A Passion Redeemed

  "And a sprained wrist," Emma said.

  Bridget's eyes were hopeful. "She would have no choice."

  He sipped his coffee slowly, studying the muffin crumbs on the table as he listened. "Why doesn't she want to leave? Because of me?"

  "Partly, I'm sure, but not all ..."

  He looked up, sensing the hesitation in her tone. "What else?"

  Bridget chewed on her lip, flexing her clasped hands on the table. Her voice was so low he had to lean in to hear it. "I have a suspicion that Rigan may have threatened her."

  "What?"

  Her worried gaze flicked to his face. "When I told her I was sending her home, she panicked, saying she couldn't leave, ever."

  He leaned his arms on the table, his gaze glued to hers. "Maybe she meant because she didn't want to leave ... because of you, Mima, and Emma."

  Bridget gnawed on her lip. "Maybe, but I don't think so. When I told her she could just go for the holidays and return later, she seemed frantic, saying she couldn't risk it."

  Mitch grabbed his coffee. "She could mean risking her father not letting her return."

  Bridget swiveled in the chair to face him. "No, something inside tells me it's more than that. I have this sick feeling that Rigan may have threatened harming Mima or Emma or me if Charity left." She shivered, as if warding off a cold chill. "All I know is that he pushed the ring in my hand that night and told me in no uncertain terms that he and Charity would be married."

  Mitch slapped his cup on the table and hissed something under his breath. "Over my dead body," he said. "And his."

  Bridget touched his hand. "So you see, Mitch, you're the only one I can ask to see her safely home. Will you do it?"

  He stared hard at the cup in his hands several seconds before answering. He finally put it down. "Yes."

  Emma jumped up from her chair and threw her arms around his shoulders from behind. "Oh, Mitch, I was so frightened you wouldn't do it. Thank you so much!"

  He grunted. "I'm not the ogre Charity's convinced you I am."

  Emma giggled and sat back down. "Ogre? No, I think thickheaded' was the word she used, wasn't it, Bridge?"

  Bridget smiled and patted his hand. "Several times, as I recall." Her smile faded. "Tell me, Mitch, will it be a problem to get away from the paper with all that's going on in Dublin?"

  "It will be for my editor, but he'll get by."

  Bridget's brows wedged up in concern. "But I don't want you losing your job."

  Mitch gulped the rest of his coffee and shoved the cup away. He slanted back in his chair and sighed, closing his eyes to massage his temples. Several seconds passed before he opened them again. When he did, he flashed them a devious smile. "I wouldn't worry if I were you, Bridget. When I'm done with Rigan Gallagher, I won't have a job to lose."

  Michael Reardon jerked his desk drawer open and groped for the aspirin. He hurled four to the back of his throat and washed them down with cold coffee.

  Mitch gave him a wry smile. "You know, that can't be good for you, all that aspirin."

  Beads of sweat started to gleam on Michael's bald spot. "Neither are you, but I keep you around. What the devil do you mean you've got bad news?"

  Mitch sailed a piece of paper at him and plopped in a chair. He leaned back, hands hanging limp off the armrests.

  "What's this?" Michael snapped the paper up and began to read. His bushy brows bunched up thick and dark, like a threatening thundercloud. "What the devil are you doing? Have you lost your mind?"

  "Nope. But I'm about to lose my job, so I figured I'd save you the trouble."

  Michael wadded the paper and chucked it in the waste can. "You're an idiot. Consider it denied."

  "You can't deny a resignation, Michael. I quit. You have no say in it whatsoever. This is merely a courtesy."

  Michael shot up from his chair. He shoved his shirtsleeves up and leveled beefy palms on his desk. Mitch could feel the blast of his ire. "Courtesy? My best editor sashays through that door to quit in the throes of one of the bloodiest times we've seen, and you call it courtesy? I call it courtesy that I don't lunge across this desk and rip the hairs off your chest."

  Mitch couldn't help it. He grinned. "Ouch! Come on, Michael, 'sashays'? You can accuse me of a lot of things, but I don't sashay."

  A swear word sizzled the air as Michael snatched the pencil tucked behind his ear and hurled it at him.

  With a quick duck, Mitch released a low whistle. "You're taking this better than I thought."

  "You think this is funny? How about when I drop over from a heart attack? Will that be funny too?"

  "I'm sorry, Michael. And, no, I don't think this is funny. It's just that if I don't retain some humor, I'm gonna blow like you've never seen before."

  Dropping into his chair, Michael cuffed the back of his firered neck with his stubby hand and grunted. "What the devil is going on?"

  Mitch blew out his constrained tension in one long, heavy breath and propped his elbows on Michael's desk. He scrubbed his face with his hands. "I'm quitting so you won't have to fire me."

  Michael leaned forward and gritted his teeth. "And why would I do that?"

  "Because when I leave here today, I am going to hunt Rigan Gallagher down and beat him to a bloody pulp. Literally."

  Michael shot up again. "Blast you, Mitch, why do you have to go looking for trouble?"

  Mitch stood and stared Michael down. "Because right now, Faith's sister is lying half dead in a bed with a broken arm and leg, a sprained wrist, a possible concussion, and more black bruises than a crate of four-month-old bananas."

  His editor blinked and slumped back in the chair. "Curse the swine, is she okay?"

  "No, she's not okay. That cowardly lowlife terrorized her. He beat her silly and God knows what else." Mitch started pacing.

  "Is she gonna press charges? Go after the scum?" Michael pawed his sweaty forehead.

  Mitch stopped, one brow jerking up. "Press charges? Against a Gallagher? Oh, wouldn't that be rich. A poor shop girl against Gallagher's millions. Do you have any idea how they would crucify her?"

  He nodded and reached into his back pocket for his handkerchief. "You're right. I wasn't thinking." He mopped the back of his neck. "But can't you just threaten him? Old man Gallagher likes you. If you just chew Rigan out, you might not lose your job."

  "No, Michael. I should have done this a long time ago, but I didn't." Mitch sighed and stared past his editor. "I'm not going to make that mistake again."

  "There must be another way. Talk to Mr. Gallagher, tell him what happened. Maybe he'll deal with Rigan on his own."

  "No, this is my fight, and I'm going to finish it. Besides, Faith's grandmother asked me to take Charity back to Boston and I agreed. We leave in a few days. I'll be gone at least two weeks. Maybe more."

  "Then make it a leave of absence. I'll talk to Mr. Gallagher, try to fix it with him." Michael leaned forward, his eyes pleading. "You're not gonna kill the lowlife, are ya?"

  Mitch's lips twisted. -1 don't know, Michael. I have a lot of pent-up rage."

  "No, you've got more brains than temper, although not by much." Michael exhaled and collapsed in his chair. "So, it's settled. You're on a leave of absence. Period. Make sure you see me the minute you get back in town. In the meantime, think Jamie's up to filling in?"

  "Yeah, Jamie's your man." Mitch shifted uncomfortably, his hands propped on the back of the chair. He took a deep breath and pulled an envelope from his suitcoat. "I guess this is it, then. Mind breaking the news to Jamie and Bridie after I leave, and then the rest of my group? And will you give this letter to Kathleen?"

  Michael nodded.

  "Thanks." Mitch dropped the sealed envelope on the desk and headed toward the door, his stomach in knots. Facing Bridie, Jamie, and Kathleen right now was more than he could handle. He was about to do something rash, and he didn't want them trying to talk him out of it. As for Kathleen, he'd been unfair to her in the past. He wouldn't ask her to wait. The last thing he
wanted was to string her along with false hope. But maybe just maybe-when he came back, they could start fresh.

  "Mitch."

  He paused and turned, his hand on the knob. "Yeah?"

  "Don't let that maggot kick your butt, ya hear? I want to do it myself when ya get back."

  He forced a grin. "In your dreams, old man." He closed Michael's door behind him and glanced across the newsroom. Jamie was lounging with his feet on his desk, probably laughing at one of Bridie's off-color remarks. Even from this distance, Mitch could see the blush on Kathleen's face. A spasm jerked in his cheek. This was going to be tough.

  He strode by and flicked Jamie's feet off as he passed. "Jamie, there's a list on my desk a mile long of things I need you to do. I'm leaving early." He strode in his office and snatched his coat off the hook.

  Bridie glanced at her watch. "But, it's only two. What about that budget for Michael?"

  Mitch scooped a stack of papers off his desk and tossed them on Bridie's. "Done. All it needs is your fine-tuning, Mrs. O'Halloran." He wrestled his coat on. "Kathleen, Bridie, Jamie's going to need your help. I'm taking a few days off."

  "But where are you going?" Bridie lunged to her feet.

  He started for the door, glancing over his shoulder. "None of your business. Good night."

  Her voice trailed him out the door. "Well, have fun, you tyrant. We'll be here pounding the keys and carrying your load."

  He blasted through the door of the Times with a surge of relief, grateful to escape into the cool rush of autumn air. He took a deep breath before pressing his lips into a grim line. Yeah, he'd be doing some pounding of his own. And carrying a load that may well break his back. He flipped up the collar of his jacket and headed to his car. And it would be anything but fun.

  Charity surveyed the damage in the mirror. Bile rose to her throat.

  Again.

  She couldn't get used to her reflection in the glass. The right side of her face was still swollen, its puffiness in stark dissymmetry to the smooth curve of the other, finally healed. She lifted her hand to touch the bluish streak along her cheekbone and flinched. She blinked wide, noting that her right eye, still a bit swollen, sported a fading shiner that rivaled those of a pub brawl on St. Pat's. She shivered and turned away, closing her eyes to block out the image in the mirror Emma held. "Don't let me see until I really start to heal, no matter how I beg."

  "As if that's possible. All of your whining and pleading wears me down. What makes you think I'll do better next time?" Emma laid the mirror on the dresser and chuckled.

  Charity tried to smile and moaned instead. She put a hand to her head, shielding her bloated eye. "Oh ... don't make me laugh. It hurts even to smile."

  "Not as much as it hurts to cry. Ready for lunch?" Emma sat in the chair by the bed and leaned in to push a stray curl from Charity's eyes.

  "Can I feed myself?"

  Emma sighed. "We've been over this time and again. You're right-handed, are you not? With a broken right arm? And a left-wrist sprain? How do you propose to eat?"

  Charity squirmed in the bed, wiggling to sit up. "Well, if you'll be kind enough to assist, I can try it left-handed. A most sloppy southpaw, perhaps, but at least feeding myself."

  Emma shook her head. "Pure, unadulterated obstinacy. You are truly queen."

  "And you, Emma Malloy, are my loyal subject, so stop moaning and give me a boost."

  With another sigh, Emma wrapped her arms around Charity's waist and gave her a gentle tug to elevate her to a sitting position. "How does your leg feel?"

  "Fine if you like dragging fifty pounds of plaster of paris around."

  "Doc Simms just wanted to make sure you didn't sabotage his hard work. Does it hurt?"

  Charity wiggled her toes. "Surprisingly, no. But the blackand-blue marks all over my body are really annoying. I never knew a body could ache in so many places."

  Her friend's eyes softened. "You're a trooper, my friend. Even Doc Simms thinks so. You've come along faster in four days than any patient he's ever seen. Must be the prayers."

  Charity rolled her eyes, then grimaced, hand to head. "No, it must be the boredom. When did the doctor say I could go back to work?"

  "He hasn't said." Emma reached for the bowl of stew, then flipped a napkin in Charity's lap. She set the dish on top, avoiding Charity's gaze.

  "Well, I certainly intend to ask." She reached for the utensil, but her grasp was precarious at best. She awkwardly buried the spoon in the stew, feeling every bit the invalid. Gritting her teeth, she ignored the pain and ladled the broth into her mouth. "When is he coming back?"

  I don't know," Emma mumbled, settling in the chair once again. "Tell me when you need a drink. Your grandmother sent up apple cider."

  "This is good. I'm finally starting to feel like a human being again."

  "Charity .. .

  She looked up, the spoon hidden deep in her mouth. "Mmmm?"

  Eyes fixed on the cider propped in her lap, Emma shifted in the chair. "I've been ... well, I've been worried about something ..."

  The spoon plunked back into the bowl. Charity leaned her head back against the pillow while she rested her sore wrist on the blanket. "What?"

  Emma hesitated. "Well ... you haven't spoken one word about what happened that night. At first, we left you alone because we knew you were in shock. But we need to know. Was it Rigan who beat you ... or did he find you in the park like he said?"

  The mention of Rigan's name constricted Charity's throat, narrowing her passage of air. It hurt when she swallowed. "I don't want to talk about it," she whispered.

  "You have to tell us the truth."

  She closed her eyes and breathed in slowly, desperate to calm the sudden racing of her pulse. Fear shivered through her. Fear for Emma. Fear for herself. Rigan had made it clear. If Charity left Dublin, he'd retaliate against Emma. If she told Emma the truth, Emma would tell Grandmother. And Grandmother would force her to go home. She took another breath, deeper this time, then winced at the soreness it produced. Doc Simms said five to seven weeks before she could walk. There was no way she could travel till then. And Faith's wedding would be over. Done. Maybe Grandmother would let her stay. She shivered. But not if she knew Rigan had hurt her.

  She finally spoke, her voice barely a whisper. "Promise me, Emma. Promise you won't tell Grandmother or Mima."

  "No, Charity, I can't ..."

  She gripped Emma's hand. "I won't tell you unless you promise."

  Pale and biting her lip, Emma finally nodded. "All right. I promise."

  Charity sagged against the pillow. Tears stung her eyes. "Yes, it was Rigan."

  A shudder rippled through Emma. She wrapped her arms around her middle. "Why didn't you tell the police officer that night?"

  She stared straight ahead. "I was afraid. Rigan ... he ... said he would do terrible things if I told anyone ..."

  Emma laid a hand on Charity's arm. "Your grandmother and I ... well, all of us ... we believed it was him all along, that he was lying." She bit her lip and began to fiddle with the glass in her hands. "There's ... something else."

  "What?"

  Emma flushed. "I have to know, Charity. Rigan ... did he...

  The blood siphoned from her face and tension strained in her jaw. "No. He didn't. Not that he didn't have every intention."

  "How ... how did you stop him?"

  She hesitated, focusing on the bowl in her lap. "I bit his ear."

  Silence.

  She looked up. Emma's mouth was gaping.

  "You bit his ear?"

  Charity nodded, pride swelling in her chest. "Drew blood too. And then I stabbed him with his own umbrella."

  Emma gasped. "Oh, dear! Is that when he beat you?"

  "No. That didn't happen until I bolted from the car. He was a madman when he finally caught up with me in Paley Park. I was running so hard in the dark that I tripped ... on a root, I think. All I know is I heard something crack in my leg right before I hit my head on a rock.
I screamed. He found me, then, and he was livid, telling me this little jaunt was going to make it 'worth his while.' He began pawing at my blouse and skirt, and when I tried to fight him off, he started beating me, twisting my arms behind my back. I was screaming, and I honestly believe he would have raped me then and there, except for the bobby on his nightly round. Rigan picked me up then, just as the officer approached. He whispered in my ear-threatened me, really-to keep quiet or ..." A shiver traveled her spine. "The next thing I know, he was carrying me in his arms, telling the officer I'd been mugged."

  "Dear Lord, it's the grace of God that blessed bobby arrived."

  Charity's lips twisted. "Yeah, well, the 'grace of God' could have come a bit sooner to suit me. And spared me broken bones in the process." She took another taste of stew, scrunched her nose, and tossed the spoon back in the dish. "Suddenly I've lost my appetite."

  "Do you want cider?" Emma asked, removing the bowl.

  Charity sighed and inched down in the bed. "No, I think I'll get some rest. But tell Grandmother thank you for me, will you?" She glanced up. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Emma. Rory's the biggest fool alive. Has he tried to get in touch with you at all?"

  Emma shook her head. "He had one of his drinking buddies drop off a note at Shaw's." She paused to pick up the napkin and adjust the covers.

  "And?"

  "Well, I believe his exact words were 'Good riddance.' Said not to bother coming home as his new missus-to-be has already moved in." Emma blinked and swiped at her eyes.

  Charity's face hardened. "Men. Worthless creations, the lot of 'em." She closed her eyes.

  "Not Mitch Dennehy," Emma whispered.

  Charity grunted. "Especially Mitch Dennehy. It's his fault I'm in this predicament in the first place."

  Emma didn't answer.

  Charity opened her lids a slit. "Don't you? I mean think this is his fault, at least partially?"