Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(95)

“Don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault.” I curl into his side, careful to avoid his injuries. “So Aengus would rather confess than have you put him in prison?”

“The IRA doesn’t take too kindly to people testifying against them. Despite all the bad decisions that Aengus has made, he has always protected me when it’s counted. I was counting on him to do it again.”

There is a shred of good in that guy after all, I guess. “So, he’s going to prison.”

River nods.

“And you’re safe?”

“I’m safe.” He lifts my chin up until I can see his eyes. “And you’re safe. No one’s going to stop you from staying in Ireland for as long as you want to stay.” Unspoken words linger between us.

How long does River want me to stay?

How long do I want to stay? Never in a million years would I ever have thought I’d actually be even considering questions like this. I’ve known River for a week. A week!

The single most memorable week of my entire life.

“Well, immigration might have a problem with me staying for too long,” I joke, because I don’t know what else to say.

So would my parents.

But what do I want?

THIRTY-THREE

River

“It’s all rubbish now.” Ma lets go of the charred piece of paper, once a signed picture of Michael Collins, now worthless. It floats and lands on a tabletop by her feet. The table’s body is elsewhere.

The inside of Delaney’s is one giant heap of rubble. Pint glasses and liquor bottles shattered, splintered sticks where stools used to be, the fine dark wood blackened and punctured by nails and bits of metal. Two hundred years of our family history, which survived a famine, wars, and an entire revolution, destroyed within seconds.

And in the middle of it all stand my parents.

This may have been “tit-for-tat,” but there’s no mistaking that the bomb Beznick’s men set in here was meant to kill.

“Have you called the insurance company yet?” I set down the box of receipts and other valuable paperwork that I just collected from the office. Close the door to the back and you’d never imagine that anything was wrong up front. Even Rowen’s runners still hang from the laces on the wall.

I guess he won’t be needing one of those anymore.

He also won’t be running ever again.

Da leans against his cane, his stature bent. “They’ll be in as soon as the gardai finish with it.” He looks like he’s aged ten years since yesterday. Ma says they didn’t get to bed until well after midnight last night and were back at the hospital this morning, in time to see Rowen finally wake up.

“The back of the pub is fine, at least.”

“I reckon, in a building this old, they’re going to condemn it anyway and make us rebuild. It’ll never be the same.” He sighs. “Come on, we don’t have long before they chase us out of here. We’re lucky they let us in at all.”

“It’s our bloody pub!” Ma protests, never a fan of the police. Today, fueled by emotion, she’s tenfold worse.

“It’s for our own safety, Marion,” Da mutters, nudging the remains of the grandfather clock with the end of his cane.

“Should we try to bring that with us?” Amber offers. “We may be able to get it fixed.”

Da smiles at her, his tone softening instantly. “It’s full of glass, lovey. I wouldn’t want ya cutting those healing hands of yours.”

She nods, that tiny frown line between her eyes appearing. “I really loved your pub. I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

I reach over to pull her into me, her back to my chest, folding my arms around her.

Ma eyes us, pursing her lips tightly. I know what she’s thinking—that I’m just going to get my heart broken. “We’ve survived worse. We’ll survive this just fine.”

Voices sound beyond the gaping hole where the door used to be. I don’t know if it met its demise from the blast or the emergency crew who cut in here to rescue us.

“That’s still a crime scene, sir! We haven’t released it yet.”

“But my daughter’s in there,” a gruff American voice answers.

Amber’s body goes rigid within my arms.

THIRTY-FOUR

Amber

“Dad?”

I blink several times, thinking my eyes are playing tricks on me, just like my ears may have a moment ago.

They’re not.

Sheriff Gabe Welles, in his standard-issue blue jeans and plaid button-down—this one cotton and short-sleeved—is standing in the gaping hole where the door used to be, staring at me.

“Amber.” I can’t get a read on his tone—there’s a hint of reproach, but more, I think it’s just relief.

River’s arms fall from their embrace, releasing me to scramble around the debris and fall against my father’s chest, the knot that has suddenly sprung in my throat large and prickly. He pulls me into him tightly, the way I remember him doing years ago, when I was a little girl and he’d say that he’d had a really hard day. He smells the same now that he did back then—a mix of Irish Spring soap and Old Spice cologne.

I’ve missed him so much.

“Dad, what are you doing here?”