Quincy caught himself grinning and forced his lips back into a grim line. He drew Ceara erect. “Shoo!” he said to the dogs. “Back to Pauline. Off with you!”
With happy barks, the shepherds sailed over the steps and hit the frozen ground at a dead run, leaning into each other as they loped toward the arena. Ceara gazed after them as if the sun were blinking out.
“Take care on the steps,” Quincy warned. “When the temps plummet at this time of day, the wood can get icy and slick.” He grasped her elbow to make sure she didn’t fall and felt her tense at his touch. “Purely a gentlemanly gesture, Ceara. I have no designs on you; trust me.”
He didn’t release his hold on her until they reached the truck. She stepped back as he opened the passenger door. Then she held up a hand to forestall him when he moved to help her inside. “I shall manage by meself.”
Quincy left her to it. He dug in his jeans pocket for his keys as he circled the front bumper. With the help of the running board, which Quincy would remove as soon as the spring thaw finally arrived in central Oregon, bringing with it mud axle-deep, Ceara managed to gain the seat by the time he slid in under the steering wheel. When he cranked the engine this time, she didn’t act startled. The stereo had been left on, and John Michael Montgomery’s mellow voice filled the cab. She didn’t peer at the dash or touch the door speaker. Apparently the modern-day wonders of twenty-first-century vehicles were now old hat to her.
As they set out for Clint’s place, she said, “Ye still have me headpiece and satchel. Will ye consider returning them to me? The satchel is filled with all me precious things.”
“Both items are over in my arena office. I have no reason to keep them, but I doubt they’ll let you have any of your personal effects once you’re back in jail.”
“So ye’ll be taking me back there, will ye?” She seemed to ponder that for a moment. “’Tis an unpleasant place, the clinker. I’ve done naught to deserve imprisonment.”
Quincy reached the end of his driveway and turned onto the asphalt road. “The jury is still out on that.”
* * *
Ceara remained silent during the short ride to Clint’s ranch. As Quincy pulled up near his brother’s house, he tried to see the two-story post-and-beam home, so similar in style to his own, through Ceara’s eyes. If she was a gold digger, she’d seen plenty of nuggets today to keep her interested. Quincy and his family members weren’t fans of elegant or pretentious living, but they did enjoy fine quality and comfort. A home similar to Clint’s would cost more than a million to build, and that wasn’t counting any land. If Ceara was familiar with the real estate market, even in this depressed economy, she had to know that she hadn’t been dropped into the midst of paupers.
Quincy minded the manners his father had drilled into him since childhood, circling the truck to open Ceara’s door and help her out. Then he grasped her elbow as they walked across the yard and ascended the veranda steps. Quincy didn’t bother to knock. His father’s truck was already here, along with rigs owned by everyone else in his family. Quincy knew that practically everyone would be gathered in the kitchen. He opened the door and pushed it wide.
“Hey, there!” Sam called from where she sat at the table with a goblet of wine near her elbow. “Good to see you, Quincy.” Her dark gaze swept over him to land on Ceara. If she was surprised by the younger woman’s strange dress, she didn’t reveal it. “And you must be Ceara.”
Samantha got up to walk across the tile floor with her right hand outstretched. Like all Frank’s kids, Sam had the Harrigan pitch-black hair, burnished complexion, and wiry, athletic build. Quincy had never quite determined how his sister had turned out so pretty when she sported their dad’s facial features, including the Harrigan nose. But somehow on her, the sharp and mismatched angles looked feminine and dainty. She wore her customary snug blue jeans and T-shirt tucked in at her belted waistband, which showcased her slender yet curvaceous figure, as yet unchanged by pregnancy. She and her husband, Tucker Coulter, had been trying for a baby, had miscarried once, taken a break for a while, and now were thinking about trying again. Quincy figured he’d be a proud uncle again soon.
Tucker, who’d been sitting beside his wife, stood up and set his glass of wine aside on the table. A tall fellow with dark brown hair, massive shoulders, and muscular legs, he stood a good half head above Quincy, but his easy grin and fluid movements made smaller men quickly forget his size. He winked in friendly greeting, then, as his wife had, settled his gaze on Ceara, who was hesitantly shaking hands with Samantha.
Quincy took that moment to do a head count, so accustomed to the marked resemblance between himself and all his male relatives that he could tell who was who at a glance. His father was over by the sink, pouring himself a measure of Coke spiked with Jack Daniel’s. Parker and Rainie stood just beyond the kitchen in the hall, heads bent to pore over a document of some kind that they held between them. Zach and his wife, Mandy, were at the stove, stirring something in pots. The contents of one smelled suspiciously like Clint’s favored Polish sausage–and-potato soup. The delicious, sweet warmth of baking corn bread emanated from one of the ovens. Quincy’s mouth started to water even as his brain clamored warnings that the meal would have “heart blockage” written all over it. Quincy didn’t see Clint, Dee Dee, or the kids. He figured they were probably upstairs in the master suite with Loni, who was too damned sick to oversee the mess being made of her kitchen.
And it
was
a mess. Zach had never aspired to be a tidy cook, though he did clean up after he served a meal. A mound of potato peelings graced a countertop. An onion peel fluttered on the tile with every breath of movement. Cream or milk had been spilled on the floor. And in the far right corner, it looked as if a motley kennel had gone into business. Sam’s old female rottweiler, Roxie, napped in a tangle with Parker’s rot, Mojo; Loni’s mastiff, Hannah; and Trevor’s St. Bernard, Nana. Standing guard over them, Mandy’s brother Luke’s mini guide horse, Rosebud, slept as well, her fluffy white mane falling forward to conceal her eyes. If Quincy’s shepherds hadn’t been temporarily in Pauline’s care, they would have been there as well. With the Harrigan ranches all adjoined, the canines could easily follow a master’s vehicle to a neighboring house, and consistently did just that. As a result, family gatherings generally included all the critters.
Ceara gaped incredulously when she saw the tiny horse, which wasn’t an uncommon reaction, but before she could exclaim, Tucker stepped forward to greet her. It griped Quincy that his sister and brother-in-law seemed so eager to welcome Ceara into the fold before they knew for certain that she wasn’t an impostor. Clearly Frank had been flapping his jaws to convince everyone that Ceara might have the power to perform some kind of miracle and save Loni’s life.
Frank turned just then and raised his glass to Quincy. “I’d offer you one to take the edge off, but I know all I’d get for my trouble is a lecture.”
Quincy was too exhausted and nerve-worn to smile. “One word would do it, Dad. Triglycerides. Your counts are high, remember?”
Frank took a swig of his drink. “That was more than one word.”
Quincy shrugged. He saw that Ceara had been drawn to the table during his exchange with Frank and now sat beside Sam and Tucker, chatting with them as if they were old friends. Parker and Rainie rejoined the family, the document they’d been reading consigned to the telephone nook as they took seats and introduced themselves to Ceara. Typical of Zach, he didn’t bother with the getting-acquainted spiel. Instead he descended on Ceara with a cup of the soup, which Quincy knew from experience was loaded with high-fat sausages, potatoes, butter, and cream.
“You gotta try this,” Zach said as he placed the cup and spoon in front of her. “It’s a Harrigan tradition, my brother Clint’s recipe.”
Ceara, still wearing Quincy’s jacket draped over her shoulders, smiled, her cheek dimpling prettily. “Many thanks to ye. I’ve eaten nary a morsel since last night.”
Quincy felt gazes turn toward him—condemning ones. “I offered to feed her before we came,” he defended himself.
“What was on hand over there, a cold broiled chicken breast wrapped in kale?” Zach asked. “She’ll like this better.” To Ceara, Zach added, “I can get you more if you like it.”
Ceara fiddled with the spoon, lifting it from the cup to turn it this way and that. Quincy half expected her to comment that the spoons in her time were made of shells with sticks attached as handles. Instead, after ending her examination of the implement, she took a taste of the soup, then closed her eyes with an expression of pure bliss. The only time Quincy could recall seeing a female look that pleased was during or after good sex.
He scowled. This was no time to be thinking about sex, not with Loni on the verge of death and an emotionally imbalanced woman conversing with his family as if she’d known them for years. He grabbed the document from the phone counter to see what Parker and Rainie had been studying so solemnly. He saw that it was the results from Loni’s blood tests yesterday. And he soon understood why his brother and sister-in-law had been frowning. The numbers meant nothing to a layman unless compared to the normal range, which was off to the right of each line in brackets. With a fast back-and-forth read, Quincy saw that few of Loni’s counts were normal and the others were terrifyingly high or low. His sister-in-law was clearly a very sick lady.
He glanced up to find Rainie looking at him, her expression stricken with sadness. As always, she looked beautiful, her brown hair wildly curly and kissed with blond, her gathered print skirt and pink peasant blouse thrift-store chic. Quincy guessed that Rainie would never again dress like the wealthy and sophisticated woman she’d once been. Somehow wearing expensive clothing rekindled memories in her mind of her maniacal ex-husband, who’d nearly succeeded in killing her. Fortunately, the style worked for Quincy’s brother, Parker, who worshiped Rainie and always would, no matter how she dressed.
Just then Quincy heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairway, which ended in the hallway just beyond the kitchen. Clint appeared in the archway. Seeing him gave Quincy a jolt. His brother’s face was lined with weariness, and his usually bronze skin had become ashen. His broad shoulders, usually held proudly erect, now slumped as if he carried an invisible thousand-pound yoke.
“She’s awake and as rested from the trip as she’s probably going to get.” Clint’s dark, pain-filled eyes settled on Ceara. “She’s ready for a visit now, but I’ll ask all of you before we go up, please keep it short and don’t ask how she feels. That requires an answer, and talking tires her very quickly.”
The family’s climb up the stairs was a solemn one, everyone stepping lightly and whispering. Even the animals joined in the procession, Hannah and Nana, the in-house residents, leading the furry entourage. At any other time, the sight of a horse and so many dogs going up the steps would have amused Quincy, but this evening it seemed right, even necessary. The critters loved Loni every bit as much as the humans did and wanted to bask in her presence, if only for a moment.
Quincy deliberately held Ceara back so they would be last in line. At the landing, Clint opened the door of the master suite, a gigantic chamber adjoined by a mammoth bath and two walk-in closets larger than some people’s living rooms. Loni was ensconced on the king-size bed, propped up with pillows, her arms curled around her children: Trevor, her adopted son, who had turned thirteen in January; and Aliza, her and Clint’s biological daughter, who had turned five only days ago. Loni was so pale that it was hard for Quincy to tell where her skin ended and the white pillowcases began.
Seeing Loni like that—so very close to death—brought tears to Quincy’s eyes. He blinked rapidly to get rid of them. The last thing Loni needed was a bunch of weeping fools gathered around her bed. He was glad to see that the animals stood back at a respectful distance, and then just as quickly it hurt his heart. Normally the critters would be all over Loni, clamoring for a word of affection or a comforting pat. It was as if even the dogs and horse understood that their beloved friend was dying and lacked the strength to fondle them.
It took a moment for Loni and Aliza to notice Quincy and Ceara standing near the still-open door. The child immediately sat erect, her black curls bouncing over the sleeves of her pink top, her dark eyes going wide with delight. “Look, Mama!” she cried. “It’s
her
, the lady we’ve seen!”
The little girl clamped a small hand over her mouth and sent her mother an apologetic glance. Loni smiled faintly and touched her daughter’s hand. “It’s okay to forget sometimes,” she whispered. Then she looked straight at Ceara. Voice tremulous, she said, “It is good to finally meet you, Ceara, an occasion a long time in coming.”
Quincy sliced his gaze to Ceara. What the hell was this all about?
Ignoring Quincy’s questioning gaze, Ceara drew away from him and wove her way through the crowd to reach the bed. Extending a slender hand to Loni, she replied, “The pleasure is all mine. ’Tis eager I have been to meet ye.”
This wasn’t going the way Quincy had expected. He’d hoped to tell Loni nothing about Ceara that might predispose her to imagine that she’d
seen
something she actually hadn’t. Only now it appeared that Loni was a step ahead of everyone. Apparently she had already seen Ceara in a vision. The idea gave him the same feeling in his gut that he’d gotten as a kid when the Thriller Killer roller coaster went into its hundred-foot dive.
The two women extended their hands. Loni’s fingers closed over Ceara’s. Her eyes went oddly blank. Quincy had seen that look and knew Loni was no longer aware of anything around her. She had slipped into what he thought of as her psychic mode. The room went so quiet that you could have heard dust motes floating in the air.
When Loni resurfaced from whatever it was that she’d just
seen
, she weakly asked Clint to take the children from the room. Then she glanced imploringly at Dee Dee, a short, plump redhead of sixty-three. “I must speak with Ceara alone,” she said in a quavering voice.