On the One Road Read online

  "Ma?" she called again, moving through the living area and into the kitchen near the front of the house. Bridgette always came in the back when she left the shop, but they'd have come to the front if someone had come visiting.

  There was still no answer. Bridgette shivered hard, even though she felt the waves of warmth from the fire. She rubbed her hands along her arms as she stepped into the kitchen. "Ma!" she cried and rushed over to the fireplace. She nearly tripped over her mother's outstretched leg in her haste. "Mother, get up," she said before noticing the dark pool near her head. Bridgette was shaking as she sank to her knees beside her mother. "Mother, wake up," she said. "Please, wake up." Bridgette already knew she wouldn't. She still said, "I'll get Da," and getting to her feet, bounded back through the house and into the alley.

  And ran into her father as he whistled his way down the alley. "Easy, lass," he murmured. "I told you I would be here. And after not very long at all. What is the rush?"

  "Ma," she gasped. "It's Ma. You have to help her."

  That took the jauntiness out of him. "What happened?"

  "I do not know, but she won't wake. She's hurt, and she won't get up, and I do not know what to do, Da."

  "Hush, lass," he said. "I will go take care of her. Calm yourself," he said, looking past her. Bridgette turned and saw the constables at the head of the alley. She drew in a deep breath and nodded against his chest. He led the way toward the house, neither of them speaking, but she thought she heard the pounding of his blood. No, that was hers, rushing between her ears. As they stepped into the house, she was faint from it.

  Her father pushed her into one of the slat-back chairs in the living area and stepped back. "Where was she?" he asked.

  "Kitchen," she choked out. "She won't get up, Da."

  "Aye, you said that, lass. I will be right back." He turned and strode toward the kitchen, calling, "Amelie, what are you up to, a bhean chóir." At the term, something she'd heard her father call her mother many times over, she glanced toward the front doors. It could mean trouble if those constables were near enough to hear him. It wasn't against the law to speak the Gaelic, but the officials often looked on anyone who did with suspicion, like that meant they were planning treason.

  Her father shouted, something she couldn't even understand. Bridgette pushed herself up from the chair and hurried toward the front of the house and saw her father rocking with her mother in his arms. "Amelie, no. No, no, no," he sobbed. "Come back to me. Stay with me, Amelie."

  Tears streamed unheeded down Bridgette's cheeks. She'd known. Before she'd even gone to get her father, she'd known her mother was dead, but she hadn't wanted to accept it. She still didn't want to. "What do we do now?" she asked quietly.

  The sound of her father's weeping was the only response.

  ***

  COUNTY TIPPERARY, IRELAND

  July 22, 1850

  Torin didn't speak as he and Eamonn took turns wielding the single shovel that had survived the burning of the barn. The stone foundation was still standing, though there was no cover overhead, so it had made a poor sleeping structure the night before. And it wasn't enough to keep the horses corralled. They didn't seem interested in leaving home.

  It took most of the day to dig out the two graves. Eamonn had ridden into the village but returned, saying the priest would not bury their parents. He had given some excuse, but Torin knew what it had come down to. Apparently, even men of God could be bought by Owen Curran.

  When Eamonn relieved him with the shovel, Torin used the time to find branches from a nearby tree. The fire had scorched the side of it, but he thought that made it more fitting to use them. He wrapped the twine around two of them, forming them into a cross. He did the same with the other two and carved names into one side of the horizontal branch.

  Niall and Aislinn. His parents.

  A smaller grave with one cross was right next to the ones they had just dug. When he brought the crosses over to Eamonn, he ran his fingers over the name. Sorcha. His baby sister, who only lived a few weeks before going to be with the angels one night. His mother had never been the same.

  "Ma can finally hold her in her arms again," Eamonn said softly. "She would be happy for that."

  Torin turned on his brother. "This makes it all right?" he asked, his voice so thick he choked on the words. "He can get away with it because she would be happy again?"

  "No," Eamonn said, his voice just as strained. "I did not say that, Tor. None of this be right. I just... it's a comfort to think she could have that back."

  Torin didn't agree with him. Nothing felt like a comfort now. Not for this yawning hole inside of him. He turned away and went to bring his father's body over to the hole that had been dug. They hadn't been able to have a proper wake, not with no house and no one to come to see their spirits on their way. He hoped that wouldn't mean they'd be trapped here for eternity.

  Torin crossed himself at the thought.

  Once both bodies were laid in their graves, Eamonn said a few words over them. Torin's head was pounding too hard to pay any attention to them. If he didn't do something, he might burst from the pressure inside him.

  When Eamonn picked the shovel up, tossing dirt back into the holes, Torin turned and started walking away. "Where are you going?" Eamonn called after him.

  Torin kept walking to where Ceallach stood, as if she waited for him, knew he'd need to go out. "Tell me where you are going," Eamonn shouted after him. Torin didn't, and Eamonn swore. "We must figure out what we do next," he yelled.

  Nothing. There was nothing they could do. The law would not see fit to punish Owen for what he had done. Torin couldn't think right now with the roaring in his head. How could he figure out what to do next when he couldn't even think? He needed the wind against his skin and his horse moving under him.

  He'd deal with his brother later.

  EAMONN WATCHED HIS brother ride off on that mare he seemed to love more than their own family. He had never understood Torin. Not once in the eighteen years they'd lived in the same home. He did not understand how they could be so different when they'd grown up in the same house with the same parents.

  That was the truth of it. There was very little the same between them. The color of their hair was about it. Even then, Eamonn's red-tinted hair was less intense than Torin's own. Like everything else about them. But, that lower intensity let Eamonn slip around without being noticed as much.

  He'd never been the one beaten by their landlord's son simply for existing.

  Eamonn turned to the graves, his heart coming up into his mouth. No, that was the sickness he'd been battling since he came home to find everything gone. Once he emptied his stomach again, though there couldn't be anything left in it by this point, he dragged himself back to the graves. He had to take care of them and was apparently meant to do it on his own since Torin still hadn't returned.

  His body was shaking, not from exertion but grief, as he threw the last shovelful of dirt over his mother's body. It hadn't settled in that she was gone. He wanted to go to her and have her read with him, as she always had since he was little. Have her stroke his back like when he'd sworn he'd seen wee goblins in the shadows.

  That wasn't to be. He wouldn't feel his father's protective love, even if they never understood each other. Eamonn tossed the shovel away from him, not caring where it struck, as he let out a loud cry and crumpled to the ground.

  Eamonn didn't move when he heard the pounding of hooves in the yard. If Owen was coming after them again, he could kill him if that's what the Lord had planned for him. He wouldn't fight it anymore. There was only the sound of one horse, and Owen never rode alone.

  His brother cried his name. Then his boots slapped against the ground. Eamonn tried to force himself up, but his arms shook.

  "What happened?" Torin asked as he slid to a stop beside him and dropped to his knees. "Were you hurt? Was it Owen? He came back? The little bastard."

  Eamonn shook his head and forced his body to
cooperate. "No, Torin. You won't use this to fuel your hatred."

  "What are you talking about? You know what he has done to me. And now this," he said, throwing his hand out toward the destruction of the farm.

  "I do know it," Eamonn admitted. "Ma and Da are gone because of this nonsense. That's what it is."

  "You think I wanted this. To fuel my hatred, as you said."

  "No," Eamonn blurted. "I would never say that. I know you wouldn't. Don't use it to drive you to do something stupid."

  Torin's jaw clenched, knowing he would not like what his brother said next. Eamonn tried to head it off first. "We can't stay here, Tor. We have to find a way to move on."

  "You move on," Torin spit out at him, shoving back up to his feet, "if it is that easy for you. I won't. I can't. I held Da while he took his last breath. You think I can let that go? I promised Da I'd make him pay for this, and I shall do that. Do not think you will stop me."

  "I have never thought I could do that, Torin. You will do what you wish, no matter what it means for the rest of us."

  "What does that mean?"

  "What do you think will happen if you go after this revenge you crave? Do you think I will be free of your punishment?" He swept his arm around them. "We have lost nearly everything. You want to have the last of it taken as well?"

  His brother stood there, his fists opening and closing. "What would you have me do, Eamonn? Just let him get away with it like he has everything else?"

  "What can you do? Kill him. Then, you are no better than him, and you will hang for it. Nothing will happen to him, but it will to you. I do not want to lose you, too, deartháir."

  "I will not let him get away with what he has done," Torin said quietly, then turned and stalked back to the mare he left a little distance away. He didn't ride off this time, though. If he did, he might never see his brother again.

  CHAPTER 3

  SCARRIFF, COUNTY CLARE, Ireland

  July 24, 1850

  Bridgette stood in the churchyard, a black veil covering her face. She'd dyed her dress and gloves the same color as she couldn't afford a separate mourning outfit. She bowed her head as the priest led everyone gathered in a final prayer for her mother's eternal soul. The words didn't penetrate, though. All she could think was that her mother was gone. Bridgette did not know how to go on from that.

  When they left the churchyard, her father had his arm around her shoulders. It might be the only thing keeping her upright. How was he doing it? He loved her mother almost more than the breath he drew in each day.

  What did her loss mean for him? How could he keep breathing without her? Even Bridgette was finding it hard to do the same.

  Her father made a shushing sound as he pulled her closer to him and headed down the street toward their house. She couldn't stop the tears, though. Her shoulders shook as he ran a hand along her back. "How do we do this?" she sobbed. "How do we do without her? Without her love."

  "Your mother's love is not gone, lass," he told her. "She breathed it into us every day of our lives together. It will be with you always. You can't forget that."

  It still wasn't the same as her mother being here, continuing to breathe the light that had been in her soul into them. She didn't know what to do without it, but she nodded against her father's shoulder. He continued to hold her there as she couldn't stem the flow of tears. Every time she tried to wipe them away, more slid out.

  The stream of tears slowed, and she wiped them away without more taking their place. She stepped back, but what she saw down the street had her freezing right where she was.

  A man stood down the way, his blond hair slicked into a queue. His face was sharp-featured, his lips almost in a perpetual sneer. His cravat was perfectly knotted, his waistcoat in perfect order, his breeches pristine and well-fitted, his boots shined to gleaming.

  There was never anything less than perfect about Owen Curran.

  Except for the state of his soul. She was sure that was as dark as his hair was light. He didn't seem to think that was a problem or to care what it might do to her own if she was tied to him. He was the son of a nobleman. He only cared for what he thought was already his. He wouldn't let anyone tell him otherwise.

  She could not deal with seeing him now. Bridgette wasn't sure if she was strong enough to hold up under his emotional assaults. She tugged on her father's arm. "Come on, Da. We should be getting home."

  She cast one more glance over her shoulder. Owen stood in the center of the street, his eyes seeming to burn as he glared at her. His arms were at his sides, his hands opening and closing. Bridgette swallowed hard, then looked away again. She just prayed he didn't follow them to their home. Not today, not today. She could not handle it today.

  ***

  COUNTY TIPPERARY, IRELAND

  July 24, 1850

  Torin stepped out of the stone foundation and into the morning. Mist stirred around his feet, but he ignored it. It had been four days since he found his father dying, two since they buried them. The previous night, a couple of the horses had wandered off and hadn't returned the next day. They would have by now if they were going to.

  Those horses were all they had left. He was failing even them.

  The colt that had given him so much trouble on the way back from the pasture stood close to his mother. He'd been like that since they returned, though he hadn't taken sustenance from her for more than a year. He still sought the comfort of her. Torin wished he could do that, though it was Eamonn with a stronger bond to their mother.

  He wanted to ask his father what to do, but that was no longer possible.

  He walked among the remaining horses, patting each one. What would they do with them? They had no way to shelter them, no feed for them. Even now, they were pulling up the little grass in the yard. There was a reason he and his father had taken them to the pasture each day.

  They would have to sell them. He saw no other way around it. As much as it pained him, it would have to be done.

  For now, he took the small stiff brush out of his pocket. It was one of the few things he'd been able to dig out of the ashes of the barn. He walked up to Ceallach, rubbing her chin before running the brush over her coat. It soothed both of them.

  Torin heard the footsteps behind him, but he didn't bother turning. He knew just who it was. Eamonn had not been sleeping any better than Torin himself. Only Eamonn occupied himself by scribbling in that journal of his. Torin would rather walk among the horses to find his peace.

  "You spoil that horse with your attention," Eamonn said. "I do not see what is so special with her."

  No, Eamonn wouldn't. He had only spent as much time in the barn as he was forced to. Never anymore. So, he would never understand. "She will take me to exact revenge. She deserves all the care I can give her."

  A heavy silence fell between them. "You cannot just take a shortcut to justice," Eamonn said. "You cannot take it into your own hands."

  "It is the only justice he will ever get," Torin said as he continued to brush his mare's coat.

  "That does not mean it has to be you who brings it his way," Eamonn argued. "You are all I have left, my brother. Do not take that from me as well."

  Torin firmed his jaw at the guilt that tried to seep into his bones. He couldn't allow his brother's pleas to turn him from this path. "He killed our parents and destroyed everything we had. I cannot let him get away with that."

  "I cannot take losing you, too. Not after–"

  "Stop," Torin cut short whatever else Eamonn would say. "It does not matter what you say. I am going, Eamonn. Just leave it."

  Torin was sure his brother would argue more. Instead, Eamonn turned and stalked away. They made a semi-shelter in what remained of the barn. Torin imagined he was working back there. It wouldn't offer much protection, but they wouldn't be able to stay here for long. Especially after he did what he planned.

  "He'll try to stop me again, Ceallach," he told the mare. "We can't let it happen. No one else will make him pay
. It has to be me."

  The mare blew out a breath and, turning her head, nudged his arm. He buried his face against her neck, taking comfort from her. Other than his brother, the horse was all he had left.

  Owen Curran had taken everything from him. Torin would stop him before he did the same to anyone else. No matter what more it might cost him. He'd promised his father, and he would see it through now.

  ***

  SCARRIFF, COUNTY CLARE, Ireland

  July 25, 1850

  Bridgette shut herself in her room after they'd finished the small meal she'd put together for her father and herself. Her mother had done the most of the cooking since Bridgette was helping in the shop, but she'd still learned early how to cook. It just hadn't felt right without her mother there to help.

  That thought nearly had her crumpling into a weeping ball of misery again. She held herself straight, though, and walked over to the small window in her room. It looked onto the street. She usually enjoyed watching the people who went by.

  Today she was looking for one particular person, and her shoulders were stiff with it.

  He was not out there anymore. She knew he would not be. He'd left when she ignored him the day before. It didn't stop her from checking each time she came in here. He would not leave Bridgette alone forever. She knew that for truth.

  Owen would be back at the first chance he got. She didn't understand why he hadn't followed them to their house. He'd never been shy about making his presence known.

  She gave thanks for it, though. Her heart had been heavy enough without having to make sure he took himself on his way again. If only he would not come along anymore.