"I-It's not be-because of you that I'm... being such a cry-babe. It's just... thinking they'll never forgive me at St. Michael's. Thinking how hurt Sister Agatha must be after all her—her kindness. She trusted me, and I... oh, sweet Jesus, forgive me." She buried her face in those slender, expressive hands, crying as if her heart would break.
Garret felt something shatter inside him, flooding him with emotion so fierce it was as if all the tears, all the grieving he had held at bay raged like a river over its banks, merging with that of the woman in his arms.
"Damn it, girl, what could you have done that was so terrible? You're an angel of a woman. So damn good..."
"No... no, I'm not." There was a fierce self-loathing in those eyes that could be so tender, the tracks of her impassioned tears glistening in the light of the lantern. "I'm a liar, Mr. MacQuade. And worse. A-a thief. I stole... from people who loved me, trusted me. People who took care of me from the time I was Shevonne's age."
Garret knew he should be stunned, more than a little stung with righteous anger at this confession that showed what he had believed to be true—that no one could be everything Ashleen O'Shea had seemed. But instead he bristled like a damn mother grizzly, and at that moment he suspected Ashleen could confess to murder, and he would not believe ill of her.
"Whatever you did, whatever happened, there must've been a good reason for it," he said. "Sometimes people do things they're ashamed of. Even good people. Because they can't see any other way."
Hopeless resignation washed over those angel features, and she shivered, not from the chill creeping about the edges of night. "Th-that's the horrible thing. As awful as I feel, I'd do it again. There was no other way to—to save them."
"Save who?"
Her gaze strayed back to the wagon, the depths of her eyes stark with love.
And Garret knew in that moment. "The children," he said slowly. "You stole something to save the children."
Catching her lip between her teeth, she nodded, tears welling afresh. "I would've sold my soul to do so. Maybe I have."
"Tell me."
Garret listened as the woman in his arms poured out a tale more gripping than any she had spun by a campfire, a story laced with courage, with love, with pain, but also with such shining hope that Garret felt strangely humbled, fearsomely protective, not only of Ashleen, but of the little ones bundled safely in the wagon fifty yards away.
"This Sister Agatha," Garret said when Ashleen had lapsed into a heavy silence. "She sounds like a woman of sense. Don't you think she must understand about the chalice? About the children? I mean, you pawned some gold mug to save the lives of four children. I don't know much about the God people like your Sister Agatha believe in so fiercely. But if He does exist, I can't believe He'd want some bauble gathering dust on a window ledge when the thing could've been used to feed innocent children."
Ashleen pulled far enough away to look into his face, yet she stayed in the circle of his arms. It was a gesture wrenchingly childlike, and she reminded him painfully of Beth those times his sister had been confessing some childhood transgression.
"Even so," she reasoned, "I should have been honest with Sister Agatha. Told her—well, told her my plan instead of sneaking out in the dead of night. Who knows? She might have given me the chalice freely."
"And she might've told you no. Then what would you have done? Helped them cart the children off to that workhouse you were talking about? No. You did the right thing. The only thing you could have done, under the circumstances."
"Do you really think so?" She asked with such hopefulness, Garret brushed her petal-soft cheek with his fingertips.
"Damn right, Sister."
Relief spread over those angel features, mingled with resolve. "The night before we left West Port I wrote to Sister Agatha and explained as much as possible. I promised to send money back to Ireland as soon as we reach Stormy Ridge, to cover the cost of the chalice. The hotelkeeper should have sent it off by now. So soon everyone at—at the convent will know I intend to make amends, if I can."
Garret thought of the nuggets he had stashed under the clean clothes in his saddlebags—gold he had found in a stream in the mountains. He had taken just enough to buy whatever necessities he might need for the next few months—a few new clothes, more drawing supplies, a packhorse.
Maybe he didn't need those things after all.
No, a voice taunted inside him,all you need is to bury yourself in this woman, kiss her, draw life from her, laughter....
He peered down at those berry-red lips, so soft, so innocent, so sweet. The need that had tormented him ever since he'd ground his mouth down on them in the Double Eagle seemed somehow sacrilege, a defilement, in the wake of the longings that surged through him now.
He wanted to kiss her—hell, yes, he still did—but gently, thoroughly, introducing her to the depths of his passion as tenderly and patiently as if she were a fragile rose opening its petals to the sun.
Garret's heart seemed to cease beating, his whole body thrumming with a need so deep he could scarcely deny it. He lowered his mouth just a whisper toward hers. Saw her lips part, a tiny breath wisping, hot, moist, to caress his mouth.
His gaze darted to her eyes, and he saw a kind of tremulous expectation, as if she were waiting on the brink of something wonderful.
He wanted to give it to her.
Of its own volition his hand came up to thread through the golden strands of her hair, cupping her cheek, her skin burning his palm as he guided her mouth to his.
Garret closed his eyes, jolted to the core at that first contact, soft as a night breeze, sweeter than anything he had ever known.
