Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1) (14 page)

Pidge shook her head. “I’ll just tell him to let Coogan know I’ve got what he requested. The commandant will figure it out.”

Nora suspected Pidge didn’t want to share the glory of her successful smuggling with her brother. “Can we not go with him?”

“I wish, but there’s too much to do here for the next few days.”

“I want to help with the war, Pidge. Like, really be involved. I don’t want to just be on the sidelines. I want to make a difference. Change things.”

“So do I. I wish I could do more, but with Da and Stephen off fighting half the time, it’s up to Ma and me to run the farm.”

“Are there any jobs you know of? Something I could do to help the cause? I don’t need to be paid. Not yet, anyway.”

“You could ask Da. He might know of something. Though you heard him at dinner—he thinks we should leave the rebellion to the men.”

“Then maybe I can do something more strategic.” Nora’s thoughts churned. What would it take to change the outcome of the war?

But Mr. Gillies didn’t come home that night. Mrs. Gillies didn’t say anything, but Nora could sense the worry emanating off her like waves of heat from a radiator. Pidge and Stephen had a hushed discussion in the kitchen after tea. The house was quiet that night, and they all retired early.

“Any word from your father?” Mrs. Gillies asked Stephen when he came in for breakfast after the morning chores. He shook his head.

“Is it unusual for him to be away?” Nora inquired hesitantly.

“Not lately, no,” Mrs. Gillies said with a forced smile. “He says it’s better for us not to know where he is.”

“I’ll ask the commandant today,” Stephen said, pushing his chair back. Then he looked at Nora. “And I’ll pass on your message as well.”

“Ta,” Nora said, the heat rising in her cheeks. Mrs. Gillies gave her a curious smile.

“What message?”

“Just trying to get in touch with Thomas Heaney again, that’s all.”

Mrs. Gillies made a “hmm” sound and began to clear the table.

Nora spent the day helping Pidge around the farm, her initial excitement turning into frustration. Patience had never been her strong suit, but she hadn’t traveled eight decades to pull weeds and muck out stables. And yet she didn’t know what else to do. She was one woman—could she really change the outcome of the war?

The next morning Nora was scattering seed for the chickens when Mrs. Gillies wandered over, carrying a large covered basket. “Have you seen Pidge, dear?”

“I think she went to the back field.”

“No matter. I’m taking a meal round to Mrs. Lavery. She’s been having difficulty getting by since her husband and sons were arrested.”

“That’s kind of you. Do you want some company?”

“I’ll be fine, thank you. If Stephen returns before I’m back, you can give him some of the soup in the pot.” There was a note of sadness in her voice, flavored with something else.

She fears it could be her family next.

Nora watched Mrs. Gillies go, her thoughts on the widows and fatherless children she’d known in Belfast. You could always spot them—there was a certain iron in their spine, a simmering anger that never quite left their eyes. It was what she saw when she looked at herself in the mirror.

Ach, stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re a soldier.

“Nora.”

The man’s voice jerked her out of her reverie. Instinct kicked in, and she brandished her shovel like a weapon. Thomas stood in the doorway of the barn, his hands raised and an amused expression on his face. “Easy, girl,” he said. Bran stood by his side, tongue lolling.

She stabbed the shovel into a pile of hay and put her hands on her hips. “That was fast.”

“Coogan sent me to collect the, uh, ‘supplies.’”

“And did you get my message?”

“That’s why I volunteered for the job. Kill two birds with one stone.”

“I went back to Kildare.”

Thomas’s grin slid off his face. “And?”

“And they’re almost as frustrating as you are.”

“They?”

“The Brigidine Sisters. Brigid’s messengers.”

“I told you I don’t need your help.”

“I don’t care about that anymore. But if I’m here, I’m going to damn well do something. I need information.”

Thomas looked incredibly wary.
He knows something.

“What kind of information?” he asked.

“Everything. Who is Brigid, really? How do you know her if she’s been dead for hundreds of years? Are you a follower or something, like the Brigidine Sisters?”

“I didn’t say I knew her. I only said it wasn’t me who spoke to you in your dreams. You’re the one who said you talked to her.”

“It wasn’t her, exactly. It was these Sisters—they said she gave them a vision. About me.”

“How do you know they weren’t just having you on?”

How do I know that? Because I’m here, in the early twentieth century, for starters.

“I just . . . believe them. I have my reasons.”

“So they said Brigid wanted you to do something. Maybe they were wrong. Especially if it had something to do with me.”

“You don’t know anything about that, then? What she might want me to do?”

“I’ve no idea. But if you want my advice, I’d just forget about it.”

“It’s not that simple.” Why was he being so obtuse? Based on the way he’d acted the other night, he knew a lot more than he was letting on. “The Sister said Brigid must have had a purpose for sending me here. I’ve an idea of what that might be, but I have to be sure. I don’t know how this works or what will happen.”

“How what works?”

Nora hesitated. What if she was wrong? What if Thomas was just a regular Irishman, to whom Brigid was simply one of his country’s patron saints? Was she just imagining he knew more than he did?

“Where do you come from?” she asked. It was an innocent enough question, if he was no more than he seemed. But if he, too, had been sent here by Brigid, if he, too, had inexplicably traveled through time, he would take her meaning.

“Armagh. But I’ve lived in the south for many years.”

Nora turned away to hide her disappointment. “So you’re not . . . Brigid didn’t send you.”

“No.” She chanced a glimpse at him. His expression was inscrutable. She couldn’t tell whether he thought she was crazy or had grown bored of her questions. But he was still there. His blue eyes were still fixed on her, like magnets unable to pull away. “Where do
you
come from, Nora?”

She held her gaze steady as she met his eyes. “Belfast. I come from Belfast.”

“Right.” He looked almost as disappointed as she felt, as though the conversation was not going the way he had hoped, either. “What do you think your purpose is, then?”

“I’m going to help us win the war. At least, I hope I am.”

He snorted. “I don’t believe in hope. Learned that lesson a long time ago.”

“You don’t think it’s possible?”

He came toward her, his strides slow and long. He stared at her as if she were a puzzle, a riddle to be solved. “Possible? Yes. Or else I wouldn’t still be here, I suppose.” One corner of his mouth lifted up in a wry smile. “But likely? No. I gave up on that hope long ago.”

“Well,
I
haven’t given up. There’s always time for second chances.”

“Good luck to you, then. Try not to get yourself killed, will ye? You’re far too pretty for the firing squad.”

Nora stared him down, wrestling with whether to tell him his own death was imminent—at least, according to the photograph. “I thought you might be able to help me. But it’s every man for himself, is it?”

“It’s not that—” he started, but his words were cut off by a low growl from Bran, followed by a woman’s scream.

“Pidge,” Nora breathed. She grabbed her shovel and ran past Thomas out of the barn. “Pidge!” she yelled. She came around the corner and raced toward the house. Pidge screamed again. A man was dragging her by the hair across the yard. Bran bounded toward them, snarling, but another man swung his rifle butt at the dog, connecting with her skull. Bran whimpered and then fell to the ground, silent.

“Get away from her!” Nora sprinted toward the man, her shovel raised.

“Drop it!” another man screamed, pointing a rifle at her. Three more men surrounded her, the barrels of their guns trained on her head. She hesitated, but then their uniforms registered in her memory. The Free State Army. She threw down the shovel and raised her hands in the air. One of the men advanced toward her, but she stopped him with the blackest look she could muster.

“Don’t you fucking touch me. And tell your mate to get his hands off my friend.”

The soldier stepped back, looking for direction from one of the others, who jerked his head at Nora. “Against the wall.”

She marched over to the wall of the house and put her back to it, her chin held high and her eyes brimming with disdain. The soldier dragged Pidge over and threw her next to Nora. Where was Thomas? Had he done a runner and left them there? Bastard. Nora grabbed Pidge’s hand. “Are you all right?”

Pidge spat out a mouthful of blood. “Aye.”

“No talking!” shouted the man who seemed to be in charge, brandishing his rifle at her. “Names!”

“Hannah Gillies,” Pidge said.

“Otherwise known as Pidge, I reckon,” the commandant said with a leer. “I know about you. Tell me, is there a soldier in all of Ireland you haven’t fucked? Think I might be next?” Pidge spat again, spraying blood across the commandant’s face. He raised the butt of his rifle as though to strike her. She flinched and drew back. “Not so brave now, are you? And who’s this whore?”

“I imagine the only women you know are whores. Can’t fathom a decent woman wanting to be with the likes of you,” Nora said.

Pain flared in her cheek as the back of his hand smashed into it. “Your name,” he snarled.

“Nora O’Reilly. What’s yours?” Behind him, Nora could see the other soldiers exchange uncertain glances.

“Sir, we found guns hidden in the house,” a soldier called out, emerging with Pidge’s hidden stash in his arms. “Miller was right.”

So it was not the Englishman who’d betrayed them. It was the young man Pidge had mistakenly believed loyal to her.

“Well, well,” the commandant said. “It’s a shame your men aren’t at home. If they were, I would shoot them right here. But we haven’t executed a woman . . .
yet
. You still need to be taught a bloody lesson, though, don’t you?” he said, bringing himself so close Nora winced from his rank body odor.

“Oh, aye? You gonna teach me how to be a traitor?” she said.

He pressed himself against her, wedging a uniformed knee between her legs. “You’re nothing but a useless bitch,” he seethed in her ear. “But I’d best search you for more weapons, just to be certain.” His hand ran up her leg and over her hips, pressing into her stomach before cupping each of her breasts in turn and coming to rest on her neck. Nora shook with pure rage. She didn’t care that four rifles were trained on her. At this moment, she hated this man more than she’d ever hated anyone. She drove her knee into his groin, forcing him away from her with a cry of pain. Then she kicked him in the face as he bent over, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

“You bitch!” he cried out, pressing his hand against his bleeding nose. The men stepped side to side, their rifles wavering. Nora grabbed Pidge’s hand and made to run, but her assailant was faster. Her head jerked back as he grabbed her hair and pulled her toward him.

“Pidge, run!” Pidge tried to obey, but she was caught in the arms of another soldier.

Nora’s face slammed into a barrel. She tried to get to her feet, but a thick hand held her down. The commandant straddled her, his weight crushing her ribs. Then a glint of metal flashed in front of her eyes.

“I’ll . . . show . . . you . . . respect . . . ,” the soldier grunted. She waited for her skirts to be lifted, for the chance to grab his cock and twist it off before he could enter her, but instead a searing pain scorched her skull. She screamed, but his grip was firm, and no one came to her aid. Again and again the knife flashed across her skull, and a ragged pile of red hair grew beside her. Then the pressure on her ribs lifted for a moment, and she was roughly turned around. “Not so pretty now, are you?” he snarled. His face was twisted into an ugly grimace. He pointed the knife toward her heart and cut open the front of her dress with a flick of sharp metal.

Then a shot exploded. Pidge screamed. The soldier on top of Nora wrenched around. She pushed him off, but she was shaking so hard, she couldn’t find the strength to stand. The soldier who had been holding Pidge was writhing in pain on the ground, clutching his shoulder. Blood oozed between his fingers. The others were wide-eyed and frantic, swinging their rifles in the air toward an invisible opponent. Another crack, and Nora’s assailant fell, a bullet in his head.

The shooting was coming from the house. A flash of gray in one of the windows.

Nora forced herself to stand.

Pidge stumbled toward her and clutched at her sleeve while the remaining soldiers advanced on the house. “Let’s go,” Pidge urged.

“We can’t—Thomas is in there.” Nora’s eyes were fixed on the doorway. Pidge pulled at her arm, forcing her to stumble along with her.

“We can’t help him; we need to go
now
.”

“No, I can’t leave him—” But she didn’t have the strength to resist, so she followed in Pidge’s wake. They ran behind the barn toward a copse of trees, the sound of gunfire behind them. Once in the cover of the trees, she collapsed onto the mossy ground.

“We have to keep going—they’ll come after us,” Pidge insisted.

“I know . . . I just need a minute.” She could hear more shots—were they coming from Thomas or the Free State soldiers? “They’ll kill him,” she whispered. Is this how he was meant to die? Had she caused his death rather than prevented it?

“Not if he kills them first,” Pidge said. “Let’s go.”

They stumbled through the trees until they reached the field on the other side. “We can hide at the McCleary farm; it’s closest,” Pidge said.

Nora strained her ears but could no longer hear the gunfight. Was it over? Who had won?