Chasing River: A Novel

The air is thicker in this little hospital room than elsewhere.

Or maybe it’s that seeing my brother—his body basically mummified in gauze, with an IV drip full of morphine needed to numb his pain, and his usual perma-grin lost—is making it hard for me to breathe.

The chair legs scrape against the linoleum floor as I drag it closer.

Rowen’s eyes open and shift to catch mine. “Have they arrested Ma yet?” he croaks.

I chuckle, despite everything. Breaking the news about Aengus and his looming incarceration to her wasn’t easy but it was unavoidable, seeing as the second she saw the garda outside his door, she went off on him, accusing them of being “a little too late with the protection.” “She’s in the cafeteria, getting something to eat. She’ll be back in a bit.”

“I could hear her yelling.”

“I don’t doubt it.” I pause to study the bandaged stump lying across the hospital bed. “What does it feel like?”

“Like I still have a leg.” His listless eyes stare up at the ceiling. “Though I can’t feel much with all these drugs, thank Christ. You should see the nurse that just popped her head in while you were gone.” A lazy smirk lifts the right side of his mouth. “Do you think she’ll give me a sponge bath if I ask?”

I shake my head. At least Rowen’s spirit wasn’t blown apart with his body. He’s always been one to make the best of any situation. I can’t say I’d be making jokes right now, if I were in his place. And I deserve to be, more so than Rowen does. This shouldn’t have happened to him. If I’d just listened to Amber in the first place and talked to Duffy, he’d still have his leg and Delaney’s wouldn’t be a pile of firewood.

That hard marble that lodged in my throat three hours ago, when Ma and I first walked in here, suddenly expands. I hang my head, unable to stop the tear that slips out from the corner of my eye. “I’m so sorry, Rowen.”

Silence falls over the room.

Finally he sighs, and says in a rare somber voice, rank with emotion, “This is all on Aengus. Not you, not anyone else.” When I look up, I find a matching drop rolling down his cheek. It only spurs on more of my own.

I wipe them away with my knuckles. He doesn’t need me here, crying. Ma’s done enough of that. “You’re going to get better. We’ll get you fitted with a leg. You’ll be walking around and pouring pints again in no time.” I hope the doctors are wrong about the nerve damage. I don’t know if I can handle seeing Rowen in the kind of pain that our da has suffered all these years. “I’ll talk to your school tomorrow.”

“Was Ma being realistic about the pub being open again in a month or two?”

I sigh. And shake my head. “You know how slow insurance companies move.”

“What are they going to do for money? How are they going to—”

“They’ll be fine. Besides, that’s not for you to worry about. You just worry about getting better and getting out of here. Ma will have your old room ready for ya.”

He groans. “Bloody hell. She’ll be trying to wipe me own arse, won’t she?”

I start to laugh. Because he’s right. “For a while. Then you’ll be strong enough to come back to Dublin. At least we don’t have to sell the house anymore.” With Aengus heading to prison, the need to move away from him isn’t there. By the time he gets out—if he makes it out of there alive—we’ll likely be living elsewhere anyway.

“I heard you and Ma talking outside the door. Did he really confess to that bombing?” Aengus has never been one to own up to his mistakes, so I can understand the doubt in Rowen’s voice.

“Yeah. I didn’t give him much choice.”

“What’s going to happen to him?”

“Nothing that wouldn’t have happened to him eventually.” As much as I dread the day we get the phone call from Portlaoise informing us that we need to be planning for a funeral, at least we’re not going to get caught in the line of fire again.

“I guess. I just . . .” Rowen’s eyelids begin sticking together. He hasn’t been conscious for more than half an hour at a time.

I ease out of my chair, gritting against the throb in my thigh. I have no right to moan about anything next to Rowen. “I’m heading back to Amber’s now. I’ll be here in the morning.”

“Going to spend some quality time with your future father-in-law?”

Now it’s my turn to groan. The second those sharp, near-black eyes of his settled on me earlier today, I knew he’d already made a decision, and it wouldn’t be a favorable one for me. That was before Amber told him why he had to jump on a plane and fly across an ocean.

I’m actually dreading this. Part of me thinks I should just head home for the night. If I weren’t so desperate to see Amber, I would.

“I’ll save you a bed next to me. I’m sure you’ll . . .” His words drift off.

“Get some rest, brother.” I shut the door quietly behind me and head down the hall, around the corner. The garda standing outside Aengus’s room recognizes me and nods once, his gaze darting behind me. Probably wondering if he’ll need to restrain Marion Delaney again. I slow just long enough to peer through the window in the door, to see Aengus lying in his bed, his eyes closed. His wrist handcuffed to the bedrail.

“Have a good night,” I offer to the garda.

And then I keep going.

“Hey . . .” Amber slips her arms around my waist, giving me a sleepy-eyed smile. The house smells like garlic and tomato sauce. Dirtied plates wait to be cleaned from the dining table, along with two glasses and the bottle of Jameson.

But there’s no sheriff in sight.

“Relax. He went to bed already.”

My entire body caves with relief. Amber starts laughing.

“Quiet!” I silence her with a deep kiss. “You’ll wake him up.”

“He’s a deep sleeper.” She reaches up to brush my hair off my face, the glimmer from a moment ago replaced with sadness. “How’s Rowen?”

“He looks rough, but . . . he’ll pull through.”

She nods, blinking away the gloss that suddenly coats her eyes. “I want to go with you tomorrow to see him. Maybe I can get Ivy to come, too.”

“I think he’d like that.” Most fellas wouldn’t want visitors right now, but Rowen isn’t like most. “So? How was tonight? Has your da booked you a flight home for tomorrow?”

“He may have suggested it once or twice.” A strange, somber look flashes across her face, but it dissolves with her smile. She slips her hands into mine and begins leading me in with backward steps. “It was fine. I mean, he’s not happy about it all, but I didn’t expect him to be. You hungry?”

“I could eat.” Being in that hospital room with Rowen didn’t inspire my appetite but now that I’m out, I’m famished.

She frowns at my limp. With everything else going on today, I forgot to bring my painkillers with me. “Go on upstairs. I want to take a look at that leg. I’ll bring dinner to you.”

I can’t help the wary glance up at the landing.

“Oh, for God’s sake. He’s not waiting in a dark corner for you. Besides, he’s on the third floor.” She wanders over to the casserole sitting on top of the stove, grabbing a plate on her way.

“So, I’ll be taking the spare room next to yours?”

Her exasperated sigh answers me. “I don’t believe it. You spent eighteen months in prison with the worst criminals in Ireland and you’re terrified of my father. Go on. I’ll be up there in a minute.” She shakes her head as she putters around the kitchen, grabbing my painkillers from the windowsill, filling a glass of water.

A little smirk on her face the entire time.

“Go on.” She slaps my arse once as she passes me on the stairs and I watch her climb, wanting so desperately to return the favor. After the past two days, I could use the pure ecstasy that comes with being inside Amber. That’s not going to happen tonight, though. For one thing, because I physically can’t, and for another, because I’m sure, deep sleeper or not, that her sheriff father would finish the job that Jackie Hanegan failed to do, should he hear it.

I happily follow Amber’s orders, undressing and lying in bed so she can tend to me. I watch her skilled hands go to work on my thigh, gently washing the area around the stitches and re-covering it with fresh bandages. She doesn’t even flinch at the sight of it, and even I’ll admit that it’s grotesque. Enough that I can’t touch my dinner while she’s doing it.

“You’re all set.” She looks up to catch me looking down her tank top, the thin cotton leaving little to the imagination. Neither do my knickers, at the moment. A secretive smile flashes across her wide, full lips. And then those skillful hands of hers shift upward, to peel the waistband down and over my erection, so gently.

“You don’t have to . . .” My words and all resolve are lost the second I feel her hot breath. I weave my fingers through her thick hair as I watch her, allowing myself a brief moment to forget everything else and just enjoy this time with her. To revel in the fact that this beautiful creature still wants me.

She just feels too good—better than any other girl has, and I’ve had my share of well-practiced ones—and I don’t last long, covering my face with a pillow to smother the sounds of my release.

I haven’t tiptoed down a set of stairs since I was eighteen and sneaking out of Marjorie Gilbert’s bedroom with her parents sitting at the kitchen table, sipping on their morning coffee.

The difference is that Amber’s father knows I’m here and it’s three o’clock in the morning. I’m just hoping that I can fill my glass of water and limp my way back with him completely unaware.

My hopes are dashed when I hear the bottom step creak.

“River.” Even in the unlit kitchen, I can clearly see his dark, annoyed eyes skate over me. In hindsight, I probably should have thrown some clothes on over my knickers.

“Hello . . .uh . . .”

“Gabe. Call me Gabe,” he says smoothly.

I clear my throat. “Right. Gabe.” Amber’s right to laugh at me. I’ve faced murderers and rapists, and yet this calm, collected, honest man, with his clothes rumpled and his short hair standing on end, unnerves me far more than any of them ever did. I lay in bed next to her for a while tonight, trying to figure out exactly why. Finally, I think I found the answer. It’s because I can tell that Amber values his opinion highly, and I’m guessing she makes most of her decisions based on what she thinks her father would approve of.

Whatever I’m imagining his opinion of me is, in reality, it’s probably worse.

He walks over to open the refrigerator, his fingers strumming against the door as he surveys its contents. “How’s the leg?”

“Sore, but I’ll be fine.”

He nods, pulling out some sliced ham and bread. “Amber mentioned your brother being in pretty bad shape.”

“He’ll pull through. He’s strong.”

“And your other brother?” There’s no missing the contempt in his voice. The “other brother” who nearly killed his daughter.

“He’ll have plenty of time to heal in prison.”

“I gathered that.”

I watch Gabe as he quietly fixes himself a sandwich, until I have to assume the conversation is over. “Have a good night.”

His gruff voice stops my feet. “You know . . . my stomach was in knots the entire flight over. I didn’t sleep at all, not since Alex woke me up yesterday to tell me that Amber was in trouble.” He frowns. “Or was it the day before yesterday . . . ? Anyway, as exhausted as I was, I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow tonight. But my mind didn’t stop spinning. I saw Amber in handcuffs, in prison . . . lying in the debris at that bar of yours . . . all these horrible, awful things that could have happened to my daughter while she was here. With you.”

I hold my breath, preparing myself for the condemnation. The “stay the hell away from Amber or I’ll kill you” warning. I wonder if he’ll give it to me straight up or veil it somehow, to sound more civilized.

“A week ago, when she ran through that park, she would have been hurt, or worse. Not could have. Would have, had it not been for you. I think my brain finally picked up on that critical part because suddenly I woke up.” He stares out the kitchen window, simply holding the sandwich in one hand, not eating it. “Thank you. For what you did that day. I’ll always owe you for that.”

I nod. And then realize that he can’t hear that, so I add, “I’m just glad I was there.”

“So am I.” He takes a bite of his sandwich. “Get some rest.”

“You too.” I make a move to head back upstairs.

“And River?”

“Yeah?”

Gabe finally turns and meets my eyes. “You’ll never be good enough for my daughter.”

I don’t know if he’s saying that to discourage me or to hurt me. Or challenge me. Or maybe he’s just stating the obvious. He’s right, though, and I’m glad he sees it, because it means he’s good enough to be her father.

I smile. “But I’ll never stop trying to be.”

He pauses, something unreadable flickering across his face before it smooths over. “Good night.”