Perfect Timing

  Quincy hauled in a ragged breath and squeezed his eyes shut. Focus, he ordered himself. His brother needed him to say all the right things, and his mind had gone as blank as a crashed computer screen. “Clint, no matter what happens, this isn’t your fault. You took her in to see competent doctors here. They just didn’t realize what they were dealing with at first, and we lost precious time. If you’re sure she’s in the best hands available, then we just have to trust in the team up there and pray like crazy that she takes a sudden turn for the good.”

  “I’m fresh out of prayers.” Clint sniffed, and Quincy heard a muffled sound like cloth brushing the cell phone. He could almost see his brother wiping his nose with his shirtsleeve. “The worst part is that she’s begging to go home.”

  To die, was Quincy’s first thought.

  Clint blew that theory all to hell by saying, “She’s convinced she isn’t dying. She says she had a vision and saw our third child, a little boy we’ll name Francis Wayne after Dad. I can tell she believes it, clear to the bottom of her heart. She thinks she’s going to get well and have another child.” A brief moment of quiet came over the air. Then Clint added, “You know how, when I first met Loni, I discounted her visions as a bunch of hocus-pocus crap, but she made a believer out of me. I’ve never doubted her visions since—until now.”

  Quincy felt tears trickling down his cheeks and turning to ice where they gathered at the corners of his mouth. “What she sees in her visions is never wrong. Hell, even the FBI acts as if everything she tells them comes straight from the Holy Grail.”

  “Exactly,” Clint said, his voice pitched barely above a whisper, “and now I’m doubting what she tells me. Five specialists out in the hall, telling me she’s dying. Her looking like a corpse already and spinning dreams I know can’t happen—” He broke off. “She’s dying, Quincy. I see the signs. No matter what she saw in her vision, I’m going . . . to . . . lose her. And God help me, I don’t know how I’ll survive it.”

  Quincy tried to gather his wits. This was new ground for him. As the oldest, Clint had always been the one who held everything together, the one who spoke while everyone else listened. Quincy knew Loni’s divinations hadn’t been wrong yet, but there could always be a first time. Loni had never been able to see her own future, only those of others. Wasn’t it possible that she had indeed seen a third child, named after their father, Frank, but the little boy wouldn’t be born to Loni? Maybe in the future, Clint would start over with a second wife, and she would be the one to present him with another son.

  The very thought of Clint with some other woman made Quincy want to puke. No. It just couldn’t happen. Clint was loyal to the bone. He’d never love anyone but Loni.

  “You wanna hear the worst part?” Clint asked. “She’s clinging to life by a thread, and that vision of a third child is her only hope. What if she looks into my eyes and sees I’m not convinced, that I believe the doctors and not her?”

  Quincy had no clue how to respond. His mind kicked into autopilot. Get there. He had to help his brother. “I’ll book a charter flight. I can be there with you in three hours.”

  “No. As great as it’d be to see you, I’m honoring Loni’s wishes and taking her home this morning. We’ll be there by late afternoon. Dad and Dee Dee flew out last night and are at their place now, probably sleeping off the red-eye flight. Parker and Rainie just left for the airport. Zach and Mandy are staying with me to provide moral support, and they’ll fly back with me and Loni on the charter jet.”

  “But, Clint, you need me right now.”

  “What I need is for you to be there looking after my place. If I come home to a disaster in my stable, I’ll lose it, I swear to God. I’m counting on you.”

  Quincy nodded. “You got it, bro. Everything at your ranch is running like clockwork, and I’ll see that it stays that way. If need be, I’ll call Dad for help.”

  “Good. I’ll see you tonight?”

  “Yeah, I’ll mosey over when I wrap it up for the day.”

  Quincy ended the call and stared blankly at his iPhone, a recent purchase that did everything but tap-dance. Too bad it couldn’t also perform a miracle and save the life of his sister-in-law. As he slowly became aware of his surroundings again, he realized that making his feet move took a gargantuan effort. With only determination fueling him, he strode toward the north end of the arena to enter by the personnel door.

  If anything on earth soothed Quincy, it was being in the arena-cum-stable at the break of dawn before any of his employees arrived to disturb the quiet. He loved the smells that were synonymous with horses—freshly turned straw, molasses-coated grain, hay waiting to be forked, and manure. The fabulous aroma of frying bacon from his forewoman Pauline’s upstairs viewing-room apartment added to the bouquet. Though Quincy no longer ate bacon, he still appreciated the scent.

  As was his habit, he made his rounds, visiting every mare and stallion to make sure all was well before ending his tour at Beethoven’s stall. The stud was Quincy’s special baby, and for reasons he’d never clearly defined, he always lingered with him the longest, finding a sense of peace that seemed to elude him everywhere else. Beethoven, a gorgeous black, nickered in greeting and stepped over for his morning ration of petting. The horse was such a love bug that Quincy often joked that Beethoven would morph into a lapdog if he could. The huge beast laid his massive head on Quincy’s shoulder, chuffing and rubbing cheeks, a show of affection that always dislodged Quincy’s black Stetson. Prepared, Quincy caught the hat before it hit the ground.

  “Hey, buddy,” he whispered around the logjam in his throat. “I hope your morning is off to a better start than mine.”

  Beethoven grunted, a contented sound that told Quincy the horse was as happy as a mouse in a cheese factory. He smiled and scanned the stall, checking to make sure all was as it should be. His gaze slid over the far left corner and then jerked back to a lump of green that didn’t belong there. He stared for a moment at what appeared to be a woman asleep in the straw. What the hell? Surely it was only a trick of the light. His ranch was armed to the teeth with high-tech security, and that was especially true in the arena, with every door, window, skylight, and paddock gate wired to an alarm. If anyone entered without punching in the pass code, which was changed frequently, a siren went off loudly enough to burst eardrums. Quincy had heard nothing.

  And yet—well, shit—there was a woman curled up in the corner. She wore a getup that reminded Quincy of something he might see at a Renaissance fair. Wrapped around her head was a thick multilayered band of antique linen that was then secured over the crown by a see-through scarf of the same color. The linen band appeared to be of high quality and looked to Quincy like the oil filter on his truck. The transparent scarf shimmered like spun gold and was somehow pleated at the crown and looped loosely beneath the woman’s chin. Her hair, a bright, fiery red, followed the slender bend of her back and was surely long enough to reach well below her knees when she was standing. Her silk gown, a deep green and floor-length, judging by the way the skirt billowed around her, sported voluminous sleeves and a plunging, square neckline, which revealed a modest white underdress laced to the waist.

  As if she sensed his gaze on her, she jerked awake and, hampered by the long dress, struggled to her feet. To Quincy’s amazement, Beethoven merely whickered and circled away. Normally the stallion grew nervous when he was approached by anyone except Quincy.

  “God’s teeth!” As round as dimes and as clear blue as a Caribbean lagoon on a hot summer day, her eyes flashed with irritation. “Ye scared the bee-Jesus out of me.”

  Quincy recognized an Irish brogue when he heard one. His dad’s mother, Mariah Eileen O’Grady, had been born in the old country. But as Quincy recalled, she’d never said bejesus as two separate words or used the expression God’s teeth. “How did you get in here?” he demanded, doing his best not to notice those expressive eyes or the delicate perfection of her oval face. “The whole place is wired.”

&n
bsp; Bewilderment creased her brow. She cast a wary glance around the stall. “Where might it be?”

  “What?”

  “The wire,” she expounded. “I see none.”

  Quincy clenched his teeth. If not for the weird getup, she might have been quite a looker, with that bright red hair, creamy skin, and stunning blue eyes, but Quincy was in no mood to appreciate a woman’s feminine attributes. Well, scratch that. Truly beautiful women were difficult for any man to ignore, but he meant to give it his best shot.

  “I asked you a question. Answer me.” The perimeters of Quincy’s ranch could be breached by deer or elk that sailed over the fences, but the warning alarms went off if the cameras detected large body masses that lingered near the property lines, the idea being that any human would take at least a few seconds to scale a five-foot barrier. Voice strained with anger, not to mention worry over his sister-in-law, he repeated the question. “How did you get in my arena?”

  “Is that what ye call it, an arena?” Her frown deepened. She swatted at the straw on her wrinkled skirts. As she bent forward, Quincy’s gaze shot to the slender nip of her waist and the temptingly round flare of her hips. When he realized where he was staring, he forced himself to look up, only to find his attention riveted to her silk bodice, which showcased small but perfectly shaped breasts. “’Tis so different here.”

  Losing patience, Quincy raised his voice. “I’ll ask you one more time before I call the police. How did you get in here?”

  “The police? ’Tis a word I’ve never heard.”

  Quincy had an unholy urge to vault over the stall gate and shake her until her teeth rattled. “Listen, lady, you’re in serious trouble. Committing a B and E is a felony offense in Oregon, with a sentence of five to twenty. Start talking, and fast, or you’ll be cooling your jets in a cell until you have gray hair.”

  She paled and lifted her chin, which sported a deep cleft that mirrored the dimple that flashed in her right cheek when she spoke. “I do na understand all yer strange words. Me name is Ceara O’Ceallaigh. I seek audience with a man named Quincy O’Hourigan, sir. I shall speak with him, and only him. ’Tis na a tale for the ears of another.”

  “You have the first name right, but my last name isn’t O’Hourigan.”

  She winced, flapped her wrist, and muttered something in what sounded like Gaelic. Her quaint mannerisms drove home to Quincy that she was not only beautiful, but also as cute as a button. “Harrigan, I mean. ’Tis forgetful I am. Me whole long life, I’ve heard naught but the name O’Hourigan and learned of the change to Harrigan only a short while ago. When yer ancestors sailed to this land in the eighteen hundreds, they changed the family surname.” Her brilliant blue gaze sought his. “So ye are Sir Quincy?”

  “No sir attached.”

  Quincy pressed the phone icon on his cell. His favorites popped up on the screen, and he was about to tap 911 when she said, “Ye asked how I got in here. Me reply may ring strange to yer ears. ’Tis simply where I landed. I can tell ye no more. I prayed to the Blessed Ones to bring me to a place where I might encounter ye, and here I am.”

  Quincy froze with his finger poised over the button he’d entered as a speed dial on his phone for 911. “You prayed to . . . Say what?”

  She studied him as if he were an incredibly dense five-year-old. Damn, but those big blue eyes did pack a wallop. What man could look into them without struggling to break visual contact? “’Struth, sir. No lie has passed me lips. ’Tis where the Blessed Ones dropped me.” She trailed her gaze over his face. “I suspected you were Sir Quincy. You bear a striking resemblance to the man I saw in me mum’s crystal ball.”

  Quincy cocked his head, certain that he must have misheard her. “Come again?”

  “Please, sir, do not ask that of me. ’Twas a difficult journey, and I’ve no yearning to endure it twice.” She smiled slightly, and with the gentle curve of her lips, her entire face seemed to glow. “Traveling forward in time is taxing. Pray, hear me out. ’Tis good reason I have fer being here.”

  Quincy stared hard at her clothing. It looked like the real thing, but he knew people created replicas of medieval garments all the time for Renaissance fairs. Traveling forward in time? She was a bona fide fruitcake. That was the only plausible explanation. He remembered the phone he held aloft in one hand. “How is your name spelled?” Both her first and last names sounded Greek to him. Key-air-uh. He’d never heard it. “Start with your first.” He doubted she would tell him the truth, but at least he’d have something to tell the cops.

  “By first, I’m supposing ye mean me Christian name, Ceara? ’Tis spelled C-E-A-R-A. I am the elder daughter of the O’Ceallaigh, head of our chiefdom in County Clare.” She quickly told him how to spell her last name. “I have come forward from the year 1574 to save lives, specifically the lives of the first wives of all O’Hourigan males.” She flapped her wrist again. “Begging yer pardon, Harrigan males, I mean.”

  That cinched it. She really was nuts. Even so, he couldn’t resist pointing out, “The Tudor era, when Ireland was under English rule, with Queen Elizabeth the First on the throne?”

  Her chin shot up, and her cheeks flamed with indignation. “Me home lies in land beyond the Pale, where the queen and her edicts are ignored. Me people have our own faith, and our own laws.”

  Tiring quickly of this game, Quincy directed his gaze to the phone again. Once the cops collected her, they could get her to a facility where she could be evaluated and receive medication for whatever it was that ailed her. He didn’t care where they took her as long as it was off his ranch. He had enough on his mind without dealing with a delusional woman, no matter how pretty or entertaining she might be.

  She reached up to remove the oil-filter contraption from her head. “I must appear odd to ye. Me mum made me a léine and trews so I would look more like the women of yer time, but I refused to wear such scandalous garments. They were indecent.”

  Quincy wouldn’t have passed up an opportunity to see her in tight jeans and a knit top. He had a feeling all those layers she wore concealed a world-class figure. And why the hell was he thinking about that? The woman had forced her way into a high-security area, he had no idea what mischief she’d intended to perpetrate, and he needed to stay focused on getting her removed from the premises.

  She swayed slightly, as if she were about to wobble off her feet, giving Quincy an inexplicable urge to scale the gate and catch her from falling. “Me apologies,” she said faintly. “The journey has drained me.” She sighed and passed a hand over her brow. “Please listen, Sir Quincy. Me energy is quickly flagging.” She tossed the headgear onto the straw and straightened her shoulders. “Me O’Ceallaigh ancestress, a woman of druid descent who lived in the fourteenth century, was humiliated beyond bearing when she was left at the altar by an O’Hourigan man, also of druid blood. Her revenge was to cast a curse upon yer entire family. The first wife of every O’Hourigan male will die from a blood sickness, hemorrhaging, or injury that causes her to bleed to death. It has long been a great sadness to me family, and after much deliberation, I volunteered to come forward to this century to end the wickedness fer all time. Me sister, only two and ten, is too young to marry in this era.”

  She concluded her speech with a curtsy that revealed she was indeed weak at the knees. As she came erect, she added, “’Twas the only way to end this horrible curse. A virgin daughter of the O’Ceallaigh must wed an O’Hourigan.”

  “You really are out of your mind.”

  She tipped her head, an expression of puzzlement giving way to comprehension. “Am I, now? Do ye deny that yer mum hemorrhaged to death during childbirth? Or that now yer eldest brother’s wife is dying of a strange blood sickness?”

  Quincy stifled a gasp, recovered, and snapped, “How the hell did you come by that information?” Probably obvious, he realized. Someone good with computers could learn almost anything on the Internet these days, and he couldn’t allow her winsome manner and lovely face to distract
him from the facts. “Scratch the question. You’re clever. I’ll give you that.” Anger burned through Quincy. How dared she mention his mother’s death and then trump it by bringing up Loni’s leukemia? “Not clever enough, however. I’m finished with this little performance. I don’t know what your aim is, and I really don’t give a rat’s ass.”

  “I learned all that I know by looking into me mum’s crystal ball.” She glanced at his phone. “What is in the wee box?”

  Quincy huffed with laughter, but there was no humor in the sound. “It’s a phone, not a box, and it’s your one-way ticket to the clinker.”

  “Only you can prevent yer brother’s wife from dying, sir. So far as me mum could decipher, ye are the last unmarried male in your family line. ’Tis up to you.”

  If Quincy hadn’t been so upset, he might have found this incredible situation laughable, but he was in no frame of mind for jokes, no matter how creatively played. Over the years he had encountered more than a few strange individuals, but never on his ranch. He had no idea how she’d breached security, but in good time he’d find out. He would have a team on it within the hour to watch every second of camera footage. And whoever was responsible for the weakness in his security would answer to him.

  Meanwhile, there was only one thing to do. He pressed the screen to call the police and then reported a B and E at his stables.

  The woman didn’t seem unduly perturbed as he ended the call. Apparently she planned to carry through with this charade until uniformed officers forcibly removed her from Beethoven’s stall. Quincy had to admire her nerve.

  To his surprise, Beethoven chuffed and walked over to nuzzle her shoulder. She spoke softly to the stallion and reached up to rub between his eyes, one of the horse’s favorite places to be scratched. She’d clearly been around equines.