Irish pulled himself to the open doorway and drew his gun. He was breathing hard and his heart hammered in his chest. “It doesn’t matter to me,” he said. “Untie my daughter.”
Lydia strained to see Irish. He was lying on the floor, his gun raised with remarkable steadiness. “Brig’s gun is on the table,” she called. “Don’t let him—”
Irish fired as Brig tipped the table and rolled to the floor. The bullet missed and the gun skidded a few feet. Using the table for cover, Brig reached the revolver. A bullet splintered the wood directly above his head and imbedded harmlessly in the wall behind him. Lydia’s fingers worked frantically on the knotted scarves. She felt one give a fraction just as Brig returned Irish’s fire. The bullet caught Irish in the shoulder and he fell on his back. His entire body shuddered once before he was still. Brig stood up cautiously, his gun held in front of him, and approached Irish slowly.
The scarf that secured Lydia’s left wrist slipped another knot. She forced her forefinger through the opening, widened it, and when she found she could grasp the loose tail, pulled hard. She saw Irish blink suddenly, and knew that Brigham had seen it, too, when he pulled back the hammer on his gun. With her free hand she flung a pillow at Brigham’s head, screaming to distract him. His hand jerked up, the bullet went wild, and Irish had the moment and range he needed. Grunting with the sheer pain of his effort, Irish raised his revolver and fanned the hammer in quick succession, sending three bullets powerfully into Brigham’s chest.
Brig staggered backward and collapsed, dead before his body sprawled at the foot of the bed.
Lydia pulled her feet up sharply as the bed jarred with Brigham’s weight. Only the hem of her gown was caught under him. Bile rising in her throat, Lydia yanked it loose, then worked quickly to free herself from the bedpost as Irish called her name.
Her eyes wet with tears, Lydia sank to her knees in the hallway beside Irish. She ripped part of her gown to make a bandage for his wounded shoulder.
“It’s a hell of a thing,” Irish said weakly, trying to raise a smile. “He could have shot me in the leg and I wouldn’t have this pain now.”
“Hush. Don’t talk. I have to get help for you.” Her tears slipped past her cheeks and fell on Irish’s ashen face. Blood was pumping steadily from his wound and she couldn’t stem the flow.
“There’s no help for me.” His dark cobalt eyes were sad but resigned. “I’m sorry for most of it, Liddy, but not for wanting to know you. I can’t be sorry for wanting to know my child.”
Lydia slipped an arm under Irish’s shoulders and raised him so that his head was in her lap. Her fingers stroked his iron-gray hair. “I’m proud to be your daughter, Irish...” She paused. “Father.”
“Thank you for that,” he whispered. Another of Lydia’s tears touched his face. He smiled because he knew he was forgiven. “I love you.”
Lydia said the same words and she believed in her heart that he heard them. When her vision cleared the pain was gone from her father’s eyes. She wept softly for her own.
It was much laterthat there was noise in the yard, the sound of doors opening and closing, and the rapid tattoo of feet on the staircase. The arms that came around her were strong and steady and familiar. They smelled pungently of smoke. She didn’t ask how or why they were suddenly there, reaching for her, holding her. She accepted them, turned in their loving circle, and leaned against the solid wall of Nathan’s chest.
Epilogue
December 1869
The sun had set on Christmas Day but heat still hovered over Ballaburn. Samuel Chadwick patted his forehead with a handkerchief and marveled that his daughter and son-in-law hardly seemed affected by the temperature. Even Pei Ling looked comfortable. Kit was a little subdued, but Samuel didn’t know if it was the weather or the dinner in his belly that had finally quieted the boy.
A cross breeze swept the parlor. The delicate, wax-like red-and-yellow blooms on the potted Christmas Bells swayed gently. The fringe of hair on Lydia’s forehead was ruffled. Nathan raised his hand and with just the tip of his finger brushed back a strand that had fallen across her cheek. Samuel watched his daughter turn to Nathan and smile and he was struck once again by the depth of love Lydia and her husband shared.
“So,” he said, addressing the room at large. “Is anyone going to show me this medallion I’ve heard so much about? If it saved your life, Nathan, I’m surprised Lydia hasn’t built a shrine around it.”
“Oh, Papa,” Lydia chided. “Don’t be blasphemous. Kit, it’s in the jewelry box on my dresser. Would you get it for me? I can’t believe I haven’t shown it to Papa and Pei Ling yet.”
Glad for the opportunity to do something, Kit hopped to his feet and disappeared into the hallway.
“That’s a good boy you have there,” Samuel said when Kit was out of earshot. “Very earnest.”
“And bright,” said Lydia. “Father Colgan says that Kit has nearly caught his classmates. Nathan and I discussed letting him stay on here. I could tutor him while Nath taught him about the station, but we agreed he also needs to be with other children. He stays with a good family in Sydney and visits us now and again. Father Colgan has visions of Kit going into the priesthood, but I think he’ll settle here at Ballaburn someday.” Lydia leaned into Nathan’s shoulder and laid her hand across his. “God knows, he’s welcome.”
“Because of the medallion?” Pei Ling asked.
Nathan shook his head. “The medallion was a miracle. None of us, least of all Kit, take any credit for what happened, ordidn’thappen because of it.”
“Nathan was sponsoring Kit at the school,” Lydia said. “Though he’d never admit it outright until after the shooting at Collabri.”
“I didn’t have much choice,” Nathan explained. “Lydia gave me a package from Kit just minutes before the bushfire was sighted. I pretended she was wrong about who sent it and put it in my shirt pocket. I remember thinking it was a little heavy, but I never gave another thought to what might have been in it.” Nathan saw Pei Ling’s dark eyes lift toward the doorway and realized Kit was standing on the threshold. “Bring it on in, Kit, and show it to Samuel.”
Kit ducked his head, embarrassed, but the smile he couldn’t quite hide was proud. He crossed the room to Samuel’s chair and held out the medallion. It was the size and thickness of a sovereign. The edge of the medal was ridged and the face was engraved with a portrait of Christ; the obverse had Kit’s initials. The portrait and the initials were difficult to make out because the center of the medallion was misshapen now, dented by the bullet it had stopped.
“Father says it’s the medal of Saint Jude,” Kit said as Samuel passed the medallion to Pei Ling. He watched her turn it over in her hand, touching it with delicacy and awe. “He’s the patron saint of hopeless causes. Father Colgan gave it to me when I won the class spelling bee.”
Samuel smiled. “A hopeless cause, eh? And what was your winning word?”
