
“No, I truly didn’t mean it that way,” she said. “I think a lot of people may see the photos in that way and the chance to sigh, ‘glad it wasn’t me’ in the process. Your images, though, reflect the human condition in the wake of that very devastation. The pain of loss. Humanity, when people work together to pick themselves up and dust themselves off, so to speak. The moments when one’s station in life isn�
��t a consideration in the moment's destruction. No matter your station, we bleed, grieve, and die the same.”
“Not everyone mirrors your views on the subject. No matter. I have thick skin, and don’t let other people’s insecurities become my own.”
“How hard was that to achieve?” Fiona asked, knowing his resolve couldn’t have happened overnight.
He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Actually, about as easy as swallowing crushed glass.”
Fiona’s laugh was an unexpected outburst to her, even as it was genuine. “I bet. So, what brought you here to Pueblo?”
Nicholas shrugged. “The train. When I stopped at your depot, I got off and had a bit of a look-see. The people and sites were different enough from Denver to pique my interest.” He locked his gaze on hers, and Fiona suspected he debated whether to voice whatever thought in his head. He rubbed a finger along the side of his mustache again, prompting Fiona to wonder if it were a conscious or unconscious habit. “Less of me, and back to my original point. As said earlier, I’ve witnessed any number of tragic experiences, Fiona, the impact both physically and emotionally from these events, and been the character in my own tragic drama.”
Nicholas gave a heavy sigh. “Having said this, I’m going to voice an observation, and then I’ll drop the matter. I hope you aren’t too irritated with me and will give me a tour of your workshop.”
Fiona eyed him cautiously. What could he possibly say to warrant an obvious forewarning? She gave a hesitant nod. Curiosity outweighed her caution. “Okay. If it’s too upsetting, I can always lock myself in my room. Even if I have to navigate a hundred people first.” The levity was more for her than him.
“Noted.” Nicholas inhaled deeply. “I don’t know your past and could be off base here, but I don’t think so if the scar on your forehead is any indication. It doesn’t look like a childhood injury. Brigid commented—nothing intentional, just in conversation without understanding implications, I’m sure—about your migraines. Having witnessed our boys returning from war, and hearing of your symptoms, I think you are doing Margaret an injustice by not letting her know about them.”
“How do you know I haven’t?” Fiona asked defensively, although what he’d asked her not to do.
“The pain in her eyes when you distance yourself.” That was unexpected. Fiona hadn’t realized her actions, motivated simply to help not harm Margaret, were obvious to others. Nicholas seemed intent on breaking the tension. He feigned adjusting his already precise tie. “Not that anyone other than a devastatingly handsome and charming photographer would notice such a thing.”
Relaxing only slightly, Fiona got off the bench and moved to the open doorway of the workshop. “Come on. Get the tour before your ego swallows you completely from my view.”
Chapter Eight
Today, three days after the picnic, Ethel was supposed to pick up Brigid for a shopping day. Brigid became tired of the wait and wondered what happened to Ethel. She’d borrowed Fiona’s truck, and currently barreled down the road to Ethel’s country home in a near-blind panic. It wasn’t like Ethel not to answer the phone. It wasn’t like Ethel not to let Brigid know her whereabouts if she were going to be late. Some of the habits stemmed from Ethel’s twinge of narcissism to be the most important person worthy of attention at any given moment. Despite Ethel’s distractions, Brigid had a real fear something was amiss.
One disconcerting thought was Nicholas arrived for a visit, and Ethel was too preoccupied to remember her prior plans with Brigid. Ethel’s self-absorption tended toward frustrating. Also, the visual image she’d initiated saddened her. Brigid had no claim on Nicholas, wasn’t sure she wanted one. Brigid also knew Ethel was about to, if she hadn’t already, break off her relationship with Nicholas.
If Brigid were honest with herself, she’d considered taking Warren up on his offer of a date. Something about Warren, more her type in the social realm, kept her from accepting. He wasn’t attractive like Nicholas, and he certainly didn’t share the same sweet characteristics of his sister Tessa. Maybe it was his rough, bad boy side. She was attracted to the good boys, like Ian Donnelly and Fionn Cavanaugh, and it had led nowhere in the end.
She mentally corrected herself. Brigid would probably be with Fionn right now if it hadn’t been for the fire, which took him and his mother’s life and left Fiona at the hands of her abusive and drunken father.
Leaving Brigid without a marriage license and ring.
Brigid slammed a foot on the clutch and brake pedals, slid to a stop on the gravel before the front porch, punched the shifter in gear before racing out of the truck. She called out for Ethel as she burst through the house’s front door, not bothering to knock. The home appeared empty at first glance. Ethel’s handbag lay on the side table by the front door. She called out again, still no response. She moved further into the home before she heard the muffled crying from Richard’s room.
“Richard?” Brigid called softly. “It’s Brigid, can you tell me where you are?” she asked, as she entered his room and glanced at the empty bed, toys neatly in their toy box, everything in its usual tidy spot. Ethel, after all, would have it no other way.
Brigid stood in the doorway, stared around the room before she identified the crying came from the closet. She rushed over, jerked the closet door open, and bent to meet Richard’s gaze. “Richard,” Brigid said softly, “it’s me, honey. Are you okay?” She reached her hands out, and Richard catapulted into her embrace. “Where’s your mother?”
Richard cried in earnest. “Mama’s hurt in the barn.”
Brigid furrowed her brow. Something was seriously wrong with Ethel if Richard wasn’t sitting with her. Under normal circumstances, Richard would be the first to offer his mother assistance. A knot of fear clutched leaden in Brigid’s gut. Giving Richard one final squeeze, Brigid placed him on his bed, and said, “Stay here until I check on your mommy. Okay?” She waited until he nodded. “I’ll be right back, honey.”
Despite what she might find, Brigid exited the house and hesitantly made her way toward the barn. Both the large barn doors were closed, the first indication of something wrong. Ethel made a habit of keeping those doors open so she could hear and watch Richard’s activities from the kitchen window when he played inside. She tugged the door open just enough to squeeze her way through.
Richard was right. Ethel was in the barn, but far from simply hurt. Whereas Brigid expected Ethel to be lying wounded on the floor, possibly unconscious from a fall, she didn’t expect to see Ethel hanging from a rope tied to the rafter. Ethel’s dress was torn and bloodied, her face damaged by multiple blows and bloated from strangulation.
With a stifled cry, Brigid took a step back, her body contacting the door before she twisted around and ran back into the main house.
Using the phone installed in the kitchen, Brigid picked up the receiver and placed it to her ear. Ethel had a party line. Due to cost, she put in a rural line but hadn’t been able to afford a single. As voices chirped away, Brigid grew perturbed. “Ladies, I need you to hang up. Operator, please connect me with the police. There’s been a murder.”
The women on the line tittered as if it were a joke, until Richard screamed, “Momma’s dead, Momma’s dead” behind her.
Once the operator assured her help was on the way, Brigid called the only other person who made her feel safe. Fiona agreed to come immediately, so Brigid returned her attention to Richard. She clutched him tightly to her body, they both cried at their loss.
Fiona telephoned Nicholas. He was the only person with a schedule as flexible as her own. Nicholas also owned a vehicle. She needed transportation since Brigid took her truck. Nicholas, as luck would have it for her, had been in his hotel room.
Nicholas must have broken every speed limit to get to her house, screeching to stop where Fiona nervously waited. She slid in, and they were underway before the passenger door closed.
“She didn’t say what was wrong?” Nicholas aske
d.
Fiona could tell Nicholas searched for the facts rather than making it a matter of disbelieving her. “All I know is Richard was near hysterical in the background, and Brigid was barely holding it together.” She gave him a sideways glance. “You may need to prepare yourself that something serious has happened to Ethel.”
“Not to be sarcastic, or cruelly melodramatic, but I certainly hope that’s the case. I’d hate for this to be some form of punishment of hers toward Richard and Brigid.” Nicholas gave a quick one-shoulder shrug. “Ethel told me two days ago, our relationship is over. She wasn’t in a mood to pretend interest when all she wanted was a new daddy for Richard.”
Fiona shook her head. “I’m sorry, Nicholas. The situation appeared so to Margaret and me, but we didn’t feel comfortable questioning Brigid on the situation. Not that Ethel would have shared, or did share, this newest fact that we are aware of. Poor Richard. You were good for him.”
Nicholas’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “You want to hear a sad truth?”
“If it makes you feel better to share.”
“No, not better.” Nicholas exhaled heavily. “Truth is I figured it out for myself. Ethel was always so distant yet had no trouble with me spending time with Richard, even if it meant I also spent time with her best friend, Brigid.”
“So, you already decided she used you?” Fiona felt bad, but it brought a niggling question to mind. Could Nicholas have harmed Ethel in anger at rejection? She felt a moment of unease. No, Fiona had many faults, but judging character usually wasn’t one them. Nicholas had secrets, but murder wasn’t one. And, in her experience, usually, the man dumped the woman, not the other way around.
“Do you believe she purposely placed you with Brigid?”
“No, Ethel also used Brigid to take on responsibility for Richard when she didn’t want to deal with motherhood. Ethel has always been interested in what makes Ethel happy. That’s why we still had s—”
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