The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  Jessica exhaled in relief, thankful for a friendly connection. She recovered enough to return a smile that said his flattery would only get him so far. He was strong and held her against him. For a fraction of a second, she let her body yield. Not to him, exactly, but to the illusion of safety he gave her. Tim’s masculine strength made her think of Michael, how long it had been since they were together, and how much she missed him. She quickly remembered herself. Gently maneuvering some distance, she leaned down and gave the dogs› ears a good rub in greeting. “These guys are sweethearts, and they’re huge!”

  “Wolfhounds. Never a wee one in the bunch.”

  “They seem young.”

  “Yeah, they are at that. Barely over a year old but as tall as they’re goin’ to get. All that dog and so little brain.”

  Jessica laughed, happy to have a reason.

  Tim was taller than she first thought and she had to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun to look at him. The disjointed quality she usually observed in talking with him wasn’t there. Today his full attention had a sharpness she found intriguing. She tried to take a step back, wanting to stay out of his reach, but as he talked the leashed dogs wound themselves around their legs, forcing them even closer. Tim returned his arm around her, and when she looked up she could feel his breath on her face. The sensation of being held so closely sent another ripple through her gut. For a split moment, she let her guard down as she became wholly aware of him. His strength. His scent. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift to Michael.

  His arms tightened long enough to telegraph that he felt an opening in her manner and wouldn’t be the one to stop. She put her head down and wriggled free of his arms and dogs, willfully trying to lower the color that crept into her cheeks.

  In the awkward moment that followed, Jessica looked around the street to see who may have witnessed the brief encounter. Nan stood in the nook of a doorway. She said nothing as she got into the Land Rover and glared at Jessica over the steering wheel. And waited.

  Jessica looked at Nan and back at Tim. The impact of being plunked down in the middle of a strange country and cut off from her own means became very clear. She didn’t like it.

  “Give me a lift back?”

  Tim’s eyes gave a flicker of surprise, then his grin widened. He made a sweeping gesture with his arm and bowed low. “I’d be most honored to give me lady a ride. But only if the boss herself agrees,” he said, looking over at Nan.

  Nan answered by wheeling the Land Rover away, engine racing.

  “Whew,” Jessica said, watching the retreating vehicle. She searched for the right words. “Nan’s pretty intense. What’s her story?”

  “Intense?” Tim opened up the tailgate to his pickup and helped the two dogs jump in. Jessica got in the other side and he drove off a side street as he talked. “She’s not one for the titters and smiles. One thing I’ll say, you’ll always be clear on where you stand with her.”

  Jessica gave a dry laugh. “Yeah. I got that impression already. Seriously though, tell me about her.

  “There’s nothing to say about Nan. You need something done, she’ll do it.”

  “She’s lived here long?”

  Tim made a face, as if the question struck him as odd. “She can trace her roots back through eight generations of potato and sheep farmers and can count most of the citizens of County Donegal as one kind of distant relative or another.”

  “She seems to know everything about everyone in the town.”

  “Aye. She does at that but is beholden to none. She’s not one to tamper with tradition. She sees the past as something to be cherished, but she’s not much for socializin’.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “She goes about her business as she pleases. As much as she charts her own course, she’ll scrap with anyone who threatens family or tradition. I’ll say this for her, she loves her home. The land the cottage sits on has been in her family for centuries. Look at it,” he said as they drove. “This land has barely changed.”

  Jessica looked out her window. Stone ruins of homesteads abandoned from either feuds or famine dotted the countryside. Gently rolling green and yellow hills made a patchwork when crisscrossed with walls and hedgerows. On a distant knoll sat the hulking stone ruin of a castle.

  Tim continued. “Some of those ruins Nan can point to as homes of her grandfathers passed. Being in the northwest corner of the Republic of Ireland means this area is sandwiched between ocean cliffs to the west and the border to Northern Ireland to the east.”

  Her interest perked up. “I’ve been so focused on my job, I didn’t really give a lot of thought to what was around me. How close are we to the border?”

  “Only a few kilometers at best. It’s another reason few people make this forsaken corner their home and even fewer come to visit,” he said, looking at Jessica from the corner of his eye. “You being here is a bit out of the ordinary. I’m sure people will be askin’ about you around town if they haven’t already.”

  “That’s why Nan keeps people away?”

  “She’s just doin’ her job.”

  “Michael trusts her?”

  Tim looked at Jessica with an expression that made her feel embarrassed and vulnerable. She didn’t like those feelings at all. “Aye,” he said. “He does at that.”

  “And, um, your fathers were, um, friends?”

  “Colleagues.”

  “So, how—?”

  Tim slowed the truck and looked at her. “You need to get used to things here. The whole island is like one small town, and most of us don’t pay attention to borders. We all know one another. We’re all connected. You can’t cry on a stranger’s shoulder in a pub on Saturday without hearing about it from your Great Aunt Bessie at church on Sunday. Michael’s father was a powerful man who fought hard for all the people of Ireland, and he was loved by many. My father worshipped him and gave his life for him.”

  Jessica sat, stunned. “And you and Michael were friends?”

  “My father worked for his father. I was born into his service, and there is no greater honor. There’s hardly a person in Ireland who doesn’t recognize your face or what you did to destroy Magnus.”

  She drew in her breath in shock and fear. “I... I didn’t destroy him. H-he was—”

  “You asked me a question, and I answered it. People here believe Magnus took the fall for the murder you were framed for.”

  “He was an influential man with powerful friends. That’s why I ran.”

  He put his hand up as if on cue to stop her explanations. “Your story is famous enough, but people loved him and were shocked when he was undone by you. Maybe you can understand why you’re holed away in that cottage.” Tim was different. More assured. His movements and words were more fluid. It was as if he stepped into a role to play. She wasn’t sure if she liked it.

  She let the silence speak for her as they bounced over the roads, occasionally uttering squeaks of fright at moments when they rounded corners at speeds she felt excessive for the narrow lanes. Tim merely smiled at her reaction. Each blind corner held its own kind of challenge, and she gripped the door with her left hand and placed her right on the dashboard. Everything was opposite where it should have been. Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that Nan was right. She would need more than a bit of practice to be not a hazard to everyone else on the road.

  A metal gate blocked the road. He stopped the truck, clamored out, opened the gate, got back in the truck, drove it through, climbed back out of the truck, closed the gate, and finally settled back in the truck to continue their drive. “It’s not really a shortcut, but it’s a pretty drive.”

  Jessica chuckled and welcomed a change in conversation. “What about them?” she asked, pointing to two black and white border collies herding sheep from one pasture to the next in front of them. A rolling sea of white woolly backs with sprayed dots of pink approached the gate.

  Tim waved at a farmer wearing oversized green and mud-caked Wellies. He
leaned on a walking staff with one arm and cradled a rifle in the other. “That’s just sheep and old man O’Malley. Sheep are stupid and will blindly follow whatever stubbed tail is in front of their noses. That’s why it’s so easy for the collies to herd them. The dogs target the leader. Once the leaders are in check, the rest follow.”

  Jessica heard three short, shrill whistles. The dogs took off at a run so fast their bodies looked like flattened dashes streaking across the field. Two more whistles and the dogs abruptly turned left, separated, and then began to run an invisible course back and forth, funneling the sheep through the gate.

  She smiled. “Pretty impressive. Can your dogs do that?”

  “Wolfhounds are different. They ache to obey, but they’re not born with smarts like a border collie. They’re not quick to the mark, but none could ask more of their loyalty.”

  One long whistle and the dogs returned to the farmer’s side. She nodded in his direction. “What about him? Why the rifle?”

  “He knows better than anyone that all manner of spirit can come and go as they please.”

  She eyed the gun, a stark contrast to the image of a welcoming farmer. “Really? Doesn’t look it.”

  “He’s just protecting his sheep from hungry wolves.”

  “Wolves? In Ireland?”

  He looked at the sun hitting her blonde hair with an expression of mild fascination. “There are all manner of wolves and spirits in Ireland. I’m surprised you haven’t heard. In fact, I’ve been hearin’ from the locals that a banshee is back.”

  “Banshee? I used to have a pony by that name. I hear the word’s Irish for ghost.”

  “A little pony named Banshee?” In a perfectly choreographed move, Tim slapped his knee with laughter as they resumed their ride down the rutted road, unexpectedly causing the truck to veer off the track. The unthinking reflex that would have corrected the minor error evaded him. For a flash of a second too long, he froze, looking at some undefined point in front of them. Not a muscle moved. Then his head gave a slight jerk, and his eyes refocused.

  He gripped the steering wheel with two hands and worked it back and forth, trying to right their course. His face moved in a series of subtle flickers, cheeks hitching up to his eyes on some, mouth drooping on others. Once they were back on course, he continued as if nothing happened. “That’s fitting! The word is from the Gaelic bean sidhe meaning ‘fairy woman.’ The locals are swearin’ one is back and haunting the hills.”

  “Oh?” she said, trying to sound indifferent. Tim projected neither embarrassment nor concern at his near accident, seamlessly resuming their conversation like a needle skipping across a record. She watched him with more interest.

  He continued talking, slipping back into the comfortable topic. “Aye, indeed. We Irish believe that this fairy woman begins to wail when someone is about to die. She’s a messenger of death, that one, and your neighbors are none too pleased that she’s dashing about the hedgerows in the early mornings.”

  Jessica cocked her head, intrigued. “What exactly did you hear?”

  “Well, now,” he declaimed, relishing the tale. “About a week or so ago, not long after sunrise, old man O’Malley heard the most mournful wail. When he went outside, he saw the mists spill down from the top of the hill, then float across the fields, gathering speed. He was lookin’ into the sun, but O’Malley swears he saw a woman riding on a ghost horse, floating through the hedgerows as if they weren’t even there. Scared the bits right out of the good man.”

  The corners of her mouth tucked in as she tried not to smile. “Is a banshee ever associated with a living person?”

  “What’s that you say? You mean does she attach herself to a person instead of a place?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “Well now, come to think of it, she does. The spirit follows the person who’s to die or their loved ones as a warning.”

  “And if someone knew a banshee was about, would they stay away?”

  “No question about it. Old man O’Malley would have sprinted to Bishop’s Cathedral quicker than scat if he wasn’t sportin’ just boxers.” The pitch-perfect laugh landed on cue. “For all the living that man has done, it was the first time he swears he saw her.”

  “Do you believe he saw something?”

  Tim’s eyes unfocused as he thought. “I’ve no reason to question the man. If he was in his cups the night before, he’d be howling at the moon and not seeing banshees about.”

  “Are you so sure about that? Maybe he got confused. Nan said the locals were talking about seeing me in town.”

  “I’ll bet she said that to keep you under her thumb. She doesn’t like it when she can’t control someone.”

  She shrugged. “She wants people to keep away from me. Maybe I can help her by scaring them away.”

  Tim’s face widened with unchecked glee. “They shouldn’t be waggin’ on about an American. She should skitter them away with tales of a ghost.”

  Jessica finally let her smile pull free. “That’s right! Then you tell your old man O’Malley and anyone else who will listen that I saw and heard a banshee, too, over on that hill over there, by the stone circle,” she said, pointing.

  He slowed to a stop and looked to where she was pointing. His head cocked to one side. “What’s that you say now? Are you foolin’ with me or did something happen?”

  “I was out riding Planxty early one morning. Something startled us, and I couldn’t get back to the barn fast enough. I rode the fastest, most direct line and must have passed within a few yards of him.”

  Tim straightened up in his seat and listened with greater attention. Every bit of his body seemed to be dedicated to listening and understanding each word she spoke. The muscles of his cheek fluttered just beneath the surface of his skin. Seconds went by before he said, “I’m familiar with that land. If you’re telling me that you’re the banshee O’Malley saw, then you rode over country that would’ve mucked all but the best horse and rider.” He spoke slowly, measuring out each word. In an older person, Tim’s actions would have been evidence of an aged brain no longer able to process information at lightning speed.

  The pause between new information in and response out was longer than typically needed for easy conversation, but Tim was in the prime of his life. The gaps filled with twitches were disconcerting. The bouts of silence even more so. Some episodes lasted a mere flash of a moment. Others longer. His expression was blank as the gears in his brain ground into place. The time to process was how Erin’s injured brain lagged between input and reaction, sometimes producing storms of involuntary movements. Jessica wondered if they shared a cause.

  He had stopped the truck in a dell surrounded by hills. Wind through the open windows had blown Jessica’s hair out of its loose ponytail. Loose strands fell across her face. A movement in his eyes was the first indication that he was back in the present moment with her. His pupils enlarged as they looked at a point just over her head. A nervous smile touched the corners of his mouth as he reached up. He stopped himself before pulling at a strand of her hair.

  The bawls of the sheep and blasts from the whistle faded. His body made a barely perceptible move toward her. She pulled her head away and angled her body to look out the window. Her body language was clear. Don’t touch.

  His mouth stretched back, flashing his white even teeth, and his tongue curled around his lips like a hungry man when presented with a meal. Calculations mulled behind his eyes. “When Kilkea’s owner agreed to try you out as its trainer, it was to see whether the horse could ever compete again. I assured him Kilkea would.” He leaned closer to her in the seat. “You said it yourself. The horse will fly when it trusts its pilot. You should ride Kilkea in the race. That way you’re assured of his safety.”

  Tim’s ambition didn’t sway her. “No. I’m not qualified to ride a race like that, and he’s not ready.”

  “I’ve seen you ride, and Kilkea is in better condition than he has ever been.”

&
nbsp; “He might not be able to move beyond his trauma.”

  “And how are you supposed to know that?” Tim asked in a tone dangerously close to mocking. “Do you have the horse lay upon a wee little couch to hear him say, ‘Okay, Doctor Jessica, I’ve put the trauma in perspective. I’m ready to jump again.’?”

  His brazen disrespect made her laugh. He grinned back, happy she enjoyed his humor. He used the moment to lean closer. She pressed herself against the truck door. “After what you’ve said about his past, a rider can never really be sure the horse can ever perform without fear. When I say he’ll never compete at an international level again, I mean that a rider will never be sure how far to push him or what his breaking point would be. Every horse has its button that can’t be pushed. It would be different if he were in the ring by himself competing over fences, like in a Grand Prix, but he’s too hot-wired for a civilized show circuit. In a steeplechase, he’s in the middle of a mad crush of horses and riders. He knows what will happen because it happened before. A stumble by him could be the first domino in a fatal series of falls for horse and rider. He’s experienced that hell. With that memory it’s doubtful I could ever clear him for that level of competition.”

  “I saw you with him myself. He’s jumping bigger and better than he ever has, and I told his owner so.”

  “I just told you!” A crisp edge to her voice ensured she’d be understood. “Performing solo on a course is vastly different than riding in a pack. Just because he’s jumping big does not mean he’s fit.”

  “He’s fit enough for his owner.”

  “This is crazy. He would be a hazard to himself and others on the course. He needs time to put it behind him and to develop trust in his rider again.”

  “How much time does he need?”

  Jessica could not believe what she was hearing. “Time? It could be weeks. Months,” she said with emphasis. “It could be never.”

  “What can you do in a month?”

  “I can recondition his muscles, not his attitude.”