“How long do we have?”
Eamon closed his eyes. “I don’t know. Days, maybe less. Gabriel will come to debrief me about the assignment and then…”
“Gabriel. Your supervisor.”
“Yes.”
“The one who called the sheriff’sdepartment.”
“Yes.”
As if summoned by our conversation, a new voice cut through the night air. “Actually, I’m already here.”
We both spun around to see a man stepping out of the shadows between the trees. He was tall, impeccably dressed in what looked like an expensive suit despite the remote location and late hour, with golden-brown hair and eyes that seemed to hold the weight of eternity.
Gabriel.
Even without an introduction, I knew exactly who he was. He carried himself with the same otherworldly authority I’d glimpsed in Eamon, but magnified tenfold. This was someone used to being obeyed without question, someone who held power over life and death and the fate of immortal souls.
Someone who was about to decide whether I got to keep the man I loved.
TWENTY-EIGHT
EAMON
County Cork, Ireland, 1740
The potato plants were blighted again.
I knelt in the cold mud, turning over blackened leaves with fingers already numb from the morning chill, and tried not to think about what this meant for the winter ahead. Three years running now, the crop had failed. Three years of watching my neighbors grow thinner and more desperate, of hearing children cry from hunger in the night.
At thirty-six, I was considered an oddity in our small village—a man past his prime with no wife, no children, no family to speak of save for the memory of my dear mother, gone for two years now. My grief was still a sharp ache, not dulled yet as I’d been promised.
The other men my age had married young, filled their cottages with squalling babes and the comfort of a woman’s presence. But I’d never felt the pull toward such a life, much as I’d tried to convince myself I should.
My desires lay in a different direction entirely, toward broad shoulders and calloused hands and the low rumble ofmasculine laughter. ’Twas a sin according to Father McMahon, an abomination that would see me burn in the fires of hell for all eternity. So I kept my longings to myself and tended my mother’s flowers, the only beauty left in a world gone gray with want.
“Eamon!” a voice called from the road. “Eamon O’Rourke!”
I looked up from the ruined plants to see young Timothy Brennan running toward me, his face flushed with exertion. “What is it, lad?”
“Me da says you’re to come quick if you’ve a mind to. There’s work to be had at the Finnegan place—they need men to help bring in what grain they’ve managed to save.”
Work meant coin, even if only a few pence. Coin meant bread, maybe even a bit of meat if I were careful with the spending. I wiped my hands on my worn breeches and nodded. “Tell your da I’ll be along directly.”
The walk to the Finnegan farm took me through the village proper, such as it was. A collection of stone cottages huddled around a crossroads, with Father McMahon’s church standing sentinel over them all. Children played in the muddy streets despite the cold, their laughter a bright counterpoint to the grimness that had settled over our corner of Ireland like a shroud.
I was nearly to the outskirts when I heard the thunder of hooves and the sharp crack of breaking wood. I spun around.
Murphy Concannon’s horses had broken free from their traces, and the cart they’d been pulling had overturned behind them. Two massive beasts, mad with fear and pain from where the harness had tangled around their legs, careened straight toward the cluster of children playing in the road.
Time slowed to honey-thick syrup. Little Mary Fitzgerald, no more than six years old, stood frozen in terror as a ton of panicked horseflesh bore down on her. The other children scattered like leaves in a gale, some fast enough to reach safety, others too small, too slow.
My body moved before my mind could catch up. I ran toward them, arms spread wide, shouting at the top of my lungs to turn the horses’ attention to me instead.
“Here! Over here, you great beasts! Come for me!”
It worked. Both animals veered toward me, away from the children, their eyes rolling white with terror. I had just enough time to push young Mary aside, to see her tumble safely into the ditch at the roadside, before the first horse struck me.
