On the One Road Read online

  She reached up and took her hair down from the chignon she'd twisted it into earlier. She let it fall to her shoulders and shook her curls out. The pressure on her scalp eased off with it freed. She would need to brush it before going to bed for the night. For now, this would be fine.

  She could not stay in here the rest of the night. Her father had gone to the shop to look over things after their meal. She still needed to clean up the kitchen. Then, she would make sure her father came home and that he retired without downing half a bottle of whiskey as he had the night before.

  He could not drown his sorrows in it, and she did not want to lose him to its demons. They would get through this. Somehow they had to.

  She had always admired the love she saw between her parents. They were simple merchants, not part of the noble class, who arranged marriages to increase their wealth and holdings, so she had never understood Owen's pursuit of her. She would not give him an advantage. She did not think the current Lord Curran would assent to the marriage, even if she gave her consent.

  She did not plan to do any such thing.

  After seeing the way her father was floundering in his grief, she wasn't sure she wanted that for herself. Why give her love to someone if losing it left her so adrift? She'd be left with nothing if she was to marry Lord Owen or another noble like him, and he was to expire. Less than she had now. Whatever was his would pass to his heir, if they didn't have a child, then his next close male relative.

  No, it would be better to keep things as they were. She would be much happier being a spinster continuing to live and work with her father than ever to let a man have her to do with as they pleased.

  ***

  COUNTY TIPPERARY, IRELAND

  July 27, 1850

  Torin kicked dirt over the fire he'd built with the bit of brush and peat he'd been able to dig up. He'd caught several fish in the stream behind the barn and roasted them. There was no point in letting it burn any longer. Eamonn had returned to the barn to settle in for the night. Torin couldn't bring himself to do the same, though.

  He couldn't let his father down once again.

  He walked around the edge of the yard, heading for the horses. They had not been soothing him as they usually did. He wasn't sure anything could anymore. At least not until he saw through his promise. That was probably why he couldn't just settle.

  It had to be easier for Eamonn. He was not the one who had held Da while he passed. He hadn't seen what had been done. Eamonn would never understand why Torin had to see this done. Maybe he couldn't. That didn't change matters, though, and likely only meant he'd have to take his brother out of it.

  If he left before Eamonn woke, there'd be nothing more his brother could say about it.

  By the moonlight, he picked out Ceallach, standing at rest. Running his hand along her neck and with a soft murmur, he announced his presence to her. With a huff, she leaned into him, her nose going for his coat pocket.

  He let out a soft laugh. "No treats for you tonight, my warrior maid. I'm hoping you'll live up to your name. We have work to do."

  They'd dug a saddle out of the remains of the barn. They usually only hitched a couple of horses to the wagon if they were all going to town. But, if his father had to go to the manor to speak with Lord Curran, he'd take one of his horses. So, it was the only saddle they owned.

  Torin hadn't been sure it survived the flames. It had only suffered some scorch marks and soot that didn't want to wipe away.

  He walked as quietly as he could to the back of the barn where he'd stored the few things that had survived the fire. He picked up the saddle. Their only bridle had been destroyed. The leather straps were in decent condition, but the metal rings and bit hadn't made it.

  He didn't need that to ride the mare, though. He barely needed a saddle, but he didn't have any other way to carry his father's sword.

  Torin was headed back toward where Ceallach waited when he heard his brother's voice behind him. "Where do you think you are off to, Torin?"

  Torin closed his eyes but didn't turn. "You know where I will be going," he responded.

  "I cannot believe you would be so bloody stupid," Eamonn shouted when Torin continued walking toward his horse. "He will kill you. If he does not, you will be thrown in gaol and then hanged. Is that what you want? Is it what you think Da would have wanted?"

  Torin spun around then, the saddle still in his arms. "What would you know of what Da wanted?" he demanded. "You did not spend your days helping him. You barely spent more time here than you had to. What would you know of any of it?"

  "I know Ma would not want this. She would not want this hatred to blacken your soul. You know it, or you would not be sneaking off in the dead of night."

  "I am not sneaking. I will do this, Eamonn. You will not stop me."

  He couldn't see his brother's face well with only the moon’s light, but he was sure his jaw tightened. "Then, I will have to follow you there. Someone has to be around to pull you out of trouble."

  That was what he'd tried to avoid. He dropped the saddle and stepped around it to be closer to his brother. "And you think that is what Ma would want?" he asked. "For me to take you down with me?" Invoking their mother's name had always been enough to get Eamonn to see things his way. His older brother had never wanted to disappoint her.

  "Then, stay here," Eamonn said, his voice thick. "We do not have to disappoint either of their ghosts."

  He stared at his brother for a long moment. How could Eamonn think it would be that simple for him? He could not just give up on this. He also would not bring his brother into it. "Fine," he said. "I will stay." For now. At least until Eamonn fell asleep again, and he could get away.

  CHAPTER 4

  SCARIFF, COUNTY CLARE, Ireland

  July 29, 1850

  Bridgette dusted off the large clock in the corner of the store. She heard her father muttering to himself back in his workroom, but he'd barely come out since she arrived. No customers had come in yet, so the only thing for her to do was clean and go over the books.

  It seemed to be all she had done here in the week since her mother died. Bridgette cooked and cleaned at home, but there was no joy in the tasks as when her mother had been beside her, crooning some tune. Either a song Bridgette's father had taught her or one she brought from France when she'd married him.

  The house was too silent without her mother there. Even Bridgette's father barely set foot inside. Other than coming home for dinner and then leaving again until it was time to retire for the night. Bridgette's candle had often grown low before that came about. He was out of the house again almost as soon as the last bite of breakfast passed his lips.

  Bridgette did not know what to do to make this time better for him. It was hard enough to move around her grief, but she would take his on to her shoulders if it helped. He barely spoke to her, and the only time he spoke to customers was if they had something she could do nothing to help with.

  Her mother may have been the one to die, but she couldn't help but feel she was losing her father, too. The bell on the door jingled, and Bridgette turned from the clock that was well-dusted by this point. Bridgette's breath caught for a moment, fear flooding through her. The customer turned, and the breath rushed out of Bridgette.

  It wasn't Owen. The customer had the same golden blond hair, though his was a shade darker than Owen's. It was pulled back the same way the young lord wore his, but so was most of the men's, particularly the nobility and other wealthy. But, the face was different.

  "I came in to see if my item was ready to be picked up yet."

  He had a definite English accent, but it wasn't as sharp as Owen's. Nothing about this man seemed as sharp as Owen.

  Bridgette nodded and turned toward her father's workroom. "I shall see if it is done."

  Bridgette felt his eyes on her as she moved back to the workroom. Not Owen. It wasn't Owen. She didn't even remember seeing this man before, let alone with Owen. It was fine. That wasn't why he was her
e. Yet she couldn't convince her body of that. "Da," she said when she reached his doorway, her voice catching.

  Her father looked up, concern etching into his brow. "What is it?" he asked. "Something wrong?"

  Bridgette shook her head, though she couldn't dispel the thought that, yes, there was something very wrong. That could not be right. This man was a customer.

  Everything had her feeling like she would jump right from her skin, though. The more Owen stayed away, the jumpier she got. That made little sense when that was what she wanted all along.

  "You have a customer," she said, not able to raise her voice through its shaking. "He wants to know if his item is ready to go. I do not know what he brought in."

  He nodded, though he didn't seem too happy about having to leave his workroom. He took off the magnifier lens he had over his eye and moved past her, taking a moment to squeeze her shoulder. Bridgette's legs trembled too hard, so she sat right in the chair her father had vacated.

  When her father returned, he looked startled to see her there. "Bridgette, lass," he said, dropping beside her. "What is wrong with you?"

  "I thought he was Owen. At my first glance of him," she added. "I thought he had come for me again."

  Her father's jaw firmed at that. "I told you," he bit out. "I will never let that happen. Bridgette—"

  "It won't stop him from trying," she said. "And what if you cannot stop him? Ma is already dead. I can't... Da, maybe we should go. Find another place where he cannot reach us."

  "What place?" he demanded. "He can get us anywhere he wishes. We are just as safe here as anywhere else."

  Which was to say, not safe at all. However, from the way her father's eyes were flashing, there would be no arguing with him. She pushed herself up from the chair and smoothed her still trembling hands over her skirts. "Did you have his item finished?"

  Her father shook his head. "It is what I'm working on. I told him two days more, and it will be ready for him."

  She dipped her head in a nod and then started back toward the front of the store.

  "Bridgette," her father said, halting her. She looked back over her shoulder. "Do not worry so. Everything will work out as it should. He has not even come by since before—" he swallowed hard then continued — "since before. Maybe he has moved on."

  She knew he had not. He had been standing in the street the day of the funeral. Her father did not know that, though. She did not understand why he had not come by the house since then, but she knew Owen Curran was not finished with her yet.

  No matter how much she wished her father was right.

  ***

  COUNTY TIPPERARY, IRELAND

  July 30, 1850

  Eamonn shivered even as he pushed the blanket off him. The edges of it were singed, but it had survived the fire. Torin had dug up one other one, too. Thinking about his brother had him looking around. It was never so quiet by the time Eamonn woke in the morning. Another chill skittered down his spine. He didn't think the weather caused this one, though.

  He shoved up to his feet and looked around. No Torin. No morning fire, either. His brother usually had one going by now. Then, it would be ready for any fish or small game he caught.

  If they were caught hunting game, it would mean a trip to the gaol. No one would care. They were only trying to survive. This was legally not their land, even if their ancestors had been the ones living on it longer than the English, who had claimed it as their own. Homeless in their own home.

  Eamonn shoved that thought away. They had to survive this. Then, he could let his thoughts go back to the revolution that hadn't died despite most of the Young Irelanders either being transported to Van Diemen's Land, dead, or in hiding.

  Right now, he had to figure out where his brother had gone off. Eamonn glanced toward where the horses gathered together, huddled against the chill of the misting rain this morning. Torin wasn't there, either. Something didn't seem right, though. He just couldn't figure out what it was.

  Eamonn turned toward what remained of their house and then walked that way. Something had been disturbed. More of the wall had been falling each day. It constricted his chest to see his childhood home in such ruins, but he didn't know how to fix it. They couldn't stay here. He knew that. But where else did they have to go?

  They didn't have much money. He still had what he brought with him from town. How long would that last? Eamonn could always add to it in another town, though. He only needed to convince Torin that this would be better than going after Owen for revenge. If the night before was any sign, he had quite the battle ahead of him.

  First, he had to find his brother.

  When he stepped into the ruins of the house, Eamonn saw his father's old chest sitting open. Eamonn's heart pounded fast as he stepped toward it. His father had long told tales about the things that chest held. They were rarely allowed to look in it, though. Certainly not when their father wasn't present. Where would Torin have found the key?

  On their father's body, likely. Had Torin decided to do this as soon as their parents were dead? Why had he bided his time then?

  When Eamonn reached the chest, he was not surprised to see his father's sword, the same one his grandfather carried in the United Irishmen Rebellion over fifty years ago, missing. The one that should have been surrendered along with the rest of their weapons but had been hidden in here instead. It was gone now. Eamonn knew the English didn't have it.

  "Bloody damnation, Torin," he muttered. "Are you trying to get yourself killed and join them?"

  He would not let that happen. Torin was all he had left, and he would not lose him, too. Not as long as he could stop it.

  ***

  CURRAN MANOR, COUNTY Tipperary, Ireland

  July 30, 1850

  Torin rode toward the manor house. He'd been surprised he'd saddled Caellach without waking Eamonn. Before dawn, Torin had ridden away from their home with his grandfather's sword tied to his saddle.

  He rested a hand on the pommel and urged the horse to a faster trot. Torin had to hope Owen was here and not off bringing destruction to some of his father's other land or tenants.

  After Eamonn had stopped him from leaving, Torin had tried to get some sleep last night. His words to his father kept spinning through his head. He had done nothing yet to make sure Owen came to justice. The law would do nothing to him. The nobility got away with anything, as long as it was not against another noble. Torin and his family were beneath their care, though. All the Irish were.

  For the last week, he and his brother had merely been surviving. He couldn't live with himself if they kept doing that. His life would be worth less than nothing, though, once he took his revenge. He hoped Eamonn took his leaving for the goodbye it was meant to be and was already on his way to safety.

  Torin urged the horse even faster until he was cantering up the path to the house. He pulled Caellach to a stop when he was nearly up the steps. She let out a short whinny but stopped, and he jumped from the saddle, the sword in his hand.

  The door opened before he even made his way up the stairs. That took away his anticipation of pounding on the door. It wasn't the butler who stood in the doorway as he figured it would be. Instead, it was Owen himself. Torin's stomach twisted and flipped at the sneer on the other man's face.

  "What do you think you are doing here, Torin? Shouldn't you be out digging in the dirt?"

  Torin felt his fury like a blast of flames as he stepped forward. "You know why I am here," he said. "You killed my parents. You burned our place down. I will see you pay for it."

  Owen smirked at him. "And how do you plan to do that? With that rusty old blade? I am shaking in my boots."

  The sword may have been old, but rusty was the last thing it was. Torin's father had taken good care of it. Torin had sat with him as he polished and sharpened it every couple of months. His father passed down one of his own father's stories each time he did. He promised this sword and those tales would all come to him and Eamonn. Eamonn would be
the better one to recall the tales. He was the one with a way with words. But Torin had taken the sword. Aside from the horses still back on the farm, it was all he had of his father. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to go back for the horses.

  "You took everything."

  "I took nothing more than what was owed my father," Owen argued.

  "My Da did not owe you his life. My ma either. We had crops stockpiled in the barn to deliver to your Da, but now all that is gone. The rent and taxes were not even due yet. There was no reason for ye to do this. Why would you?"

  The sneer came back in full force now. "Because I can. Because rubbish like you do not deserve all you are given."

  What had they been given? Most of what his grandparents' grandparents had worked so hard for had been taken by the laws the British had passed against them. They had to fight to keep even enough to feed their own family. With the blight of the potatoes, most of the families around here didn't even have that.

  "We deserve to live. We are granted that right still, are we not?"

  Owen's sneer twisted his face into an ugly mask. "Only if I let you keep it." He reached for something beside the door and came out with his sword. "I do not think I will any longer."

  Torin raised his grandfather's sword in front of him. He would swing for this even if he didn't end up killing Owen. Attacking him would be enough to assure his death sentence. Getting justice for his parents was more important than that consideration.

  Torin took a step forward, ready to get this going. They'd see who let whom live.

  CHAPTER 5

  SCARRIFF, COUNTY CLARE, Ireland

  July 30, 1850

  Bridgette stepped into the kitchen, avoiding looking at the spot in front of the fireplace. Instead, she gathered the dishes still sitting on the table from the meal one of their neighbors had brought. She had not needed to cook since her mother's funeral. There was a stack of pans to return, but she had not brought herself to deal with that yet.