MB01 - Unending Devotion (15 page)

“Sounds like he was an ambitious man.”

Connell nodded. “And he’s still ambitious. Sometimes too ambitious.”

“Then you must take after him.”

Connell snorted. “My dad didn’t give me much choice. He’s always demanded much of my brother and me. He taught us to work hard, but sometimes I think he’s forgotten that we’re not in Ireland, we’re not in the middle of the potato famine, and we’re not starving to death.”

“I suppose he can’t forget his past.”

“Not when he had to watch every member of his family die of starvation in front of his eyes and not be able to do a single thing about it.”

“It’s hard when you want to be able to help your family and you can’t.” She knew that feeling all too well.

“They had nothing but dirt and grass to eat. He watched his three youngest siblings die in a corner of their shack, lying there because they were too weak to rise, their limbs emaciated, their bellies swollen, eyes sunken, voices gone. . . . After they died, he left.”

For a long moment he stared into the fire and didn’t say anything.

“And now,” he finally said, “nothing is more important to my dad than working hard and being successful.”

“Is that what you believe too?”

“I guess.”

“But you don’t have to let his definition of success be yours.” She tugged the blankets under her chin, but then felt a rush of cold air over her feet as the blanket slid off. Even though her dress had finally dried, she’d collapsed with weakness trying to don it on one of the occasions when he’d gone out. She’d had to give up and covered herself with her coat and blankets instead.

He leaned forward and tucked a blanket back around her feet. “When are you going to tell me about your striped socks?”

“Why, Connell McCormick.” She gave a mock gasp. “Have you been peeking at my feet?”

“I haven’t meant to. But there’ve been a few times—”

“Few!” Again she pretended shock, but her smile gave away her playfulness. “So not only have you been peeking, you’ve made it a regular practice to glimpse under my hem.”

“It’s hard to miss those bright colors—”

“Come on. Admit it. You like seeing my ankles.”

He poked at the fire and ducked his head.

She gave a soft laugh. Pleasure from his obvious attraction wove through her like a sweet summer breeze. She shifted her legs and let the blanket slide from her feet again, revealing them once more.

He glanced sideways for only an instant before focusing his full attention on the fire, prodding the logs and sending the flames higher—almost as if their lives depended upon how hot he could get them.

She laughed again.

A slow grin made its way up his lips.

“Well, if you must know,” she said, “Oren’s wife, Betty, made them for me.”

“I didn’t know Oren was married.”

“He’s not anymore. Betty died last summer.”

He sat back on his heels and gave her his full attention.

Keen wistfulness washed over her. Even though she’d lived with Oren and Betty for only a year, the woman had become as dear to her as Oren had.

“How’d she die?”

“She was already sick when I went to live with them. Their only son went west back in the ’60s, and they didn’t have any other family around. Oren needed someone to help take care of Betty so he could do his work without worrying about her.”

The distant howl of a wolf echoed through the night, which had finally grown calm.

“Betty was as sweet as honey. But I quickly realized Oren is just as sweet, once you peel back all those gruff layers.”

Connell nodded. “Believe it or not, I actually like Oren. Even though he’s threatened to blow my head off twice now.”

“Twice?”

“When he realized you were gone, he came to my door—”

“He probably just wanted your help and didn’t know how to ask.”

“It’s obvious the guy thinks the world of you.”

She smiled. She thought the world of him too. “I was worried after Betty died that he might make me leave. I don’t think he knew what he was going to do with me—especially once he left for his winter picture taking among the camps. But after I got Daisy’s letter and begged him to take me along, he hasn’t said another word about my leaving.”

Another long howl carried through the windless night—this one closer.

She’d been too old to be sent back to the orphanage. If Oren had decided he didn’t want her anymore, she would have had to make it on her own somehow.

She had no doubt she would. And when she found Daisy, they’d make a way together this time.

Something scratched against the door, and Connell sat to his knees.

A pattering of footsteps tramped across the roof, and a sprinkling of snow drifted down through the cracks.

Connell stared at the ceiling, and his eyes followed the trail of footsteps. Another scratch at the door was followed by a low whine.

She propped herself up on her elbow.

“Wolves.” His voice was low.

Her heart skittered to a halt. She pushed herself to a sitting position. Her long hair swirled around her face in an unruly tangle. “Are we safe in here?”

His focus darted back and forth across the roof as if he were mentally following the path of each wolf. “I think there are at least six of them.”

She shuddered.

The pawing at the door became more insistent. Suddenly, the old slab of rotting wood creaked inward, a long gray snout poked through, and a black tipped nose sniffed the air.

She sucked in a sharp breath.

Connell sprang to his feet and was against the door in an instant, ramming it closed with his shoulder.

A long chilling howl reverberated directly overhead, followed by several more.

“What do they want?” she asked, pulling a blanket around her as if she could ward off the frightening noise.

“Us.” He shoved the tree limb back against the door to wedge it tighter. “For a meal.”

“But they can’t get in, can they?”

A shower of snow from the roof rained down on them.

He glanced back at the ceiling and reached for Oren’s Winchester.

A flurry of pawing and digging sent another deluge of snow down upon their heads. A chunk slipped under her camisole and made a cold trail down her back.

“Move to the corner.” Connell jerked to a spot next to the fireplace. The urgency of his tone sent her scrambling.

She dragged the blankets around her and crawled to the safety of the corner.

More snow poured into the shack until a paw reached through a hole in the ceiling and swiped at the air.

She huddled against the damp earth and breathed in the moldy scent of rotting logs from the wall behind her. Would the decaying structure be strong enough to protect them?

Connell pointed the gun at the ceiling and backed up until he was standing in front of her. Without moving his aim, he lowered himself to one knee, providing a barrier between her and the wolf.

The wolf retreated and began digging again. Snow fell through the cracks in another spot of the roof.

“I was hoping they wouldn’t find the weak places.” He looked from one area of the roof to the other as if he couldn’t decide where to aim the gun.

“Did you know the wolves would come?” She shivered and wrapped the blankets tighter.

“I figured once the storm abated, they’d catch our scent. But I was hoping they’d leave us alone.”

The scratching at the door started again.

He flipped the gun to the door. “Apparently they’ve decided to attack us with all they’ve got.”

The branch against the door rattled.

Her body tensed, every nerve ready to fight, even though she doubted she could stand. “What can I do to help? Tell me.”

“I need you to unsheathe my knife.” He cocked his head to indicate the side where she’d find it.

She reached for the edge of his shirt and hesitated only a moment before slipping it upward.

“Hurry.”

Her fingers fumbled to lift the flannel higher until she found the scabbard against his ribs. She worked the knife out, trying not to graze him.

Finally she clutched the handle and let the shirt drop back into place.

His chest deflated, and only then did she realize he’d been holding his breath. Did her touch affect him as much as his did her?

“Hold on to the knife and be ready to hand it to me when I ask for it.”

“Don’t you want me to use it?”

He shook his head. “Just have it ready.”

If she hadn’t been so weak, she might have argued with him. As it was, she fell back against the wall, her body trembling with a wave of weariness.

The branch propped against the door scraped open a fraction. And the digging at the first hole in the roof resumed with a chorus of yips.

As the sliver in the door widened, splinters and branches from the roof caved in.

She didn’t want to cower, but she had the awful vision of being cornered by wolves with no escape.

The door rattled and the branch slipped away. A slender head poked in. Golden eyes rimmed with black narrowed on them. In another second the wolf squeezed through the opening. It was thin enough she could see ribs protruding in its heaving sides. It dipped its head, laid its ears back, and growled, exposing a ridge of sharp yellowed teeth and fangs. Frozen saliva dangled from one side of its mouth.

The beast crouched lower and began creeping toward them.

Connell swung the gun toward the intruder, but a snarl at the hole in the roof drew his attention upward again. The roof was giving way to the wolf’s scraping and in an instant the opening would be big enough for it to drop through.

She clutched the knife, her fingers stiff and numb with fear. How could they fight them all off?

“Get ready to hand me the knife,” Connell said with a voice that was low and calm. He raised the gun to the ceiling and took aim down the long barrel.

“Now.” Even as he said the word, he pulled the trigger.

In a blur of fear and hot dizziness, she held the knife toward him.

The crack of gunfire exploded in the air. At the same time his fingers gripped the knife, and before she could take another breath, he flung the blade with surprising swiftness and precision across the span of the hovel directly into the heart of the wolf creeping toward them.

The beast gave a sharp yip, took one step forward, and then crumpled to the dirt floor. A bright spot of red seeped through the thick grayish fur across its chest.

Connell stood, and with the smoking rifle aimed on the roof, he crossed to the door and slammed it closed. He leaned against it and studied the ceiling.

His jaw twitched and his finger cradled the trigger.

For a long moment they listened.

Silence descended around them, almost as if the world had deserted them completely.

“Are they gone?” she finally whispered.

“For now.”

She let out a shaky breath and let her body slump.

He shoved the wolf with his boot.

It didn’t move.

With a swift jerk he slid the knife from the wolf’s chest. Blood bubbled out across the fur and dripped into the dirt.

She stifled a shudder. “I wouldn’t want to face you in a fight, not with the way you handle your knife.”

“You can thank my dad for that.” He stooped and brushed the blade against the carcass, wiping it clean. Then he tucked it out of sight under his shirt. “He wanted his sons to know how to fight—I suppose so that no one could ever beat us up and leave us for dead.”

“I’m guessing that happened to him?”

“Twice. Before he left Ireland.”

She protested when Connell went out into the black night to attempt to patch the holes in the roof. He filled the biggest spot as best he could, and all the while she couldn’t help worrying that the wolves would return and attack him before he could get back into the shelter.

When he closed the door and shoved the weight of the dead wolf against it along with the branch he’d used before, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes, relieved but too exhausted to say anything.

She slept where she sat in the corner, waking whenever he shot the gun, realizing through a haze the wolves were attacking again. Off and on throughout the long night, the crack of the gun would startle her out of a fitful sleep.

Once he woke her, offering her a tin cup of water from melted snow. His tired bloodshot eyes were round with concern. He laid his palm across her forehead, the coolness of his touch soothing her.

She wanted to grasp his hand and hold it there. But she was too weak to move. She wanted to tell him how much she admired him, but she could only manage a small smile that she hoped conveyed her gratitude.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed—it could have been hours—when something roused her.

With a start she opened her eyes. It took her a moment to realize Connell was sitting next to her and that he’d tucked her into the crook of his arm with her head against his chest.

The steady thud of his heartbeat echoed against her ear.

His face was haggard with weariness, a testimony to the sleeplessness and danger he’d endured all night. She had no doubt it was well into the morning and that the threat of wolves was over for at least the time being; otherwise he wouldn’t have allowed himself the luxury of breaking his vigilance.

Her parched tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and her body ached with feverish chills.

She was sick.

The peril of their predicament returned with a fresh wave of fear.

One glance across the shack to the door, to the dead wolf, to the blood now crusted brown, and the terror of the night crashed back through her.

How could they survive another day? Or another night?

“Please, God,” she whispered through cracked lips. All those years growing up in orphanages, she’d learned to say her prayers, to honor God, and to follow the Ten Commandments. But it hadn’t been until she’d met Betty, Oren’s wife, that she’d ever heard anyone pray to God as though He was a real person and really cared about what happened.

Betty’s prayers had always filled her with the whisper of hope that God wasn’t so far off after all. That maybe He hadn’t deserted her, as everyone else in her life had.