We didn’t exhaust each other. If anythin’, she jolted me. Made me pay attention. Made me notice the small things.
Keenan said I was startin’ to see the forest for the trees.
Right. Because my entire focus wasn’t just on destroyin’ the Craigs anymore. Though when Maeve wasn’t around, it was back to business as usual.
I looked down at the two rings restin’ on my little finger. One was a simpler band, and one was what Fiona called a rock. Mam wore the simpler band when we lived in Boston. Da gave her “the rock” after he’d stolen the gold and we moved to the castle.
Simpler band.
Simpler times.
“The rock” signified harder times, but it was a stunnin’ piece of jewelry that hadn’t been touched by bloodshed. Mam’s finger had been too swollen to wear it. Same with the simple band. She’d stopped wearin’ it after “the rock.”
I was tryin’ to decide which one to give Maeve for our weddin’. I wanted her to have a better part of my life to carry on her finger.
Keenan walked toward me with a cup of somethin’ hot in his hand. He sipped on it while he studied the land. He always took it in before he came to talk to me.
“Mornin’, lad.” He looked at his watch. “I should say evenin’.”
I nodded and tipped my head to him.
He looked up at the window. “Maeve seems to be gettin’ along fine with Fiona and Beatrice.” He took a sip from his mug. “I’m sure she misses her Da, though.”
If I brought Pauric to Ireland, he’d have to stay until after this war was over. Oran Craig would kill him if he tried to return to Boston. It was somethin’ to think about.
Keenan sighed. “It’s been much too quiet from the Craigs.”
True. Both Keenan and I knew they were plottin’ and schemin’. Our side was growin’ with men who wanted to join us, but with my name being what it was in Boston—associated with a man Oran had branded a cheat, my Da—no one wanted to do business with us. Even though Keenan worked as my mouth, word had spread that Conor O'Callaghan’s son had returned and was headin’ up a war that would dethrone Oran Craig. But no one wanted to do business with the cheat’s son. Even though Oran Craig reneged on deals he made with lower-level men, his word was good when he was makin’ deals for guns and such.
I might have had money to spend, but he’d been the Butcher of Boston since he was eighteen. He’d earned his spot. And it was always safer to side with the devil you knew. Unless it was personal.
“I’m takin’ that as Oran is bidin’ his time,” Keenan continued. “Decidin’ on his next move. He doesn’t truly know our numbers right now. And Dermot is probably in his ear about Maeve. Even though she’s not a pawn in this war on our side, she is on theirs. The six men we killed of theirs are nothin’ compared to where she’s standin’ now. In your court. She’s not enough for Oran to rush or risk this war, but Dermot is not agreein’.”
Maeve moved toward the window again, and our eyes met. The war with the Craigs seemed to disappear. I was anxious for her to come down. I wanted her to smile at me. I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to hear her stories.
“Ach.” Keenan made a dismissive noise in his throat. “The war with the Craigs will keep. A man should live before he dies, aye?”
I met his eyes.
He cleared his throat. “Conor chose life for you and Mona. It’s about time you start choosin’ the same for yourself for a while. You won’t be the first man to know how it feels to truly breathe and go to war with a singin’ heart, my lad.” He squeezed my shoulder and left me standin’ beneath the window alone.
How it feels to truly breathe.
Those words always took me back to the time I remembered openin’ my eyes for the second time in my life. It almost felt like the first.
Keenan and Fiona had found me buried beneath the ground two days after the slaughter of my parents. My memories were a bit fuzzy, but I remembered hearin’ his hands diggin’ in the ground. The sound of Fiona’s rushed whisperin’. The clawin’ seemed as panicked as the sound of her voice. It came back to me in dreams at times—openin’ my eyes and meetin’ theirs for the first time.
I didn’t feel saved.
I felt yanked from a comfortable place.
A safe place.
My grave.
I’d overheard Keenan and Fiona whisperin’ one night. She’d said I was like a zombie, but one with a sharp brain.
“He’ll breathe again,” Keenan had said. “One day. He’ll find life again—if it doesn’ find him first.”
