The Wild Sight

by Loucinda McGary

  “’Tis all right, Brenna,” Donovan broke in to calm her obvious distress. “We already know Rylie’s not Dermot’s daughter. He told her.”

  “’Tis not about Rylie . . . ” Her voice broke, a very bad sign surely. “Oh, God! I’m so sorry. I really didn’t want to tell you this way.”

  Donovan sat down abruptly.

  “What?” he demanded. His mind raced with a dozen horrible possibilities. “Just tell me, Brenna.”

  He heard her take a deep breath before she spoke with deadly calm. “Rylie is not Dermot’s offspring. But neither are you, Donovan.”

  “What?” he repeated, the sound hollow and meaningless inside his head.

  For a long, empty moment everything ground to a halt. He heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing. Then his hands started to shake. He wrapped both of them around the mobile to keep it against his ear. All the awful imaginings weren’t even close to this!

  “You can’t . . . How—” More words refused to emerge and he choked.

  “The Niall marker,” Brenna’s voice sounded far away, but every syllable was a bullet, blasting away pieces of him like the wobbly targets in a shooting gallery. “You have it, but Dermot doesn’t. Since it’s passed from father to son, there’s no way he can be your biological father.”

  Chapter 10

  BALANCING HER TWO BAGS AND PURSE IN ONE HAND, RYLIE rapped on the door of Donovan’s apartment. If he didn’t answer quickly, the scent from the bakery bag would prove too tempting.

  Just like him.

  However, if he opened the door less than fully dressed, she would have quite a dilemma. Which to open first, the bag with the thick slices of bread called bram-brack or the bag with the condoms?

  If only every day offered such delectable choices.

  She was about to knock again when the door swung open, and Donovan stood there in jeans, pullover, and socks, but no shoes. Okay, enough clothes to solve the initial problem.

  “Special delivery from Brigit’s,” she announced, holding up the white paper bag as she stepped inside. Then she rattled the plastic bag in her other hand. “And a little something from the pharmacy in Dungannon. A dozen little somethings.”

  She moved close, intending to stand on tiptoe and kiss him, but he brushed away, his movements stiff and guarded.

  “I was just about to call you,” he said, and his tone sounded strained. “I have to get to Holy Family right away.”

  She tossed both bags on the coffee table and clutched his arm. “Has something happened to Dermot?”

  He shook his head and pulled away. “No, not exactly. . . ”

  His stony expression did nothing to ease her growing anxiety. He sat on the couch and mechanically pulled on his sneakers. Chewing her bottom lip, she plopped next to him.

  “If it’s not an emergency, you should eat something first,” she babbled, pulling the bag with the raisin bread toward her. “I know you haven’t had anything.”

  He shook his head again and the haunted look in his eyes stopped her words and her breath.

  “I can’t . . . ” Donovan closed his eyes and his throat worked for a moment. Then he spoke in a rough whisper, “Brenna called about the tests.”

  “No!” Horror ripped down her spine.

  “No, not that! God, no.” He reached over and cupped her cheek with a trembling hand, and she sagged against him in relief.

  “Dermot’s not your father. But Brenna says—” His voice choked off again for a moment. He dropped his hand and looked away. “She says he’s not mine either.” When she tried to protest, he plunged on. “I have the Niall Marker and he doesn’t, so he can’t have fathered me.”

  “There must be a mistake,” she insisted, but the tortured look on his face said otherwise.

  She knew exactly what he was feeling, the shock, disbelief, anger. What kind of sick cosmic joke was this? An unreasoning urge broadsided her, and she ached to touch him, hold him, reassure him everything would be okay. But she couldn’t because she knew it wasn’t true. Everything might never be okay again.

  Still looking a bit unsteady, he stood and reached for his jacket. Rylie picked up her purse and the bag of brambrack and stood also.

  “I’ll drive.”

  Neither of them spoke more than a few words all the way to Armagh, though Rylie did manage to get Donovan to eat a slice of the brambrack. She had one too, even if it did taste like ashes.

  In spite of the lack of verbal exchange, a fierce protectiveness blossomed and grew inside her. When they reached the care facility, she got out of the car and marched inside next to him. No one greeted or acknowledged them as they strode down the hall, but Rylie did see the physical therapist entering the room next to Dermot’s.

  She positioned herself like a sentinel next to the door. “I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”

  “Thanks,” Donovan replied, and without making eye contact, he disappeared inside.

  “Boh?” asked Dermot when he entered the room.

  His shrewd gaze took in Donovan’s obvious distress and he pulled over his tray table and communication device. Donovan scooted the chair close to the bed and sat stiffly on the edge of the seat.

  “We need to talk, Da,” he said, tilting his head so that he could see the screen when his father typed. “About the DNA tests.”

  The old man’s eyes narrowed to a pugnacious squint as he punched at the device. “Told truth! She’s not mine.”

  “This isn’t about Rylie. It’s about you and me.”

  A gray cloud of confusion passed across Dermot’s face and he gurgled an unintelligible question.

  Taking a deep breath Donovan began. “The woman who did the tests is studying a trait passed from father to son.” He lifted his gaze and watched Dermot carefully. “I told her to include you and me.”

  Dermot’s face went a shade paler and his jaw twitched, but he made no sound. Donovan felt his own nails digging into his palms.

  “I have the trait, but you don’t, Da.”

  For a dozen agonizing heartbeats, Donovan held his breath. Dermot appeared to do the same. Neither of them moved. Finally a single tear emerged from the corner of Dermot’s eye and slid down his grizzled cheek.

  Donovan sucked in a noisy, searing breath of air. “You . . . You knew.” Somehow, he was on his feet, his hands loosening and fisting convulsively. “You always knew, didn’t you?”

  Eyes squeezed tightly shut, Dermot gave what passed for a nod. A sob rattled in his chest.

  Too many emotions and questions crashed through Donovan for him to give voice to any of them, so he paced to the end of the bed and back, twice. On his third time, Dermot dashed his good hand across his eyes, then picked up the stylus. Donovan stopped to peer over his shoulder.

  “Luved her,” he typed. Then, “She luved U. Enuff 4 me.”

  “Oh God, Da,” Donovan whispered, his knees threatening to buckle under him. “Oh God . . . Oh God . . . ”

  He pulled Dermot into a fierce embrace, the mass of new implications threatening to overcome him. The old man’s scrawny shoulders felt like brittle bird bones in the grip of his fingers, but he held Donovan equally tight with his good arm.

  A commotion outside the door dragged Donovan back to reality. He could hear Rylie’s voice rising above several others, commanding them not to interrupt. His father’s hand trembled and dropped away. Donovan loosened his own hold, stepped back and scrutinized him. His breathing seemed shallow and rapid, his eyes dull with fatigue as he glanced from Donovan to the door and back.

  Here was one more thing Dermot did not need to face. At least not at the moment.

  Giving the old man’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, Donovan softly admonished, “Get some rest, Da. I’ll send that lot away.”

  After a brief verbal tussle with the physical therapist, the nurse, and the hulking aide, Tommy, Donovan gladly let Rylie lead him to the car. The charge nurse had agreed that as soon as she checked Dermot’s vitals, he wouldn’t be disturbed again unti
l lunchtime.

  Once he’d fastened his seat belt, Donovan leaned against the headrest with a weary sigh.

  “Are you all right?” Rylie asked for the third time as she backed the car out of the parking space.

  “I hardly know,” he answered truthfully this time. He closed his eyes and felt the car turn out of the parking lot onto the street before he added, “Given the circumstances, I guess I’m as well as can be expected.”

  Rylie’s small hand settled atop his for a moment, feeling warm and soft and comforting somehow. “Do you want to talk about . . . the circumstances?” Her hand fluttered away. “If you don’t want to, that’s all right.”

  He opened his eyes and gazed at her profile, full cheek, pert nose, and determined chin. Her alluring mouth was pulled tight with worry. Worry over him.

  “No, I want to.”

  She glanced at him when he spoke, her gray eyes tender with concern. Quickly, he looked away, disconcerted by the unexpected answering response within him.

  Trying to decide where to start, Donovan took a deep breath, and then he told her everything. How his mother had disappeared right before they’d moved from the old cottage. How Dermot’s drinking grew worse and worse over the years. How he’d jumped at the chance to study in America even though neither Dermot nor Doreen wanted him to go. How it was so much easier to never look back.

  Donovan hadn’t really intended to, but once he started, the words seemed to tumble out of their own accord. Someone else spoke, calm and matter-of-fact, while he observed and Rylie drove and listened without comment. When the long recitation finally ended, he sat for a dozen silent heartbeats, staring at his clenched hands.

  “You were lucky.” Rylie spoke at last, her voice little more than a whisper. “Not many men can truly love a child they know is not their own.” As Donovan digested this nugget of information she continued, a hint of abrasion in her tone. “My stepfather cared for me, but it wasn’t the same. Especially not once my brothers were born.”

  “What a bloody fool,” Donovan muttered. “How could any man not love you?”

  A deep rosy color bloomed on her cheeks. “Plenty haven’t.” Then after a brief pause, she asked, “Is this the right road to Belfast?”

  “Belfast?” he echoed, pronouncing the word like she did, like a Yank. “Yes, but why?”

  “Because I’m taking you to get a decent cup of coffee.”

  Since it was Saturday, the streets teemed with people and parking was scarce, but eventually they found Starbucks and a nearby car park. Soon they settled at a secluded table over very large hot drinks. Rylie’s instincts were brilliant. He did feel better after sipping a fortifying cup of dark roast.

  “Maybe when we’re done, we can do some sightseeing,” she suggested. “I’ve heard the Ulster Museum is good.”

  Donovan couldn’t stop a grimace. “Last time I was in the Ulster Museum, I was thirteen and ended up face down on the floor in front of a display of Celtic jewelry.”

  “Oops. Guess museums aren’t high on your list of things to do,” she said, fingering her latte cup. “We could stroll around the botanical gardens. Or there’s always shopping.”

  Purposefully, he made another face and she laughed, the rich sound sending sensual awareness across his nervous system. He glanced at his watch, then out the window at the puffy clouds dotting the sky.

  “Let’s go next door and get some sandwiches,” he said, gulping down the last of his coffee. “Then I’ll take you to see the Giant’s Causeway, where legend has it that the Ulster warrior, Finn MacCool, scooped the earth from Lough Neagh and threw it into the sea to make a pathway to his lady love in Scotland.”

  Silvery lights sparkled in Rylie’s eyes, sending another wash of heat through him as she finished off her own drink.

  “You Ulster boys know how to impress a lady,” she mused with a saucy grin.

  “I’m afraid old Finn set the bar rather high.”

  He held her jacket for her.

  “Not for you,” she murmured with a knowing lift of her eyebrows.

  Images of the wildly pleasurable things they’d done last night danced across his mind. He had only meant to comfort her, but his libido had gotten completely out of hand. And then she had been amazing.

  He’d had his share of flings, to be sure, especially once he learned how American girls loved a lad with a brogue. But making love with Rylie had felt different somehow.

  With an inward groan, Donovan shoved those disconcerting thoughts aside and held open the door of the deli. Now, more than ever, he had no right to such feelings. This latest revelation gave him enough baggage to clog bloody Heathrow.

  Rylie ducked under his arm and walked inside the store. They bought fresh sandwiches, crisps, and bottles of water, which they took to the car. Donovan drove out of the city and up the main motorway through Ballymena to the Antrim coast.

  The weather held though, as always, winds buffeted the coastal cliffs. He pulled into a turnout so that they could eat overlooking the sea. However, the breeze proved too strong and they were forced to finish their meal inside the car.

  “What island is that?” she asked between bites.

  Donovan gazed at the barren dark hump. “Rathlin, famous for two things, Robert the Bruce and Guglielmo Marconi.”

  “Oh, right, I remember reading that in a guide book,” she said, expression thoughtful. “A Scottish king and an inventor.”

  “Only Robert the Bruce was an outlaw when he hid in a cave on Rathlin, a wanted fugitive.” Donovan finished off his sandwich while he watched her expression change. He could plainly hear her thoughts echoing his. One man’s hero is another’s outlaw.

  “I suppose the guide book related the story about the spider?” he said instead. “How watching it try and try to spin a web motivated the Bruce to fight again.”

  Rylie nodded, pouring the last slivers of her crisps into her hand. “Spiders give me the creeps.”

  She finished off the crumbs and the rest of her sandwich before she spoke again. “I borrowed the B&B manager’s computer this morning and emailed the private investigator.” Her eyes remained fixated on the car windscreen. “I sent her the info on Christy Reilly and asked her to try and locate him.”

  He took a swig of water to clear his throat before he asked, “In the prison, you mean?”

  Nodding again, she turned to face him, her pretty mouth pulled tight and her chin pointed up in stubborn defiance. “It’s something I need to do, Donovan. The whole reason I came here.”

  At the moment, the new knowledge of his parentage was too raw for him to comprehend, but because this was her, empathy arose from an elemental place within him. “Well, if he’s still in Northern Ireland it’ll be simple, for there’s only one real prison left, and it’s just outside Belfast.”

  “Really?” Realization and something akin to hope flashed across her face.

  All he could picture was her, his wee golden princess, waltzing into a maximum-security facility. Donovan winced. “But that’s no place for you to go. Not alone.”

  “You’re probably right.” She dropped her gaze to her hands. “Would you go with me? If it is the one near Belfast, I mean.”

  The disturbing turn his visions had taken with the dead man in the fens caused him to shudder at the possibilities of what might happen if he went into a prison. However, this was Rylie asking, and heaven knew he could deny her nothing.

  His fingertips brushed a strand of her hair. “To be sure.” Awash in feelings of possessiveness he shouldn’t be having, he pulled his hand away and reached to start the car. “Ready to see the Causeway, then?”

  She turned her gaze back to Rathlin Island and nodded.

  In spite of it being the off-season, the car park at the Giant’s Causeway was over two-thirds full. Donovan eased into the first empty spot he saw, and the two of them hurried to the Visitor Centre. They spent a half-hour inside looking at the various displays along with the other tourists, and Rylie purchased a di
sposable camera. When he wasn’t paying attention, she snapped his picture while he was studying a rack of sweets.

  “Just for that, I’m not buying a Cadbury bar for you,” he threatened with mock severity. But, of course, he wound up sharing his with her all the same.

  They opted not to ride the shuttle bus, walking down the steep road to the sea instead. Donovan hadn’t seen the thousands of bizarre, honeycomb-like stone pillars in over twenty years, but they were every bit as impressive as he remembered. Rylie seemed equally awed by the massive hexagonal formations. Hand-in-hand they clambered over and around the dark volcanic rocks, taking more pictures as they went. Rylie posed in front of the “pipe organ” formation. Donovan by the “harp” formation. And another tourist took one of the pair of them, with Rylie snuggled close under his arm as if she were meant to be there.

  After an hour in the increasingly gusty winds, they rode the shuttle back up the hill to the Visitor Centre.

  “Thanks so much for bringing me, it was great!” Rylie enthused.

  The chilly wind had left her cheeks almost as rosy as her red sweatshirt, and the constant buffeting had loosed wisps of hair from her ponytail. They framed her face in such an appealing way that it was all Donovan could do to keep from kissing her right there in front of the building full of tourists.

  Mentally chastising himself, he replied, “Glad you enjoyed it. I thought we’d stop for an early supper in Ballymena.”

  “Sounds good. But one more picture first.” And before he could stop her, she snapped what would undoubtedly be a very unflattering photo of him, next to a trash bin.

  A few kilometers down the road, she made him pull over so she could take a photo of Rathlin Island. Even though he told her it probably wouldn’t turn out in the fading light, she insisted. Sighing at his own foolishness, Donovan complied.