“Patrick.” Taylor made a soft sound of dismissal. “He doesn’t give a whit about this family. He’s planning to leave after the wedding, right when Mr. O’Neil will need him most.”
I struggled to maintain an even, rational tone. “Do you really think he has a choice? You weren’t around last night when World War III broke out. Patrick tried to help the old bull, and James went ballistic. He doesn’t want Patrick’s help, and he’s as stubborn as Felim O’Connor!”
Taylor’s brow furrowed. “Who?”
“Never mind.”
“Well, the bull’s gone.” Taylor’s gaze lowered, as did his voice. “Maddie told me this morning. Her dad spent the night out in the barn, and this morning they found him asleep in the bullpen. The bull was stone-dead.”
I frowned at the distasteful image my mind conjured up. “Did they call the knackers?”
“The what?”
“The people who buy animal carcasses.”
Taylor shook his head. “Fiona put James to bed, and Patrick went to work out in the pasture with a backhoe. I think he intends to bury the beast.”
I lifted my eyes to the west pasture, where I could hear the chugging roar of machinery. The thought of Patrick taking the time to bury his father’s beloved Graham Red touched me in a way I really didn’t expect. Graham Red, the famous Friesian bull, would now belong to Ballyshannon forever.
Blinking the wetness out of my eyes, I turned to Taylor. “Did you know a native Irishman can identify forty different shades of green?”
His face screwed into a human question mark. “What are you talking about?”
I waved the thought away. “Nothing. So why were you sent out here to talk to me?”
“Maddie seems to think you want me to stay here,” he mumbled, looking down at his hands. “And don’t get me wrong, Kathy. I do like the place, it’s beautiful. But it’s not home. And I’ve got a position waiting at the college and coworkers who support me. Professor Howard was certain I could make full professor in just two more years, but all those plans will have to be postponed if I stay in Ireland indefinitely. The college will have to hire someone to replace me, so I might even lose my position.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll go back to New York…eventually.” I lifted my gaze again to the pasture, where I could see the bright yellow roof of the sporty little backhoe. “But don’t you think you ought to at least consider staying, for Maddie’s sake? Her father is dying. She just might want to spend time with him.”
“I know he is, and I can’t help it.” The corners of his mouth went tight with distress. “I know that sounds heartless, but I can’t sit here for months, possibly years, and do nothing but wait. I’ll bring Maddie back if she wants to visit, but we can’t put our lives on hold and wait for the man to die.” He looked at me with eyes that were frankly pleading. “Surely you understand that, Kathy.”
I softened my tone out of deference to his pain. “I think I understand more than you do, Taylor. I told Maddie I’d try to convince you to stay here, but you can’t take Patrick’s place. The farm is his by right, and by blood. Furthermore, he loves it.”
Taylor stared at me for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Are we talking about the same man? Patrick O’Neil? The genius computer programmer?”
“We are.”
“Seriously.” He rubbed his hand over his jaw, as if to stop himself from laughing. “You really think Patrick will give up his cushy job and city apartment to come back here? I gotta say, Kathy, I think the country life has gotten to you. Patrick hates this farm and everything about it.”
Not caring who watched, I reached out and patted his blue-jeaned knee. “You mark my words, Taylor Morgan. Paddy O’Neil was born to life at Ballyshannon, and he’ll end up here. The bitterness you see in him isn’t directed at the farm. It’s James and Patrick who are at war, and I think it’s nearly time to negotiate terms of surrender.”
He tipped his head back, eyeing me with a calculating expression, and then understanding filled his eyes. “If you’re thinking about a deathbed reconciliation, I’ll admit, you may have a point. But the doctors say James will live at least another year. And the last year will be the hardest, which means he’s going to need help, and lots of it. So that doesn’t help my situation in the least.”
I smiled. “I don’t know what to tell you, Taylor, but I know God has begun to work in Patrick’s life. I also know God wants Patrick and his father to be at peace.”
One of Taylor’s brows lifted. “I didn’t know God had a particular interest in this situation.”
“God is interested in every situation, and I’m sorry I don’t point that out more often.” I shrugged away my shame. “Last weekend Patrick and I went to hear that American evangelist, and I think Patrick made a decision for Christ. I’m not sure how his decision will change things, but I hope it means things will be different in this family. I think Patrick will want them to be different.”
Taylor gave me a skeptical look. “Didn’t Christ say something about coming not to bring peace, but a sword? If you meddle, you may only make the situation between Patrick and James worse.”
I straightened, thinking of the terrible argument I’d witnessed the night before. “Honestly, Taylor, I don’t think things could get much worse.”
“I don’t know about that.” Taylor stood and eased himself out of the narrow space between the picnic table and the bench. “At least Patrick is still welcome here. If he starts preaching to his dad, James may forbid him to come home altogether.”
For that I had no answer.
Two weeks passed, and those of us living at Ballyshannon kept pretty much to our routines. I spent my time reading and writing about Cahira O’Connor, Taylor studied Kipling, and Maddie trooped into town for visits with her girlfriends, the parish priest, and the elderly woman who was sewing her wedding gown.
Patrick kept himself busy with the farm. Mornings and evenings he spent milking and examining the dairy herd, while afternoons he walked the pastures and inspected the fences. One evening he took his father’s place at a dairy co-op meeting, and a few nights he spent by the fire with me. I devoured yet another volume about the Norman invasion while he argued aloud with a book about the pros and cons of cloning cattle. Sometimes he brought his Bible to the fire and draped it over his left knee while he flipped through the pages of a reference book resting on his right. Mrs. Sullivan, our favorite librarian, had sent him home with an armful of commentaries, Hebrew lexicons, and a concordance.
Patrick had definitely relegated his computer work to a lower priority, though I couldn’t say whether he did this out of guilt or desire. When I asked him about the big project he had been working on when he first arrived at Ballyshannon, he simply replied that he had finished it. Apparently he had other projects, too, but none that required his undivided attention. A few afternoons when I worked in the little house he came in long enough to pick up his laptop, which he then carried to the picnic table on the lawn. Looking out the window, I usually saw him typing like a madman, but once or twice I saw him sitting with his chin parked in his palm, his eyes unfocused and staring out over the fields.
In such moments all my doubts and uncertainties vanished. I now knew with pulse-pounding certainty that Patrick O’Neil was a dairy farmer down to his socks. His computers, his life in Limerick, and his friendships with his bachelor flatmates were more his hobby than his life. Whether or not he wanted to admit it, his existence was rooted in Ballyshannon. Here, among the fields and in the milking shed, he seemed to shine.
I only wished that James O’Neil were able—and willing—to see what I saw in his son. Mr. O’Neil had taken to his bed the morning the bull died and had not yet found the strength to rise. He had no specific complaints, Mrs. O’Neil whispered over lunch one day, but the spirit seemed to have gone out of him when Graham Red died. “’Tis almost as if he knows the farm will be moving into new hands,” she said, casting a wounded look at Maddie and Taylor. “Hands that wo
n’t care about the glory of Graham Red and his progeny.”
At dinner a few days later, Patrick abruptly interrupted the conversation and announced that the dairy co-op would be holding a cattle show in Nenagh over the weekend. Speaking in a voice far too loud for casual conversation, he proclaimed that he’d like to drive over and take a look at the stock, particularly since he’d heard that several fine Angus bulls were being put up for auction. He’d also heard that at least one of Graham Red’s get would be on display.
I drowned my smile in my teacup, fully understanding why Patrick shouted. Lowering my cup, I caught Mrs. O’Neil’s eye and saw that she was smiling too. Her eldest son wanted to be sure his proud, bedridden father heard the news.
Realizing, too, the concession he’d just made, I felt my heart flow toward Patrick, and the look in his eyes struck a vibrant chord when his gaze met mine. “I don’t believe in the necessity of keeping a bull,” he said, lowering his voice to reach my ear and barely a breath beyond,“and few fellows will go through the trouble of dealing with the dangerous beasts. But if buying a bull will give James O’Neil a reason to get out of bed…”
“And you’re a lovely man, Paddy,” his mother added, nodding in approval. She reached out and patted Patrick’s hand, love and maternal pride shining in her eyes.
I smiled and strengthened my voice back to a normal level. “Shall we make plans then?” Mr. O’Neil should know we were planning to go to the fair together. His miraculous healing would be less remarkable if we made the cattle show a major family affair.
“What fun!” Maddie clapped her hands in glee, then squeezed Taylor’s arm. “You’ll adore the fair, love. ’Tis terribly interesting, and there will be music and dancing and all sorts of things to see.”
Taylor gave me a wry half-smile. “I can’t wait.”
Maddie beamed at her brother. “Well, Paddy, what do you think—should we invite Erin Kelly? She hasn’t been out with us in ages, and she’s bound to be wondering—”
“No,” Patrick interrupted, his eyes flashing toward his sister. A hurt expression crossed Maddie’s round face as she fell silent, and I lowered my gaze in hopes no one would remark upon the color that flared upon my cheeks.
Right on schedule, Mr. O’Neil’s remarkable improvement occurred the morning of the fair. When I came downstairs, I found him sitting in his own place at the breakfast table, eating his way through an impressive plate of eggs, sausages, rashers, blood pudding, and the ever-present tomato. His jowls hung in flaps like the flews of a hound, but his eyes seemed more focused than when I had last seen him, as though a film of indifference or resignation had been peeled away. His wife hovered over him, refilling his teacup and buttering his bread with tender patience. Not even the steadily dripping rain outside seemed to dim his spirits.
After breakfast, we drove to Nenagh in two cars—Maddie, Taylor, Patrick, and I rode in Patrick’s car, while Mrs. O’Neil drove her husband in the other. Despite the rain, Maddie was in high spirits. She was probably hoping to meet old friends before whom she hadn’t yet had a chance to flaunt Taylor. Quietly acquiescent, Taylor scarcely said a dozen words on the drive. A cattle show was probably the last thing on earth he wanted to see, but at least the event would be a break from what had become a monotonous routine. He had actually visited the milking shed several times in the last few days, but he seemed about as enthusiastic about the prospect as a convict going to the electric chair.
Patrick and I rode together in the front seat. Though he had been careful to avoid his father at breakfast, I knew from the gleam in his eye that he was pleased his plan had worked. The older man was out of bed, energized, and, for the moment, observing a cease-fire in the war with his son.
I peered out at the long, wavering runnels on the car windows. “Will they have the fair if it’s raining?”
Patrick laughed. “The weather changes here every five minutes, love. If the cows don’t mind it, why should we?”
Fortunately, the rain faded to a mere misty drizzle by the time we reached Nenagh. On the outskirts of the city, we pulled off the road, drove down a muddy dirt path, then rattled and bounced our way through a pasture. Finally Patrick stopped the car—following the inexplicable Irish pattern of parking, which is no pattern at all—and shut off the ignition. “We’re here,” he said, looking at me as though I might challenge his statement.
I got out of the car, craned my neck in all directions and saw. cattle. I don’t know what I expected to see—a Ferris wheel and hot dog vendors, I suppose. But when Patrick called it a cattle fair, he spoke the truth. Of course there were lots of people in the pasture and a few dogs, for a sheep-herding trial was being held in the next field. A group of men stirred around a flatbed trailer from which a sign proclaimed that the Johnny Kelly Trio would be performing at noon, one, and two. But mostly I saw cows. Most were in makeshift iron pens; several wore bridles and followed their handlers with morose, plodding steps. A few men in raincoats walked before the cattle and appraised them narrowly.
I looked around to check on our party and saw Mrs. O’Neil helping Mr. O’Neil over a slice of earth wounded by a heavy truck. He seemed well, though, and wore a smile as wide as Texas.
Maddie pulled Taylor toward the tweed-coated dog people. “Oh, and look, there’s Nattie O’Hara and her new husband! Won’t they be pleased to meet you! Come, love.” Taylor threw me a what-am-I-doing-here? look while his spirited bride-to-be led him away.
Patrick watched them go, then took my hand. “Wouldn’t want you to slip out here,” he said simply, leading me over the damp grass. We walked toward a huddle of farmers gathered around a fierce-looking black bull.
A cold wind blew over the field, but I didn’t feel it, so wrapped was I in the invisible warmth emanating from Patrick. I moved closer to him, holding his elbow with my free hand, absorbing assurance from his confident posture. While we stood and stared at the huge black beast, one thought kept running through my mind: By persuading his father to come, Patrick had set a bit of a miracle in motion.
“Patrick O’Neil,” I tipped my head back and looked up into his eyes. “You’re a wonder, do you know? You’ve done a generous and compassionate thing here today.”
He gave me an answering smile, then looked away to the crowd around the bull. “You see those men clapping eyes on that Angus? They’re interested in him, but they’re interested in using him for AI. Not a one of them wants to actually own the beast; they’d rather pay for a vial of bull semen. My dad’s the only fellow who’d be loony enough to make an offer for the creature.”
I looked at the bull, my thoughts scampering vaguely around as I tried to follow Patrick’s thoughts. “I thought your dad didn’t like Angus cattle.”
“I am hoping he’ll bend a little.” Patrick glanced over his shoulder for some sign of his father, then sighed and looked back at the bull. “I’m willing to keep silent about the keeping of a bull if he’ll realize that Friesians aren’t the kind of bull he needs to keep. If he’ll get a fine Angus, we’ll be able to produce good beef cows and good dairy cows. That will ensure Ballyshannon’s productivity for years to come.”
He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the lines of the big black beast. “Years ago, you see, farmers wanted Dutch Friesians, for those huge cows give tons of milk. But milk’s not so much in demand today, and we’ve had to form a co-op to keep prices from falling altogether. The government urges us to keep production at a reasonable level, so we’re going to have to concentrate on beef cattle if Ballyshannon is to survive in this economy.”
I nodded, not understanding completely, but realizing enough to see the sense in his words. I’d heard about the same thing in the United States. The government actually pays dairy farmers not to produce milk because a glutted market would drive prices down so far no one could make a profit.
“Paddy O’Neil? Can it be you?” A short gentleman pulled the pipe from his mouth and squinted at Patrick. “Saints above, ’tis! What brings
you out here on such a wet day as this?”
Patrick stepped forward and shook the man’s hand. “Well, old Graham Red passed last week,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets. “We thought Dad might like to get out and have a look at the new bulls. I’m hoping he’ll bid on an Angus.”
“Aye, and I just saw your father.” The man nodded, then hesitated a moment, waiting for Patrick to introduce me. In an effort to avoid embarrassing Patrick, I thrust out my hand.
“Kathleen O’Connor,” I said, managing a tentative smile. “I’m visiting Ballyshannon for a few weeks.”
“Ah?” The old man’s bushy brow shot up. “Ronan Murphy, miss, and pleased to meet you. Though your name’s Irish, something tells me you’re not from these parts.”
“She’s from America,” Patrick inserted. “New York.”
“Right so.” The man shrugged as if that were all that needed to be said, then looked at Patrick with a probing gleam in his eye. “How is your dad these days, Paddy? I’ll be wanting to know the truth, so speak plainly.”
Patrick looked down, the fringe of his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. “He’s been better, and he’s been worse, Ronan. Last week I was half afraid he’d given up altogether, but he rallied himself today. We’re trying to keep his spirits up.”
Mr. Murphy’s eyes were gentle and contemplative as he puffed on his pipe. “The doctors have done all they can then?”
Patrick swallowed hard and squared his shoulders. “Yes.”
“Sorry to hear it.” With an admirable economy of motion, Mr. Murphy turned and pointed across the field with the stem of his pipe.
“Your dad’s over there now, bidding on a fine black-and-white bull that’s come out of your own Graham Red. I’d have bid on the creature meself, but he looks like a bit of trouble.”
Patrick nodded and murmured his thanks, managing to quell his irritation until Mr. Murphy moved away. Then, taking me by the elbow, he practically pulled me across the field.
The Emerald Isle Page 35
