Her smile broke out. Bridget and I must have appeared like this at the same age. The familiar saying, told to her and Bridget all their lives, sprang to mind—as identical as two peas in a pod. For the first time, Alana experienced being the one staring at twins and trying to figure out how to tell them apart.
Their hair was dark like their father’s, unlike Alana and Bridget, who’d inherited their mother’s whiskey-colored frizzy curls. Their skin had a warmer hue than hers—from the sun, perhaps—and they had the same oval-shaped faces and refined noses as their older sister Sally.
Both girls came toward her. One, in a blue dress, covered by a faded gray pinafore, carried the wooden spoon. The other in a green dress and pinkish pinafore still clutched her potato and peeler.
“I’m yer cousin Alana.”
Their eyes widened.
The girl in green edged closer. “Alana…like Bridget and Catriona and Alana?”
Her heart panged at the thought of Catri. But Alana didn’t let her smile dim. “Yes. Cousins, we are. And ye must be Idelle and Isleen. Ye are just as pretty as yer sister Sally.” Surely a newly arrived cousin is allowed to compliment their looks without turning the girls’ heads.
“You talk like Da,” said the one wearing green. “But you sound more Irish.”
“That I do. The accent of our homeland.” Alana glanced around for a safe place for the fur muff and placed it on a chair.
“Sally’s peg is the empty one in the middle.” The twin in the blue dress pointed to a row by the door holding an assortment of outerwear. “You can hang your things on hers.”
Alana obeyed, shucking off her coat, tucking her mittens in the pocket, unwrapping her new scarf, and pulling off the woolen cap. After hanging up everything, she smoothed her hair.
A wooden plaque in the shape of a four-leaf clover hanging on the wall caught her eye, and she leaned closer to read the saying carved into the smooth wood and painted over in black letters.
May your blessings outnumber
The shamrocks you grow.
And may trouble avoid you
Wherever you go.
Reading the inscription made a lump leap into Alana’s throat, for they were Timkin’s final words to her. Even now, the memory made her bitter. My family’s had nothing but troubles.
“Da made that for Ma for Christmas,” said one of the girls.
“A fine gift.” Hoping she appeared composed, Alana turned back to the twins. “Now—” she said in a brisk tone “—which one of ye is which?”
The one in the green gave a little bounce. “I’m Isleen. You can tell because I wear green.”
Alana couldn’t help but smile. “Then Miss Blue here must be Idelle.”
Idelle beamed. “Yes, Cousin Alana.”
“Clever of ye to wear different colors. Bridget and I always dressed alike. People could never tell us apart.”
“Our Ma’s idea.” Idelle’s smile fell away.
She could read the child’s expression of worry. Remembering well the fear she’d experienced during her mother’s final illness, Alana stretched an arm around the girl’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “I’m here to help ye two care for yer ma. Let’s see if a little Irish magic will bring her back to health.”
Isleen clasped her hands to her chest. “Can you really do magic, Cousin Alana?”
The hopeful look in the girls’ eyes made Alana’s stomach squeeze. Am I giving false hope? “Mind, I’m not saying influenza isn’t a very serious illness. But we will give yer ma all the healing that love can provide and with the blessing of the Good Lord, she will pull through.”
Dear Lord and the Blessed Mother, make it so.
The door opened. With a gust of cold air, Uncle Rory and Harry entered, carrying Alana’s satchel, the food sent from the Thompson ranch, and a small sack of potatoes taken from the load she and her twin had brought from home. The O’Donnell potatoes had never fallen to the blight, preserving their family through the famine that decimated so much of Ireland.
Uncle Rory handed her the satchel. “You traveled light,” he commented.
“We sold almost everything to pay for our passage. I’ve some clothes, my herbs and tinctures, a volume of Shakespeare, and some small bits and pieces.” She shrugged. “But that’s it.”
“Well, that’s more than I left with.” Rory hefted the sack. “But Harry tells me you brought the family’s good luck with you.”
“Aye, Bridget thought to grow a crop here. Hopefully, the potatoes will do well in the new world as they do at home. I brought some with me, but most are with Bridget, who guards them as if they were gold. I brought a few for ye and yer family.”
“A wonderful gift! We grow a crop of potatoes, but they aren’t the same as the treasure of the O’Donnells.” Uncle Rory lowered the sack to the floor near the wall. “I want to hear all your news…how you and Bridget came to be here, but later, if you don’t mind.” He tilted his head toward an inner door. “Your aunt’s in the bedroom.” He eased out of his coat and hung the garment on a peg by the door. “Let me take you to her.”
Alana followed her uncle into a stale-smelling room made of mud bricks and located in the front corner of the house. A bed took up most of the space. Two small windows—one in each outer wall—let in feeble light. A trunk sat at the end of the bed. A wooden washstand with polished curves showed of better times. Crumpled linen lay in a pile in the corner. Although no fireplace or stove warmed the room, the thick walls made the temperature almost cozy.
Rory took Alana’s hand and led her to the side of the bed.
The woman lying there stirred and turned her head to them.
“Look here, A ghrá geal,” Uncle Rory said in a gentle voice. “Our own niece Alana has come to take care of you.” He gently touched his wife’s cheek.
Bright love, he’d called his wife in Gaelic, and Alana imagined when Henrietta O’Donnell was well, she must have appeared vibrant, indeed.
Now, however, Henrietta was pale and wan, her auburn hair dull and lifeless. She looked familiar, perhaps because of the resemblance to her daughters, for they’d inherited her features. But a hard life had mapped wrinkles around her eyes and mouth and lined her forehead.
Henrietta managed a weak turn of her lips. Her mouth moved, but the words didn’t come.
Alana felt a sense of purpose twining her to these people, and to this place. My kin, my new home. She welcomed grafting herself to the American branch of her family. I’ve been rootless for too long.
She smiled down at her patient. “Now, dear Aunt Henrietta, let’s see what we can do to make ye well.”
CHAPTER THREE
Three Weeks Later
Patrick Gallagher rode his Thoroughbred stallion, Thunder, away from the Thompson ranch toward town, intending to catch the next train out of Sweetwater Springs. He couldn’t shake the mud of this place off his boots fast enough. The memories of his stay at the ranch and of the rejection of his marriage proposal by Bridget O’Donnell and her acceptance of another man—a poor cowboy—stung like angry bees, goading his escape.
Once rejected, Patrick barely stayed long enough to pack and bid a curt farewell to his hosts. At another time, he might be ashamed of his lack of manners, but he’d seen the sympathy in Mrs. Thompson’s eyes and knew the word had already spread around the ranch of Bridget’s acceptance of James Whitson’s suit.
When Patrick reached the outskirts of Sweetwater Springs, something made him pause the stallion. He’d planned to travel home to his stud farm outside of Crenshaw in triumph, appearing with a pretty wife on his arm. He didn’t like the idea of returning with his tail between his legs, even if no one at his horse farm knew of his proposal and rejection.
An idea struck him with the force of a horse’s kick. There might be a way to save my pride. Bridget has a twin sister, who’s living with family on the prairie. He struggled to remember her name. Something with an A. Surely one is as good as the other.
Patrick thought ba
ck to the glimpses he’d had of the other woman. He couldn’t remember seeing more than an identical female, quieter, and definitely without Bridget’s curves. He felt a pang at that loss, but then dismissed the emotion. He’d been most attracted to Bridget’s pretty face—especially her indigo eyes.
“The A twin might not have Bridget’s spunk, but perhaps that will be for the best,” he said aloud. “Not so stubborn, more manageable.”
Thunder’s ears twitched.
“Probably she’ll be grateful to receive an offer of marriage,” he told the horse.
With a grim smile, Patrick stared out at the town, barely noting the false-fronted buildings, the banker’s brick mansion, the white steeple of the church.
Maybe seeing me with her sister will make Bridget remorseful. His damaged pride liked the thought of rubbing the woman’s nose in what she’d thrown away.
What excuse do I have to visit?
I can pretend to come bearing news of Sally and Bridget, and it’s really not pretend. I do have news. He winced, once again remembering the humiliation of Bridget’s engagement.
But he couldn’t arrive at the O’Donnell’s empty handed, especially if he came a courtin’. I’ll buy sweets, candy, and cookies. They will also need substantial supplies to feed a man of my size. He didn’t want to be a burden to the family.
Patrick remembered the story he’d heard…when cowboy Harry O’Hanlon had gone courting Sally O’Donnell on Christmas Day, he’d brought the family a haunch of beef. I can do better. I’ll take a ham.
Sugar and white flour. Patrick ticked off a mental list. Some grain and carrots for Thunder.
Patrick hesitated, rationality returning for a moment, and squinted at the sun. The day was unusually temperate for mid-February. If he had to guess, he’d say about forty-five, maybe even fifty degrees—sunny and cold, the stark blue sky cloudless. As fine a day as any to take a long ride on the open prairie.
Am I foolish to ride my prize stallion alone to some hovel in the middle of nowhere to court a woman I don’t know? Risk harm to my horse because of my fool pride?
Thunder was the foundation of his stables. Taking the stud from his horse farm to the train, traveling for half a day to Sweetwater Springs riding in the stock car with Thunder, then journeying with an escort to the Thompson ranch was one thing. Not much could go wrong on such a trip. He hadn’t thought twice about leaving on his own, for after attending church several times, the well-trodden road from the Thompson ranch to town had become familiar.
Patrick glanced at the sky, which looked clear in all directions as far as the eye could see. Not that a storm couldn’t blow up, but all his senses told him otherwise. Squinting at the sun, he calculated the hours until darkness and what he’d heard from Harry about where the O’Donnell place was located.
If he were to make this trip, dropping Thunder off at the livery while he shopped at the mercantile would give both of them a chance to warm up. From his coat pocket, he pulled out the map rancher Wyatt Thompson had given him of Sweetwater Springs back when he’d first arrived. Thompson had informed him the map was up-to-date as of the previous year.
Patrick offered up a little prayer to the Almighty that all would be well—with his horse, with his courtship. With the decision made, he urged the stallion into town.
The main thoroughfare of Sweetwater Springs looked like many of the other small towns he’d ridden through—maybe nicer than a few, with the buildings spread apart instead of crammed together. A typical blend of structures found in a Western town—including a false-fronted green saloon and a white-steepled church, as well as some homes, both plain and fancy, shops and businesses.
As he rode up the dirt street, Patrick heard the banging of hammers and scritching of saws as workers on two new buildings took advantage of the fine day. One was a large hotel owned by the banker, and the other an office building for the newspaper owner. He’d met both men one Sunday.
No one was around the front of the livery, a weathered gray building, so he dismounted and led Thunder toward the big barn door, which he slid open a few feet and stepped inside, still holding the reins. The wooden floors were clean, he was glad to see, and only a couple of stalls were occupied. A surrey and a sleigh were parked at the end of the barn, with plenty of space for extra vehicles.
Today was his first time inside the livery. On Sundays, when almost everyone on the ranch came to town for the church service, some of Thompson’s cowboys took charge of everyone’s mounts, including the piebald gelding Patrick often borrowed from his host for general riding.
Two men studied a piece of paper tacked to a wall, so engrossed in their discussion that they didn’t hear him enter. One was elderly, judging from his white hair, and the other a young dark-skinned man—Indian or Mexican, Patrick supposed.
The older one tapped the paper. “Good thinking about leaving a door here in the back,” he told the younger man. “What with your Lucia hastening to wed, you can make do with the one room, and this design will make it easy to add a second room when your babes start coming. And come they will, I’ll bet.” He nudged his companion with his elbow. “One right after the other, and, if you’re uncommonly blessed, they’ll all thrive and live to adulthood.”
Patrick had no desire to hear about another man’s approaching nuptials, so he deliberately cleared his throat.
The two looked over and nodded a welcome.
He led Thunder inside, the hoofbeats loud on the rough plank floors.
Their gazes quickly left him to take in the horse.
“Madre de Dios,” said the younger man with an awestruck breath.
That settles the Indian/Mexican question.
The young man’s grin split his round face. “That’s some horse you have there, señor,” he said with a Spanish accent.
Despite his low mood, praise of his prized stallion made Patrick feel good. “I think so, too. Thunder’s a Thoroughbred, bred to race, but as gentle as a winter’s night is long.”
“I’ve heard tell of this one.” The older man approached and walked in an admiring circle around the stud. “You match him with Thompson’s Miss Midnight, and their foals are going to be something special.” He straightened, seeming to recollect his manners. “I’m Mack Taylor, owner of this place, and my man, here—” he said with a jerk of his thumb “—is Pepe.”
“Patrick Gallagher.” He tilted his head in the direction of the mercantile. “I need a few things, and I don’t want to leave Thunder unattended.”
“Rode in from the Thompson ranch, did you?”
“Yep.”
“Then we’ll see to this gentleman’s needs.” Mack ran an expert hand down Thunder’s neck. “Don’t you worry none. Will be a right treat for us to care for such a one.”
Pepe pulled out a carrot stub from his pocket and held it up with a quirked eyebrow for Patrick’s permission.
“Go ahead.” Having a good feeling about both men, Patrick transferred the reins over to Mack. “I’ll be back soon.” He strode out the door, sliding it closed behind him.
He walked up the street, avoiding as best he could the worst of the manure piles and mud puddles from the melting snow. He tipped his hat and gave a charming grin to a pinch-faced elderly lady passing by with a basket on her arm, startling a smile from her.
The mercantile was a brick building with a big glass window, with wares displayed and Cobb’s Mercantile on the front. He turned away from the sight of a fat pink pillow shaped like a heart, probably left over from Valentine’s Day yesterday, but not before feeling a pang in his chest. He pushed the thought of Bridget from his mind. Or tried to, at least.
At the steps, he scraped off the worst of the mud from his boots and then vigorously slid his feet across the woven straw mat in front of the door to clean the soles as much as possible. He opened the door and strode inside, enjoying the scent of cinnamon cookies, his favorite kind. The room looked big for a small town mercantile. Although space remained in front of the back cou
nter, almost every other inch displayed goods—whether on tall shelves running down the middle of the room, in barrels near the door, on pegs drilled into the wall above display cases, and even hanging from beams overhead.
The clerk standing behind the counter—a heavy-set woman who looked to be in her forties—glanced up, scrutinizing him with sharp, close-set eyes.
Mrs. Cobb, he assumed. He vaguely recalled seeing her on the Sunday he’d been in to buy a Valentine’s Day card for Bridget. The place had been busy with many people stopping in the store after church, and Mr. Cobb had waited on him.
She eyed him up and down before casting him a simpering smile at odds with her age.
Patrick suppressed an eye-roll. He’d received plenty of such glances from ladies, especially in Crenshaw, where he was known to be an eligible match. But usually they came from women who were younger and trying to hook him into bestowing the title of Mrs. Gallagher upon them. This one, he suspected, was out to hook the money from his pockets.
“Welcome to our store, Mr. Gallagher.” At his surprised look from hearing her address him by name, Mrs. Cobb coyly shook a stubby finger at him. “I saw you on Sunday but didn’t have a chance to be formally introduced.” She leaned over the counter. “Now, tell me, how did Miss O’Donnell like the Valentine’s card you bought her?”
His stomach clenched in a painful knot. I have no idea. He’d used one of the Thompson boys as his messenger, and soon after, the news of her acceptance of James had forked around the ranch like lightning. Bridget’s stilted apology for her rejection hadn’t included mention of the card.
Mrs. Cobb waited, an inquisitive expression on her face.
No doubt salivating for the latest gossip. If he could have politely turned and fled the store, he’d have done so. Once he told her the news, Patrick had no doubt the juicy tidbits of his rejection and Bridget’s engagement to another man would be all over town in less than an hour.
An Irish Blessing: The Irish Sisters Trilogy (Montana Sky Series) Page 3
