Dawn of the Golden Promise (63 page)

Gunther shrugged, a mannerism he seemed to have refined to a gesture of elegant indifference. “You knew the odds before you went into this. I was quite direct with you, was I not?”

“Brutally so,” Morgan said dryly. “Nevertheless, I thought the risk worthwhile.”

Gunther's eyes glinted with something Morgan could not read. “And do you still?” the surgeon said quietly. “Think the risk worthwhile, that is?”

Morgan hesitated, his own choleric thoughts of the morning stabbing at him like needles. He found himself suddenly ashamed of his earlier descent into self-pity. Gunther's question, which no doubt was meant as a challenge, had instead reminded him just how much was at stake in all this. And it had also renewed his awareness that he had made a commitment before God to accept the outcome—to make the best of it, and live with whatever transpired.

He attempted to explain as much to Gunther, but when he reached the part about going on as best he could and remaining faithful, no matter the aftermath of the surgery, he could see the drawbridge begin to raise.

“I know you do not understand,” Morgan finished lamely. “How does one explain one's faith?”

“One does not try. Not to a heathen like myself,” Gunther said caustically. “But I do not begrudge you your illusions, Fitzgerald. If they are of any help to you in all this, then guard them well.”

With one brisk movement, he picked up his medical case and took a step toward the door. “Ah—” He turned to look at Morgan. “About the cast—”

Morgan clenched his hands.

“Monday,” said the surgeon in his offhanded way. “We will remove the cast on Monday.”

Morgan watched Gunther leave the room, banging the door behind him as was his way. A torrent of relief washed over him.

Monday.
On Monday he would be liberated from this plaster prison. Although he knew that days, even weeks, of the most rigorous physical training still awaited him, for the moment he refused to think of anything but the fact that on Monday, he would have a proper wash. Turn over in bed as often as he liked. Enjoy the blessed absence of the itching and burning. On Monday, he would hold his wife in his arms. Hug his children. Scratch wherever it itched. Repeatedly.

Then the fear set in. A certain dread of the therapy to come was natural, Morgan supposed; Gunther had already warned it would be painful and relentless, enough to try even the most stalwart will.

And then there was the ongoing fear about what might come after the therapy—or, more to the point, what might
not
come.

Although, at this moment, Monday and the weeks thereafter seemed almost a lifetime away, Morgan was realist enough to know that the time was fast approaching when the question that had nagged at him for months would be answered: would he walk? When all the pain and struggle had finally come to an end—would he walk?

He dared not allow himself even to speculate on what might lie ahead. But there was one thing he could not ignore. He had not spoken of it to Gunther—had not told anyone, even Sandemon—for he was not yet prepared to give any credence to what might be merely a trick of his imagination.

During the past two weeks, mostly in the late night hours, he had thought he felt a stinging sensation in his legs. The first time it happened, he allowed it might have been a dream. But it had occurred since then, more than once.

With the cast, it was nearly impossible to identify the location of such vague feelings, if indeed the feelings existed at all. There was also the fact that he had imagined sensation in his legs on numerous occasions after the shooting, long before there had even been a thought of surgery.

God alone knew what it meant, just as He alone knew what the coming weeks would bring. And at this point in time, Morgan thought he should be grateful for that. He was facing a rigorous struggle, the culmination of which could not be predicted. What man would be strong enough to persevere if he already knew that at the close of his efforts nothing waited but the end of a dream?

A few minutes later, Sandemon entered the room.

“So then—is there any news from Dr. Gunther today?” he asked, smoothing the bed linens and straightening the table beside the bed.

Morgan looked at him. “Our esteemed surgeon actually laughed,” he said, holding his larger announcement for the moment. “Aloud, can you believe it?”

Sandemon's eyebrows lifted in surprise. “An amazing thing, surely.”

Morgan saw his thoughtful expression. “What? I know that look. You have had an idea.”

Sandemon smiled. “I am wondering if we may not eventually learn that this surgery was not entirely for you.”

Puzzled, Morgan frowned. “What do you mean?”

Sandemon shrugged lightly. “I think Dr. Gunther may also benefit from this acquaintanceship. He is growing to like and respect you, that much is obvious. Perhaps you can have a gentling influence on him. Our Lord might even use you to soften the surgeon's heart.”

Morgan gave a slight wave of the hand in dismissal of such a notion. “The man is hopeless.”

“No man is hopeless,” Sandemon said easily.

“That one is, I assure you. Besides, we will be gone, on our way back to Ireland, long before even the smallest seed of influence could penetrate that stubborn head.”

“Nevertheless, a seed planted…” Sandemon let his words drift off, but his meaning was clear.

Morgan merely uttered a short sound of disbelief, then said, “He will remove the cast on Monday.”

The other's dark eyes searched his. “At last,” he said softly.

“Aye, at last. But we still have a long road to travel.”

Sandemon nodded. “Remember that you do not walk the way alone.”

Morgan looked at him and managed a tight smile. “Pray that I walk it at all,
mo chara.
Pray that, if you will.”

45

He'll meet the soul which comes in love
and deal it joy on joy—
as once He dealt out star and star
to garrison the sky,
to stand there over rains and snows
and deck the dark of night—
so, God will deal the soul, like stars,
delight upon delight.

ROBERT FARREN (1909–1984)

Christmas Eve, 1850

Q
uinn? Could I have a moment, please?”

Quinn O'Shea stopped, eyeing Daniel Kavanagh with caution as he descended the stairway. She still felt awkward with him, almost as if she had failed him somehow. He was just as ill at ease with her, she knew. Ever since he'd learned about her and Denny, he had avoided her. Yet he was never anything but polite, if remote.

Occasionally, Quinn still caught him watching her with wounded eyes. It seemed that he had not completely given over his infatuation. She wondered if the Whittakers had made Daniel aware of her past. There was no reason to expect them
not to
tell him, of course, but it was difficult all the same to think of him knowing.

His family had been kindness itself when she finally told them the truth. Denny had gone with her, and although that hadn't made it any easier, his presence had at least supported her through the ordeal.

Quinn had detected no change in their demeanor with her since then, but there was no reason to assume it would be the same with Daniel. Still, he was smiling just now as he came toward her.

He stopped a comfortable distance away and stood, one hand at his side, the other behind his back. He looked uncertain, as if now that he'd approached her he might change his mind and walk away.

Finally he spoke. “I just wanted to tell you—to thank you, that is—both you and Sergeant Price—for offering to stay with the boys tonight, so my family could spend Christmas Eve at the Burkes. It was very kind of you—and the sergeant.”

He seemed to stumble over Denny's name, as if it stuck slightly in his throat.

“Why…it's no trouble at all,” Quinn replied, still somewhat guarded as to his intentions. “It's our pleasure, to be sure.”

When he said nothing more, but simply stood there, looking altogether uncomfortable, Quinn moved to ease the stiffness between them. “Your friend, Mr. Fitzgerald—how is he? Has there been any change?”

Daniel shook his head. “None, I'm afraid. Oh, he seems to be feeling a bit stronger, but he can't—he still has to use the wheelchair.”

Again there was an uneasy silence between them. After a moment he brought his hand from behind his back, holding out to Quinn a small, finely wrapped gift.

“This is for you,” he said, watching her.

Quinn looked at him, then at the package in his hand.

He inclined his head toward the gift. “You can open it now if you like. But there's something I'd like to say first.”

Quinn lowered her eyes before his steady gaze, troubled at the thought that he might still have feelings for her. She valued Daniel's friendship, had hoped for an end to the stilted formality between them. After another instant's hesitation, she took the gift, at the same time bracing herself for whatever it was he had to say.

A thin line of perspiration banded his forehead as he clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides. “I just want to tell you—” He cleared his throat before going on. “I'm awfully glad, for you and Sergeant Price, that is. He's a fine man. My folks think the world and everything of him, and I like him a lot, too. You're—you're a wonderful girl, Quinn, and you deserve the best.” He paused. “That's all I wanted to say. You can open your gift now, if you want.”

Dumbstruck, Quinn stared at him.
He knew.
He knew the truth, she was sure of it. And this was his way of telling her he thought no less of her for it. Like his family, he was accepting her just as she was.

To her dismay, she thought she might burst into tears. She bit her lip, then attempted a smile. “Why, what a nice thing for you to say, Daniel Kavanagh.”

A light flush crept over his features, and he glanced away for a second or two. “Aren't you going to open your gift, then?”

“My gift…oh yes, of course!” Her eyes widened with amazement as she withdrew a small, narrow box. With one finger, she tipped open the lid. Inside was a pair of delicately fashioned reading glasses.

Quinn gaped at the glasses with disbelief. “Oh…oh, Daniel!” She let out a long breath, staring at the spectacles. “Oh, my! These—these are for me?”

“Put them on, why don't you? Let's see if they're right for your eyes.”

No longer could Quinn hold her tears in check. Indeed, she could scarcely see at all for a moment as she carefully picked up the eyeglasses and slid them on.

“Here,” Daniel said, reaching into his vest pocket and handing her a small card. “Read this.”

Quinn drew in a sharp breath as her eyes scanned the small, precise printing on the card. “Oh, isn't it clear entirely?” she burst out. “‘Nicholas A. Grafton, M.D.,' it says!”

She looked up. “Daniel Kavanagh,” she choked out, “never have I had such a fine gift! But how—how did you know I needed eyeglasses?”

“How—” Daniel blinked. “Well, I expect I assumed as much when I saw how you pressed your nose into the spine of the book at our grammar lessons.” He paused. “Good Christmas, Quinn O'Shea. And—tell Sergeant Price the same for me, if you will.”

Quinn thought he might have looked a bit wistful as he turned and went back upstairs. Perhaps not, though. Perhaps it was only that she could see his expression so much more clearly now, with her new spectacles.