Alana hesitated before extending a shaking hand toward the horse.
That a girl. He kept the words unsaid. She needed to do this on her own. He could only stand close enough to touch her and provide silent support, inwardly cheering her on. Not only did he want this accomplishment for her, but also because her terror of horses created an obstacle to his courtship.
Thunder stepped forward.
Alana stood her ground.
His admiration grew. She has more courage than a man who’s about to mount the wildest bucking bronco.
The horse dipped his head and daintily lipped the carrot.
Alana’s expression relaxed, although her shoulders remained stiff. “I’d remembered their big teeth but forgotten how velvety soft their mouths are.” She spoke quietly, as if to herself, still focused on the horse.
Thunder crunched down the piece and checked for more, snuffling her hand and then becoming friendly enough to explore her arm, planting a horse kiss on her cheek—a familiarity he hadn’t even allowed himself. Someday, I’ll tease her about Thunder gettin’ in the first kiss.
She giggled and touched Thunder’s nose, petting him.
That little sound freed the tension inside Patrick. “I believe I heard a giggle.”
With a shy smile, Alana cast him an almost flirtatious look from under her eyelashes.
“Shall I teach you to ride?”
Her smile fell away. “I know how to ride,” Alana said stiffly, avoiding eye contact. “I just haven’t done so since I was eight.” She lowered her hand and glanced toward the barn door. “I must be getting back to Henrietta. She’s full of vigor this morning, but I expect she’ll droop any time now.”
That she lingered instead of heading back to the house raised a hope that Alana wanted more of his company. Patrick decided not to push her to ride, lest he cause her to high-tail back to the house before he had a chance to discuss courting her. Best gallop at the fence before she runs away.
Having badgered, as Alana called it, the secret fear out of her and seen her soften to him, he felt confident enough to risk taking the next step. “I came out here to court you.”
Alana’s eyes went wide. This time she stepped back. “Be ye daft?” she asked, her tone sharp and breathy. “One conversation does not a marriage make.”
Although startled by her reaction, Patrick figured he’d just surprised her. “I said courting, Alana. I’m not asking you to wed me this minute.”
“I’m not looking to wed.”
He raised an eyebrow, not really believing her. Don’t all women want to get married? “Wed any man or me in particular?”
With a weary expression, Alana’s shoulders slumped, and she shook her head. “Both, perhaps. I’m not looking to wed and—” she lifted her chin toward Thunder “—I don’t think we would suit.”
Figuring she just needed some extra persuading, Patrick pressed on. “While I think you have no need to fear my horses—they total about twenty—you should know that I own a fine house…have some money set aside. I can offer you a good life.”
“My life is good as it is.”
The sadness in her eyes belied her words.
“What is it, really, Alana, that you have against my suit?” Patrick coaxed, still confident he could get her to come around to his way of thinking. “Tell me?”
“Because I’ve spoken to ye about my pooka nightmares does not mean I’m willing to give up more to ye….” Her voice broke, and she seemed to crumple. Then she took a breath and straightened. “I thank ye for the honor ye do me,” she said formally. “But, ye have not engaged my affections, so I must ask ye to respect my decision and leave.” She waved a dismissing motion, spun, and strode from the barn.
He stared after her, unexpectedly feeling bereft.
CHAPTER SIX
Once more rejected by an O’Donnell sister, Patrick rode towards Sweetwater Springs, his spirits lower than the mud ground under Thunder’s hooves. So much for my delusion that Alana would be less stubborn and more manageable than Bridget.
The shamrock necklace burned in his pocket. What a waste of money. He was tempted to fling the piece of jewelry out onto the prairie as far away as he could.
His chest ached. This time, he suspected his heart was more wounded from his failed attempt at wooing Alana than from his proposal to Bridget. Ye have not engaged my affections. Her words sent a bullet through his heart.
With Bridget, Patrick now knew he’d only felt a superficial attraction and a bond formed by their compatibility in regards to their love of horses. On the surface, Alana and he seemed to have nothing in common. Yet her sweetness—with just enough tart—had soaked through the hard shell of his heart.
For a long time, he rode with his insides frozen and his mind going over and over why he’d failed. The horse followed the road without his guidance. Then he conjured up images of Alana laughing at dinner last night and opening up to him this morning, bravely sharing her fears in spite of the potential for his judgment.
Now what? Patrick figured he’d retreat to his stud farm to lick his wounds, focus on work, and put all thoughts of courtship, especially with blue-eyed, Irish lasses, out of his mind. Life will be just like it was before.
He tried to believe the words, but Patrick sensed he’d be fighting loneliness. Hopefully someday, I’ll be ready again to court a woman—although not until the far future.
Lost in his painful thoughts, he rode through a thicket of trees near a stream, budding limbs thrusting over the road. A rustle in the branches above yanked his thoughts to the present. At the corner of his vision, a shadow moved.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
Panther! Fear stabbed him. Patrick cursed that his Colt was tucked in the holster under his coat. Leaning forward, he kneed Thunder. But the command came too late.
Something heavy landed on his back. Man, not beast! An arm wrapped around his throat.
A second man in a black coat dropped from a tree in front of Thunder, hat pulled low, scarf hiding most of his face. On the landing, he stumbled.
Thunder shied.
The robber missed his grab for the horse’s reins.
Although unbalanced by his assailant, Patrick gripped Thunder with his legs. He tightened the reins and sawed the Thoroughbred around, fighting to stay upright in the saddle.
But the man’s weight on Patrick’s shoulders pulled him back over the horse’s rump. He gripped tight with his legs, but the momentum proved to be too much, and he came out of the saddle.
With a final tug, his attacker jumped free, landing to the side of the horse, and staggering several steps away.
As he fell back, Patrick twisted to slap Thunder’s rump and yelled, “Hah!”
The horse snorted and bolted back the way they’d come.
Relief flashed. They’ll never catch him.
The outlaw cursed.
Patrick had only a second to realize he’d just put the O’Donnells in danger before he thudded to the ground. The back of his head hit something hard, and his vision went dark.
* * *
After their visitor left, Alana stayed in the house. She chivvied her protesting aunt into bed to rest, and then surveyed the main room with an eye for a task that would take her mind off Patrick and his intentions. I could scrub the floor. But she knew from experience that her hands could tackle the familiar tasks of housework while her mind kept ruminating.
The walls of the cabin closed in on her. She wanted to escape, but there was no place to go. I need to get outside.
She grabbed her coat and shrugged into it, pulling on her cap. After winding the scarf around her neck, she tugged on her gloves.
Once outside, Alana breathed deeply of the cold, pure air and trudged along an icy path to the barn to locate her uncle and found him mending a harness.
Rory looked up and smiled. “I’m catching up on all the tasks I’d set aside while Henrietta was ill. I’ve quite a list.”
“I’m going
for a walk.”
“Aye, it’s a fine day for wintertime. Could almost believe spring was right around the corner. Good for you to get out in the fresh air and stretch your legs.” He set the harness on his lap. “You’ve been cooped up too long. Might as well enjoy the weather while it lasts, because it surely won’t. Montana has a fine way of a teasin’ us into wishful thinking, then dropping a load of snow on our heads.”
“I haven’t had a ramble since we left home.”
“Just follow the road, or if you go in a different direction, stay in sight of the house. If you’re in mind for company, turn to the left when you reach the road. I’m sure Daisy Muth will be glad to make your acquaintance.”
“Actually, I’ve a mind to be alone. I’ll head in the direction of town.”
Rory shot her a sharp look but only nodded. “Aye, sometimes one needs to be outdoors and under God’s great spaces.” He jerked up his chin in a gesture to the vivid blue sky. “Has a way of putting things in perspective, it does.”
I hope so. “I’m looking forward to it, Uncle.”
“Enjoy your walk.” Rory smiled and turned back to his mending.
Once on her way down the road, the countryside stretching as far as the eye could see was white patched with brown and looked drab to her eyes. She headed down the track that led to the road, following the children’s footprints and Thunder’s hoofprints in the slushy mud. At the road, she turned right toward Sweetwater Springs, noting wagon tracks and more hoofprints. Erik Muth’s milk wagon, she surmised. The footprints ceased, and she figured that was the spot the children must have caught a ride with their neighbor.
Once on the road, she stopped studying the ground and looked up, hoping to find the guidance she needed. Some clouds as fat and puffy as a flock of sheep before shearing drifted across the rich blue sky. I made the right decision to reject Patrick’s proposal. Alana wasn’t sure if she was speaking to herself or to God. So why do I feel so strange?
The heavens didn’t open up with an angel appearing to give her an answer, but still she felt encouraged to continue the mental conversation. I don’t even like the man. She paused. Well, I didn’t at first, but apparently, he grew on me.
She walked farther in silence. Why did he have to say he wanted to court me? Why couldn’t he have let things be? “He ruined everything.” She tramped a few steps, mud squishing under her feet, as if pounding the dilemma into the ground.
Alana slowed and let out a sigh. Too much change.
She thought of Bridget’s approaching marriage and wondered why her sister hadn’t sent a letter with Patrick. She didn’t even know if her twin wanted Alana to live with her after the wedding.
Emptiness gaped inside—in her heart, in her life. When they’d set out on this unwanted journey to America, Alana had thought at least she and her twin would be together. Now I’ll be on my own in a foreign country. She let out a sigh.
She had no doubt her aunt and uncle would want her to live with them. They certainly could use her help. But now that her aunt was nearly well and able to do more, Alana felt at loose ends.
As she walked, Alana sorted through her feelings—everything from Timkin, to Bridget’s upcoming marriage, to Patrick’s sudden and surprising intentions, and now this inexplicable sense that she might have made the wrong decision. Would I have accepted if he’d singled me out from the beginning and not focused first on Bridget?
Alana didn’t know the answer to that question, but figured she would have felt more willingness to at least consider his suit if he’d been drawn to her first. She hadn’t reached any conclusion before movement made her glance up the road to see Thunder loping toward her, stirrups bouncing, saddle empty.
Something’s happened to Patrick! Heart pounding in time with the hoofbeats, she glanced behind her for help only to see the farm was out of sight—too far to run for her uncle.
She bit her lip and faced forward toward the approaching horse, as big and black as a pooka. Her stomach tightened until Alana thought she might be sick. Her instinct was to flee, but she swallowed down the terror rising up to choke her.
Concern for Patrick overrode her fear of the horse. Instead of stepping back, Alana forced herself to slowly walk forward, hand extended. “Thunder,” she crooned as the horse came to her, hooves crunching in the snow. She planted her feet to hold her ground.
The Thoroughbred slowed to a stop, snorted, and tossed his head. His nostrils were flared and his sides heaved. He took a step toward her.
“Easy now,” Alana said, letting him grow calmer. “There ye be.” She patted Thunder’s nose, inhaling the smell of horse and stroking his neck, the smooth movement a contrast to her rapidly beating heart.
Thunder nickered, as if giving her encouragement.
“Thank ye, beautiful, boyo.” Once more she glanced behind her, as if the farmhouse had magically moved closer. Only the image of Patrick lying injured on the cold ground somewhere drove her decision. If I hesitate, he might die.
Alana kilted up her skirt and petticoat, tucking them into her waistband. She gathered the reins, brushed her hand over Thunder’s neck and shoulder, and grabbed the saddle horn, stretching her left foot to reach the stirrup. For a panicked moment, Alana realized the horse was too big, and she wouldn’t make it without help.
Desperately wishing for a mounting block, she lifted her leg higher and hopped, finally thrusting her foot into the stirrup. With a bounce, she hauled herself up, landing in the saddle with an ungraceful thump. “Sorry, Thunder, sorry,” she apologized, feeling sure the Thoroughbred had never felt such an ungainly mount in his life.
Once in the saddle, she couldn’t reach her feet to the stirrups. Alana reminded herself of those times she rode bareback as a girl. But Thunder was no pony. I’m so high off the ground. Her hands shook.
Thunder shifted and danced a little, blowing out a breath.
She grabbed the horn and clung with her legs, keeping her seat.
If the Thoroughbred took it into his head to bolt, Alana would be off in a few strides. I’ll have a long fall to the ground. Hopefully, the snow and mud will cushion my landing.
She took a deep breath for courage, released the horn, and evened out the reins. Please, dear Lord, keep me in the saddle so I can find Patrick. Please keep him safe.
She wheeled Thunder around and kneed him into a canter. After sloshing in the too-big saddle, Alana caught a rhythm remembered from her childhood before the Pooka fears overtook her, and she settled into the ride.
As they moved, she scanned the road, searching for some sign of Patrick, to no avail. The way was open, but snowdrifts and small hills could hide him from view if he’d crawled away from the road. She slowed the horse to a walk to watch for signs, wondering if she was doing the right thing when speed might be of the essence. She followed the Muth’s sleigh rails and Thunder’s hoofprints for about a mile.
Not until Alana reached some trees near a stream did she see Patrick sprawled on his back on the road. Her heart kicked, and she gasped, grabbing the saddle horn and urging the horse to a trot, uncaring of how she bounced in the saddle. Please don’t be dead.
A few feet away, she reined to a stop and slid off the horse, looping the reins around a low tree branch and trusting the well-trained horse would stay. She rushed to Patrick’s side and dropped to her knees in the snow-churned mud. Guilt gripped her. This is all my fault. If only I hadn’t sent him away!
His eyes were closed, his skin gray.
Praying hard, Alana ripped off her mittens, stuffing them into her pocket, and touched the side of his neck. Feeling a pulse, she went momentarily weak as a wave of relief washed through her, then she checked him over.
Expertly, she ran her hands down his arms and legs, feeling for broken bones. Thankful not to find anything wrong, she studied the angle of his head. His neck didn’t appear to be broken, but she had no choice but to move him and hope not to cause more damage. Gently, she slid her palm under his head and felt the stickin
ess of blood. Her fear deepened. A rock scratched the back of her hand. Head injury.
Alana glanced at the red blood on her palm and rose to her feet. She ran to the stream, the banks edged with ice, crouched and rinsed off the blood in the freezing water. Her fingers went numb. She yanked a handkerchief from her sleeve and dunked the cloth before standing. As she wrung out the cloth, she saw two sets of new hoof prints heading in the direction of town. Without giving them any thought, she hurried back to kneel by Patrick.
He hadn’t stirred.
“Patrick,” she said, running the wet handkerchief over his face, trying to bring him back to consciousness. “Patrick.”
He didn’t rouse.
Her throat tightened. Alana folded the handkerchief and left the cold cloth on his forehead. She reached to tug loose her petticoat, ripping a long strip from the hem, and then a larger piece, which she made into a pad. Gently lifting his head a few inches, she wiped the blood and dirt with the wet handkerchief, and then placed the pad over the wound, using the long strip to tie the makeshift bandage in place.
How long has he been unconscious? She patted his cheeks. “Patrick, please wake up. Patrick!”
He moaned but didn’t open his eyes.
“Come on,” she encouraged. “All the way now, ye great sleeping giant.”
He blinked, showing unfocused eyes.
“That’s better.” She gave him a reassuring smile.
He stared at her without recognition.
“Patrick, it’s Alana.”
“There are two of you,” he murmured. “Is Bridget here?”
“Ye have a concussion.” Alana squeezed his gloved hand. “That’s why yer seeing double. Ye’ve fallen from Thunder and hit yer head.”
Her words seemed to penetrate, for he jerked as if to rise. “Thunder?” he asked in an urgent tone.
She pressed him back, slipping her other hand behind his head, taking care to make sure he missed the rock. “Thunder’s just fine. He’s right here.” She gestured toward the horse.
“Outlaws,” he croaked. “Jumped me. Take Thunder and ride to safety. Hurry.”
An Irish Blessing: The Irish Sisters Trilogy (Montana Sky Series) Page 7
