Never once in the years they had lived on Stormy Ridge had they seen one of the holy men who lived at the mission. Never once had Lily MacQuade knelt at Mass or received absolution—not that the gentle, laughing mother Garret remembered could have any sins to confess.
Hell, Garret doubted the holy men at San Fernando had even known Stormy Ridge existed, or the faith-hungry woman with the loving, bright eyes.
Until the day one had said words over her grave.
It had been a gesture of love from Kennisaw Jones, who had ordered one of the soldiers to fetch up a priest. Lily would've wanted it, Jones had said over and over. But Garret had often thought his mother would have taken a deal more comfort if either his father or Jones had brought her a priest while she was still alive.
That was why he had come here now.
Garret removed his hat and raked his fingers through sweat-damp hair. Before he'd ridden away from the cabin, away from the disconsolate children and Ashleen's sad eyes, he had vowed he would offer her at least this small comfort before he rode off on the vengeance trail. He would forge for her what fragile link with faith the wilderness would allow.
Feeling awkward, Garret dismounted outside the heavy wooden gate and fingered the brim of his hat, trying to frame what he was going to say once the portal swung open. He could remember his father's vague grumblings regarding the intolerance he'd faced from the priests when he had spirited his Lily away. What would the holy man say to Garret's own plea?
How did one explain a relationship such as he had with Ashleen to a priest who no doubt saw the world in dark and light, heaven and hell, sin and innocence?
I love her, want to marry her—hell, I've felt married to her since the night we made love....
But I might be dead soon... either murdered or murderer.
Garret stared at the heavy iron bars strengthening the gate and cursed low. It was none of the man's damn business what had happened between him and Ash. The priest could just blasted well spout words from his little book and make his hand signs and raise his eyes to heaven to make their union legal and be done with it. For not even God himself could make Ashleen O'Shea any more Garret's wife than she already was. In his heart. In his soul. Forever.
If only he had told her that. Just once.
Garret started at the sound of creaking hinges and was surprised to see the thick portal swinging slowly open. Chin thrusting out with belligerence, Garret glared at the slice of the courtyard beyond the opening door revealed to him, and at the brown-robed figure that stood gratingly serene in the aperture.
A face so wrinkled that it seemed to have caved in upon itself through the years, rose above stooped shoulders. Snowy-white hair, impossibly thick, cascaded about skin dark as cinnamon bark. A hawklike nose curved with a hint of pride between bushy white brows. Only the eyes in that face were still young—vital, bright, full of tranquility and insurmountable strength.
Garret started, suddenly realizing how transfixed he had been by that aged visage. His cheeks burned.
"I am Father Dominic. May I be of service to you, my son?" The priest's voice was low, soothing as a mountain stream.
"No. I mean yes. I... I suppose so." Garret could have bitten his tongue off.
The old priest smiled. "Perhaps, my son, you might come in and quench your thirst with water from our well while you decide whether or not we can help you."
Garret bristled, feeling the fool, but as the old man motioned him to enter the flower-laden courtyard Garret grudgingly did as he was bid. The priest had settled him in a pool of shade beneath a gnarled tree and had slipped a mug of deliciously chill water into Garret's hand before Garret mustered the will to speak again.
"Father Dominic, I'm not here about me. There's a woman."
The old man linked twisted fingers loosely together and regarded him, silent. Garret was beset by twinges of guilt that reminded him of a thousand childish pranks, waiting for punishments to be doled out. He swore under his breath and gulped down a draught of the cool water.
"Blast it, I have to marry her!" he blazed defensively into the older man's impassive face. "I need to marry her. Hell, I want you to... son of a bitch!" He slammed his fist against a stone bench.
"You love her, no?"
Garret grimaced, his lips tipping in a wan smile. "I love her so much it hurts like hell."
"Is good to love so much. When the woman, she loves you back."
Garret's voice was hushed with the wonder of it. "She loves me back. I don't know why, but she does."
The old priest beamed, revealing a gap between his even white teeth that reminded Garret of Liam. "Then we will marry you." He rummaged around, checking a voluminous pocket. "We go now."
"No," Garret said hastily. "Not now. I have—have some business to take care of first." He was unable to meet the old man's eyes. "I want you to go to her, go to Ashleen in two months time. I should be back by then. If I am, you can marry us. If I'm not..." The very thought caused him the most excruciating pain. "If I'm not, Father Dominic, she'll need—need comfort."
"You are going somewhere that there is much danger?" The priest's eyes flicked to the tied-down gun slung low on Garret's hip.
"Yes." Garret fingered the butt of his pistol, unable to stifle a sigh.
