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“Oh, aye, she’s fine and well. But there’s a need for you. ’Tis a night for wonders, Trevor Magee. Go on, now, and be part of them.”
He didn’t hesitate. She’d hardly faded away when he was snatching up the candle to light his way out of the house and into the storm.
NINETEEN
THE AIR WAS alive, and angry. It slapped and bit. Rain, like thin needles of glass, jabbed at his clothes and stabbed at exposed skin. Nasty marbles of hail beat down on grass, battered the flowers, and turned the ground into treachery.
And still the lightning slashed, ripping open the sky so thunder could charge through in snarling bellows.
Trevor was breathless and drenched before he got to the car.
The rational part of his mind warned him it was insane to venture out on such a night. More sensible to wait out the storm than to drive into the snapping teeth of it. But he was already turning the key in the ignition.
The wind howled like a banshee, tore at the hedgerows so that bits of bloom and leaf flew past like crazed insects. He’d have sworn it had fists and fingers. His headlights made twin slashes through the wall of rain, spotlighting the full fury of it. He fought the car down the road that was rapidly turning into a ditch of mud, and when he shuddered around a bend, the sky exploded, etching the jagged burst of light on his eyes. The freight train of thunder roared after it.
Under it all, quiet as grief, was the sound of a woman’s desperate weeping.
He stomped on the gas, fishtailed sickly around the next curve. In the distance, he saw a sprinkling of lights that was Ardmore.
Candle- and lamplight in the houses. Some would have generators, he realized. The pub did. Darcy was fine, tucked inside, warm, dry, safe. There was no reason to drive like a madman when there was nothing wrong.
But the sense of urgency, the brutal need to hurry stayed with him. With his hands clamped to the wheel, he skidded around the turn at Tower Hill. And his car stopped dead.
“What the hell is this?” Frantic, infuriated, he twisted the key, pumped impatiently at the gas. But all he got in return was a faint and mocking click.
Swearing, he punched open the glove compartment, snatched out the flashlight he kept there, and felt only grim satisfaction when the beam shot on.
With its next violent gust, the wind nearly swept him off his feet as he climbed out of the car. It seemed to want to. Pitting himself against it, he fought his way to the gate, muscled it open while the rain slashed and the hail pummeled. He would just cut through, save time.
The boggy ground sucked at his feet, slowed him to a jog when he wanted, needed, to run flat out. The stones of the dead speared up like teeth out of a knee-high layer of fog that lay nowhere else.
Carrick, Trevor thought, in disgust and fury. Pulling out all the stops.
Lightning burst again, seemed to glow blue over the grave of the long-dead John Magee.
Flowers? Trevor skidded to a halt, panting, and stared down at the carpet of flowers blooming like a rainbow. The grass was bent and flattened by the force of the storm, but those fragile petals were open and perfect. The wind that shoved against him only fluttered them gently, and no cold finger of fog touched them.
Magic, he thought, then looked out, toward the sea where he could see the white-tipped walls of waves rear and crash. Magic wasn’t always bright and pretty. Tonight, it was full of wrath.
He turned from the grave and rushed on.
He skidded, slithering down the hill. He rapped hard into the trunk of a tree that seemed to rise up out of nowhere. Pain pounded in his shoulder, racing to match the pounding of his heart. Every time he lost his balance, should have tumbled over the stony ground to the road below, he managed to gain it again.
Later, he would think that that alone had been a miracle.
On solid ground once more, he ran, feet pounding against the wet footpath, around yet one more turn. He could see the pub now, the warm, welcoming glow of light against the window.
Lungs burning, he focused on that. Then something drew his gaze over and up, a whisper under the wind? A weeping. He saw in the top window of the Gallagher house a woman. Pale hair glowing against the dark, green eyes watching him.
That was wrong, he thought, and she was gone as soon as he thought it. Against the glass was the faintest of light, and no movement behind it.
Wrong. Something was wrong. So he turned away from the pub and pushed through the wind to the door of the house. He shoved it open, letting in wild wind and wilder rain. Before he could call out, he saw Jude, sitting at the top of the stairs. Her face was sheet white, her hair a tangle, and the nightgown she wore damp with sweat.
“Thank God. Oh, thank God. I can’t get down.” She let out a little gasp, clutched her belly. “The baby. The baby’s coming.”
Ruthlessly he shut down panic, though he took the stairs two at a time to reach her, grip her hand. She squeezed it hard enough to grind bone. “Breathe. In and out, come on. Look at me and breathe.”
“Yes, okay, yes.” Her eyes clung to his, wide, glazed with the pain that ripped through her as the contraction crested. “God, oh, God, it’s huge !”
“I know. I know, honey. Keep breathing. You’re coming down the other side now.”
“Yes. It’s passing, but . . . I never expected . . . It’s all so fast.” Even as her breath gushed out in relief from the absence of that wicked pain, she lifted a shaky hand to push at her hair. “I was having tea in bed. I talked to Aidan and told him I was going to bed. And then the power went out and it all started at once.”
“We’ll get you to the hospital. Everything’s fine.”
“Trevor, it’s too late. I won’t make it.”
Panic wanted to flood back, but he dammed it up before it could touch her. “This business usually takes a while. How far apart are the contractions?”
“I haven’t timed the last few. The phones are out. I couldn’t call the pub or the doctor. I thought if I could get downstairs . . . but I couldn’t. Before, they were close, two minutes, and now they’re coming faster and harder.”
Jesus. Sweet Jesus Christ. “Did your water break?”
“Yes. It’s not supposed to happen so fast. All the classes, all the books. It should take hours. Get Aidan. Please, get . . . Oh, oh, God, here it comes!”
He helped her through it, voice calm and bracing as his mind raced. Much too close, much too hard. He’d seen the process three times and that was enough to know Jude was right. She would never make the hospital.
“Let’s get you into bed. Put your arms around my neck. That’s the way.”
“I need Aidan.” She wanted, badly, to weep. Just to scream out with sobs.
“I know. I’m going to go get him. You stay calm, Jude. You just hold on.” He laid her in bed, glanced
around quickly. She’d managed to light several candles. That would have to do. “When the next one comes, breathe through it. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be all right.” She lay her head back where he’d propped pillows. Had to be. Everything in the world depended on it. “Women used to do this all the time without doctors and hospitals.” She did her best to smile. “Only, damn it, none of them were me. Hurry.”
He didn’t want to think how many contractions she’d go through alone, how frightened she’d looked lying there alone in bed with only candles for light. He didn’t want to think of what could go wrong.
He sprinted back into the storm. The wind had changed and was at his back, pushing him faster, shoving as if it, too, urged him to hurry. Still, it seemed he’d run miles before his hand closed over the knob of Gallagher’s Pub.
He burst into the warmth, the music and laughter.
Darcy spun around, beaming. “Well, now, look what the storm’s blown in.” She got no farther than that before the look in his eye registered. “What is it? Are you hurt?”
He shook his head, gripped her shoulder while he turned to Aidan. “It’s Jude.”
“Jude?”
Trevor had never seen the blood drain as completely, as quickly, from a man’s face before. “What is it?” Even as he asked, Aidan was throwing the pass-through up, bulleting through.
“The baby’s coming. Now.”
“Ring the doctor,” Aidan shouted, and was out the door.
“Now,” Trevor repeated to Darcy. “It’s coming now. There’s no time for the doctor, and the phones are out in any case.”
“Oh, Mother of God.” Then she bit back the spurt of fear. “Let’s hurry, then. Jack, Jack Brennan—man the bar. Someone tell Shawn and Brenna. Tim Riley, will you go for Mollie O’Toole? She’ll know what to do.”
Leaving her jacket on the hook in her rush, she scurried out into the rain. “How did you find her?” She was shouting, but her voice was all but swept away by the wind, drowned under the crashing of the waves against the seawall.
“I was coming down, the house was dark. I thought something might be wrong.”
“No, no, I mean how is she? Is she holding up?”
“She was alone.” Trevor would never forget the way she’d looked, or that he’d had to leave her. “She was scared. In pain.”
Fear skidded down Darcy’s spine. “She’s a tough one, our Jude Frances. She’ll come through it. As for the rest of us, we’ll just have to figure out what to do.”
Darcy shoved at the hair plastered to her face as she rushed into the house. “You don’t have to come up. It must be hard on a man.”
“I’m coming.”
Jude sat up in bed, her hands clutched in Aidan’s as she panted. His eyes were wild, but his voice was crooning. “That’s the way, darling, that’s just fine. Nearly over now. Nearly done.”
She collapsed back, her face running with sweat. “They’re getting stronger.”
“She’s having it here.” Aidan got to his feet, but kept his hand gripped on
