* * *
The wedding feast was well underway. Two long tables stood opposite the cook fire loaded with fruit pies, roast chicken, fried apples, corn fritters and pitchers of buttermilk.
Sarah watched Mike talking with a few of the other men—clearly discussing camp business of some kind from the serious nod of Mike’s head as he listened. A natural leader, he had created this community of over a hundred people by bringing together neighbors and family right after The Crisis happened to form a place of security and fellowship.
Where before there had been only pasture and field, an assortment of huts, cottages and sturdy tents now ringed the main campfire. There were rules in the community, but the underlying belief held by all was that there was safety in numbers, and a good life could still be had, even without electricity or cars.
Sarah edged her way to the circle of men and slipped into the center. “Excuse me, gents,” she said as she slipped an arm around Mike’s waist. “The presence of the brother of the bride is requested on the dance floor. I’m sure camp business can wait one night.”
She felt Mike’s arm drape around her shoulders. A big man, he towered over her but she was grateful he didn’t resort to stooping to accommodate her. She liked his size.
“Jimmy, Iain,” Mike said, “we’ll sort it out in the morning. Sarah’s right. Tonight’s for celebrating.”
“Without even a glass of beer?” Iain said, shaking his head.
“Well, seeing how we don’t have any, yes. Come on, old son, can ya not dance sober?”
“Not anything you want to see,” Jimmy said, laughing at his own wit.
Sarah pulled Mike free of the group. His arm felt relaxed around her shoulders, beer or not. Maybe he’d worked himself out of whatever mood she thought she’d detected.
“You okay?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Sure, and why wouldn’t I be? Me with my only sister wed to my best mate and the luscious Sarah Woodson all but pulling me into her arms for a dance?”
Sarah grinned when Mike’s hand moved from her shoulders to her waist and then to her bottom. She removed it firmly. “None of that, Mike Donovan. Especially as we don’t have alcohol to blame it on.”
“I don’t need to be drunk to want to feel your bum in me hands, Sarah.” His eyes glittered meaningfully.
“Mike, behave yourself. This is Fiona’s night.”
“Nothing I have in mind will take anything away from my sister’s night. And did you have to remind me?”
Sarah laughed. “I can’t believe how old-fashioned you are! She’s not a virgin, you know.”
“Blimey! Did I need to hear that?”
“We may live like we’re in the sixteen hundreds but we did all have twenty-first century lives until relatively recently.”
“It might surprise ya to know, Sarah Woodson, that I’m not so keen to be discussing my sister’s sex life.”
“Alright, settle down. I just want to make sure you’re okay. You looked a little grumpy up there during the ceremony.”
“Well, that’s just daft. I’m pleased as feckin’ punch for the both of them.”
“Remind me to make sure you don’t make any toasts to the happy couple.”
“And what would we even toast with?”
“God! Is it really the end of the world for an Irishman to have no alcohol?”
“I think you just answered your own question.” Mike pulled up a bench a few yards away from the music and the dancing and pulled Sarah onto his lap.
“Mike!” she squealed, but laughed as he held her firmly on his knee.
“Now we’ll just be watching the others dance and enjoy this special day,” he said. “And marvel to the good Lord above that it’s possible to do that without beer or whiskey. Sure, I’m not positive it is possible to do that, ya ken?”
Sarah slid off his lap and pulled him to a standing position. “Dance with me, Mike,” she said. “There’s no booze, no DJ, no canapés and no bouquet to catch. Dance with me.”
He stood up and followed her to the dirt dance floor, the rest of the dancers parting to make room for them. Some even clapped to see their leader—easily the tallest of them—coming among them. He nodded at Declan who was slow-dancing with Fiona and then drew Sarah into his arms. The music was scratchy and repetitive, but it was lively and had a beat.
As she relaxed in his arms Sarah glanced around the camp, taking note of where Papin and John were. Not surprisingly, John was standing with Gavin at the food table. The women of the camp had outdone themselves creating multiple tables of cakes, pies, ham, and devilled eggs.
She could see Papin on the dance floor. Iain, the man who had been arguing with Mike earlier, was methodically two stepping his way through the song, his large hands gripping her small waist. Sarah frowned. At thirty, Iain was way too old to be dancing with Papin. Plus, he was married.
She saw her fourteen-year-old adopted daughter’s eyes flash up at Iain as she spoke, the words drowned out by the music. Papin was flirting with Iain. It was practically the only way the girl knew how to relate to men. Half the time she did it to John and Mike, too, although they ignored it.
Iain didn’t seem to be ignoring it.
“Mike,” Sarah said in a low voice. She felt his body stiffen as she spoke. It hadn’t taken long for the two of them to develop an efficient shorthand communication.
“What is it?” he said. By the way he moved in her arms, she could tell he was looking around to see what had upset her. It didn’t take him long, either.
“Oy! Jamison!” he bellowed. “We’ll not be needing your minding services any longer.”
Papin reddened as Iain dropped his hands from her and backed away. “Da!” she said indignantly. “I’m not a baby!”
Mike had stepped up to the role of co-parenting Papin, a virtual orphan when she came to the camp last year, with Sarah. He had seen immediately that she needed a loving and firm male presence—and one who didn’t want to bed her.
Mike gave Sarah’s arm a squeeze of apology and went to Papin.
“I’ll be having this dance, milady?” he said, bowing at the waist.
Sarah held her breath but she needn’t have worried. Papin smiled at Mike and held up her hands for him to pick her up and swing her, which he did, to her delighted giggles.
* * *
Sarah saw Fiona sitting on one of the long wooden benches that had been brought out to line the center campfire. She sat holding the hem of her gown away from the dirt on the ground, her eyes wide with exhaustion and joy. Sarah joined her on the bench.
She reached out and patted Fiona’s knee. “Are you happy?”
Fiona turned her face to Sarah with real delight. “Oh, so happy, Sarah. I wish you this kind of happiness.”
“I had it once, remember.”
“Sure, that’s right. With your David.”
Fiona fanned herself. A light mist of perspiration coated her face, giving her the effect of glowing.
Sarah held her friend’s hand. “Declan is a good man. I can’t tell you how happy I am for you both.”
“Ta, Sarah. As happy as I’d be if you and Mike were ever to stop playing around and get down to being together.”
Sarah squeezed her hand and found herself looking for Mike in the crowd of laughing, dancing bodies milling around the center courtyard. She knew Fiona was right. Just seeing Mike, the way his body moved, the way he looked at her, was enough to make her want to grab his hand and take him right back to her cottage with a Do Not Disturb sign on the door. He would probably always have that effect on her.
She wasn’t exactly sure why things hadn’t moved along in that direction. It certainly wasn’t for lack of broad hints and downright trying on Mike’s part.
She finally spotted him, his hand on one hip, leaning down to listen, as an elderly couple seemed to be talking earnestly to him about something. Sarah loved seeing him like this, unaware of her—or anyone—and doing what he did best: looking after the famil
ies in Donovan’s Lot. His face was kind, his eyes alert as he listened. He was a good leader, Sarah mused. A little given to the my-way-or-the-highway type thinking, but possibly that was normal for natural-born leaders.
“I know you’re hot for him, Sarah Woodson. A blind person could see that. And you know he’s burned for you since the day he laid eyes on you.”
“Okay, Fi, let’s focus on one romance at a time, shall we?”
Fiona shook her head, but she smiled and plucked at the lace cuff of her wedding dress, a dated cocktail dress that some of the women in camp had fitted to Fiona’s slim body. “I just can’t believe he’s mine, you know?”
“Trust me, Declan’s saying the same thing.”
“Which is even more amazing to me.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be, Fi. You were just holding out for the right one.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Fi said laughing. “Oh, here’s my husband. I think he’s got that ‘it’s time we’re away, wench’ look in his eye.”
“I think you’re right.” Sarah stood up as Declan approached, his faced flushed, his gaze focused on the only woman he had eyes for.
“Excuse me, Sarah,” he said, “I’ll be taking me bride, now. Fi?” He held his arms out to Fiona and she slipped easily into them. The two kissed and Fi pulled him away toward their cottage. “See you in the morning, Sarah,” she said over her shoulder.
“Aye, but not too early, mind,” Declan called out as the two disappeared into the evening.
Smiling, Sarah pulled her cardigan around her shoulders and turned back to the party, which appeared to be winding down. She could see mothers pulling their children back to huts and tents. While there was no sugar to wire the little ones, the music and general excitement had served to make most of them cranky and tearful.
“The lovebirds call it a night?”
Sarah turned to see Mike approaching with two steaming mugs in his hands. He handed one to her.
“Oh, that’s perfect,” she said, taking the cup. She sipped slowly and then coughed, her face reddening. She put a hand to her mouth. “Is there whiskey in this?” she whispered around another small cough. “You could’ve warned me, first.”
“I find the sneak attack is often more effective for my purposes. It’s some of the last of what we got from that trip to Limerick in the spring. There’s only just a dram so don’t go broadcasting it.”
“Perks of the rank?” Sarah asked, reseating herself on the bench.
“Something like that. Fi and Dec pack it in?”
“Please don’t put it like that,” Sarah said with a grin.
“Oh, very funny. You just don’t quit, do you?”
“Well, not when you make it so easy to tease you.”
They sat, shoulder to shoulder, sipping their whisky and hot tea and watching the last of the partiers pick up children, food, and musical instruments. A few of the gypsies—Declan’s extended family—seemed to be bedding down around the center campfire, which would burn all night long.
“Papin and John in bed, do you know?”
Mike shook his head. “They’re in your cottage but too excited to sleep, I’ll wager.”
“It was a perfect night,” Sarah said, finishing off her drink.
Mike took both cups and set them aside. “The night’s not over yet,” he said in a low voice.
When she saw his eyes regarding her, so full of tenderness and care, it was all she could do not to climb onto his lap right there. He was so much a part of her world, her support system in this life. So strong, so confident.
So damn sexy.
Her face must have expressed more than she intended because he leaned in and kissed her mouth. A slow kiss she couldn’t push away from.
She placed her hands on his broad shoulders and fell into the kiss, feeling him pull her close into his chest. A small moan escaped her lips as he looked into her dark eyes.
“Yes, Sarah?” he whispered.
“God, yes,” she responded without hesitating.
“I’d pick you up and carry you there,” he growled, his voice full of urgent need, “but I don’t want to alert the camp to my intentions.”
“Our intentions,” Sarah said, kissing him firmly. “I can walk. At least for now.”
“God, woman, every word out of your mouth is making me hard as a brick.” He tilted her head back to see her face lit by the firelight, her neck long and bare. He kissed her again.
“Oy, Mike! You still up, son? Is that you over yonder I see snoggin’ the Widow Woodson? Mike?”
Sarah stood up quickly, straightening her blouse and pulling her cardigan around her in time to see Jimmy Baskerville waving at Mike from across the campfire.
“Bloody hell,” Mike cursed, shaking his head. “Are ya kidding me?”
Sarah would have laughed if she weren’t so annoyed by the interruption herself—and if she hadn’t noticed that Jimmy was approaching with a stranger in tow.
“Oy, Mike,” Jimmy said, walking to stand in front of Mike, still seated. “We got us a visitor and you said we’re always to bring ‘em before yerself, like, whenever that happens.”
The stranger stood behind Jimmy, almost as if hiding, Sarah thought. He looked bedraggled and hungry. He’d clearly been traveling and living off the land for many weeks, if not longer. Camp policy was to welcome all travelers with food and a bed for the night.
“I don’t mean to disrupt the festivities,” the man said, peeking out from behind Jimmy. “But a bit of grub would be welcome.”
Sarah saw Mike work to pull himself together and shake off his disappointment. He nodded to Jimmy. “Go see if Molly is still up and have her put together a sandwich.” Jimmy saluted him and turned on his heel.
The traveler stood alone now, his eyes darting from Sarah to Mike like a canary between two cats.
“Won’t you sit down?” she said, although the grunt she heard from Mike indicated he had hoped the man wouldn’t be staying long.
“Thank you, missus,” he said, not moving. He had a tattered backpack on his shoulder, and even in the dark Sarah could see it held very little. She returned to her seat on the bench.
“Please, sit,” Sarah said again. “We usually ask visitors if they have any news to share.” She was hoping to make him feel less like a beggar by suggesting he had something to offer to the camp. The effect of her words on him was immediate.
“Can I ask you, missus,” he said, “if the way you speak is because you’re American? I’ve got nothing against Yanks, mind,” he said hurriedly. Not everyone in Ireland shared his tolerant attitude, Sarah knew.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said. “I’m from Florida. I was on vacation in Ireland when The Crisis happened.”
The man seemed to relax a little. He knelt in the dirt and shrugged off his pack and then slowly sat down, crossing his knees Indian-style on the ground. “Well, it’s mebbe that I do have news for you, in that case.”
Mike, who had been watching the newcomer closely, turned his head to look at Sarah. Had she gasped? News about America —other than groundless rumor—was rare these days.
“Yes?” she said. “You’ve news about the US?”
“It happens, I do, missus. I’m coming from Rathcoole. Been on the road, I guess, three weeks since but I reckon the news is still fresh.”
Jimmy appeared with a ham sandwich. He had a few deviled eggs wrapped in paper, too. “Sorry about no juice,” he said. “But we’ve been dry for months now.” He handed the newcomer a flask of water.
The traveler shook his head and took a large bite. He looked at this audience apologetically as he chewed. “Forgive me. Fresh bread…I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
He’s starving, Sarah thought. It was sometimes easy to forget that outside the walls of Donovan’s Lot there were many who struggled daily just to survive.
“I’m Mike Donovan. You’re welcome to stay the night. Jimmy’ll find a place for you to throw down a bedroll.”
“
Ta very much. The name’s Randy Paxton.”
“English?” Sarah asked.
“No, missus. I’m from up north.”
“You’ve come a long way.”
“This news,” Mike said, eyeing the man suspiciously. “Where did you come by it?”
“News? He’s got news?” Jimmy looked at Mike. “Should I rouse the camp?”
Mike waved him back down into his seat. “Unless the news is that the bloody British are invading, we’ll have time enough tomorrow.”
Paxton finished off his sandwich and drained the water flask. “Thank you kindly for the food,” he said. “I came by my news in Dublin.”
“How is Dublin?” Mike asked.
“It’s…I don’t rightly know how to say it. I was there just shy of three months. It was the three longest months of my life.”
“Crime?”
“Aye, and sickness.”
Sarah felt her pulse quicken. “Disease?”
Paxton nodded grimly. “Garbage in the streets. And worse.”
Mike grunted. “It’s not surprising. The wonder is people hadn’t started getting sick before now.”
“You said you had news of the Americans,” Sarah said, tapping her nails against the seat of the bench.
“Aye, missus. In Dublin it was just a rumor, but when I came through Limerick I saw it for myself.”
“Saw what? What did you see, man?” Mike asked.
“The Air Lift, they call it. The Yanks have their military in Limerick and they’re coming and going back and forth to the US like nothing ever happened. I saw the transport helicopters and also the big planes. Looked like whole families were leaving.”
Sarah gasped and stood up, knocking the two teacups she’d shared with Mike to the ground. She was vaguely aware of his hand on her arm.
Limerick was only a day’s ride away.
She turned to look out beyond the boundaries of the camp, her eyes glittering with awe and wonder. “We can go home,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Thank you, God, it’s finally happened. We can go home.”
Going Gone, Book 2 of the Irish End Games Page 28
