The Herald Angels Sing Page 13

  Dismal. Just like her chances of ever seeing Seamus again.

  She was rushed out of the cart, stumbling along to keep up with her family, clinging to her meager belongings wrapped in a blanket. A light snow started to fall, but nothing could dampen the spirits of her family.

  In minutes, they found Da and Jack and Aunt Bridget and her wee Colleen, along with cousins Maura and Donal. There were hugs and kisses and promises and goodbyes.

  All things she had been denied with Seamus.

  “Don’t let me see that long face, lass.” Aunt Bridget chucked Finnie’s chin playfully. “We’ll be coming over in a year or two, and by then ye’ll be married to a fine American boy.”

  They all guffawed at that like it was…funny. Or possible.

  “I won’t marry, Aunt Bridget.” Somehow, it felt like saying it made it true. She’d never marry anyone but Seamus Kilcannon.

  But her comment was lost in the commotion of the many families rushing to get on board and get into some rat-filled underdeck that would be home for the days and weeks of the crossing.

  Didn’t matter. Finnie would just sit in a corner and cry.

  Once again, she was hustled through the crowds, jostled against strangers, forced to give her name to someone, and pressed into the pack of Brennans as they moved like cattle to slaughter.

  Da led the way, his head held high, his victory clear. He was saving his family, getting them out of the dregs of poverty and famine, leaving behind his homeland for a new world.

  A world without Seamus, which was no world at all.

  Finally, they were at the top of the ramp, their feet on the swaying deck of a ship that Finnie could barely see through her tears.

  “Bid farewell,” Mammy whispered to her as she eyed the docks from a completely different angle.

  The boys called out to no one and everyone, and Da made the sign of the cross. But Finnie merely stood in shock at how her world had turned upside down and inside out in the space of an hour. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “Oh, lass. Someday you can come back, if you ever get tired of America.”

  “I don’t want to leave, Mammy,” she managed to say, giving in to a sob. “Not now, not ever.”

  “Aye, and you’ll change your mind.” She grabbed Finnie’s hand and gripped hard. “It’s a new start, Daughter. A new life. A chance to stop livin’ starved and poor.”

  Finnie looked directly into her mother’s eyes, as blue as her own, praying that Mary Margaret Brennan had once felt this way about Da. It seemed inconceivable, but if she had, Mammy might understand.

  “I love someone, Mam.”

  She blinked at her as if she most certainly did not understand.

  “You…what?”

  “I’m in love.”

  “Look at that lad,” Patrick said, grabbing her arm and pointing back to the docks. “He’s lost his mind.”

  They all turned, but it was Finnie who gasped as the rest laughed.

  She stared at the figure down on the wooden boards, along with nearly every eye on the ship. How could you not look as Seamus Kilcannon jumped up and down, waved his hands and cap, then shook off his coat and waved that, too.

  “Seamus.” Finnie’s heart somehow managed to stay in her chest. Somehow. But it might not be there long, not the way it was hammerin’ right then.

  Of course, everyone had to look at him.

  Everyone…including Finnie. And wasn’t that exactly what he wanted?

  Yes, he was forcing her to find him, since he couldn’t find her.

  “Seamus,” she said again, louder.

  Mammy squeezed her hand, and she felt Da’s gaze level on her, but she couldn’t wipe the smile from her face or the soaring, fluttering wings of joy in her chest.

  “Finola!” Even over the clanging of the masts, the great groans of the ship, and hundreds of people, she swore she could hear her name on his lips. “Finola Brennan! Don’t leave me!”

  He’d made such a spectacle that many of those people were hushed, and she really could hear him.

  And so could Da.

  Next to her, she felt her father bristle. And her mother’s hand loosen its grip ever so slightly.

  “He’s calling Finnie,” Edward muttered in disbelief.

  “You know that lad?” Patrick asked.

  Jack just looked hard at her, since he knew the answer to that question.

  “Finola Brennan!” Seamus’s loud voice floated up to the deck. His gaze scanned from one side to the other, still unable to find her, but that didn’t stop him from calling out.

  Yes, she was meant to find him. And now she had…so what should she do?

  “Is that the one?” Mammy asked under her breath.

  Finnie nodded. “Aye.”

  “Marry me, Finola Brennan! Get off that ship and marry me!”

  Finnie pressed her hands to her chest. She’d long ago dropped the blanket bundle but still held tight to that pin…the very piece of metal that had brought him back to her. The horseshoe and shamrock and broken metal dug into her skin.

  All around, a hum of interest and talk started as more and more people stopped their conversations to take in the drama. Everyone had a thought, a chuckle, a word of wisdom.

  Everyone but Da, whose stare was so unwavering that Finnie felt like her cheek would melt under the fire of his glare.

  Finally, Finnie took her gaze off of Seamus to meet her father’s.

  “Don’t even think about it, Finola Brennan.”

  She exhaled. “Please, Da. Please.”

  Silent, he sliced her with a challenge and a dare in his eyes. And there was pain, too. Deep pain. He’d already lost one daughter, but his damn pride could cost him another.

  Mammy’s fingers loosened some more. Her touch turned from a panicked grasp to something softer and more tender. Finnie turned to find out where Mammy stood.

  Her eyes said it all. But she added words, too. “If he really loves you…”

  “He does,” she said softly.

  “Then…”

  Finnie spun back to her father, desperate for the right answer, for permission, for love.

  “If you get off this ship and go to him,” he ground out, “you’re as dead to me as Vi.”

  “Da.” Her voice cracked.

  “Finola! I see you!” Seamus started leaping again, wild with his discovery. “Don’t leave! Marry me. I love you, Finola Brennan! I love you!”

  “What should I do?” she cried.

  No one answered as Finnie stood, precariously balanced between the past and the future, pulled by love in two different directions.

  “Oh Lord. What should I do?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “What should I do?”

  Neither Cutter nor Gramma Finnie heard Pru’s plea for help, as they were both staring at each other, enraptured by the story. Which was a good one, no doubt about it, but…

  “It’s time,” Pru said. “But the pup is coming out backward, and it’s stuck.”

  Cutter leaped closer. “What do you mean, stuck?”

  Gramma had already settled on the cushion, lost in her own story, while Pru had listened but kept an eye on the pup. But now, Gramma pushed up and leaned into the whelping box, putting her hands on Blue.

  “It’ll come through,” Gramma assured them. “Blue just has to be strong.”

  But Pru just shook head. She’d already watched the struggle. “This one’s big. Way too big. Blue—er, Queenie has had enough. And I hate to tell you this, but she’s really losing blood now.”

  Cutter paled as if he were the one losing blood, falling to his knees next to the whelping box. “Come on, girl,” he muttered. “Get this last one out. These angels can fix you up.”

  Pru looked up at Gramma Finnie and gave a little shake of her head to communicate just how dire this situation was. Gnawing on her lower lip and studying the bloody mess inside, Gramma got the message, Pru could tell.

  “’Tis quite a bit of blood,” she
murmured. “But I’ve seen worse.”

  Cutter leaned in as if he might try to pick up his dog and squeeze the puppy out, but Gramma stopped him with one bloody latex-covered hand. “Let me help her.”

  “I don’t care about the pup.” He wiped his eyes and blinked into the box again, falling to his knees to join them as they knelt at the homemade manger. “Just save Queenie. Please, oh, please save her.”

  “I’m going to try and save both,” Gramma said. “You two just stay back.”

  She leaned into the box and worked her hand into the birth canal, closing her eyes, breathing as heavily as the pup.

  “He’s fully backward,” she reported. “No chance of turnin’. Legs up.”

  Cutter actually moaned.

  “He’ll come soon enough,” she promised. But Pru knew that Queenie’s poor body would take a beating.

  Muttering what Pru suspected was an old Irish prayer, Gramma focused every ounce of concentration on the dogs. Sweat dampened the gray hairs at her temples, and her little body trembled as she worked the pup out. Precious minutes ticked. Blood oozed. And poor Queenie seemed to drift in and out of consciousness.

  “Come on now, big boy. Help your mama out.” With gentle words and a strong hand, she urged him out until finally the pup’s backside appeared.

  And Queenie whimpered in pain.

  A fresh gush of blood poured from her torn flesh, but that must have been nature’s way of helping things along. The additional space was all the puppy needed to plop out, sliding onto the pillows butt first.

  Queenie didn’t turn or lick or even move. She just stared straight ahead with sheer agony in her eyes.

  Then she closed them.

  “No!” Cutter cried, lunging for the box. “She can’t die!”

  He reached in to hold her as Gramma eased the new pup out of the way. Cutter sobbed silently, while Gramma and Pru stroked the transparent sac to free the baby. He squirmed, eyes closed.

  “We’re losing her.” Cutter’s voice was ragged and wrecked. “She’s going to die. She’s going to die!”

  A loud noise shook the whole house as the front door thudded open. “She better not die!”

  They all turned in shock to see Trace marching in with his fists clenched and arms up. Yes, he’d accidentally killed a man with those fists, and Pru was quite certain he was prepared to do that again.

  “No, stop!” Pru yelled.

  Right behind him, Mom rushed into the house, her tear-stained face telling the whole story.

  “Mom, please!” Pru was up in a second, putting her body between Cutter and the two people who loved her most. “You have to save this dog!”

  “Pru!” She threw her arms around Pru, practically suffocating her. “Oh my God, you’re alive.”

  “But she might not be.” Pru whipped around to point at the whelping box.

  Gramma was holding her bloody gloves in the air. “Don’t hurt him, lad. Donchya be throwin’ punches. We’re trying to keep a dog alive.”

  Pru forced her mother to look at Queenie. “All that blood, Mom. The last one was turned and born backward. We don’t know how to help her.”

  “I do.” Mom swallowed and took a deep breath, instantly falling to her knees in the spot where Pru had been. “In the back of the Jeep, Garrett keeps a canine first aid kit. Get it, fast. And pack some snow in a bowl. A lot of it. I need a needle and thread, as sterile as possible. Go. Now. We have only seconds to spare.”

  * * *

  Molly shifted into vet mode the minute she put her hands on the dog. She barely glanced at the gray-haired, bearded man she nudged to the side, aware that he was sobbing and reluctant to let go.

  All she knew was he had not hurt Pru or Gramma and this collie was, indeed, critical. She should have had a C-section, no doubt, but now Molly had to stop the bleeding and sew up the episiotomy that nature had given her. And pray there was no lasting internal damage.

  She heard Trace and Pru go outside and took the pair of clean gloves Gramma handed to her. “Take the puppies,” Molly instructed. “Get them wrapped in blankets by the fire. Keep them warm.”

  “You heard her,” Gramma said, giving the old man a decent push. “You take two, and I’ll take two—”

  “But Queenie is dying.”

  “Not in my granddaughter’s hands.”

  He still didn’t move, and Gramma got up on her tiptoes, reaching about the middle of his chest, which she poked. “You do what the angels say.”

  That worked. He instantly unfroze and grabbed some clean towels that were piled up on the side of… Molly lifted her head and took in her surroundings. She was in a life-size replica of a stable, with a wooden Mary and Joseph staring down at her, backed up by a four-foot-tall shepherd.

  How the heck had they ended up here?

  It didn’t matter. Gramma and Pru were safe. Right now, the only thing that mattered was this dog who’d had a traumatic tear from a big breech pup and wasn’t healthy enough to fight back.

  The sounds of their conversation and the insane amount of Christmas lights faded into the background as Molly mopped blood and found the source. When Trace handed her the opened first aid kit, he settled to her right, and Pru took her left.

  They worked as quietly and efficiently as her vet techs, but then, both Pru and Trace had stood next to her during surgery before. Pru threaded the needle. Trace helped her clean and freeze the wound with snow that turned red and soaked the blankets. And poor Queenie continued to fall in and out of awareness.

  When Molly inserted the needle to make the first stitch, the dog startled, and her eyes opened wide for the first time. Even shadowed with pain and surprise, the one blue eye and one golden-brown eye made for a haunting image.

  “Pretty, huh?” Pru whispered as if she’d read Molly’s thoughts.

  “Mmm.” She was concentrating too hard to talk. Plus, when she did talk to Pru, it wasn’t going to be idle chatter about a dog’s eyes.

  “Gramma said that dogs with two different-colored eyes go to heaven twice. Once when they’re alive, but then they come back. And again, when they die.”

  “Then let’s hope this is the first time,” Molly said, shoving the needle into thick flesh and nodding for Trace to pack ice over that while she pulled the thread.

  “I know you’re really mad at me,” Pru whispered.

  “Beyond,” Molly acknowledged.

  “You, too?” Pru asked Trace.

  He answered with a long, slow sigh. “Not as much as your mom is. Honest, I’m proud of you.”

  “Proud?” Pru and Molly asked the question in perfect unison, which would have been funny, except nothing was right now.

  “Yes. Proud.”

  Molly angled her head, breaking her concentration on the stitches long enough to shoot Trace a look of disbelief.

  “Look what she did, babe,” he explained, gesturing to the dog and puppies. “She could have run, left the dog, chickened out. But she put the animal first, which is exactly what her mother would have done.”

  Against her will, Molly felt her heart soften. A little. “She also scared her mother to death.”

  “Well, I’m proud of her for handling a tough situation. Proud of you, Umproo. Proud of my daughter.”

  Next to her, Molly could feel Pru’s sigh of relief. “Thanks.” She leaned in a little closer to look past Molly to Trace. “Dad.”

  Molly bit her lip, fighting both tears and laughter. “Really pulling out all the stops, Pru.”

  Trace laughed a little, too, reaching his arm around Molly’s back. Behind her, she could feel Trace and Pru squeeze each other’s hands, making a chain of support around her.

  She nearly collapsed with love for both of them that hit as strong as that wave of dizziness had, only this time it was from relief and joy and maybe a little stress as the dog under her hands moaned.

  Biting her lip, she continued the stitches, one after another, as tight as she could make them, each one stemming more of the flow of blood
. Finally, the wound was closed, and the worst of the pain was over for poor Queenie.

  As if she sensed that, the dog slumped onto clean towels, whimpered, and fell asleep.

  “Will she live?” The question came from behind Molly and startled her. Trace and Pru broke their linked hands so Molly could turn and look up at the mountain man who had most certainly seen better days. He held two puppies, one in each arm, cradled and swathed in blankets.

  “I think so,” Molly said as gently as she could, pushing up to a stand. Trace and Pru did the same, flanking her protectively. “I think she’s strong and wants to live for those pups.”

  His eyes welled with tears, and he tried to talk, but his face grew a little redder with each word, which Molly took for real, deep shyness.

  “You’re angels,” he rasped. “Every one of you. A heavenly host of angels who came to save my Queenie.”

  Molly smiled. “We’re just a dog-loving family,” she told him. “And you need to give her time and love. She’s going to be okay.” Then she turned to Pru, raising one eyebrow as a reminder that not everyone was going to get out of this escapade entirely unscathed.

  “Mom, I’m really sorry.” She fisted her hands and pressed her knuckles to her mouth. “Don’t kill me, please. It was—”

  “My fault.” Gramma stood from her chair next to a roaring fire, taking a step away from the bundled towels where the two other puppies were being warmed. “Pru was trying to make my life better. And I got a little carried away with the adventure. And…” She shifted her gaze to the whelping box. “Blue.”

  “Queenie,” Cutter corrected.

  Molly sighed and looked at Pru. “You know better.”

  “Mom, I wanted the somethings to be amazing because—”

  “You feel cut off from the wedding because of Cassie.”

  Pru swallowed guiltily. “It all seems ridiculous now,” she said. “I am so sorry I upset you. Were you really mad?”

  “Still am,” she said. “And mad that I fainted at the sight of blood on snow.”

  “You fainted?” Pru gasped and reached for her. “Oh God, Mommy. I’m so sorry.”

  The use of the old childhood Mommy and the genuine agony in Pru’s expression melted Molly’s heart like the snow they’d used to numb Queenie’s pain. Closing her eyes, she embraced Pru, and they both hugged for a long, precious moment.