Touched by his obvious affection, Deirdre nodded. “Yes, he will. Are you staying for awhile or do you need to get back to the pub?”
She hadn’t thought about County Tyrone in hours, but it was well past opening time and with Desmond here, she wondered who had opened for business. Gerry, maybe she thought or some of the other staff, but the ladies’ restroom door would have to be fixed and the glass swept away. Desmond’s face shifted and he looked away from her. Something’s wrong. He hasn’t told me everything.
“Nay, there’s no hurry at all,” Desmond told her, but he still didn’t meet her eye.
“What haven’t you told me? Is the pub closed?”
Des twisted his lips together and sighed. “Aye, well it is, Deirdre. And likely to stay so for some time.”
“Why? Because it’s a crime scene?”
“Well, that’s a small part of it.”
“And what’s the rest of it? The broken door, the shattered glass, and the mess. It can all be put to rights, can’t it?”
“Those things, they can indeed.”
“What can’t?”
The nurse drew the privacy curtain and departed. Maybe she sensed they didn’t require an audience for what had to be bad news. Desmond sighed again, a much larger noise this time.
“There was a wee fire in the kitchen, that’s all.” His voice was low, as if he hoped not to disturb Quinn. “No one was hurt, and the flat upstairs wasn’t touched. I’ll tell ye later, but it might upset Quinn to hear.”
True enough. “All right,” she said. “So you’re staying?”
“I am. I would anyway for Quinn. I’ll be down in the waiting area, then.”
Des almost became tangled in the curtain on his way and Deirdre shook her head. She couldn’t think about the pub, not now. Quinn’s recovery mattered, little else did at the moment.
When the nursing staff asked her to step out for awhile, she went, unwilling but aware if she balked, they might bar her altogether. She joined Desmond in the waiting room and sat down beside him. “So, tell me about the fire,” she said. She might as well hear it now as later, then she could try to figure out what kind of collateral damage control she’d need for Quinn.
“There’s little to tell,” Des said. “I had the men there, as ye know. Big Johnny came and we talked. Things got a little dodgy for a bit and there was a wee scuffle. Somehow, the gas on the stove got turned on, but I never noticed, what with everything else. And after all was said and done, Big Johnny struck a match to light his cigar and whomp! A huge fireball erupted and exploded. Thanks be to god, I had the fire extinguisher in my hands and put it out. But the walls are a wee bit blackened.”
Speechless, Deirdre stared at him and tried to imagine the pristine workspace damaged by fire. Des must’ve read her face, because he patted her hand. “Never fear, I’ve no doubt it can be cleaned,” he said. “And besides, yer fella has good insurance on the place. It might well be his chance to go back to Ireland and take ye home with him. Sometimes good is born out of ill, ye know.”
Everything had changed. She came back from the dead, and now Quinn lay in critical condition with his beloved pub in shambles. His livelihood had been threatened and now comprised. Deirdre’s tears welled up again at the thought. “No, I don’t but I hope so.”
The old man took her hand, his grip strong and tight. “Ye should know so. Quinn’s fond of his pub, ‘tis true, but he loves ye and nothing matters more to him. Ye’ll see.”
Fragile and faint, hope stirred within Deirdre, light as a feather.
“All I want now is for Quinn to get better,” she said. “Maybe the rest won’t matter, after all.”
And she settled down to wait, too tired to think.
Chapter Sixteen
Four days equaled ninety-six hours or an eternity. The medical professionals kept Quinn sedated for four days, although Deirdre soon learned he roused a little each time before the next dose came due. In those brief moments, he had opened his eyes and looked at her with recognition. He had squeezed her hand, too. Each morning, the doctor on call made the rounds and checked Quinn’s condition. If she could catch him, Deirdre asked him for the latest report and on the morning of the fifth day, he delivered good news.
“We’ve removed the breathing tube,” he told Deirdre. “We’re going to step down the sedation, reducing the dose each time until by this time tomorrow, he should be aware of his surroundings. He’s recovering well. The incisions from the surgery are healing nicely and the repairs to his spleen are holding. Mr. Sullivan is a very fortunate young man, because the damage could have been far more serious with greater complications. He’ll be moved to a standard room on another floor this morning.”
“That’s wonderful,” Deirdre said. Relief coursing through her body made her knees sag, and she leaned against the wall so she wouldn’t fall into a heap. “How much longer will be need to stay at the hospital?”
“A few more days, as brief as two or as long as another week,” Dr. Mason replied. “He’ll have to be able to eat, get up, take a few steps, urinate, and have regular bowel movements. Once he can do all that, he’ll be a free man, but he’ll still need time to recover.”
“He’ll have it,” she said.
Quinn’s new room overlooked the vast parking lot, but if she stood in the right place, Deirdre thought she could see the roof of the pub. With any luck at all, they might be back there soon, she thought. Deirdre settled into the worn recliner and kicked back the footrest. Fatigue washed over her in a wave, and she shut her eyes for a moment of rest. When she opened them, the drapes were drawn and the room darkened. Someone had tossed a blanket over her as she slept and she thrust it aside, sitting up with alarm.
“Ye’ve not missed a thing,” Desmond said from another chair. “He’s not awakened yet though he’s stirred a little.”
Fuzzy headed, she scrubbed her face to wake up. “What time is it?”
“It’s after nine in the evening. Ye’ve slept much of the day.”
“I didn’t intend to fall asleep.”
Des laughed. “Ye were dead on yer feet and needed it. Besides, now ye’ve less to worry about. The doctor was in and told me the same as he told ye. He’ll be home in a few days and I’m glad of it.”
Deirdre approached the bed. The swelling around Quinn’s eyes had gone down and the bruises had lightened so he looked more like himself. Until now, the tube had blocked access to his lips, so she leaned over and kissed him. “I love you.”
Quinn blinked and open his eyes, startling her. He gazed upward, vision clouded, and then his beautiful sapphire eyes cleared. They sparkled as he smiled. “Mo chroide,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Are ye alive?”
A wild, bright joy filled her. Deirdre wanted to dance, but she giggled instead. “Of course I am, Quinn, darling. And so are you.”
“I know that well enough,” he croaked. “Was I shot, then?”
She shook her head and picked up his hand, cradling it in hers. “No, but they damaged you very much.”
“Aye…” he managed and paused. “I hurt, love.”
“I know, but you’re much better already.”
He made a face and winced. “Are ye safe, here?”
Desmond answered, standing on the opposite side of the bed. “Aye, she’s safe and so are ye. I took care of the lot of them. They’ll not try to harm yer woman again nor any of us.”
Quinn groped to find his uncle’s hand. Des grasped it and held it. “Thank you, but are ye sure?”
“I am. ‘Tis a long tale and it’ll keep for the telling till you’re stronger. Rest, Quinn. Ye’re weary.”
“Aye.” Quinn’s voice faded into no more than a breath. “But thirsty, too.”
Deirdre poured water from the carafe on the nightstand and opened a straw. “Here, take a drink. Then Des is right—you need to rest. I’ll be here, I promise.”
He drank most of what the cup contained and nodded. His eyes drooped with fatigue. “I lov
e ye, acushla.”
She kissed him again. “I love you, too.”
Within minutes, he slept, his face slack and easy in repose. Deirdre couldn’t keep from smiling, but when she glanced across the bed at Desmond, she saw the single tear tracking down his cheek. He still held his nephew’s hand, but when he noticed her gaze, Des released it.
“You were worried, too,” she said in a gentle tone.
Des brushed the tear from his face. “Aye, I was. Ye know how much I care for Quinn. I couldn’t love me own son more, if I but had one. He’ll do, now, and be fine.”
“I know he will.” Hunger, something absent for the past few days, rumbled her tummy. “Let’s go down to the cafeteria and eat breakfast. He’ll sleep for awhile.”
By noon, Quinn sat up in bed and stirred a bowl of murky beef broth with disgust. He lacked enthusiasm for the applesauce or the cup of yellow gelatin. “I’m hungry,” he said. “But I can’t eat this. Won’t ye bring me something from the pub, Des?”
Deirdre and Desmond exchanged a glance. They agreed it wasn’t the time to tell him about the damaged kitchen. “They wouldn’t let you have it if he did,” Deirdre said. “The nurse said you might get real food at supper. I’ll sneak you in a container of orange sherbet if you’d like.”
“I’d rather bangers and mash,” Quinn said. “But I’ll take it, acushla. ‘Tis better than nothing at all.”
His petulance pleased her because it indicated he was on the mend, and although he fussed something fierce, she spoonfed him the sherbet.
His evening tray featured a grilled chicken breast, rice, and a vegetable blend. Although he ate it, he griped and managed to sweet talk the nurse into bringing him a cup of tea with sugar. The biggest struggle had been to convince her he wanted it hot, not iced, but he savored it. Quinn took his few first tottering steps with the physical therapy aide. After, he walked with Deirdre up and down the hall six times. He did everything the staff wanted so he could leave, and on Thursday, one week and a day since Quinn was hurt, the hospital released him.
As he dressed in the clothes Deirdre had brought from home, he buttoned the shirt and glanced up at her. “So ye might as well tell me now whatever ‘tis ye’ve been holding back about the pub,” he said. “I’d rather know now than walk into something I’m not expecting. I’m aware ye shared the tale of what happened after I went down and how Des saved the day with old-fashioned bravado, but I know there’s more. So tell me and be done with it.”
Across the room, Des grunted. “So are ye to be fey all the time now, Quinn?”
Quinn snorted. “It doesn’t take a gift to read ye two. A blind man could tell ye’re not telling me something so get it over with. I’m not an invalid any longer.”
“That’s open to debate,” Deirdre said as she straightened his collar. “I’m going to pamper you, sweetheart, and you can’t go back to a regular routine until you’re fully recovered.”
He waved his hand in dismissal. “Get on with it, one of ye before I get cross.”
Desmond cleared his throat. “Aye, then I’ll do it. ‘Tis my fault anyhow. After all the fight with yon idiots who tried to harm Deirdre, I had Big Johnny’s grandson in the kitchen, the others who were still standing, too. And he came to bargain with me, as ye know.”
“Aye, and then what?”
“Ah, didn’t a burner on the stove get turned on but without a flame,” Desmond said. “And after all was said and done, Big Johnny struck a match to light his cigar, and we had a wee bit of an explosion which made a small fire.”
Quinn frowned. “So are ye tellin’ me I don’t have a pub or home left?”
“Nay, not at all,” Desmond replied with some irritation. “I put it out, damn ye, and it can be cleaned, then fixed back the way it was. But with ye laid up in hospital, I’ve not have time nor energy to do anything about it. Other than the faint smell of smoke in the air, ye won’t notice a thing.”
He lifted one eyebrow in a quirky expression. “Aye? And so we’re not serving food these days?”
“The pub’s not been open since ye were hurt, Quinn. The desperate men broke the glass, as ye might remember, and did other damage, too.”
Deirdre put her hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “We’ll get it back open soon and things will go back to normal.”
She watched as he shut his eyes and kept silent. Give him time to process it. It’ll be hard. County Tyrone’s been his mainstay since he came to Kansas City. If he minds much, I’ll make it up to him somehow.
“I might be bored with normal,” Quinn said after a long pause. “Maybe it’s time to take a break from the pub. If it burned to the ground but I still had ye and Uncle Des was fine, I don’t know that I’d mind too much. I’ve got the important things and I’ve got insurance.”
Laughter bubbled up and she giggled. “That’s exactly what Des said when he first told me about it. You think alike.”
Quinn met his uncle’s eyes and nodded. “There could be far worse things,” he said with a smile, an Irish backhanded compliment at its finest.
“Aye, there could indeed,” Desmond replied. “Let’s get ye out of here before they decide to keep ye another night.”
“God forbid.” Quinn shuddered.
His good spirits endured the short trip home in the van and although he made no complaints, Deirdre noticed the lines cut deep with pain in his face. The stairs presented a challenge, but he managed, with her help. Once there, despite his earlier bravado, he didn’t fuss when she suggested he lie down for awhile. “Aye, I think I will,” he said. “I suppose it might be too much to ask if ye’d let me lay my head in yer lap?”
“Of course not.”
Once he settled into position, he sighed, contented. “Ah, this is grand, woman. I feel better already.”
“Good,” she said. From the kitchen, the tell-tale rattle of pans echoed. “Des is cooking up here so you can have your bangers and mash. I imagine he’d fix anything you want.”
“Bangers and mash is good,” he said. “Maybe an apple tart if it’s not too much trouble.”
Deirdre thought he’d fallen asleep until he said, “Later, we’ll look at a calendar, too and pick a date. I’m not inclined to wait very long, love.”
“We can do that,” she said. “Neither am I.”
A slow, sweet smile flirted with his lips. “Good,” he whispered as he drifted asleep.
In the evening, the three gathered around the small kitchen table and shared the meal. Deirdre ached to make love with Quinn, but she steeled herself to have patience. He needed plenty of tender, loving care and time to heal. Even so, she couldn’t stop touching him. Throughout the meal, she held his hand, stroked his cheek, rested her hand on his thigh, and sat so close their bodies were connected. Quinn caressed her, too, and oblivious of his uncle’s presence, he leaned over. “If ye promised to be gentle, acushla, I’ve no doubt I could give ye what ye seem to need.”
Heat flushed her cheeks. “Is it so obvious?”
Quinn moved her hand to rest on his crotch. “As much as this,” he said with a wicked grin and sparkle in his eyes.
At the sink, where he had stacked their dishes, Desmond clicked his tongue in apparent disapproval. “Ye’re reckless, the both of ye,” he said. “Reckless in love and reckless in life. The man’s scarcely out of the hospital, and yet he’s wanting to take ye to bed. And ye seem willing enough. God help ye if ye tear his stitches out or rupture his bloody spleen again. It’s a bloody miracle either one of ye is alive.”
Amused, Deirdre managed not to laugh. Des meant what he said and she realized he spoke out of concern.
Quinn shook his head. “We’re not reckless. How do ye think we are?”
The old man whipped around to face them. “She let ye think her dead for three years, then one day she can’t stand being apart any more so she comes back and drops into yer life out of bloody nowhere. Then there’s mortal danger for the both of ye and for me, too. Ye get hurt in a car chase, then the feckin’ gob
shites turn up here, smash up your pub, and put ye in the hospital. Ye spend a bloody week on the critical list, have surgery, and now ye want to love yer woman. God damn, lad, while I understand the want, ye’re not using yer good sense. Ye’re reckless, I tell ye, reckless in love. Ye let it blind ye to all else.”
Deirdre opened her mouth, but Quinn touched her lips in warning. He stood up. “Ah, ye’ve got a point and ‘tis taken, uncle. I’ve no wish to end up back flat on me back in the hospital. I’ll heed yer advice and wait a bit. But wanting to love Deirdre and she wanting the same isn’t reckless at all. It’s the way it should be between a man and a woman. I know ye worried for me and I’m glad of it. But, I’m on the mend now. Lovin’ her gives me sight, not turns me blind. And no matter what’s happened, I’m glad we’re together, Deirdre and me, and we’ll stay so forever. Now if ye’re done, I think I’ll rest awhile and listen to Tommy Makem take me back to Ireland if only in song.”
Des glared at Quinn. “Ah, well, it takes bloody courage to be reckless, I suppose and ye’ve got that, both of ye.”
“Aye? Then I learned it from ye, Uncle Des.”
Desmond smiled. “I suppose ye did, at that. Go take your rest, lad, and I’ll do the same. I’ll be up in the morning to make breakfast if ye want.”
“I’d like it,” Quinn said. “Good night, Uncle.”
Sprawled on the sofa, Deirdre cross-legged on the floor, they let the beautiful voice of the late Irish bard flow over them, enriching their spirits and touching their souls. Quinn stroked her hair in an absent-minded way as Deirdre flipped through the pages of the calendar.
“I guess we can get married next year,” she said. “Do you want a spring wedding or me as a June bride?”
“Neither,” Quinn replied. “How about next week?”
The idea appealed and brought a smile to her face. “Will you be able so soon?”
He sat up and offered her his hand. “I will if I have to be carried into the church,” he said with a sideways grin. “Aye, I will be if it’s time enough for ye.”
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