Perfect Timing

by Catherine Anderson

  Ceara stared at the flames as they licked higher onto the crisscrossed log rounds. Then, with a laugh, she cried, “Praise God and all the saints, I havena been stripped of all me powers. Weak as I am, I can still make fire!”

  Chapter Five

  Quincy couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed. Instant fire with a flick of Ceara’s wrist? Frank, who had arrived a few minutes earlier to attend the circus, looked as mystified as Quincy felt. As if Ceara noticed the stunned silence in the living room, she suddenly glanced back over a slender shoulder, her glad smile swiftly fading. “’Tis sorry I am if I gave ye a start. I forgot meself fer a moment.”

  His gaze shooting to the fireplace, Quincy pushed to his feet and crossed the room in three swift strides. How in the hell had she done that? He moved closer to the flames, looking for some sort of ignition device hidden in the kindling. He could detect nothing, but he knew there had to be something. He crouched for a better look. Still nothing.

  “How did you do that?” he demanded.

  Ceara rubbed her palms on her skirt. “’Tis one of me gifts, the ability to make fire. ’Twas a mistake to use it in the presence of others, and I apologize. I felt chilled, and I dinna stop to think afore I did it.”

  Nona joined Quincy by the hearth. She clearly shared his suspicion that there was an ignition device under the wood. She grabbed the poker to give the logs a good stir. Then she sent Quincy a bewildered look before resuming the inquisition. No matter how Nona phrased her questions or how many she asked, Ceara stuck tight to her story and never once got caught up in her lies. If it was true that a person needed a good memory to be a liar, then Ceara’s memory was phenomenal.

  Eventually Quincy grew weary of the grilling. This was getting them nowhere fast. He politely requested that Nona and her team take off for the day and return tomorrow. Only seconds after the living room cleared, Frank, who had remained behind, got a call on his cell from Clint. He listened to whatever Clint was saying and grunted a couple of times.

  When the call ended, he met Quincy’s questioning gaze. “Loni is home and settled in. Your brother sounds like he’s been dragged through a knothole backward.” He glanced at Ceara, who stood near the fire again to absorb some of its heat. “I think it’s high time we introduce our little guest here to your sister-in-law.”

  Quincy nodded in agreement. Damn right it was time. So far as he was concerned, the sooner this fiasco was resolved, the happier he’d be. As convincing as Ceara was, he still doubted her story, and if anyone on earth could tell them for certain whether she was lying, it would be Loni. “I’m all for that. You want to drive over with us, Dad?”

  Frank declined the offer. “I wanna swing by and pick up Dee Dee. I think havin’ her there to fuss over Loni will make Clint feel a little better. Maybe he’ll even see fit to grab a short nap.”

  Quincy nodded. “We’ll see you there then.” His dad’s place was nearby, and Quincy knew it wouldn’t take Frank long to collect his wife. “Don’t drive like a bat out of hell. There’s no rush. We can wait for you to get there.”

  Frank was already heading out. Over his shoulder, he said, “I appreciate that.”

  Silence settled over the living room. Quincy heard the kitchen door click closed, followed by the tap of his father’s boots on the plank veranda. He planted his hands on his hips, stared at Ceara for a long moment, and then sighed. She looked as exhausted as he felt. He guessed that this had been a pretty grueling day for her. He tried to tell himself he didn’t care, but it was difficult to remain unfeeling when she was so pale and unsteady on her feet. He detested the thought of putting her through anything more—truly he did—but he couldn’t postpone her introduction to Loni until tomorrow. His hope was that Loni would touch Ceara, say she was a fraud, and leave Quincy free to wash his hands of the lady before it grew too late to take her back to the station and let the authorities take over.

  Still, he had to ask. “Would you like something to eat, Ceara? I can rustle something up.”

  She shook her head. “Loni, the one I am to meet, she is the sick one, yes? The one who sees what others canna.”

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  She pushed at a stray curl that dangled in front of her ear. In the firelight it glistened like copper. “I saw many things in me mum’s crystal ball.”

  Quincy bit back a curse. So they were back to that, were they? He had to give her credit for being persistent. “Good,” he settled for saying. “Then you know I can be one ornery son of a bitch when someone messes with me.”

  She tipped her head to study him. “And ye believe I am messing with ye? What does that mean, exactly? I’ve done no harm to yer home or arena.”

  Quincy rolled his eyes and strode past her. “If you aren’t hungry, we’d best get going.”

  She trailed behind him to the kitchen like a duckling after its mother. He grabbed his jacket off the coat tree and thrust it at her. “It’s cold out there. I’m surprised you didn’t think to bring a coat when you beamed forward from Ireland. At this time of year, I don’t think the weather is much better there than here.”

  She accepted the jacket. “Snow in me Ireland is like a good houseguest who stays fer only a few days. It seldom gets verra deep or remains to bedevil us overlong. But ye’re correct about it being cold. I brought no coat—at home, we call it an inar—because it was too bulky to fit in me satchel and much too cumbersome for the journey I was about to undertake.” She arched a glimmering brow. “If I wear yer jacket, what will ye have to shield yerself from the chill?”

  “Right now,” he bit out, “I’m too damned angry to worry about it.”

  “Angry? Now there is a word I know. So it is angry with me that ye are? And why would that be, Sir Quincy? Yer Loni is dying. I am here at great cost to meself to save her. Do ye not appreciate me efforts?”

  Quincy allowed himself a derisive snort as he ushered her out onto the porch. It was getting dark a little later now, with daylight savings time in effect, but it was still colder outside than a well digger’s ass. Bubba and Billy Bob, impervious to the weather with their thick coats, bounded up onto the porch, bypassing Quincy to sniff Ceara’s skirt and slippers.

  “Ach,” she said, her tone meltingly sweet. “Ye do have dogs in this time!” She crouched and laughed when she received their wet kisses. “I thought I heard them barking this morning right afore ye let the constables take me away.” To the canines, she said, “’Tis so good to make yer acquaintance, me fine friends. Seeing ye lightens me heart!”

  Quincy caught himself grinning and forced his lips back into a grim line. He drew Ceara erect. “Shoo!” he said to the dogs. “Back to Pauline. Off with you!”

  With happy barks, the shepherds sailed over the steps and hit the frozen ground at a dead run, leaning into each other as they loped toward the arena. Ceara gazed after them as if the sun were blinking out.

  “Take care on the steps,” Quincy warned. “When the temps plummet at this time of day, the wood can get icy and slick.” He grasped her elbow to make sure she didn’t fall and felt her tense at his touch. “Purely a gentlemanly gesture, Ceara. I have no designs on you; trust me.”

  He didn’t release his hold on her until they reached the truck. She stepped back as he opened the passenger door. Then she held up a hand to forestall him when he moved to help her inside. “I shall manage by meself.”

  Quincy left her to it. He dug in his jeans pocket for his keys as he circled the front bumper. With the help of the running board, which Quincy would remove as soon as the spring thaw finally arrived in central Oregon, bringing with it mud axle-deep, Ceara managed to gain the seat by the time he slid in under the steering wheel. When he cranked the engine this time, she didn’t act startled. The stereo had been left on, and John Michael Montgomery’s mellow voice filled the cab. She didn’t peer at the dash or touch the door speaker. Apparently the modern-day wonders of twenty-first-century vehicles were now old hat to her.

  As t
hey set out for Clint’s place, she said, “Ye still have me headpiece and satchel. Will ye consider returning them to me? The satchel is filled with all me precious things.”

  “Both items are over in my arena office. I have no reason to keep them, but I doubt they’ll let you have any of your personal effects once you’re back in jail.”

  “So ye’ll be taking me back there, will ye?” She seemed to ponder that for a moment. “’Tis an unpleasant place, the clinker. I’ve done naught to deserve imprisonment.”

  Quincy reached the end of his driveway and turned onto the asphalt road. “The jury is still out on that.”

  * * *

  Ceara remained silent during the short ride to Clint’s ranch. As Quincy pulled up near his brother’s house, he tried to see the two-story post-and-beam home, so similar in style to his own, through Ceara’s eyes. If she was a gold digger, she’d seen plenty of nuggets today to keep her interested. Quincy and his family members weren’t fans of elegant or pretentious living, but they did enjoy fine quality and comfort. A home similar to Clint’s would cost more than a million to build, and that wasn’t counting any land. If Ceara was familiar with the real estate market, even in this depressed economy, she had to know that she hadn’t been dropped into the midst of paupers.

  Quincy minded the manners his father had drilled into him since childhood, circling the truck to open Ceara’s door and help her out. Then he grasped her elbow as they walked across the yard and ascended the veranda steps. Quincy didn’t bother to knock. His father’s truck was already here, along with rigs owned by everyone else in his family. Quincy knew that practically everyone would be gathered in the kitchen. He opened the door and pushed it wide.

  “Hey, there!” Sam called from where she sat at the table with a goblet of wine near her elbow. “Good to see you, Quincy.” Her dark gaze swept over him to land on Ceara. If she was surprised by the younger woman’s strange dress, she didn’t reveal it. “And you must be Ceara.”

  Samantha got up to walk across the tile floor with her right hand outstretched. Like all Frank’s kids, Sam had the Harrigan pitch-black hair, burnished complexion, and wiry, athletic build. Quincy had never quite determined how his sister had turned out so pretty when she sported their dad’s facial features, including the Harrigan nose. But somehow on her, the sharp and mismatched angles looked feminine and dainty. She wore her customary snug blue jeans and T-shirt tucked in at her belted waistband, which showcased her slender yet curvaceous figure, as yet unchanged by pregnancy. She and her husband, Tucker Coulter, had been trying for a baby, had miscarried once, taken a break for a while, and now were thinking about trying again. Quincy figured he’d be a proud uncle again soon.

  Tucker, who’d been sitting beside his wife, stood up and set his glass of wine aside on the table. A tall fellow with dark brown hair, massive shoulders, and muscular legs, he stood a good half head above Quincy, but his easy grin and fluid movements made smaller men quickly forget his size. He winked in friendly greeting, then, as his wife had, settled his gaze on Ceara, who was hesitantly shaking hands with Samantha.

  Quincy took that moment to do a head count, so accustomed to the marked resemblance between himself and all his male relatives that he could tell who was who at a glance. His father was over by the sink, pouring himself a measure of Coke spiked with Jack Daniel’s. Parker and Rainie stood just beyond the kitchen in the hall, heads bent to pore over a document of some kind that they held between them. Zach and his wife, Mandy, were at the stove, stirring something in pots. The contents of one smelled suspiciously like Clint’s favored Polish sausage–and-potato soup. The delicious, sweet warmth of baking corn bread emanated from one of the ovens. Quincy’s mouth started to water even as his brain clamored warnings that the meal would have “heart blockage” written all over it. Quincy didn’t see Clint, Dee Dee, or the kids. He figured they were probably upstairs in the master suite with Loni, who was too damned sick to oversee the mess being made of her kitchen.

  And it was a mess. Zach had never aspired to be a tidy cook, though he did clean up after he served a meal. A mound of potato peelings graced a countertop. An onion peel fluttered on the tile with every breath of movement. Cream or milk had been spilled on the floor. And in the far right corner, it looked as if a motley kennel had gone into business. Sam’s old female rottweiler, Roxie, napped in a tangle with Parker’s rot, Mojo; Loni’s mastiff, Hannah; and Trevor’s St. Bernard, Nana. Standing guard over them, Mandy’s brother Luke’s mini guide horse, Rosebud, slept as well, her fluffy white mane falling forward to conceal her eyes. If Quincy’s shepherds hadn’t been temporarily in Pauline’s care, they would have been there as well. With the Harrigan ranches all adjoined, the canines could easily follow a master’s vehicle to a neighboring house, and consistently did just that. As a result, family gatherings generally included all the critters.

  Ceara gaped incredulously when she saw the tiny horse, which wasn’t an uncommon reaction, but before she could exclaim, Tucker stepped forward to greet her. It griped Quincy that his sister and brother-in-law seemed so eager to welcome Ceara into the fold before they knew for certain that she wasn’t an impostor. Clearly Frank had been flapping his jaws to convince everyone that Ceara might have the power to perform some kind of miracle and save Loni’s life.

  Frank turned just then and raised his glass to Quincy. “I’d offer you one to take the edge off, but I know all I’d get for my trouble is a lecture.”

  Quincy was too exhausted and nerve-worn to smile. “One word would do it, Dad. Triglycerides. Your counts are high, remember?”

  Frank took a swig of his drink. “That was more than one word.”

  Quincy shrugged. He saw that Ceara had been drawn to the table during his exchange with Frank and now sat beside Sam and Tucker, chatting with them as if they were old friends. Parker and Rainie rejoined the family, the document they’d been reading consigned to the telephone nook as they took seats and introduced themselves to Ceara. Typical of Zach, he didn’t bother with the getting-acquainted spiel. Instead he descended on Ceara with a cup of the soup, which Quincy knew from experience was loaded with high-fat sausages, potatoes, butter, and cream.

  “You gotta try this,” Zach said as he placed the cup and spoon in front of her. “It’s a Harrigan tradition, my brother Clint’s recipe.”

  Ceara, still wearing Quincy’s jacket draped over her shoulders, smiled, her cheek dimpling prettily. “Many thanks to ye. I’ve eaten nary a morsel since last night.”

  Quincy felt gazes turn toward him—condemning ones. “I offered to feed her before we came,” he defended himself.

  “What was on hand over there, a cold broiled chicken breast wrapped in kale?” Zach asked. “She’ll like this better.” To Ceara, Zach added, “I can get you more if you like it.”

  Ceara fiddled with the spoon, lifting it from the cup to turn it this way and that. Quincy half expected her to comment that the spoons in her time were made of shells with sticks attached as handles. Instead, after ending her examination of the implement, she took a taste of the soup, then closed her eyes with an expression of pure bliss. The only time Quincy could recall seeing a female look that pleased was during or after good sex.

  He scowled. This was no time to be thinking about sex, not with Loni on the verge of death and an emotionally imbalanced woman conversing with his family as if she’d known them for years. He grabbed the document from the phone counter to see what Parker and Rainie had been studying so solemnly. He saw that it was the results from Loni’s blood tests yesterday. And he soon understood why his brother and sister-in-law had been frowning. The numbers meant nothing to a layman unless compared to the normal range, which was off to the right of each line in brackets. With a fast back-and-forth read, Quincy saw that few of Loni’s counts were normal and the others were terrifyingly high or low. His sister-in-law was clearly a very sick lady.

  He glanced up to find Rainie looking at him, her expression stricken with sadness. As always
, she looked beautiful, her brown hair wildly curly and kissed with blond, her gathered print skirt and pink peasant blouse thrift-store chic. Quincy guessed that Rainie would never again dress like the wealthy and sophisticated woman she’d once been. Somehow wearing expensive clothing rekindled memories in her mind of her maniacal ex-husband, who’d nearly succeeded in killing her. Fortunately, the style worked for Quincy’s brother, Parker, who worshiped Rainie and always would, no matter how she dressed.

  Just then Quincy heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairway, which ended in the hallway just beyond the kitchen. Clint appeared in the archway. Seeing him gave Quincy a jolt. His brother’s face was lined with weariness, and his usually bronze skin had become ashen. His broad shoulders, usually held proudly erect, now slumped as if he carried an invisible thousand-pound yoke.

  “She’s awake and as rested from the trip as she’s probably going to get.” Clint’s dark, pain-filled eyes settled on Ceara. “She’s ready for a visit now, but I’ll ask all of you before we go up, please keep it short and don’t ask how she feels. That requires an answer, and talking tires her very quickly.”

  The family’s climb up the stairs was a solemn one, everyone stepping lightly and whispering. Even the animals joined in the procession, Hannah and Nana, the in-house residents, leading the furry entourage. At any other time, the sight of a horse and so many dogs going up the steps would have amused Quincy, but this evening it seemed right, even necessary. The critters loved Loni every bit as much as the humans did and wanted to bask in her presence, if only for a moment.

  Quincy deliberately held Ceara back so they would be last in line. At the landing, Clint opened the door of the master suite, a gigantic chamber adjoined by a mammoth bath and two walk-in closets larger than some people’s living rooms. Loni was ensconced on the king-size bed, propped up with pillows, her arms curled around her children: Trevor, her adopted son, who had turned thirteen in January; and Aliza, her and Clint’s biological daughter, who had turned five only days ago. Loni was so pale that it was hard for Quincy to tell where her skin ended and the white pillowcases began.