Song of Erin

by BJ Hoff

  He was seriously beginning to doubt it.

  Samantha saw something in Jack’s eyes she had never seen in Bronson’s—a tenderness, a gentleness she could not fathom. But there was something else there as well, some unsettling dark emotion she couldn’t define.

  Uneasily, she wondered if she had said too much, had somehow allowed him to catch a glimpse of the sordid truth that lay buried beneath her defenses. At times his dark eyes seemed to cut through the wall of her self-protection and see far more than she wanted him, or anyone else, to see.

  She hated all this evasion—always skirting the truth, hiding the pain, pretending…always pretending.

  It was more difficult, somehow, with Jack. He had asked for her friendship, and in spite of her initial skepticism and reservations about him, Samantha was surprised to realize that she wanted his friendship.

  Had she been less weary, less depleted, she might have found the energy to rationalize her feelings. He was her employer, after all, and since it wasn’t likely she would find a more attractive position anywhere in the city that paid as well or allowed her the flexibility in hours, wouldn’t she be wise to cultivate his friendship?

  No. It wasn’t anything like that, and she knew it. Even if ensuring her position had been at the heart of all this, she had sensed nothing in Jack Kane’s character to indicate that, by rejecting his friendship, she might be endangering her job. The truth was that she had come to like the man, was even attracted to him, and she might just as well confront the fact instead of denying it.

  Perhaps a part of his appeal for her was his kindness. Despite all the rumors about his ruthlessness and callousness, Jack had been kind to her—even though she had given him every reason not to be. That kindness had been a balm to her wounded spirit.

  Ever since leaving the fellowship, Samantha had lived a very isolated, solitary existence. She stayed busy enough—work was never a problem. But her days revolved around her work for the newspaper, her teaching, and her other responsibilities with Immigrant Aid. Any “social life”—even the term brought a rueful smile—consisted of suppers with Amelia and Rufus and an occasional potluck at the church. As for her former “friends” among Bronson’s followers, they had begun to drift away soon after his death. When Samantha finally separated from the fellowship, they made no further effort to maintain contact.

  Most of the time she was able to ignore her feelings of loneliness. But once in a while, the solitude of her apartment and the lack of companionship in her life seemed to close in on her, and she found herself longing for something more.

  She was loath to admit that Jack Kane might represent that something more. But if he did, how could she consider even the most innocent of friendships with him when there would always be this veil of secrecy between them?

  Dear God, must I live the rest of my life in the shadows? Will there ever come a time when I’ll be able to forget the past and live a normal life, when I’ll find the courage to trust again…even to love again?

  “Samantha?”

  Jack’s voice, hushed but laced with concern, pierced her thoughts. Samantha glanced up to find him leaning toward her, his features knit in a frown.

  Again Samantha felt torn between the instinctive caution his closeness sparked in her and whatever it was that invariably drew her to him in spite of that caution.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’m afraid my mind tends to wander sometimes.” She was keenly aware of his searching gaze and could almost feel him choosing his words.

  “He hurt you, didn’t he?”

  Samantha tensed, at first thinking she’d misunderstood him. “What?”

  “Your husband. He hurt you. That’s why it’s so difficult for you to talk about him.”

  An alarm went off in Samantha. What had she said…what had he seen that could have given it away?

  The humiliation flooding over her made her want to leap to her feet and run away. From Jack…from the hospital…from the pain. Somehow he had glimpsed her secret shame.

  He knew…

  So he’d been right. Jack knew it the instant her head snapped up. He saw her stiffen, saw the white-knuckled grip of her hands at her waist and the startled, almost frightened, look in her eyes.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, suddenly cool to the point of freezing him out.

  “I think you do, Samantha,” Jack said, as gently as possible. “And you don’t have to sidestep with me. I’ve suspected for some time now.”

  She squared her shoulders and fixed her gaze on some nonexistent object across the room. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I hardly think it’s any of your business, whatever it is.”

  This wasn’t anger he was seeing in her, Jack sensed. It was an attempt to protect, to ward off. He had cut through too suddenly, too deeply, had laid open some sort of wound she’d believed to be concealed—and now she was scrambling to shield it.

  He disliked himself for exposing her pain—whatever it was—at a time when she was so clearly vulnerable, but something had compelled him to voice his suspicions. Not for his sake, but for hers.

  He could only hope she would forgive him.

  “You can tell me about it, Samantha,” he said quietly. “If you want to, that is. If not—I understand. But at least know that you don’t have to pretend with me any longer.”

  She said nothing but merely sat there, straight-backed and unmoving, her lips pressed together as she deliberately avoided looking at him. Even now, despite the cloak of denial she had drawn about her, Jack could see the despair in her eyes, and the sight of it hit him like a blow. More than ever before, he wished he could hold her…hold her so closely he could somehow absorb her pain into himself so that she would feel nothing—nothing but his love for her.

  His love for her. It was the first time he had allowed the word to identify his feelings for Samantha, even though he had feared for some time now the direction in which those feelings were headed.

  So that was the way of it, then. He loved her. The admission astonished him.

  It also terrified him.

  To keep from touching her, he knotted his hands together. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel awkward, Samantha,” he said, surprised at the hoarseness in his voice. “I thought if you realized that I knew, you might find it easier to…be with me, to be yourself with me. We don’t have to mention this again, not ever, if you’d rather not.”

  Finally, she turned to look at him. Her eyes, woefully solemn now, searched his, and Jack felt himself measured as he had never been before.

  “How did you know?” she whispered.

  Jack shook his head. “I’m not sure. It was just…something in your eyes.” He hesitated. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

  Slowly, she nodded. He saw her eyes fill with tears, and for a blinding instant of rage, he wanted to make Bronson Harte pay. “Do you want to tell me?” he prompted, dropping his voice to match her whispered tone.

  She shook her head. “I can’t. I’ve never…told anyone. Not even my family. I can’t…”

  Jack thought he would strangle at the look of anguish on her face. The idea of her carrying this alone made him want to weep for her. “Samantha…I’m sorry. So very sorry.” No longer able to stop himself, he reached out a hand to her, waiting.

  She stared at his hand, then lifted her gaze to meet his. And finally, as relief and hope and love rose up in Jack, she clasped his hand. She was trembling, and Jack wished he could impart a portion of his own strength to her. “It’s all right, Samantha. Perhaps someday you’ll be able to tell me,” he said. “I have my secrets, too, you see. But I’d like to think that one day there will be no secrets between us, none at all. That’s my hope.”

  He drew a steadying breath. “I want to promise you something,” he said, his voice soft. She was watching him closely, and he squeezed her hand. “First, I’d like you to know that if there’s anything—anything at all—of any value in me, it’s my word. I don�
�t break my word, Samantha. You can believe that. And I give you my word now that I will never…never hurt you. Do you understand? I will never hurt you in any way.”

  Her hand trembled in his. So small, so fragile, that hand. She was such a small, delicate woman. And yet what incredible strength must lie within her, to endure her painful secrets in silence.

  Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. He wanted to kiss them away. “I will say it again, Samantha. I will never hurt you. And neither,” he promised, “will anyone else. My word on it, I intend to see to it that no one ever hurts you again. Can you believe me?”

  Oh, sweetheart, please, please believe me…I have never meant anything more in my life…

  “Yes,” she finally said, her voice soft, her eyes shining. “I believe you.”

  Jack had all he could do not to pull her into his arms, but he checked himself. And then the moment passed, abruptly shattered by the appearance of one of the matrons in the doorway.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Kane?” she said brusquely. “Doctor says you should come now.”

  They looked at each other, and Jack saw his own alarm and dread mirrored in Samantha’s eyes.

  43

  VIGIL AT BELLEVUE

  Now, no one is likely to die for a good person, though someone might be willing to die for a person who is especially good. But God showed his great love for us by sending Christ to die for us while we were still sinners.

  ROMANS 5:7-8

  Jack was standing at the foot of Cavan Sheridan’s bed, watching Samantha dab the boy’s forehead with a damp cloth, when Rufus Carver arrived.

  Sheridan was still unconscious, though he would occasionally moan or move his head from side to side. His eyes were closed, his face drenched with perspiration, his skin pale and waxen. The thin scar that traced the side of his face had become an angry slash against his ashen pallor. Unless the doctor was mistaken—and Jack feared he was not—any hope for recovery was slim indeed.

  After giving Jack and Samantha the disheartening news, Dr. Van Curen—the same doctor who had admitted Sheridan—had left the ward, promising to return soon. Jack wondered when the young physician managed to sleep. He had seen him going up and down the corridor most of the night, and he looked absolutely exhausted.

  On the opposite side of the bed from Samantha stood a new matron. This one seemed less irascible and more interested in Sheridan’s condition than in keeping things quiet and undisturbed. Which was probably a good thing, Jack thought, because Rufus was not given to speaking in whispers.

  The moment the big, affable preacher walked into the room, Jack felt a sense of relief, taking his first deep breath in what seemed an interminable time. Rufus had a way of easing things for others. Jack had never quite understood what it was about his old friend that should account for this rare gift, but over the years he had seen Rufus make a difference in some rather remarkable ways in some very difficult situations.

  Samantha turned as Rufus entered, and Jack saw that her relief matched his own.

  “How is he?” Rufus said, brushing the dampness from his coat before giving Jack’s shoulder a quick squeeze.

  Jack shook his head. “Bad. They called us in a few minutes ago, said he was weakening.”

  Rufus looked at Cavan Sheridan, then at Jack. “Your message said he’d been shot.”

  Jack nodded. “It was supposed to have been me,” he bit out, gripped by the same angry ache that had been gnawing at him all night. “Instead, Sheridan pushed himself in front of me. He was hit twice.”

  “Any idea who was responsible?”

  Again Jack gave a shake of his head. “I couldn’t see his face. Just a man with a gun.”

  Rufus studied him. “But you’re sure he was after you, not the boy?”

  “I was practically looking down the barrel when Sheridan shoved between us. He saved my life, no doubt about it.”

  No matter how he tried, Jack could not seem to get past this point, that someone had deliberately taken a bullet—two bullets—in his place. He still found it inconceivable, and yet he was alive because of Cavan Sheridan’s selfless act.

  As if he could read his thoughts, Rufus again put his hand to Jack’s shoulder. “It was brave of the boy, no denying it. But this isn’t your fault, Jack. Don’t go tryin’ to make it your fault.”

  They stood for a moment, watching Samantha as she bent over the unconscious Sheridan, clasping his hand. Her voice was so low Jack could only barely make out what she was saying. But clearly she believed Cavan Sheridan could hear every word.

  “Cavan…listen to me; you mustn’t give up. You have so much work to do yet, so many people to reach with your writing. And your sister—you have to find Terese, remember? You have to find her and bring her here, to be with you. You still want that, don’t you? You have to fight. Please, Cavan…fight.”

  Jack’s throat tightened, and he turned to Rufus. “He can’t die, Rufus! The boy is too young! And he’s a better man than I’ll ever be, certainly. He doesn’t deserve to die—not for the likes of me.”

  Rufus searched his eyes. “Your Savior died for the likes of you, Jack,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “He didn’t deserve it either, but he did it all the same. You need to realize that Jesus has a hold on this boy, brother. I expect young Cavan here was only doing what the Lord moved him to do.”

  Jack was as exasperated with Rufus as he was shaken by his words. This was hardly the time to start preaching at him! But when Jack would have told him so, Rufus stepped away and went to stand beside Samantha.

  Jack saw him give her a reassuring nod as they both stood watching the unconscious Cavan Sheridan. “Amelia wanted me to tell you she’d be standing in for the boy, too,” Rufus said to Samantha. “She’ll be praying right along with us. And it appears that we’d better start doing some mighty serious praying about now.”

  It stung a little, being excluded in such short order, but Jack understood. There certainly wouldn’t have been any point in including him in what was clearly about to become one of Rufus’s prayer meetings.

  Again, it was as if Rufus could read his thoughts. “Wouldn’t hurt for you to put in a word, too, Jack,” he said without taking his eyes off Sheridan. “The Lord knows how much you care about this boy.”

  Jack looked at him, then at Sheridan. He did care about the lad, that was true enough. But there was little chance of any prayer he might utter rising higher than the ceiling. The Almighty had turned a deaf ear on his prayers for Martha, and that had been the one and only time in his life when he had virtually besieged the gates of heaven. If his soul had been so tarnished even back then that God ignored him, He would be a lot less likely to pay him any heed now.

  But Rufus was watching him as if he expected some sort of effort on his part. “Come here, brother,” he said quietly, reaching out to Jack. “At least stand with us beside the boy. That would please young Cavan, I expect.”

  Jack tried to swallow against his swollen throat. But even as he shook his head with the futility of it all, he took his first step toward Rufus and Samantha.

  Caught completely off guard by the wave of emotion that swept through him, Jack watched as Rufus clasped the unconscious Cavan Sheridan’s hand and smiled gently down upon the boy as he might have gazed upon a sleeping child.

  And then he lifted his face heavenward—still holding Sheridan’s hand—and began to pray, his features taking on an almost transfiguring intensity and strength. “Lord…Lord, this is your child lying here in need of your mercy and your healing hand. Cavan Sheridan, Lord—you know him by name, and you know his heart. You know it was that good and noble heart that put him in this situation in the first place. The bullets that brought this terrible thing on him were meant for someone else, but he took the pain willingly, in love for a brother.

  “Now surely it must thrill your heart, Lord, to know that one of your earthly sons was willing to lay down his life for another, just as your only beloved Son was willing to pour out his life
for all of us. Yes, Lord, it must surely thrill your heart…”

  Jack thought his own heart would shatter from the pressure that had been building within him over the past few minutes. His mouth was as dry as cotton batting, and he felt about to strangle on the knot in his throat.

  And yet at the same time he knew a strange, unfamiliar kind of exultation as he listened to his old friend and Samantha beseeching heaven for Cavan Sheridan’s life. They had clasped hands, Rufus and Samantha, and while Rufus stood, shoulders straight, head tossed back, smiling upward as he sought divine mercy, Samantha stood quietly, eyes closed, lips barely moving, her words but a whisper.

  But there was no doubt that they were both calling on the same power. And it was abundantly clear that they knew Him well and felt they had the right to address Him as a good and faithful friend.

  “It’s up to you, Lord,” Rufus went on, “whether you take this boy home right now, tonight, or leave him here with us. That’s not for us to decide, and we’re purely glad we don’t have that kind of fateful decision to make. But we’re just asking if you might consider letting him stay. This is a good boy, Lord, who maybe can make a difference in this poor old troubled world, if you see fit to leave him here long enough.

  “We trust your wisdom in this, Lord, as in all things. We trust your wisdom and your mercy, and oh, Lord, we surely do trust your Father-heart of love! Pour out that love, Lord, on Cavan Sheridan this very hour…and pour out your love on the one he risked his life for, your child, and our brother, Jack. Wrap your arms around them both, Lord, and hold them close, close to your heart…”

  Jack drew in a ragged breath. This wasn’t the first time Rufus had prayed in his presence, and if Jack knew him at all, he knew it wasn’t the first time Rufus had prayed for him. Before tonight, he had always taken his friend’s efforts on behalf of his soul with nothing more than a kind of grim humor and a blatant skepticism. Tonight, however, he found himself somewhat hard-pressed to understand how the Almighty could possibly ignore the earnest praying going on in this room.