Clint sighed. “Good luck with that, bro. Maybe I’m just a big old sap, but if Loni doesn’t say she loves me half a dozen times a day, I start to worry.”
“Do you tell her the same that often?”
Clint’s cheek creased in a grin. “More. She’s the center of my world, and I want her to know it.”
Quincy mulled that over for a second. “Hmm. Maybe that’s where I’m going wrong. Because Ceara never says it back, I only tell her I love her four or five times a day.”
“Jack it up, man. Women like to hear those words.” Clint glanced at his watch. “Speaking of which, I ordered Loni two dozen roses, and they should be delivered by now. Dee Dee picked Trev up after school, and she’s taking him and Aliza to Mountain Plaza to play on the trampolines, drive bumper cars, and rock-climb. Afterward, Dad is meeting them in town for pizza, and then the kids are doing an overnight at their place.”
Quincy shot to his feet. “I’m out of here. You should have clued me in sooner.”
It was Clint’s turn to chuckle. “I’ve been living almost like a monk since she got sick, so I’m way overdue on my homework.” He winked at his use of homework, a word all the Harrigan men used in reference to keeping their ladies happy in bed. “What brought you over? You never said.”
Quincy had come to ask Clint’s advice about Symphony, who was late to drop her foal and hadn’t even waxed up yet. Quincy suspected she hadn’t taken with the first cover, as he’d thought, but he’d wanted Clint’s perspective on it. Should Tucker be called in? Was it safe to wait another week and watch the mare? It was a conversation that could wait until tomorrow.
“Just wanted to say howdy,” he fibbed. “Been a while since we hung out.”
As Quincy drove home, the distance only a hop, skip, and jump, his cell phone clucked like a hen. He braked on the gravel road that adjoined all the Harrigan ranches to read the text from his wife. Hurry. Symphony dropping foal. Quincy gunned the accelerator and went so fast over that last half mile that his truck sailed over the potholes.
He found his wife in Symphony’s stall, an extra-large enclosure designed for birthing. Pauline and Bingo, ex-bronc riding champion and hired-hand extraordinaire, leaned over the gate, as if it were their job to hold the damned thing up. Ceara had tossed aside her little indoor jacket and wore only a peasant blouse, gathered skirt, and boots. Her right arm was smeared with blood and fluid, and she sat cross-legged on the straw, holding the newborn foal on her lap. Symphony stood over her, the afterbirth lying on the floor behind her blood-splattered hocks.
“’Tis a colt!” Ceara cried, her smile so bright that Quincy felt as if the sun had just peeked out from behind a cloud. “He tried to come breech, but I got him turned.”
Quincy sent a questioning look at his forewoman, who only shrugged, looking bewildered. “Sorry. Symphony caught us with our pants down. No wax, no drop, no nothing. Didn’t even know she’d gone into labor until your wife tore in here.” She sent a wondering look at Ceara. “She says the mare called to her, sort of like on a cell phone. I don’t get that part, but I’m fracking glad she came over. I was busy holding Elvis while he got his shoe fixed, Bingo was cleaning stalls, and Pierce was seeing to a hay delivery. We could’ve lost both mama and baby.”
Quincy vaulted over the gate and went to crouch beside his wife. He didn’t doubt for a second that she’d heard Symphony calling to her. Almost everything about Ceara was a mystery to him—or had been in the beginning. Now he just accepted what he couldn’t really understand and thanked God that she’d dropped into his world like a pebble out of the sky.
He ran searching hands over the foal, so fresh from its mother’s womb that its ears were still stuck to its neck and its hooves were still coated with light green stuff that resembled cottage cheese. People who’d never seen a foal born always asked what that gooey junk was on the baby’s feet. Quincy’s stock answer was that the goo padded the foal’s hooves, protecting the mother’s innards. It fell off shortly after birth.
“Well, now, ain’t he a beauty?” Quincy murmured.
Ceara nodded, her face glowing. “That’s what I want to name him, Beauty.”
Quincy didn’t have the heart to tell her the colt was already slotted to be named Liberace, or that all ranch-born horses in his stable had handles with a musical theme. If she wanted to call the foal Beauty, that would be his nickname, and maybe his official name could be Ceara’s Beauty. That would depend on the AQHA’s registry and whether another horse already bore the title. Quincy doubted that would be the case. Until meeting his wife, he’d never met anyone christened Ceara.
“How the hell did you know how to turn him?” Quincy asked.
Ceara laughed. “Me da has horses, and I sneaked to watch the foals being born. He wouldna have allowed me to be there had he known. ’Twas no place for a proper young lady to be, ye ken. I learned a lot by watching.”
The foal wiggled, and Ceara gently helped him gain his feet. He stood spraddle-legged, wobbling and unsteady, his knee and hock joints protruding like oversize apples. One of his ears came loose from his neck and poked up, looking as big as a donkey’s. His coat was still so wet that Quincy couldn’t tell whether he’d be a sorrel or a black, but he had perfect conformation. Beauty was a fine name for him. Quincy called Tucker, his brother-in-law and the only vet he trusted, to come by to check on the mare and newborn ASAP. Not that Quincy believed an exam was really necessary. Ceara had done a great job of this, delivering the foal without a hitch, but it was Quincy’s motto that it was always better to be safe than sorry when it came to his animals. Anyhow, the foal needed some inoculations, and now was as good a time as any.
Quincy and Ceara spent most of the evening in Symphony’s stall, imprinting the foal. Afterward they left Pauline to watch over mama and baby while they went home to celebrate the occasion with grilled steaks, a tossed salad, baked potatoes heaped with butter, sour cream, and chives, and a bottle of fine merlot. Quincy’s reluctantly seduced taste buds loved every bite.
The next morning brought warm spring sunshine. Quincy was thinking about taking his wife for a ride into the wilderness area again, hopefully this time with better weather, but Loni scotched that idea by knocking at their door. Dark hair framing her face, she smiled from ear to ear when Quincy greeted her.
“Dad and Dee Dee still have my kids. I decided to take advantage of the empty house to walk over and have a mini hen party with Ceara.”
Judging by Loni’s radiant face, the roses and a whole night alone with her husband had been just what she needed. Quincy found it difficult to believe now when he looked at the woman that she’d been so close to death such a short time ago. She was still a bit too thin, but a few more weeks of good grub would put the meat back on her bones.
“Come in!” Ceara cried. “Let me just run upstairs to change.” She wore only one of Quincy’s work shirts, which on a woman of larger stature might have been indecent, but on Ceara, the tails reached nearly to her knees. “’Tis quick I will be. Quincy, will ye pour her some coffee or make her some tea?”
Quincy watched his wife disappear in a flash, then turned to motion Loni inside. She blushed as she met his gaze. “I’m sorry, Quincy. I should have called first. I forget sometimes that you’re newlyweds.”
“No worries. I’ve got a full day ahead of me. Ceara could use the company.” He told Loni about Beauty’s unexpected debut yesterday and used the foal’s recent arrival as a reason for him to be tied up all morning. “I’ll be spending several hours with him. Imprinting a foal during the first few days after birth is crucial. It makes all the difference in the long run.”
Loni’s shoulders relaxed. “Are you sure? I didn’t mean to barge in.”
“You’re always welcome.” Crossing the kitchen, Quincy asked, “What’s your poison, coffee or tea?”
“Coffee is great. Black with two sugars, please.”
Ceara scurried back into the kitchen just as Quincy was serving their guest. She still wore his shirt over S
am’s rolled-up blue jeans. Her hair, tousled from the pillow, was a riot of burnished curls. Quincy found it amazing that she could look so beautiful without half trying.
He fixed a quick breakfast of bacon and eggs, making enough for Loni as well. His sister-in-law quirked an eyebrow at the fare, but blessedly refrained from comment as she picked up her fork. As soon as he could without being too obvious, Quincy made his excuses after eating and left for the arena, not wishing to horn in on the female chitchat.
Four hours later, when Quincy took a break for lunch, he went home to find his wife and sister-in-law finishing off one bottle of wine and about to pull the cork on another. They were both giggling hysterically when he walked in; then there was sudden silence. Quincy knew damned well they’d been talking about sex—and he had no doubt that his name had come up more than once. He wondered what Ceara said about their lovemaking. He had no complaints on that front. Being with Ceara . . . well, he couldn’t think of enough adjectives to do the wonder of it justice, and he had every reason to believe that Ceara felt the same. Still, what a woman conveyed to her lover might be totally different from what she confided to a female friend. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with their love life getting frequent public airings, but the knowledge that his brothers and brother-in-law were in the same boat made it less embarrassing.
“You girls take it easy with that wine, okay?” he said with a warning note. “Ceara’s a lightweight.”
* * *
The moment Quincy finished eating and left the house, Ceara and Loni burst into fits of laughter again. Feeling delightfully warm from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, Ceara grabbed the new wine bottle to refill each of their goblets.
“So last night, ye got the wham-bam, and no more milquetoast.”
Loni sighed dreamily. “It was so fabulous, Ceara. I feel so alive this morning. I can’t explain it, but with that part of our marriage on a back burner, I didn’t feel complete.” Gentle blue eyes growing misty, Loni searched Ceara’s gaze. “Are you happy with Quincy? I mean really, really happy?”
Ceara nodded. “I couldna be happier.” Even as she said the words, though, Ceara felt a tug on her heart. “Well, ’tis not precisely true. One thing could make me happier: seeing me dear family again.” She swirled the wine in her glass. “Me sister, Brigid, will be turning three and ten soon. I’ll ne’er see her as a woman full grown, ne’er whisper to her of secret things as I can with ye. ’Tis a sad thing fer me. And, ach, how I miss me mum. I’d give a king’s ransom in gold to see her just one more time and kiss her soft cheek.” Tears stung at the back of Ceara’s eyes. “Me da, he is old, at the last of his life. ’Twas always me thought that I would be at his bedside as he passed on. Now that can ne’er be.”
Loni blinked and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Are you certain there’s no way for you to ever return there?”
Ceara waved her hand, knowing she would surely start to cry if they didn’t speak of other things. “’Tis impossible. I knew that before I decided to come here. And now I couldna leave me Quincy. ’Twould fair break me heart.” She forced a smile. “So let us laugh again. ’Tis too fine a day to be sad.”
Loni nodded and steered their conversation to another topic—how her serious, conventional husband had gone totally wild last night when she slipped Mr. Midas from under her pillow.
When their mirth finally ebbed, Ceara reached across the table to grasp Loni’s hand. “’Tis so blessed I am. Though I left behind one dear family, God has seen fit to give me another one.”
Loni grinned. “Sisters always.” Then her eyes went oddly blank for a long moment. “He’s still alive, Ceara. Your da, I mean.” Her smile widened. “Oh, how cool! He’s with your mum in a little room. They’re leaning over what looks like a crystal ball and seem very happy.” Loni blinked and refocused on Ceara’s face. “I think they’re watching us.”
Ceara turned her hand to clench Loni’s fingers. “Truly? Ye mean right now?”
Loni nodded. “Wave hello to them.”
Feeling a little silly, Ceara used her free hand to do just that, watching Loni’s eyes grow distant again. With a tinkling laugh, Loni returned to the moment. “It’s true. They saw you and waved back. Your mum blew kisses, and your da is about to cry. Happy tears, though, not sad ones. He’s just so glad to see you and know you’re okay.”
Ceara’s heart panged. “Me mum always blows kisses. ’Tis her way, ye ken? And me da—well, he was a mighty warrior in his day, a man who deserves to be head of his clan, but he’s ne’er been ashamed to shed a tear or two when he’s happy or sad.”
“He’s very happy right now. My goodness, what time is it in Ireland? I saw a window—more like a stone arch in the wall, actually, with no glass or anything, and it looked dark outside.” Loni pulled her hand free of Ceara’s and drew her phone from the case at her waist. “World clock,” she murmured. “Ah, here’s one, and I’ll sort by country. Right now in Dublin, it’s nine twenty p.m., eight hours later than it is here.”
Ceara closed her eyes on a happy sigh. Feeling a connection with her parents was a grand thing, indeed. “So when we go to Mass tomorrow at noon, ’twill be eight in the evening there.”
“That’s right.” Loni chuckled. “You see? They aren’t lost to you, after all.”
“Thank ye,” Ceara whispered. “I shall be pestering ye from now on to peek in on them and let me know how they’re doing.”
“Anytime,” Loni replied. Then she shivered slightly. “Isn’t this too weird? I actually saw them, as if they are alive right at this very moment.” With a shake of her head, she looked inquiringly at Ceara. “Not possible, right? They existed hundreds of years ago.”
’Twas a mystery Ceara couldn’t explain. “’Tis only fer God to understand. Somehow they are, just as we are. Mayhap there are many worlds of different times, and we simply do na ken that they exist. We see only our time, see only this world, and in their time they see only theirs.”
Loni frowned, pondering the possibility. “That’s true so far as it goes, but obviously it’s not entirely right. Your mum can see you here in this world through her crystal ball, and I can see them in their world by touching your hand and homing in on them.”
“Ach, but me mum is druid, and so are ye. That makes all the difference, ye ken? We be different from others and have special gifts.” Again, Ceara felt a tug on her heart. “Me gifts are near lost to me now, but at one time, they were powerful.”
“In this day, having gifts can be a curse, so don’t mourn the weakening of your powers too greatly. For much of my life, I felt like a pariah. Then I met Clint, and he made me see things differently.” With a laugh, Loni rose from her chair. “All my life, I’ve thought of myself as being a clairvoyant, never suspecting it went any further than that. Perhaps you’re right, though, and my family is of druid descent. We can trace our lines directly back to Scotland.” She took her empty wineglass to the sink and rinsed it out. “Regardless, clairvoyant or druid, I’ve got to get home. Dee Dee and Dad will be bringing my kids back soon, and Clint will have his hands full if I’m not there. His work with the horses keeps him pretty busy.”
“’Tis pleased I am that ye came.” Ceara meant that with all her heart. “Through yer eyes I saw me mum and da. ’Tis a lovely gift ye’ve given me.”
Loni turned at the door to hug Ceara good-bye. “We’ll do it again soon. I’ll be happy to check in on them anytime you wish.”
“I shall wish for it often.”
After Loni left, Ceara stood at the center of the kitchen, hugging her waist. She felt more at peace than she had since her arrival in this strange world of Quincy’s. Imagining her mum gazing at her through the crystal ball, Ceara spun in a circle, grinning and waving at empty air.
“Da, cover yer ears. ’Tis a private thing I wish to say to Mum.” She waited a moment, imagining her da laughing as he left the tiny tower room where her mum surveyed the land all around the keep and another world through her crystal
ball. “Ye ne’er told me how fine ’tis to be married,” Ceara said in a scolding tone. “I expected me wifely duties to be a chore I would dread, na something magical or so fabulous and fun.” Taking a seat at the table, Ceara poured herself a bit more wine, pretending that her mum sat across from her just as Loni had moments ago. “I tell ye this only to wipe all worry from yer mind, not to make yer ears burn. Me Quincy is so romantic that sometimes I get tears in me eyes as we make love. Other times, he has me giggling. Our times together, they’re ne’er the same, and I look forward to them like a child yearning fer a favorite sweet. Mayhap ye ne’er shared how special it can be with a man who possesses yer heart because ye feared ’twould ne’er happen that way fer me. But ye were wrong, Mum. I had only to come forward in time to find meself a man as fine as Da.”
Ceara lifted her glass. “’Tis scandalous of me to talk to ye of such things, I ken, but ’tis different here. The women share secrets. I have an empty place in me heart because I canna do the same with ye. To Sir Quincy, me husband. He has brought joy into me life.” Ceara took a sip of wine to make the toast official. “Me heart does a happy jig every time I clap eyes on him. I’m fair happy, Mum; I truly am. Ye need na be troubled or worried fer me. I landed in a place where I am cherished and protected by a verra strong arm.” With another lift of her goblet, Ceara added, “Many strong arms. Quincy’s da calls me daughter. Quincy’s brothers call me sister. I lost me dear family in Ireland, but I have a new one here in this place.”
Ceara paused, trying to think what else she needed to say. She sensed that her mum was still watching, listening, smiling, but it was fair late in Ireland, and she would soon seek her bed to rest her weary bones.
“Tell Brigid I will celebrate her name day. ’Tis beyond me ken that she will soon be thirteen. ’Tis how they say it here, instead of saying three and ten. Tell her to stop chewing her nails, will ye? And cuff her ears if she farts and blames it on poor ol’ Rascal.” Ceara glanced down at the dogs lying about her feet. “As ye can see, I have lovely dogs here in this time, too. This is Billy Bob.” She pointed at the sleeping Aussie to her left. Then she indicated the other dog to her right. “And this is Bubba, who truly did fart until I made Quincy start feeding them real food. Ach, ’tis another thing I must tell ye. I canna cook here in the ovens yet, Mum. I try, and Quincy eats it, but ’tis fair horrible. They do na cook over a fire here. I tried to make bread in one of his skillets over what he calls a gas flame, but ’tis not the same. I ended up with black lumps that I tossed away.”
Perfect Timing Page 26
