On the One Road Page 4

  There was a lot she had not brought herself to deal with.

  Bridgette drew in a deep breath and looked around. Her gaze skipped that spot, but she saw what a mess the room had become. She'd cared for the rest of the house, but even coming in here made her ache and want to cry. She had to get over that.

  The constables had called her mother’s death an accident. She must have slipped and fallen. Bridgette did not believe it. Owen had done this to them. Somehow he must have thought it would be the way to her. She would never let him have her, though.

  Bridgette grabbed the duster and started in one corner. She worked her way around until she reached the fireplace. There was no way to avoid it now. She ran the duster around the corners and crevices of the mantel.

  She would have had to spend more time in here to cook, except her father had demanded no food. He'd kept himself in his shop as often as he could, and the rest of the time had either gone to a public house or retired to his room with a bottle.

  Bridgette needed to take this house back from the violence that had occurred here, but she wasn't sure she could bring herself to do it. Every time she had set foot in the kitchen, a heavy feeling had dragged her down, and tears never failed to fill her eyes.

  She still could not believe her mother was gone. They had laughed together that last morning as they kneaded the dough for bread. Then she had come home, and her mother was gone.

  Bridgette felt the burn of tears and swiped them away even as she forced her feet to carry her into that room of death. She found the bucket she'd filled from the well that morning and a bar of soap and moved over to in front of the fireplace. A week and there was still a large dark stain there where her mother's blood had spilled.

  Bridgette sobbed even as she started scrubbing. When she could no longer see the stones of the hearth, she sat on her heels and wiped her eyes with her apron. "How, Ma?" she asked softly. "How could you leave us this way?"

  This was not her mother’s fault. She knew that. It was Owen’s. He might not pay for it, but she would never forget that.

  She grabbed the bucket of water, carrying it to the door to toss out. It was too filthy to use for anything else now. She would have to walk to the well to fill it once again, but for now, she would see what other cleaning there was to do.

  Bridgette came to a stop at the shelf over the cooking fire. For as long as she could remember, a small clock had stood there. It was one her father had made and given to her mother. Now it was gone.

  Bridgette dropped the bucket and moved away from the kitchen to her parents' bedroom. Maybe her father had taken it to keep it somewhere safe.

  No, it wasn't there, either. That made little sense. Her mother had never taken it down other than to wind it. It should be there unless her father had taken it to the shop. Maybe it had needed repairing. That had to be it.

  She would ask her father about it later. He would know what happened.

  ***

  NEAR CURRAN MANOR, County Tipperary, Ireland

  July 30, 1850

  Eamonn kicked his horse a little harder, even though the animal was already going at a fast clip. He couldn't help it. Couldn't stop that thought that he was too late spinning around in his head. He had to get there in time. He couldn't lose his brother, too.

  That had him wanting the horse to go even faster. Except he didn't want to kill the animal before he got there. Not that he wanted to at any time, but especially not on his way to save his brother.

  It wasn't as if this was the first time he had to save Torin. Usually from Owen or one of the men who liked to ride with him. This time felt even more desperate. They weren't just going to beat on him as they usually did. And Torin always made it worse by fighting back.

  They'd have him thrown in the gaol this time, and he'd only be facing worse—likely hanging. If the magistrate was generous and took into consideration how they lost their parents, he might only get transported to the same penal colony as the revolutionaries.

  That had only happened because of public outcry. And he didn't see the public coming out for a couple of poor orphaned Irish farmers like that. Eamonn did not want his brother dropping from the end of a rope.

  He couldn't let it happen.

  Eamonn let out the reins, letting the horse stretch out and move faster. He wasn't that far from the manor house now. If he had any luck, Owen would not be to home, and Torin would give up on needing his revenge. At least Eamonn would have the chance to talk him out of it.

  It was like wishing on a faraway star, nothing likely to come of it. Eamonn had luck with the cards, but this was not the same. He'd have to come up with a better way to get Torin out of the mess he was causing. There just had to be a way.

  Eamonn heard hoofbeats ahead of him and hoped Torin was heading back his way. That hope only lasted a moment, though. Even if he wasn't the horseman his brother was, he knew when more than one horse was coming his way. He could distinguish the sounds of at least two, maybe even three.

  Eamonn looked around him. There was nowhere off the path for him to hide. He could not think of any reason for him being on this path that would not lead to trouble. He just wanted to find his brother before he got himself arrested.

  Eamonn would have to find a way around this. Maybe it would be simple enough. When he recognized the two men riding toward him, he knew it wouldn't be. They'd always been with the group that set on Torin. The closest of Owen's men in arms. They wouldn't let him pass no matter what he said.

  He still had to talk himself out of this mess. Eamonn wasn't just going to leave his brother to that monster.

  "Stop," one of them said, even though he was already drawing up his horse.

  "You cannot come this way," the other young lord said. Eamonn knew he was the son of a baronet, about as low as you could get and still be considered a noble, though not quite so.

  Eamonn considered his words. These men would see through almost anything. Unless he acted as they thought he should. "Apologies, my lords," he said. He tasted bile at the words, and it burned in his throat. He kept his gaze on the ground between them. "I only wished to speak to Lord Owen. See if he would extend his grace to us. Our parents died, and our crops-"

  "You think we care," one man spit out. Then, he laughed. "You actually do. At least that means there is less of your vermin here."

  Eamonn trembled with anger at the words. These men were the intruders here on this land, not him and his family. And vermin? His mother had been more of a lady than anyone in their class. But, he could not let them see that. Hopefully, they took his trembling for fear of what they could do to him.

  They moved in closer, and he kept his head bowed. If they thought they had him cowed before them, it would be more surprising when he acted.

  "Maybe we should take care of another. Then when Owen finishes the other one, a whole family of vermin will be gone. One step closer to ridding this place of its disease."

  He was wrong. Acting cowed wasn't any better. Not as this rage rushed through him. His head jerked up, and one man leaned back in the saddle as their gazes met. Eamonn had thought about finding another way around to the manor. Now he drummed his heels into the horse's sides, sending him bursting forward, right between the two men.

  Their horses sidestepped out of the way, and he could hear them shout. He didn't look to see if they got their mounts under control and came after him. All he knew was that he needed to get to Torin. When Owen finishes...

  No. He could not let it happen. He wouldn't. He would not lose the last of his family. No matter what else happened today, he would not lose Torin.

  ***

  TORIN STEPPED BACK as Owen came down the steps. He'd grown up pretending to sword fight with Eamonn using sticks, but he knew this would be different. Those always turned into wrestling matches until their father separated them. There was no one to pull him and Owen apart. Owen wasn't his brother, who truly didn't want to hurt him, and these were real swords, not sticks they picked up on the edge
of the farm.

  "Already regretting your move?" Owen smirked. "Too late to take it back. I will have you in a checkmate soon enough."

  Torin didn't have a clue what he was talking about. Eamonn was the one who played games. Torin didn't have time for it.

  "I do not regret a thing. Except that I did not return soon enough to see you done for the day you killed my parents."

  Owen laughed. "Like you would have been able to do a thing about it. I only wish I could have killed you then. I would have liked to see your face when you found them. Yes, I do think I would have enjoyed that."

  Owen did not even make an effort to deny his part in their deaths. The young lord didn't worry about anything happening to him. Even if he let Torin go, no one would believe him or do a thing about it. That meant it was up to him to make sure Owen paid for what he had done.

  Torin slashed the sword through the air, but that didn't wipe away Owen's smirk. He wasn't worried at all. Torin just hoped he'd be able to change that. "You aren't walking away from this," Torin said. "My parents did not deserve to die. Was Ma even dead when you set our cottage aflame?"

  Owen shrugged. "It does not matter. She refused to do as I ordered and give me what was due."

  Torin's stomach twisted. From the leer, Torin was sure Owen had asked for more than the rent due. "You bastard," he hissed, lunging forward.

  Owen laughed and flicked his wrist. Thinner than Torin’s own, his blade sliced through Torin's shirt and into his arm. Torin cried out, his arm dropping. Owen moved only his hand, but Torin stumbled back in time to miss the next slice. It caught on his shirt, ripping through the fabric.

  Torin's heart was pounding hard, and he felt the blood sliding down his arm. He tightened his grip on the sword and started forward again. It was only one little slash. He wasn't done for after just that. Torin swung out again, but Owen parried the blow, the metal screeching together.

  Owen's blade slid toward Torin's hand. He tried to hold it back, but it sliced over his arm, drawing more blood. Torin lunged again, getting past Owen's guard this time, maybe because he hadn't backed away after that blow. He swung toward Owen's side, but the hilt of Owen's sword struck him in the shoulder, sending him to his knees. Still, he saw a spray of blood and knew he connected.

  Torin rolled as one of Owen's boots came toward him. He didn't get to his feet fast enough, though, as the tip of Owen's sword ripped into his side. Torin cried out and slashed blindly. There was a grunt, giving him some satisfaction.

  The world seemed to be spinning around him, but Torin got his feet under him and turned back toward Owen.

  "You will hang," Owen hissed at him. "You might as well give in now and make it easier on yourself."

  Never. Torin didn't bother saying the word, though. He slashed out at Owen while he was still chuckling, apparently at the thought of Torin swinging. Owen let out another grunt as Torin connected with the wrist that held his sword. He turned his hand and knocked the hilt of the sword against Owen's head.

  The other man stumbled and fell to one knee. Torin tried to draw in a deep breath, but he hurt. The world spun faster, and he was sure he would be too dizzy to stand much longer. Torin tried to step away, but Owen lunged from the ground, his blade slicing along Torin's leg. He dropped right to the ground.

  The sword was almost too heavy for him to lift. Owen didn't move from his spot on the ground, either. They were glaring at each other, panting. Torin's arm trembled as he lifted his sword. Owen pointed his at Torin. He still had the sword turned, and he struck out again. Owen fell back to the ground, blinking up at the sky.

  Torin dragged himself to his feet, his sword pointing at Owen. He leaned over to grab the one Owen held in his hand. How poetic would it be for him to be killed with his sword? Torin figured it was the least owed to him. He pressed the tip of his grandfather's sword to Owen's throat, Owen's blade against the man's stomach.

  Torin was breathing hard, and the ground kept tipping beneath him. He blinked, and his hand wavered, but he pressed the sword into place. "I should kill you just like this. You did not give me Da a chance. Shot him in the back and left him to die. Why would you do that?"

  Owen sneered up at him even with two swords pressed into his flesh. "It is what he deserves. Worth nothing but thought he deserved to keep anything for himself. I do not think so. You will learn. You will never get away with this."

  Torin heard the pound of hoofbeats behind him but didn't take the swords away even to see who was coming. It didn't matter. "Do you not understand, Lord Owen? I do not care what happens to me. As long as you are gone from this world. Then, I can rest at peace."

  ***

  EAMONN RACED INTO the yard, looking one more time over his shoulder. The men had followed him for a distance, but he thought he'd outrun them. He hadn't seen them the last couple of times he looked. Hopefully, that meant he was far enough ahead.

  He yanked on the reins at the sight in front of him—his brother on his feet but weaving from side to side. Blood coated Torin's sleeve and the side of his shirt. His one leg kept buckling as well. But, he had two swords pressed against Owen, who lay at Torin's feet.

  That should have made his heart soar. Torin had taken their enemy down, but that blood on his brother's hands made Eamonn sick. That surprised him, but there it was anyway.

  "Torin," he called as he slid to the ground on shaky legs. His brother stiffened but still didn't look around.

  "Eamonn," he said, but his voice was thin. "You were not supposed to come."

  "Did you think I would just stay behind when I knew what you were doing?"

  "I had hoped," Torin muttered.

  Owen laughed from his position. "You are fools. The both of you. My men will be back here soon. I cannot believe you got past them at all."

  "Maybe you should not underestimate us as you have always done."

  Owen lay there bleeding, but he still sneered up at them. "You will not win. You cannot. I will not let you."

  Eamonn ignored him and put a hand around Torin's uninjured arm. "Come on, Torin. We need to go."

  Torin pulled his arm out of Eamonn's grip, the point of his sword leaving Owen's throat. Torin stumbled but didn't move away or put the sword back to the other man's neck. It looked like he was nearly ready to drop it. "Nay," Torin said. "I will finish this."

  His voice sounded even weaker now, trembling on each of the words. "No, Tor," Eamonn said. "You don't have this in you. It will destroy you and change nothing. Come with me."

  "I can't," Torin said. "It has to be me. Don't you see?"

  "No, I don't. And I do not want to see you hanged, no matter how much he deserves it."

  "It would be worth it," Torin said. His hand jerked around the handle of Owen's sword then it slipped out of his hand. Owen didn't get up, even though the bastard looked so bloody smug.

  "Torin," Eamonn cried, but Owen had wrapped his hand around the hilt of the sword. His brother's knees buckled, and Eamonn lunged forward to wrap an arm around his waist. Owen laughed as he rolled to his knees. Eamonn saw him bringing the sword up and jerked Torin back, missing the blade’s swipe.

  Torin's horse was standing not far off, and as if she knew what the stakes were, she trotted over to them and stood still. The miss with the blade had set Owen off balance, but Eamonn knew they didn't have much time. He could hear approaching hoofbeats. Five minutes at the most, and they'd be finished.

  Eamonn's own horse stood on the other side of the yard. He wouldn't be able to get it in time, and he didn't have a bond with that animal as Torin did with his. "We have to go," he said when Torin tried to pull away from him. "They will kill the both of us. Is that what you want? Get up on the bloody horse."

  Eamonn gave Torin another shove even as he saw Owen getting to his feet from the corner of his eye. Less than five minutes then. Because Owen would stop them before his men even got close. He didn't even know how Torin got up in the saddle, but he did. Eamonn put one foot in the stirrup and clambered up beh
ind him. Eamonn couldn't hear what Torin whispered to the horse, but she took off at a full gallop.

  Eamonn had to grab onto his brother so that he wouldn't be unseated. Torin barely seemed to notice. Eamonn was leaning close to the animal's neck, and he hoped it wasn't because his brother was about to give in to the blood loss.

  They needed to find a safe place to stop, so Eamonn could make sure Torin would not bleed to death. Owen would send those men on after them, and he could not risk them being caught. As it was, he was sure he would never see his horse again. Eamonn had put his coin purse in the inside of his jacket. They'd have some funds, though he wasn't sure how far it would get them.

  For the moment, they were safe. Now, he just had to make sure they stayed that way.

  CHAPTER 6

  SCARRIFF, COUNTY CLARE, Ireland

  July 30, 1850

  Bridgette walked down the street, letting her basket swing on her arm. She'd spent the morning and part of the afternoon in her father's shop. She hadn't mentioned leaving again since that moment the previous day, but her father had seemed on edge after that.

  The shop was his livelihood. She knew that. He would not want to leave it. Not for her being scared by something that had not happened. She supposed she could not blame him for that. She needed to get over herself and heed what he said.

  He had not come by since the funeral or sent one of his men. There were close to half a dozen he could have sent on his behalf. He had before with messages and gifts for her. Not servants, but other nobles' sons loyal to him for some reason or another.

  If he had sent none of them in the last week, maybe he had given up on her. She wished she believed that.

  Bridgette had gone straight to the butcher from her father's shop, and she had wrapped lamb in the bottom of her basket. She made another stop in the market for vegetables to go with that. The pickings were still scarce. She swallowed hard at the sight of the tiny potatoes that were all that was on offer. The carrots didn't look much better. She looked at the woman standing in the stall.