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Shawn’s head snapped back, and he took two steps for balance, but he stayed on his feet. Tougher than he looks, Mick decided, lifting his balled fists again, for that had been a fine punch if he said so himself.
“Come on, then, defend yourself. Ya son of a bitch. I’ve come to wipe the floor with you.”
“No, sir.” Shawn’s head was ringing, and he wanted badly to swivel his jaw to make sure it wasn’t broken, but he merely stood there, arms at his sides. The man was half his size and nearly twice his age. “You can plant another on me if you must, but I won’t fight you.”
“So, you’re a coward, then.” Mick danced inside, a boxer prepping for the next round. He gave Shawn a quick rap in the chest, faked another toward his face. Reluctant admiration bloomed. The boy didn’t so much as flinch.
“You’re standing up for your daughter. I can’t fight what I’d do myself if I were you.” But a sudden horrible thought flew into his head, and now his hands did fist. “Did you raise your hand to her over this?”
Insult mixed with frustration. “Bloody hell, boy, never have I raised a hand to one of my girls. I leave that to their mother if they’ve a need for it.”
“She all right, then? Would you just tell me that she’s all right?”
“No, we took a bat to her and bashed her brains to Sunday.” With a windy sigh, Mick lowered his fists. He didn’t have the heart to use them again. But he was far from done. “You’ve some answering to do, young Gallagher.”
Shawn nodded. “Aye. Do you want me to do it here, in the doorway, or in the kitchen over whiskey?”
Thoughtfully, Mick rubbed his chin, measured his man. “I’ll take the whiskey.”
Temper was still bubbling under his skin, but he followed Shawn to the back, waited while the bottle was taken from the cupboard and good Jameson’s poured into short glasses.
“Will you sit, Mr. O’Toole?”
“Well, you’ve manners, don’t you, at such a time.” Scowling, Mick sat, picked up his glass, and eyed Shawn over the top of it. “You’ve had your hands on my daughter.”
“I have.”
Mick set his teeth. His hand fisted again, braced and ready. “And what are your intentions toward my Mary Brenna?”
“I love her, and I want to marry her.”
Mick’s breath hissed out. He dragged one hand through his hair as he gulped down the whiskey, then held out the glass for more. “Well, why the devil didn’t you say so?”
“Ah . . .” Gingerly, Shawn cupped his bruised jaw, moved it gently side to side. Not broken, he decided. Just battered. “It’s a bit of a dilemma.”
“And why would that be?”
“I haven’t brought the matter up to Brenna herself as yet. If I do, you see, she’ll determine to go the opposite way. I’ve been working at bringing the matter ’round so it seems her idea. That way, she’ll make my life hell till I agree to it.”
Mick stared, then shaking his head, set his whiskey down. “Well, Jesus, you do know her, don’t you?”
“I do. And I love her with all my heart. I want to spend my life with her. There’s nothing I want more. So . . .” Finished, and exhausted from it, Shawn knocked back his whiskey. “There you have it.”
“You know how to take the wind out of a man’s sails.” Mick drank again. “I love my girls, Shawn. Each one of them’s a jewel to me. When I walked my Maureen down the aisle and gave her away, I was proud, and my heart was breaking. You’ll know how that is one day. I’ve to do the same with Patty soon. Both of them chose men I’m pleased to call son.”
He held out his glass, waited while Shawn filled it again. “My Brenna has as good taste and sense as her sisters, if not better.”
“Thank you for that.” Relieved, Shawn took a second glass himself. “I’m wishing she’d come ’round to that sooner rather than later, but she’s a bit of work, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“I don’t. I’m proud of it.” Mick settled in, frowned a little. “This business that’s going on between you, I don’t approve of it.” He noted Shawn was man enough to meet his eye and wise enough to keep his thoughts to himself. By God, who’d have thought Brenna would meet her match in this one? “But she’s more than of age,” Mick continued, “and so are you. My approving or not isn’t going to stop you from . . . well, I don’t want to say any more on that particular thing.”
They drank in cautious silence.
“Mr. O’Toole.”
“I think, as things are coming ’round, you should call me Mick.”
“Mick, I’m sorry about Mary Kate. I swear to you, I never—”
Mick waved a hand before Shawn could finish. “I can’t blame you on that score. Our Katie has fancies, and a young and tender heart. I don’t like knowing it’s bruised, but there’s no blame.”
“Brenna’ll blame herself, and she’ll step back from me. If I didn’t love her, I could let her.”
“Time.” Mick polished off the next whiskey and thought it was a fine morning to get a bit of a drunk on. “When you get older, you come to trust in time. Not that I’m meaning you sit idle and let it pass.”
“I’m looking for land,” Shawn said abruptly. The whiskey was starting to work in his head, and he didn’t mind a bit.
“What’s that?”
“For land, to buy. For Brenna. She’ll want to build her house, don’t you think?”
Tears of sentiment gathered in Mick’s eyes. “It’s been a dream of hers to do that.”
“I know she’s a dream to have a hand in building something from the ground up, and I’m hoping she’ll have her chance with the theater.”
“Aye, I’ve been giving her a hand in the drawing of that.”
“Would you see that I get it, so I can pass it on? She may not feel as easy about giving it to me now.”
“You’ll have it tomorrow.”
“That’s fine, then. And the theater’s an important thing, for Brenna, for us, for Ardmore. But a home— that’s more important than a place of
business.”
“It is, and would be to her as well as to you.”
“If you hear of something you think might suit, would you pass it on to me?”
Mick took out his handkerchief, blew his nose. And was pleased to see Shawn fill his glass without waiting to be asked. “That I’ll do.” Eyes narrowed and a bit bright from drink, Mick peered at Shawn’s jaw. “How’s the face, then?”
“Aches like a bitch in heat.”
Mick laughed heartily, tapped his glass to Shawn’s. “Well, that’s something, then.”
While Mick and Shawn bonded over Jameson’s, Mollie had her hands full. It took nearly an hour of strokes and pats and sympathy before she could tuck Mary Kate in for a nap. Her own head was feeling achy, but she pressed her fingers to her eyes to relieve some of the pressure before crossing to Brenna’s room. She reminded herself she had wanted children, and a number of them besides. She’d been blessed. She was grateful.
And Blessed Mary, she was tired.
Brenna was curled on the bed, eyes shut. Sitting crosslegged beside her, Alice Mae stroked Brenna’s hair. At the foot of the bed, Patty sat dabbing at her eyes.
It was a sweet sight, all in all. Patty was a romantic and would automatically throw her heart to Brenna on this. Alice Mae, bless her, couldn’t bear to see anything or anyone in pain.
Mollie had only to gesture for Patty and Alice Mae to get up and take their leave. “I’ll speak to Brenna alone.” She shooed them out before questions could be asked and shut the door.
As Mollie crossed to the bed, she saw Brenna tense. “I’m sorry.” Brenna kept her eyes closed, and her voice was rough and strained. “I don’t know what else to say but I’m sorry. Don’t hate me.”
“Oh, what nonsense.” Using a brisker tone than she had with Mary Kate, Mollie sat, gave Brenna’s shoulder a little shake. “Why should I? Are you thinking I’m so old that I don’t understand what feelings churn around in a woman?”
“No, no.” Miserable, Brenna curled herself tighter, shifting so she could rest her head on her mother’s lap. “Oh, Ma, it’s all my fault. I started it. I wanted Shawn, so I went right up to him and said so. I kept at him until . . . well, he’s a man, after all.”
“Is that all there is between you, Brenna? Just the need and the act?”
“Yes. No.” She pressed her face into the comforting give of her mother. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now.”
“Nothing matters more.”
“I can’t be with him. I won’t see him that way anymore. If you knew how she looked at us, at me. All the hurt on her face before the anger came into it. I never thought of her.” She rolled onto her back now, stared at the ceiling. “I only thought of me and what went on inside me when I was with him. Because of it I lied to you and to Dad. How can you trust me again after this?”
“I’m not saying the lie was right, but I knew it was a lie when you told me.” She nearly smiled when Brenna’s gaze cut to hers. “Do you think I told my own mother that I was sneaking out of the house on a warm summer night to meet Michael O’Toole so he could make my head swim with kisses?” Her eyes warmed with humor and memory. “Twenty-six years we’ve been married, and five children we brought into the world, and to this day my mother believes I lay chaste in my bed every night before my wedding.”
With a long sigh, Brenna sat up, and wrapping her arms around Mollie, laid her head on her shoulder. “I have a need for him, Ma, and it’s so big. I thought after a bit it would quiet down, fade back and away, then we’d both get back to how things were before. But it isn’t quieting down at all. And I’ve ruined it because I didn’t say to Katie, ‘This one’s mine, so find another.’ Or whatever I could have said or done. Now I can’t go back to him.”
“Answer me this, as honest as you can.” Mollie drew her back, studied her face. “Would Shawn have looked in Mary Kate’s direction if you hadn’t been standing between?”
“But that’s not the—”
“Just answer, Brenna.”
“No.” She let out a painful breath. “But he’d never have hurt her if not for me.”
“Mistakes were made, there’s no denying it. But Mary Kate’s as responsible for her heart and its bruising as anyone. Martyring yourself won’t change what was or what is. Have a rest,” she said, pressing her lips to Brenna’s forehead.
