A Bride for Donnigan (24 page)

Tears streamed down her face as she fought on. They were the only moisture with which she fought—for the rains had still not come.

“Oh, God!” cried Kathleen. “God help me. Help me.”

But even as she cried she feared that it was a losing battle. The flames that reached toward the cabin seemed to be stronger than the frail woman who fought against them.

Just as she was about to faint from her exertion, the heavens opened and the rain came pouring down. Kathleen lifted her eyes to the darkened skies and cried a thank you, then returned to her fight with renewed determination. With the help of the rain, she should be able to win her war.

“Kathleen. Kathleen!”

Kathleen heard his call but she didn’t answer. She didn’t stop beating at the flames that were now slowly retreating.

“Kathleen,” he said and he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her toward him.

Kathleen’s face was white except for the streaks of dirty gray from the soot that floated around her. Her hair was dishevelled, her dress torn at the hem. She was drenched from head to toe with the rain she had prayed for, and her eyes were so filled with terror that she looked like a wounded thing—caught in a trap from which she could not flee.

Donnigan pulled her close for one brief minute and held her. “It’s all right,” he tried to comfort her but his own body was shaking. “The rain will stop it. It’s all right.”

He smoothed her hair back from her face and then moved his hands to hold her head, touching the dirty cheeks with his thumbs.

“It’s all right now,” he comforted again.

Kathleen nodded dumbly, the tears mixing freely with the rain on her face.

“You go in,” he said. “See to Sean. I’ll watch this.”

Kathleen noticed that he was soaked through. Near the barn the team stood—in harness and untethered. Donnigan never left the horses like that.

Then Kathleen thought of her young son. He had been terrified by the storm. What would he be feeling now, being dumped quickly on the floor while his mother fled the house? He must be frightened half to death being left alone in the cabin.

Kathleen took one more look at Donnigan then moved from his arms.

She found her son halfway between the house and the burning stack. He had been crying. His eyes were still red and puffy, but now he sat, playing quite happily in a puddle of muddy water. The rain still washed over him, soaking his clothing, running over his blond hair, and dripping from his chin. From time to time he stuck out his tongue to try to catch the drops; then he returned to splashing the dirty water from the puddle up and over his clothes—over his face.

He squealed when he saw Kathleen coming and his hand slapped more excitedly in the puddle, making the muddied water fly even faster.

Kathleen began to cry. Then to laugh. “Look at you!” she exclaimed. “How did you get here?”

She picked up her rain-drenched son and looked toward the house. The door was wide open. Sean could not open doors. Donnigan had not been to the house. That meant only one thing. In her hurry, she had left the door open.

Kathleen hugged Sean close. “You could have been hurt,” she murmured. “You could have been burned. I wouldn’t even have seen you in my concern for the fire.”

Again Kathleen lifted her head heavenward. She had something more for which to be thankful.

The next day she lost the baby she was carrying. The pains had started during the night. There was really nothing they could do to stop it from happening. When it was all over, Kathleen turned her face to the wall and cried uncontrollable tears. She had wanted the baby. Another little Sean. She had already learned to love him. Had been counting the months.

“We have Sean,” Donnigan whispered, wiping away her tears.

But suddenly that didn’t seem to be enough. She had wanted them both. Had wanted both of her babies to love and care for. One couldn’t make up for the loss of the other. It wasn’t that simple.

For the first time, Kathleen felt she truly understood Erma’s pain. No wonder the woman had grieved. It wasn’t just “hope” that she had lost. It was a child. A child she had carried, had loved. Kathleen sobbed for the baby she would never know.

It was a long time until she could fall asleep.

“Kathleen?” The voice was low and gentle. It was Donnigan. Kathleen waited until the voice came again. “Kathleen?”

She stirred to let him know she had heard him.

“How are you?” he asked and dropped beside her on the bed, smoothing back her hair, letting his fingers trace her cheek.

“Where’s Sean?” she asked, rather than answering his question.

“Sleeping. He’s fine.”

He continued to brush back her long dark hair.

“Would you like some supper?”

Kathleen shook her head. She had no desire for something to eat.

“Tea? You should take something.”

“Not tonight,” said Kathleen, and Donnigan did not push further.

There was heavy silence in the room. Donnigan seemed to be battling with his thoughts—or how to say his words.

“Would—would you like to see—see your daughter?” he finally managed, his voice choked.

Kathleen’s eyes widened. She hadn’t thought about the baby’s gender—nor the possibility of seeing her miscarried child.

She tried to swallow—but her throat didn’t work well. She felt the tears sting her eyes. She wanted to answer Donnigan but the words would not come. So she just nodded her head, mutely.

Donnigan brushed at one of the tears on her cheek. “You—you must remember that it—it won’t be like seeing Sean—for the first time,” Donnigan said softly and Kathleen knew he was trying to prepare her. Shelter her again. Love swelled her heart. She felt that Donnigan would go through life trying to shelter her. She was glad.

“She’s very small,” continued Donnigan. “And she isn’t—isn’t like a newborn—exactly. But she’s all there. Even her little fingers. Her toes.”

Kathleen knew now without a doubt that she wanted to see her baby. Had to see her baby. “Bring her to me,” she whispered.

Donnigan let his fingers trail across her cheek, rub her hair, and then he rose from the bed and left the room.

He carried the little bundle to its mother in the palm of one of his big hands. He had bathed the tiny body and wrapped her in a soft face cloth. She was far too tiny to dress in any of the small baby garments.

He did not lay her in Kathleen’s arms as he had done with Sean, but lowered his hand so that Kathleen could look at her child. And yes, she was all there. Even those tiny little fingers that Donnigan had spoken of.

“There
must
be a God in heaven,” Kathleen breathed as she reached a finger out to gently touch the tiny hand, and the tears began to flow again, unchecked.

“Put her in my hands,” said Kathleen when she could speak, and Donnigan gently eased the little body into the hands of the sobbing mother. “I—I would have called her Taryn,” said Kathleen through her tears.

“Taryn,” repeated Donnigan. “I like it. Taryn.”

And both of them knew that Taryn she would always be.

“I’ve made a little—little casket,” said Donnigan, his voice deep with emotion. “I used that cedar handkerchief box from the dresser. I lined it with some of the flannel from your sewing basket.”

“Oh, Donnigan,” wailed Kathleen as she suddenly leaned against him. “I wanted her so much. So much.”

Donnigan held her and they wept together. Then Donnigan gently retrieved the small burden from Kathleen’s hands.

“I thought—under the tree at the end of the garden,” he said softly. “She’ll always be with us then.”

Kathleen was weeping into her pillow.

“I’ll bring her in before I go.”

As promised, Donnigan brought the baby in for her mother to see one last time. She looked like a tiny sleeping doll arranged on the white flannel, the folds gently tucked about her elfin face. The cedar hankie box was plenty big enough. Kathleen was glad that Donnigan had thought of it.

In the morning, the tree at the end of the garden sheltered a small mound of freshly dug earth. Later Donnigan made a small wooden cross, and on it, with his whittling knife, he carved a tiny rosebud. “For our little bud that never became a flower,” he told Kathleen, and brought the tears to her eyes again.

Chapter Eighteen

Fiona

Wallis continued to grieve over Risa. In spite of Donnigan’s effort, there was really no way to track the woman. The man who had driven the stage said he had let her off at the Raeford station and that was the last he had seen of her—and yes, she had been carrying a fair amount of luggage.

From sorrow, Wallis eventually turned to anger. He said some nasty things to Donnigan that were not even repeated to Kathleen.

Kathleen had her own grief. Donnigan was reminded of it over and over as he saw the sadness in her eyes when she looked toward the wooden cradle in the corner or smoothed out a tiny baby garment. He noticed the clusters of fresh flowers that were placed almost daily on the little mound at the back of the yard. The little mound that was quickly sinking to take its place with the ground around it.

“We should build a little fence,” Kathleen said, and Donnigan put aside his harvest work for a day to fulfill her request.

But Kathleen’s grief was no longer voiced. Donnigan felt that it would have been better for her—for both of them—if it was. She wiped away her tears—straightened her back and lifted a stubborn chin.

But part of her seemed withdrawn—shut away—angry. Only with Sean did her old tenderness really return.

“She and Wallis seem to be dealing with the same emotions,” Donnigan told Black one day. “And I don’t know how to help either one of them.”

It was a heavy burden for Donnigan to carry.

For Sean’s first birthday, Kathleen made a cake and they invited Wallis to join them for the party. At first he declined but then changed his mind. He had shared a number of supper hours with them since Risa had left him. Kathleen did not mind the crusty old bachelor, though he was slipping back into his former way of living. Kathleen wondered if he had bathed or changed his shirt since Risa had left.

In spite of the heaviness of the hearts around the table, Sean’s birthday celebration was a joyous occasion and a success. The boy ate too much cake, stuffing it into his mouth with his fingers while his spoon was held idly in his other hand. The grown-ups laughed at his messy face and Sean responded by beaming back at them.

“He sure is one fine boy,” observed Wallis. And then his eyes filled with tears and Kathleen knew he was thinking of Risa again and of the son that he’d never have. Kathleen left the table in pretense of getting more coffee.

“It wasn’t fair of Risa,” Kathleen fumed to herself. She had made her promise before the God in heaven. She’d really had no right to break it.