“The treaty was struck how it had to be,” Murdoch rushed in in a low voice, and Lachlan could tell that even the mention of that night placed a pall over the robust man, darkening the hollows around his eyes, graying his complexion, rounding his shoulders. “I wasna myself. My wife…” He broke off and made a quarter turn away from Lachlan, as if he were looking over the rooftops toward the bay, searching the horizon with his eyes for the shape of the thing that haunted him.
“My wife and daughter,” he continued, “they had taken shelter in the old house when the town was attacked and were trapped in the fire. They…well, they both died, is all. After some days. Her and the bairn. By that time it was already decided. By the whole of the fine, nae just me.” He paused a moment, and Lachlan saw his shoulders heave in a silent sigh. “I’ve naught else to say about it. Some of it I canna even recall anymore.”
Lachlan thought his answer odd, but let it pass. “There are others in the town, though, who might remember more,” he hedged.
Murdoch shrugged and turned back to him at last. “Perhaps. Most of the old ones are dead. Thirty years is a long time.”
“There will be tales.”
“Aye, and that’s all you can take them for,” Murdoch cautioned, and the stern look had returned to his face. Lachlan was glad in a way to no longer be made witness to the man’s agonizing grief. “Tales. Stories none should believe. You know what use gossip is good for.”
“It’s all I have.”
Murdoch paused. “Sure, and that reasoning right there is enough to convince me you doona ken yer arse from a knothole, lad. Is that what you’re about this day, with Finley’s pappy’s tools? Rapping at doors and listening for bits of gossip?”
Lachlan’s pride smoldered.
Murdoch flapped a hand at him, then started up the street once more. “Bah. Isnae one’ll tell you anything, any matter. Outsider, like I said.”
“That’s why I want Carson Town to holdLá Bealltainn,” Lachlan called after him. “If any town needs a feast and a fresh start, it’s this one. And I say you should have it.Weshould have it,” he corrected. “Finley says there’s never been a May feast that she remembers.”
The chief kept walking, so Lachlan made the final move in his strategy.
“I’ve come upon a goodly amount of Irish to contribute. Along with whatever work needs to be done to make the town ready.”
Murdoch Carson stopped in his tracks, but didn’t turn around.
“We still have a week to prepare,” Lachlan called out.
“That’s not enough time to ready a properLá Bealltainn,” Murdoch said loudly, apparently to the empty street before him.
“I can do it,” Lachlan said. “We can do it together—the fires, the sport, the food. I know we can. It will do the town good. It will do you good, Murdoch Carson. Another step toward reclaiming your town.”
“That does sound fine to my ears,” he said quietly. The chief was silent for a long moment. And then he called out, “I still say a week is nae long enough. So I reckon you’d best get to work, if you’re to prove me wrong.”
Even though Lachlan had hoped for this answer, he was still surprised. “I have your blessing?”
“Nay,” Murdoch said, looking over his left shoulder. “But you do have my leave, and you can tell aught who asks that you have it.” He turned his head a little further. “And Blair?”
“Aye?”
“While you’re still playing at tinker, there’s yet nets to be hauled in.”
Chapter 12
It seemed to Finley that she had just closed her eyes when she felt her shoulder being gently shaken and the stir of Ina’s breath in her ear. Finley rolled over partway and squinted in the dark room at the darker shape of her mother.
“What is it?” Finley whispered.
“Shh.” It was barely a sound as Ina motioned her from the bed.
Finley swung her legs over the side of the mattress and was searching the floor with her toes for her slippers when she was pulled away from the task.
“Leave them,” Ina breathed, and even in the whisper Finley could hear the thread of girlish excitement.
The main room of the house was clammy and cold; the fire was gone. Finley didn’t think she could ever remember another time in her life when there hadn’t been at least coals hidden beneath a fluffy pile of ash. But there was no time to wonder about the fire as Ina was pulling her through the doorway onto the path.
The sky was tall and wide and gray, freckled with the last straggling stars, and Finley’s breath was thick in the humid air. She heard sounds of people approaching and turned; there, coming up over the hill on the path, were other women and girls from the town, all still in their nightdresses, all without their slippers.
