What the Wind Knows(63)

“Anne!” Thomas shouted, and I could hear his desperate frustration. His distrust was the hardest thing to bear. I understood it, even sympathized with it. But it was corrosive and exhausting, and I was dangerously close to falling apart. I didn’t want to hurt Thomas. I didn’t want to lie to him. And I didn’t know how to tell him the truth. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to escape, to close the book on this impossible tale.

“I want to go home.”

“Wait until the rain eases,” Thomas said. “I’ll figure something out.”

I hadn’t realized I’d spoken out loud, but I didn’t slow. “I can’t live like this.” Again, I spoke without meaning to.

“Like what?” Thomas scoffed, incredulous, matching his steps to mine.

“Like this,” I mourned, letting the rain disguise the tears that had begun to streak down my cheeks. “Pretending to be someone that I’m not. Being punished for things I can’t explain and blamed for things I know nothing about.”

Thomas grabbed my arm, but I pulled free, stumbling and warding him off. I didn’t want him to touch me. I didn’t want to love him. I didn’t want to need him. I wanted to go home.

“I am not the Anne Gallagher you think I am,” I insisted. “I am not her!”

“Who are you, then? Huh? Don’t play games, Annie,” he said, moving around me, heading me off. “You ask me things you should know. You never speak of Declan. You never speak of Ireland! Not like we used to. You seem lost half the time, and you’re so different, so changed, that I feel like I’m seeing you for the first time. And dammit if I don’t like what I see. I like you!” He ran an impatient hand over his face, wiping the rain from his eyes. “And you love Eoin. You love the boy. And every time I’m convinced you really are someone else, I see the way you look at him, the way you watch him, and I feel like a feckin’ lunatic for doubting you. But something has happened to you. You aren’t the same. And you won’t tell me anything.”

“I’m sorry, Thomas,” I cried. “You’re right. I’m not the same Anne. She’s gone.”

“Stop it. Stop saying that,” he begged. He raised his face to the sky, as if begging God for patience. Hands fisted in his hair, he took a few steps toward the long row of homes along the square, putting distance between us. The lights of his house beckoned weakly, taunting us. A shadow moved behind the drapes, and Thomas froze, watching the dark silhouette against the tepid smear of light.

“Someone’s already here,” Thomas said. “Someone’s in the house.” He cursed and supplicated the heavens once more. “Why now, Mick?” he said under his breath, but I heard the words. Thomas turned back to me, pulling me into his side, keeping me close in spite of it all. My control broke.

I wrapped my arms around him, burying my face in his chest, clinging to him—and the impossibility of us—before our time ran out. The rain drummed against the pavement, counting off the seconds, and Thomas welcomed me into his body, his lips pressing against my hair, his arms encircling me, even as he groaned my name.

“Anne. Ah, lass. What am I going to do with you?”

“I love you, Thomas. You’ll remember that, won’t you? When this is over?” I said. “I’ve never known a better man.” I needed him to believe that, if nothing else.

I felt a tremor shake him, but his arms tightened around me, a vise of desperation that spoke of his turmoil. For a moment more, I embraced him; then I let my arms fall as I pulled back. But Thomas didn’t release me, not completely.

“It’ll be Mick. Inside. He’s going to demand answers, Anne,” Thomas warned, his voice weary. “What do you want to do?”

“If I answer every one of your questions, will you promise to believe me?” I begged, looking up at him through my tears.

“I don’t know,” Thomas confessed, and I watched his frustration disintegrate, washed away in the downpour, leaving resignation in its wake. “But I can promise you this. Whatever you tell me, I’ll do my best to protect you. And I won’t turn you away.”

“Liam was the one who shot me on the lough,” I blurted. It was the truth I was most afraid of, the truth that pertained to this time and place, and the truth Thomas might be able to explain, even understand.

Thomas froze. Then his hands rose from my arms to cradle my face as if he needed to keep me still while he examined my eyes for veracity. He must have been satisfied with what he saw because he nodded slowly, his mouth grim. He didn’t ask why or how or when. He didn’t seek clarification at all.

“You’ll tell me everything? Mick too?” he asked.

“Yes,” I breathed, surrendering. “But it’s a long . . . impossible . . . story, and it will take me a while to tell it.”

“Then let’s get out of this rain.” He tucked me against his body, and we moved toward his house, toward the soft light that glimmered in the windows.

“Wait,” he commanded and climbed the stairs to the front stoop without me. He knocked on his own door, rapping a rhythm that was clearly preestablished, and the door swung open.



Michael Collins took one look at the two of us and pointed to the stairs.

“We’ll talk when you’re dry. Joe made a fire. Mrs. Cleary left bread and meat pies in the larder. Joe and I helped ourselves, but there’s plenty left. Go. It’s been a helluva night.”