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Mind. Yourself.
Her head went light. She shook it to clear it. She felt Liam watching her and looked over. Sadness ravaged his face, and his jaw was locked tight. They shared something wordless before she walked over to Ghislaine, who was photographing the scene with her phone.
When she touched the woman’s back gently, she jerked. “Oh, Taylor. It’s— I have no words, and I need some. Because I’m going to fry the people who did this in the media.”
They both locked eyes and then had to look away as tears surged. “Let me help.”
“You have your phone?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
She reached into her pocket and pulled it out, gripping it hard to control her emotions.
“That’s our best tool right now.” Ghislaine rolled her shoulders back. “We want to take moving photos of this monstrosity. I’d photograph Donal and the others trying to soothe those poor sheep, but every time I get close, I want to cry. I’ll never forget the look on Donal’s face when we arrived. He jokes about all the troubles he’s had with sheep, but he loves them.”
“We all do,” she said, taking Ghislaine’s hand.
The woman nodded crisply. “Yes. Word is spreading far and wide, I expect. We need to finish taking pictures before the whole village and the surrounding townspeople arrive.”
But Taylor thought that would make its own powerful statement. Hundreds of people coming out to pay their respects to these sheep that had given inspiration to so many. They needed to recreate these emotions for people online. Maybe they could hold a moment of silence? She would have to think on it and fast.
She fell into her razor-sharp Veritas zone. She would need to work quickly and without emotion to take the photos they needed. Liam could find her when he was ready.
The images she captured would change her. It was like that every time she painted a mural. And seeing strong, grown men wiping tears from their faces as they viewed the carnage would take a chunk out of anyone’s heart. She photographed the image of Keegan’s wife, Lisa Ann, kneeling on the grass, gathering sheared wool together to form a word. She had to force back her tears when she saw what it was.
Love.
Rage shot through her. Malcolm Coveney wouldn’t know love or kindness or even basic decency if it bit him in his big ass. She imagined him laughing as he ate a full Irish breakfast, not at all put off his appetite by what he’d done, and she had the urge to get in her car and head over to his office to give him a piece of her mind.
Then she spotted Sorcha at the far end of the pasture, her dress billowing around her. When the woman beckoned her, she put her phone away, her gut sensing something, although she didn’t know what. Her feet made impressions in the grass as she navigated the field of desecrated wool. When she reached Sorcha, the woman’s eyes were shining with crystalline tears.
She pointed to the barbwire fence. For a moment, Taylor didn’t understand. Then she spotted it. A ripped swatch of muddy brown cloth.
Her gaze flew to Sorcha. “You’ll remember I said I tried to help. This is my offering for what happened today.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, feeling the force of the wind grow around them.
“As Mary Kincaid was leaving, I appeared.”
Taylor’s eyes latched on to the cloth, recognizing it from the morning Mary had come to see the mural, raging at its injustice to her. What a liar! “She tore her dress.”
“Yes, in fright.” Her dark hair blew as the wind rushed around them. “I wanted to scare her, and I did. The ones who govern me will have to decide if what I did was right and just according to our rules. But I could not let her and her kind continue on in such a way. To torment the living who can fight back is a horrible enough offense. But to maliciously harm and kill animals such as these, who would never harm anyone…”
They both fought tears.
“Maybe it’s because I was Carrick’s wife, and I came to understand sheep like a true Irishman. But this could not be borne. You’ll want John Hart and the others to see it.”
Taylor nodded, and because she trusted her instincts, she took out her phone and captured that horrible swatch of muddy cloth flapping in the breeze from where it was pinned to the barbwire. “They should burn in hell for this.”
“As the Irish say, from your lips to God’s ears.” Sorcha looked off and gave the slightest motion of a wave.
Taylor glanced back to see Carrick striding toward them, his powerful legs moving quickly across the grass. The rest of the men were right behind him.
“I let them see me.” Her smile was sad. “Someday, I hope you can tell Carrick the full story of what I did over a pint as his children run around him. But not for a while yet. When you tell him, I want him to be able to smile and think, ‘That’s my Sorcha.’”
Fighting more tears, she managed to say, “You have my word.”
Her ephemeral hand brushed Taylor’s face. “And I know how strong your word is. My final thoughts for you—as I am unclear whether we will see each other again—is to remember what I said about other people being here to support you and Liam. You might feel as if you two are alone, fighting against ebony Irish seas, but there are others who would help you. You must reach deep into your heart to decide on your next steps. For the challenges ahead are great. I wish you God’s speed, Taylor. Youarethe one Caisleán has been waiting for to finish this.”
She disappeared in a flash of light. A hand touched her shoulder and swung her around. Carrick’s face was lined with sorrow. “What did she say?”
