“Pardon?”
He glanced up at her sheepishly. “It was strange, when they brought me here—to the hospital, I mean. I suppose I was dreaming, but I felt like I was a boy in the hills again. I’d forgotten how right they are when they call this the Emerald Isle. The wind was blowing, setting up a real howl. And I was running back to the cottage where I grew up, like I was a kid going home. I heard someone—I think it was my mother—singing an old Irish song, crooning in the old Gaelic. The sun seemed to be setting. There were bursts of light, and shadows falling, but I didn’t feel scared of them, even though I knew I should. It was beautiful, and I felt like I could run forever…but then I heard my daughter’s voice, and suddenly I was aware that I was in the hospital, and that I had to fight, had to live. I had to live because I had to go home. To my daughter.”
“Ah,” Caer said.
“Caer?”
She started, looking up.
Michael was standing in the doorway, summoning her. He was in a white lab coat with the name “Dr. Michael Haven” embroidered on the pocket.
“Excuse me,” she said to Sean.
“Oh, Lord, forgive me. I have taken up too much of your time,” Sean told her.
“No, no, it’s all right,” she said as she rose, then smiled and squeezed his hand. “I’ll be back.”
“And glad of it I’ll be, lass,” he told her.
Her smile deepened; he was sinking back into a few Irish cadences in his speech.
“I’ll just talk to the family a bit,” he told her, and nodded toward the picture at his bedside.
She had to laugh, though looking at the happy grouping made her feel…as if she were definitely missing out. In the photo, Sean had his arm around a beautiful young woman in her early twenties, who looked up at him with all a daughter’s adoration of her father. Then came a woman—his wife, but not the girl’s mother. Sean had told her that his first wife had passed away. His new wife was only a few years older than his daughter. On the other side of Sean were three tall—and, she had to admit, handsome—men, all clearly related to one another. Brothers, Sean had said. An old woman sat in a chair in front of the rest. Bridey, Sean’s aunt, who lived with him.
Bridey had the same bright blue eyes as Sean and his daughter. Her expression held a mixture of wisdom, kindness and compassion. Caer knew she would love Bridey, were she ever to meet the woman.
But it was the brother standing closest to Sean who never failed to attract her attention.
She figured that he had to be about six-two, and his hair was a light auburn. His eyes were direct and seemed to look right out at Caer. Every time she found herself staring at the picture, she was startled to feel a little tug at her heartstrings; she was sure she’d never seen such eyes before. They weren’t blue, weren’t green. They were the true aqua of the Caribbean, startling against his tanned features, arresting, piercing, and even, despite being only a photograph, assessing.
She had thought at first that he was Sean’s son-in-law, but he’d told her no, the Flynn boys were like the sons he’d never had.
“He’s on his way here,” Sean told her now.
“Pardon?” Caer drew her eyes away from the picture, embarrassed that she’d been caught staring.
“Zach Flynn,” Sean said. “Kat convinced him I need an escort home.” He sighed dispiritedly. “We look like a nice family in that shot, huh? Not quite so, I’m afraid. You marry a younger woman, and everyone thinks she’s a gold digger. Who would have thought I’d spend my golden years trying to be a peacekeeper?”
“Well, I’m sure things will work out for the best,” she said. Which was a crock, she knew, but most of what people said in the hospital was a crock. It went with the territory.
“Caer?”
She heard her name again. Michael. She should have followed him by now, she realized.
“Excuse me,” she said again to Sean, and left.
Michael was heading down the hall, and she quickly followed him.
He stepped into an office, waiting for her to join him. As soon as she did, he closed the door. She felt him at her back—not a comfortable feeling.
He walked around and stood behind the desk. “What are you doing?” he asked her.
“What do you mean, what am I doing?” she demanded, determined not to let him put her on the defensive.
“Just what I said—what are you doing?”
“Talking to Sean O’Riley,” she said.
“You’re supposed to be observing, trying to find out what’s going on.”
“Well, if I’m trying to find out what’s going on, talking to him seems like a good strategy to me,” she said flatly.
He shook his head and began pacing, running his fingers through his hair, glancing at her with irritation.
“You’re getting too emotionally involved.”
“I am not!” she protested.
“Excuse me. I am the one in charge here,” he told her.
She fell silent.