CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The man was standing by her horse, inspecting the saddle and running a large hand down the horse’s legs. Sarah stood motionless in the doorway and watched him, the gun in her hand but by her side. She waited for him to notice her or make a move. Unless he’d been talking to himself, voices meant there was another nearby. Sarah focused on the man, the tactical environment, and counted on her other senses to locate the second man.
The man by the horse saw her.
“Good day, missus,” he said, moving away from Dan.
Sarah resisted the urge to point the gun at him.
“Can I help you?” she said. Why do we Americans say that?
“Help me?” The man frowned, his eyes catching the glint of the Glock at the end of her arm.
“Are you looking for Devon?” Where the hell was the other guy?
“Devon’s dead, poor bugger.”
“I know.” Obviously, I know. I’m in his cottage.
“And you are…?”
“I’m a friend of Devon’s sister-in-law.”
“She’s the American.” A younger man in his late teens came from the direction of the car shed. “The ones rented the McKinney place, right?” He didn’t smile but something about him didn’t feel threatening to Sarah.
“That’s right.”
“So, you’ll be knowing Dierdre?” The older man spoke again and Sarah felt the hand that held the gun relax a bit.
“She’s my neighbor. She asked me to check on Devon. They hadn’t seen him in awhile.”
“Cor, she’s got a pistol, Dad. You see that?” The younger man came closer, not taking his eyes off the gun in her hand but absent-mindedly patting Dan on the neck.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I’m being careful.”
“Too right,” the older man said. “I’m Mike Donovan and this here’s me son, Gavin. We’ve come to bury the old man. We mean you no harm, missus.”
“I got the keys to his car, Dad. They were on the top shelf where he always kept ‘em.”
Donovan looked at Sarah.
“He’ll not be needing the car,” he said. “And we can trade its parts for food and supplies.”
Sarah didn’t care who took whose car. The light was fading fast and she needed to be mounted and on her way. From here, she could see by the open flaps that Donovan had examined the contents of her saddlebags, and knew she had a king’s fortune in rifle and handgun rounds. She didn’t dare take her eyes off him but she was tempted to look to see if they’d brought shovels, which would to confirm his story.
“Fine,” she said, not moving. “I’ll let you get on with it.”
The young man charged up the porch stairs and Sarah, startled, jerked her gun arm up.
“Whoa! Whoa! Gavin, you moron, she’s got a gun, for Chrissake.”
Gavin looked at Sarah with surprise and then turned to his Dad.
“I know, Da. But we need to…”
“Slowly, son. Let the woman get off the porch before you mow her down. I’m sorry, Missus,” Donovan shoved a hand through his thick hair, knocking his cheese cutter cap to the ground in the process. Sarah looked for any guile in his eyes and thought she saw only weariness and anxiety. “Gavin, get down here and let her pass,” Donovan spoke slowly as if talking to a feeble-witted child.
Sarah would have preferred they both left or at least moved away but she realized there would be no other opportunity.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’ve had cause not to trust people recently.” She shifted the gun to her other hand and wiped the perspiration from her palm on her jeans. She moved down the porch, her eyes never leaving Donovan’s and, grabbing Dan’s reins, jerked them free from the porch rail. The man touched his son’s shoulder and motioned for him to move back a few steps and give her space.
If they were going to rush her, she thought, the moment she attempted to mount would be the time. She knew she couldn’t get up without tucking her gun away. Quickly, Sarah positioned Dan between herself and the two men, shoved the gun into her holster, grabbed the cantle, jammed her foot into the stirrup which was nearly as high as her waist and swung up in what seemed like slow motion. Once in the saddle, she could see the men were patiently waiting for her. She left the gun where it was and gathered up the reins in both hands. Pulling back, she forced Dan to back up a few steps.
“Do you know how he died?” she asked, feeling more comfortable now that she was mounted and armed.
Donovan shook his head.
“Aye, no,” he said. “Maybe a heart attack? And then the hyenas came down to pick the bones.” He waved a hand at the cottage. “Sure it doesn’t look like foul play, just bad luck. I hope you’ll be telling Dierdre that. Tell her Mike Donovan will make sure he’s buried proper.”
The light was nearly dusk but still Sarah lingered.
“How do you know Dierdre?” she asked.
“It’s Seamus, really,” Donovan said, turning and pulling a long handled shovel out of a ruck sack Sarah hadn’t seen before. “He was my teacher. Well, everyone’s. Did you not know he was the village schoolmaster? Everyone round these parts was schooled by Seamus at one time or another.”
“I’m sorry, again, I’m sorry for…” Sarah indicated the porch.
Donovan waved her off.
“Not a-tall,” he said. “These are times to be untrusting. You’d best get on where you’re going. There’ll be no moon tonight.”
Sarah paused. She hated how she had acted. These were good people, doing a difficult job and she’d practically held them at gunpoint and, worse, nearly shot the boy. As she turned Dan west to pick up the main road from Balinagh, she found herself vowing not to let whatever “these times” were turn her into something less than human.
Mike watched Sarah ride off and shook his head in amazement.
“How do you know about her?” he asked as he handed Gavin the shovel.
The boy shrugged. “It’s all over town,” he said. “Being American and all.”
“Is it just Herself?”
“No, there’s a husband and a kid, too. Why?” He grinned at his father. “Took a fancy, did ya, Da? And her a pistol-packing Mama and all.”
“Shirrup, ya ejeet,” Mike said affably, pushing him in the direction of the backyard where the grave needed to be dug.
Gavin trotted ahead of him, displaying all the energy and resilience of youth. Mike couldn’t help but look again in the direction that Sarah had gone.
For whatever reason, he had to admit that there was something about her, the way she spoke or carried herself, something that he couldn’t put his finger on that, he might as well admit it, had…excited him.
He turned to the task at hand and grabbed the shovel back from Gavin, hoping the chore would banish further thoughts along those lines.
“Go back and find something to wrap poor Devon in,” he said to his son.
Gavin made a face and hesitated. “Aw, no, why, me?”
“Go on, Gavin, he won’t bite you.” Donovan pierced the earth with the shovel and threw the load of dirt behind him. Gavin retreated to the house, muttering unhappily under his breath as he went.
Mike dug for a full five minutes without thinking, then jammed the shovel into the earth and rested his arm on the handle while he waited for Gavin to reappear. It was almost like he’d seen the episode on the porch he’d just experienced in a movie or something. An American movie.
He glanced again in the direction she had gone.