Chasing River (Burying Water #3) (35 page)

“No one saw me,” he slurs. “It’s dark, and I’m stealthy as an alley cat.”

Rowen snorts but says nothing, busying himself with the last remaining chairs needing stacking. Wanting to get away from him, I’ll bet. Aengus is a mean drunk.

“And besides, those two fuckheads who were waiting for me on our street are in prison, so I guess Beznick’s out of luck for now.”

“Why are you even out? Where’s Jimmy?”

“Ah . . .” He waves a dismissive hand. “Can’t I come see me brothers? Hang out in me own pub? This place is rightfully mine and I’m not even allowed to come in for a pint? I have to sneak through dark alleys and beg you to let me in!”

Rowen shoots me a warning glance, not that it’s needed. I’m not about to give Aengus a reality check about the future ownership of Delaney’s.

“Grab a stool, Aengus.” I sigh, holding a fresh glass up to the Smithwick’s tap. At least we haven’t cleaned it out for the night yet.

“Don’t mind if I do.” He kicks one over to sit opposite me.

“Rowen?”

“May as well,” he mutters. Aengus can be the true sense of the term
barfly
. A fucking nuisance that’s impossible to rid ourselves of once he’s in.

I’m just setting a pint down in front of Aengus when the door flies open and a short fella steps in, his face covered from the nose down by a black handkerchief. I see the smile in his cold, narrow eyes. “Tit-for-tat, Delaneys.” He rolls something onto the floor and disappears out the door as quickly as he came, slamming it shut behind him.

I have just enough time to see the long tube.

Just enough time to see the wick at the end, sizzling as it burns.

Just enough time to catch Rowen’s eyes.

“Amber.”

“Hey, Ivy!” I’m surprised to hear from her, especially at eight in the morning. I got an early start to the day, wanting to explore a bit more before heading back to Dublin. River told me he’d come pick me up at the house by three. “Have you been to Cork before?”

“No.”

“Ugh! You have to come. Even you would appreciate this place. It’s so charming. I’ve never seen anything like it.” My gaze absorbs a kaleidoscope of colors as I stroll down the narrow sidewalk. Each storefront is painted in vibrant hues—a bed-and-breakfast in gold and rust, a tea shop in peacock blue and brick, a woman’s dress shop in canary yellow and indigo—and adorned with flowers and kitschy signs.

I sigh, sipping on the latte that Mrs. Harrington made for me before I left the quaint little inn. Such a sweet old lady. Her husband, too. They let me leave my car in their driveway for the morning.

“I guess you haven’t seen the news yet?” There’s something odd in her voice that I can’t quite grasp.

I stop walking. “No . . . why?”

“You need to come back to Dublin. Like, right now.”

I clocked well over two thousand hours in the hospital last year. Enough time that I’ve gotten used to the smells and the beeping sounds and eerie quiet. Enough time that I find comfort within those walls, able to navigate wings and signage without a second thought.

Today, though, after a white-knuckled three-hour drive home, turning onto the wrong side—or right side, in my opinion—of the road a dozen times, a frenzy of terrified thoughts distracting my focus, I’m finding no comfort within these Dublin hospital walls.

“Hey.” Ivy’s face so rarely shows any emotion that just the sight of her now—her brow pulled tight, a black mascara streak on her cheek—nearly unravels me.

“Have you heard anything?”

“Nothing.”

I heave a sigh, but it brings no relief to the tightness in my chest. “Thank you. For calling, and for tracking them down.” I passed out five minutes after talking to River last night. I figured he was still sleeping this morning when I texted him, though I was anxiously awaiting a response.

Now I know why I haven’t gotten one yet.

She simply shrugs and then leads me down a hall toward the reception desk in the emergency room waiting area. A young, mousy nurse sits behind it, chewing on the end of a pen. Her badge says her name is Sally, and it makes me think of the McNally sisters.

“Hi, our friends were brought in this morning after an incident at their pub. I was hoping you could give us some information.” I cross my fingers, having no idea how willing she’ll be to share details with me, seeing as I’m not family.

“Names?” Sally’s voice—deep and husky and laced with a heavy Dubliner accent—is a complete contradiction to her appearance.

“River and Rowen Delaney.”

Her glasses shift with her frown. “Right. Terrible thing that happened.”

My stomach clenches with her words, tears ready to flood my cheeks. This doesn’t sound promising.

“You’re American. You must be,” she checks a sticky note, “Amber Welles?”

“Yes.”

When she catches my curious frown, she explains, “River’s been asking for you. Sent his mother here to make sure we let you in. Room 114—through that door and take a left.” Her gaze shifts to Ivy.

“She’s with me,” I say.

She hesitates. “I’m not supposed to—”

“Look, I get it, Sally. I’m a nurse too, back home.” I plead with her compassionate side, the one that may overlook policies. “She’ll be in and out. She just needs to see Rowen. Even if it’s for a minute.”

The nurse’s voice drops. “Go quickly, before the regular desk nurse comes back from break. She won’t let you back there.”

“Thank you.” Tugging at Ivy’s arm, I hurry her along as I follow the directions, my worry growing with each step. I hold my breath as I peek through the window of Room 114, unsure of what I’m about to see, fearing the worst.

“Oh, thank God,” slips through my mouth with a heavy exhale as I immediately spot River sitting upright on the edge of the bed closest to the window, already dressed in jeans and a shirt. Aside from a few mild scratches on his cheek and a small bandage above his left eyebrow, he appears to be fine. The crushing weight that’s been sitting on my chest all morning lifts. Not fully, though, because the bed next to River’s is empty and stripped of all bedding.

Where is Rowen?

River’s not alone. An older couple occupy the space between his bed and the window. His parents, no doubt. The squat woman paces, wringing her hands nervously, her sable-colored hair a frizzy mess pinned on top of her head. The man, with a full head of coppery hair, sits in a chair, his hands folded over the handle of a cane. He appears older than the woman.

They’re people I never thought I’d meet. People I would never want to meet under circumstances such as these.

The man’s gaze catches me in the tiny window and his mouth begins moving. River’s on his feet immediately, a limp in his gait as he takes a few steps, then waves me in. “Amber!”

I push through the door. “Ivy called me. I came as fast as I could.” I freeze midway, feeling his parents’ eyes on me, unsure of what’s appropriate here. I know what I
want
to do: attach myself to his chest, kiss him senseless, and never let go.

Fortunately, River answers my question for me, enfolding me in his arms and burying his face into my neck.

“How are you?”

“I’ll be fine, aside from a concussion and a few bruises and cuts. I was behind the bar when it went off. We’re just waiting for them to discharge me.”

“Thank God.” I glance over at the empty bed, and then at Ivy, who seems to be hiding in a corner. “And Rowen?”

He swallows hard, and I feel it right down into the depths of my stomach. “Still in surgery.” Worry mars his handsome face. “It’s been twelve hours. All we know so far is that he took a lot of shrapnel. Doctors are trying to save his leg. Twelve hours seems like a long time, doesn’t it?”

Any surgery that lasts that long is serious, especially when it involves trauma like this. But he doesn’t need to hear that now. “I’ve seen plenty of surgeries last that long and the patients turn out just fine.” My own mother worked on Alex for over fourteen hours.

His slow, shaky exhale skates over my face, and then he finally nods. “Aengus is in critical care.”

All three brothers were caught in that bombing. All three could have been killed. “Was this because of him?” I whisper.

He simply nods.

Behind us, someone clears a throat. River’s arms fall, releasing me from their grip, enough that I can duck around him. “Hi, I’m Amber.” I close the distance and offer my hand to his mom first, and then his dad. They each take it in turn, answering with “Marion” and “Seamus” and tight smiles. Not because of their displeasure with me; I understand that. I’ve spent enough time around worried families in hospitals to not take it personally.

“You’re American?” River’s father asks.

“Yes.”

“Living in Ireland?”

“Just visiting.”

His green eyes dart to River’s, a quizzical look in them.

“She knows,” is all he says, pulling me back into his side. I happily meld against him.

“How long are ya here for, Amber?” his mother asks, her accent so thick I have to process the words in my mind to interpret.

“Well, I was supposed to be leaving on Sunday for England, but . . .” I steal a glance River’s way. “I’m going to make some changes to my flights.” When Simon offered his house to me, he said I could have it for the entire month of June. I never thought I’d need it.

River’s brow furrows. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” I smile. “It’s just another country. It’ll still be there later.” But River may not be, and I can’t think of any place I’d rather be now than with him. This isn’t about ditching my life plans for a guy. This is about doing what I truly want to do.

“And you?” Marion pokes her head around to take in Ivy, her shrewd eyes scrutinizing Ivy’s boots and punkish dress.

“I’m friends with Amber.” She hesitates. “And Rowen.” After a moment, she darts forward awkwardly, extending her arm to offer a hand.

Marion’s eyes widen slightly at the full sleeve of colorful ink covering Ivy’s slender arm before taking it. I can only imagine what’s going on in the woman’s head. Not everyone can be like my mother—so open-minded and accepting.

“Ivy did the Delaney stag on my chest,” River explains, adding, “on Rowen, too.”

That seems to impress Seamus, his nod slow but approving.

“We should go see if there’s any news on Rowen,” Marion announces. “Come, Seamus.”

“Right.” He climbs out of his seat with a groan, wincing once before righting himself, setting his shoulders straight. As if defying the very real pain he feels. “Maybe we can track down that flighty bird who was supposed to release you by now,” he mumbles to River on the way past.

The second the door shuts, River sits down on the bed with a grimace. “Fuck . . .”

“You said you were fine.”

He sighs. “I lied. Ma will start yelling at the doctors to keep me here if she knows.”

I shake my head with exasperation. “Maybe she’s right and you need to stay!”

“Nah.” He grabs my hands and pulls me onto his lap, carefully maneuvering me to, I imagine, avoid the injury on his leg. “I have my own private nurse. I don’t need to stay in here.”

I lay a kiss on his temple, aware of Ivy still in the room. “True.”

The momentary silence hanging in the room is heavy with worry.

“How bad was it?” I finally ask.

“I don’t really remember much. I came to with the paramedics. Bad, I think. I can’t see the pub being opened again for a while.” He curses under his breath. “They were watching, waiting for that idiot to come in. If he’d just stayed away like he was supposed to, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“How hurt is Rowen?” Ivy hugs her tiny frame.

“I didn’t see him.” River’s voice turns husky with emotion. He clears his throat several times, his head dipped down. “The staff here is bloody horrible. I asked for a glass of ice water an hour ago.”

“I’ll get you some. Just stay put.” I’ve done the same for countless patients before, but it’s different now. I’ll happily be at River’s beck and call.

“I could use some, too,” Ivy murmurs, trailing me. No matter how casual this thing is with Rowen, I can tell it’s shaken her up. Passing through the door, I reach back to give her hand a slight squeeze and offer a smile.

When I turn to look ahead, I find myself face-to-face with Garda Duffy.

Two . . . three . . . four painfully long seconds pass, where my lungs simply don’t work. Maybe he doesn’t remember me. Maybe he won’t recognize me.

Maybe he won’t put two and two together.

I pray.

“Amber Welles.” His gaze reads the number on the door, and then my face. There’s no mistaking the shift from surprise to shock to recognition . . . to understanding.

I’m sure it’s the same series of expressions that he sees passing over mine.

I’m in so much trouble.

I shift and groan, the twenty stitches keeping the wound in my thigh closed tight and uncomfortable. That chunk of flying glass cut so deep into my muscle that I needed internal stitching as well. The doctors promised that this limp is only temporary, that it’ll fade within a couple of weeks, as the tissue repairs itself.