Niall managed to get Michael to his feet, turning to push him toward his brother as Brigid plunged the knife into his back. It seemed to hit bone and stop, but his howl of agony echoed in the small kitchen. Undeterred, Brigid yanked the blade free and went for Niall again. With his son out of the way, Niall spun to stop her, catching her arm this time before she could bring the knife down. There was blood pouring from his shoulder and from his back, pooling on the floor. Niall teetered weakly, looking as if he might pass out.
He kept his senses enough to wrestle with his wife, trying to pry her fingers from the blade with all his might. But Brigid was uninjured and intent on killing him. He managed to slam her back against the counter, tried to bring her wrist down hard on the edge of the sink. She held on with the strength of a woman scorned. Fading, Niall wrapped his one free hand around her throat, and began to squeeze as he fought to control the knife with his other.
The boys were screaming, watching as their mother’s face drained of color, as she gasped for breath, her feet dancing in macabre rhythm against the bloody floor. But still she gripped the knife. Still she tried to wield it.
“You’re killing her,” Michael screamed.
But what choice did Niall have? If he let her go, she’d do the same to him.
Even as tears filled her eyes and clogged her throat, Danni couldn’t tear her gaze from the terrible scene in front of her. The blade inched closer, Niall squeezed harder and then finally, at last, Brigid dropped to her knees, letting the knife clatter to the floor. Spent, Niall slumped down beside her, still holding her throat, only now the fingers were loose, the touch almost apologetic. Blood streamed from his wounds, turning his shirt a sticky dark red. It seemed there was blood, everywhere. On the floor. Splattered against the faded cupboards. All over Michael.
“Why do you make me hurt you?” Niall asked, and tears streamed down his face. “Why do you—”
With a face like a mask of rage, Brigid snapped her head up, grabbed the knife, and lunged again. Niall’s eyes widened with fear as he watched the glinting blade arc toward him. For a moment, there was resignation, acceptance in his eyes, and Danni thought he’d welcome it, the release that death would bring. And then the look was gone and he moved, throwing his shoulder into her side with a slam that knocked her into the cupboards.
For a long moment, no one moved. No one spoke. The boys seemed to have stopped breathing as they huddled together. Michael held Trevor’s face against his chest to shield him from the sight. Brigid sat propped against the cabinets, staring with shock at the knife protruding from her chest. Niall made a sound like his soul had been ripped out and shredded. He half crawled, half dragged himself to her side, crying as he looked into her eyes. Her lips moved but no sound came out.
“What? What did you say, Brigid?” Niall asked, brushing her hair away from her face. He leaned closer, putting his ear to her lips. She spoke again, still so softly Danni couldn’t make out her words. But whatever she’d said, Niall understood. He held her, weeping as he rocked her body. Then her face froze, her eyes became fixed and sightless, and the last breath wheezed from her lungs.
With a shout of pain and rage, Niall stared at her. He’d lost a lot of blood and his face was as pale as his dead wife’s, but he fought to stay conscious until at last his eyes rolled back and he fell, his head bouncing upon impact with the floor, his arms splayed like Jesus’.
Chapter Twenty-six
T
HE air turned with a shriek, violently wrenching Sean and Danni from the bloody kitchen back into the cottage. It left her feeling sick, like she’d been on the spinning top ride for hours on end. She glanced at Sean’s face, wondering how he’d fared. But he looked back with an expression so blank it frightened her. Was he breathing? Was he alive?
“Sean?”
His eyes shifted to her face. They were dark and stormy gray, deep and desolate green. There was rage in them. There was bewilderment and fear and agony all churning behind the shock of what had happened.
“Sean, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know I could take you—it’s never happened before. I didn’t know that was what we’d see. Your parents . . . I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have made you see that—”
He made a sound deep in his throat and turned away. For a moment it seemed he might say something, but then he didn’t. Without a word, he took clean clothes from the dresser. The click of the bathroom door as it closed behind him echoed through the silent rooms. Numb, Danni listened to the old pipes groan as he turned on the shower. She could picture him, all strength and hard sinew, layered muscles rippling as he stripped away his clothes and tried to cleanse himself of the horror he’d survived . . . again.
But she knew it would stay with him, like a permanent dye that couldn’t be dissipated with soap and hot water. By the need to forget.
Even as she hurt, she understood—he’d just relived something so horrifying even Danni couldn’t bring herself to think of it. Those were his parents who’d fought so bitterly, who’d spilled each other’s blood. It was his mother who lay dead on the cold kitchen floor while he, just a little boy, tried to shield his brother from the terrible truth of it. Of course he wanted to forget.
She glanced back at the closed bathroom door, trying not to make the barrier between them about her—about the two of them.
In the kitchen, she found eggs and a hunk of something that looked suspiciously like uncut bacon. She scrambled the eggs and sliced the meat into a skillet, moving methodically, like the sheep on the hillside. There were potatoes in a hanging basket. No meal was complete without potatoes, she’d heard the women she’d worked with yesterday say. Dutifully she scrubbed and sliced them, adding another chunk of sizzling bacon to the pan. Health conscious Danni winced at the thought of all the grease and fat and carbs in this meal. But what did it matter, really? One way or another, it would all be over soon, wouldn’t it? She would either find herself in a shallow grave or back in her own time, abandoned again. What did it matter which? Neither option seemed to include Sean, did it?
Danni sagged against the counter, letting that roll over her. She knew it instinctively. Whatever happened here, she and Sean would not walk away together.
By the time Sean emerged from the shower, breakfast was ready. His eyes were red, and she knew his grief hovered just beneath the surface. He avoided looking at her as he stood beside the table, waiting for her to sit down before he joined her. If she’d touched him, if she’d asked him to talk to her, he would have cracked in two. She could see it in the stiff way he held himself, in the pleading look that begged her not to break him. Not now. Not until he had the chance to regain some sense of control.
Though she wanted to ignore his silent request, Danni forced herself to honor it. He needed to deal with his emotions before he shared them. She didn’t like it, but she understood.
They ate in silence, both of them hungry enough to clear their plates, neither seeming to notice what they chewed and swallowed. It might have been dog food for all the enjoyment it brought.
Finished, Sean carried his dish to the sink and began to rinse it. “Leave it,” Danni said gently.
He let it clatter to the bottom and then looked up, bracing his hands on the side of the sink as he faced the window. He was a portrait of tension, the muscles of his arms and shoulders bunched tight, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. He was holding something inside, something huge and painful, heavy and unwieldy. She could see it in every line, every edged inch of him. She paused at the table, watching. Wanting to reach out to him, but fearing what she might touch. She didn’t know what she could offer. Didn’t know what he would reject.
He left without saying good-bye, and she let him.
Chapter Twenty-seven
A
FTER she’d finished washing the breakfast dishes, Danni showered and got ready for the day. Colleen had added to her wardrobe, and now there was a soft pair of jeans and a cream cable knit sweater among her choices. She pulled them out. As she did, she saw a pair of leggings and an oversized T-shirt at the bottom of the drawer. She paused, stumbling over their familiarity while at the same time wondering how she could possibly recognize them when the clothes weren’t even hers. And then she remembered . . . she’d been wearing them in that first vision. It was the outfit she would die in . . . the one she’d be buried in with Sean—young Sean.
“Not if I don’t have it on,” she whispered defiantly.
But along with the defiance came the reality that she was running out of time and was no closer to knowing how destiny conspired to put her in that grave with a fourteen-year-old version of the man she’d fallen in love with.
Brooding, frustrated with her inability to connect the dots, she watched as the first ray of sun crested the horizon, heralding the dawn of another day. It turned the sky dusky and pink then gilded red, golden, and finally blue. Blue like Brigid’s eyes. Blue, like Danni’s heart.
She’d been told to report to the MacGrath house by seven. It was just six thirty as she left the cottage, but she didn’t want to be late again and risk Bronagh’s wrath. Besides, what else did she have to do?
She replayed the morning as she went. First Colleen, telling her she could do whatever she set her mind to doing. Then the vision . . . the vision she’d
called
. . . but hadn’t changed. Sean’s mother was still dead, his father still, in a tragic way, responsible. She hadn’t prevented it, no matter how much she wished she could have. What good did it do to dredge up something so painful if it could only be relived? It wasn’t a gift she had. It was a curse.
She entered the kitchen through the back door as she’d been instructed the day before. Heavenly smells wafted in the moist, hot air of the enormous kitchen. She was early, but Bronagh was already bustling in from the dining room with an empty pan and a harried expression. “Ah, there you are now. Early as well. And good it is. I’ve pies in the oven and a potato casserole yet to make.”
“It smells wonderful in here,” Danni said, smiling.
Bronagh beamed at the compliment. “’Tis the twins’ birthday, you know, and wouldn’t they love to have all their favorites today?”
Of course they would
, Danni thought, her heart aching at the love she saw in Bronagh’s face, in the care she took to make their birthday special.
Clearing her throat, Danni asked, “What do you want me to do today?”
“Can you follow a recipe on your own? And don’t be telling me you can if you can’t.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Good,” Bronagh said with a nod. “Here are the steps. Pay attention to the order, for it matters. You’ll need to halve the ingredients as well.” Bronagh’s brows descended in a scowl. “You know how to do that, too?”
Danni nodded and took the handwritten recipe card from Bronagh’s hand, trying to look more confident than she felt.
“Fine. I’ve shopping and errands to run with Mrs. MacGrath. The pie will need to come out of the oven when the timer goes off. You’ll do that for me?”
Danni nodded. “Of course. It smells wonderful.”
Bronagh smiled and the expression crinkled her eyes and changed her face completely. “It’s a peach cobbler, one of Betty Crocker’s own,” she said proudly. “The children love it. And wait until they see the cake I’ve ordered from the bakery. ’Tis a wonder Mary Elizabeth O’Malley is with batter and frosting.”
Bronagh gave her pie one last look, checked the timer, and left Danni to her task. There were no less than thirty ingredients listed on the card and nearly as many steps in the preparation. She propped it up where she could see it and began gathering what she’d need. As she worked, the kitchen door opened and the twins came in.
“Good morning to you, Mrs. Ballagh,” they both said politely as they leaned against the counter to watch her.
“What’s that you’re making?” Dáirinn asked.
“Well, I hope it’s not a mess.”
“Looks like it could be,” Rory told her, eyeing the items she’d set out. “Though it does smell good in here.”
“Bronagh’s got a pie in the oven.”
“Oh,” they said in unison with sage nods.
Danni stared at the two, wondering how she’d ever forgotten she had a brother. Wondering where he would be after tonight. When she returned to her own time, would he be lost to her again? A fierce clenching inside her cried out against the idea of it.
You can do whatever it is you set your mind to . . . .
“You two are up early,” Danni said.
“Mummy brought us breakfast in bed,” Rory told her. “She made us pancakes with Mickey Mouse ears.”
“One day we’ll go to Disneyland,” Dáirinn added. “Have you ever been to Disneyland, Mrs. Ballagh?”
Danni had gone with Yvonne and her children many years ago. It had been at once the most amazing and disappointing day of her life—a glaring showcase of all she’d missed contrasting with all Yvonne offered. She’d been sixteen, almost seventeen, but she’d ridden every ride, eaten every candy, ice cream, and chocolate-covered banana offered. And cried herself to sleep that night, her stomach aching and her heart hollow and hopeful.
“As a matter of fact, I have been to Disneyland. You’ll have an awesome time.”
Pleased, they both smiled. “Mummy has something fun planned for later. A surprise, but we must stay out of the way until then,” Rory said. “It’s very hard when everywhere is in the way.”
“Are we in your way now?” Dáirinn asked.
“No. I’d like the company.”
Dáirinn smiled, and Danni’s heart beat painfully in her chest. It was like being split wide, staring at her own face but seeing an expression that had never been there before. Contentment. Security. Self-assurance. All of these things she’d had at five, but lost along the way to the woman she was now. She’d been loved once. Cherished. And she’d had a companion, a brother. A twin.
She looked up and caught Dáirinn staring at her with a peculiar glitter in her eyes. It was wariness and something else, something that made Danni still as she returned the look. The child shifted, glancing over her shoulder at the open door. Silently she slipped from her stool and shut it.