Irish Eyes (Stolen Hearts Romance) (13 page)

“Now.” He brought his hands together in a thunderous clap. “What’s this about not forming attachments?”

She bowed her head. “I’ve just found that’s the best way to get along sometimes. I mean, something comes along and you really think, ‘this is it, this is the thing that’s going to work for me’—I mean, work for the shelter.”

“What’s wrong with that?"

She raised her chin, her eyes tinged with resignation. “Have you ever heard the expression, ‘life is what happens when you’re making other plans’?”

His lips tugged into a halfhearted smile.

“Well, welcome to my life.” She extended her arms out to her sides then let them drop again. “Our budget should have kept us in the black from one fiscal year to the next, but Cincinnati’s city wide cut backs coupled with last week’s cold snap and the flood of people it brought in really depleted our funds.”

Cameron nodded in sympathy.

She tossed her braid back over her shoulder. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought a big corporation might come through with a grant or a donation to bridge the gap until the beginning of our new fiscal year. But so far, I’ve been let down every time.”

“And you think my fund-raiser will result in just another letdown?” He laid his hand on her shoulder.

“Not for me.” Dark tendrils of stray hair danced along her temples as she shook her head. “I’ve kept my expectations, um, realistic.”

The already tight muscles beneath his palm clenched like a fist.
He curved his hand over her upper arm, then slid it down to grasp her chilly fingers. “You have to learn to let go, sweet Julia.”

Julia wanted to let go. She needed to let go. He saw as much in her shimmering eyes. But she couldn’t do it. Not yet.

She looked away.

Much as he longed to stay and talk with her, to help her find a way, he had pressing matters of his own to attend to.
“Don’t worry, Julia, it will work out.”

She gave a futile huff of a laugh.

“Just as my own trouble will work out.” He made himself back away from her. “Which reminds me, I promised Fiona I’d swing by her house this afternoon.”

Her whole persona softened. “How is Fiona?”

“Weary.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep from brushing them over her lovely black hair. “Fiona doesn’t sleep much these days. But she’s in good spirits.”

“Good.”

He nodded. “And Devin called again last night."

“Really?” Julia’s whole aura lightened. There was no way of hiding how much she had come to care about Cameron’s family even though she had only met Devin once and Fiona a few times.“How many times is that now? Three? Your Michael Shaughnessy is certainly going at this with a very laid-back attitude.”

‘Yeah, he’s about as laid-back as a cougar about to pounce,” Cameron muttered, his gaze suddenly drawn to the tracking signal pin he’d had Julia wear that he hoped he’d never have to use. “Anyway, she’s got a digital recording of the conversation for me to listen to. Said there wasn’t anything of use on it, but I want to judge that for myself.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, her hand landing gently on his arm even as he retreated another step away.

Kiss me. Tell me that of all the things you try not to let yourself get attached to, I might be the exception.
He thought it but he kept it to himself. Instead he crooked one finger under her chin, tipped it up, smiled and said, “Just keep yourself safe, Julia. Keep your eyes open.”
And you heart as well.
“And don’t lose hope. You never know what tomorrow will bring.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Michael, this has gone on long enough. Just bring Devin home and be done with it.”

Cameron heard the tremor in Fiona’s voice despite the poor quality of the recording. The raw edge of her pain, her need to have her child back, cut through him like no knife or bullet ever could. He shifted his weight and Fiona’s thrift store wooden chair squawked in complaint. He shoved at the sleeves of his forest green sweatshirt, pushing them back over his tense forearms and leaned over the painted kitchen table to listen for every nuance in the replayed conversation.

“If you want Devin home again, Fiona dear, I’m not the one you should be talking to,” came the firm reply.

Michael’s voice grated on Cameron’s nerves. He clenched his jaw and forced down the bile rising in the back of his throat, focusing with every fiber of his being.

“Tell that brother-in-law of yours to find me gold.”

“Michael, please—”

“Mom?”

“Oh, Devin, darlin’, are you all right?”

“Sure, Mom, I’m fine. I miss your fine cookin’, though. I can’t wait to get home to it, and to you.”

Fiona’s anguished gasp registered clearly through the muffled static on the tape.

“Me and Uncle Mike had southern fried chicken the other night. The both of us were tired of his cookin' so we followed our noses till we found what we wanted. Uncle Mike says he’s a natural tracker—too bad he isn’t as natural a fisherman!” Devin’s laughter punctuated his rambling thoughts. “I don’t want you to worry about me, Mom. Remember, it’s just like I’m on spring break.”

“I wish I could pretend that, sweetheart, but my heart knows better. There’s no fooling a mother’s heart, you know.”

“I know, Mom. Uncle Mike says I have to hang up now. He says to tell Uncle Cam to get moving on the gold. Tell him that, Mom, to get moving.”

Get moving.
Cameron’s finger hovered above the triangle on the screen that would replay the whole conversation. But he wasn’t interested in the whole conversation, just Devin’s cryptic messages.

“Get moving,” he mumbled. The child’s implication, that he had not yet done enough, settled like a boulder on Cameron’s chest.

“Now, don't beat yourself up over that, Cameron.” Fiona raised her hand to her forehead, hiding her eyes from his scrutiny as she tried to sound calm, encouraging even. “Yes, I am near frantic wanting him back with me but I know that Devin is safe with Michael. I do not doubt that one bit.”

Cameron wanted to tug her hand away, to look directly at her. Without being able to do that he didn’t want to say a thing and risk pushing the wrong button. Like her, he didn’t think for one moment that Michael would physically hurt Devin but the very act of keeping him away from Fiona delivered its own brand of hurt to the people Michael should love and want to protect. Then there was the issue of Michael filling the impressionable boy’s head with who knows what kinds of stories about gold and greed and justice.

Cameron clenched his jaw and stared into the tea in his untouched cup, brooding over his every misstep, ever possible outcome until the power of Fiona’s gaze fixed on him brought him out of his daze.

She placed her hand on his forearm. “You’re the real target here. Michael made Devin say that to play on your conscience, trying to force your hand. You’ve got a fine plan all laid out to go into effect tomorrow. If your Saint Patrick’s Day notoriety doesn’t bring Michael to you, then I don’t know what will.”
Her chilled fingers wrapped around his hand like a vice. “Well, it just will work, that’s all.”

Cameron shook his head and the movement brought a stabbing pain to the twisted knot of muscles in his neck. “There has got to be a deeper message in there somewhere.”

“Now, Cameron, you’ve gone over and over this before.” She picked up her own teacup and walked to the counter, which only took a couple of steps in her small but cheery old apartment kitchen. “You had every local fishing spot scoured after his first call. Nothing.”

Nothing.
The word fell like a piano hammer on a taut metal wire.

She settled the cup and silver spoon she’d been using down in the deep enamel sink with a clatter and a clink. “After the second call, you put the Kentucky officials on alert should they show up at the state park with the moonbow. They haven’t shown up.”

He sighed.

Fiona stretched her arms over her head and yawned, then put her hands on her hips. “So far, none of your hunches about Devin trying to send us a coded message have proven out.”

If that was supposed to make him feel better, it failed to do the job.“Still, Fiona, I have to think that’s my shortcoming, not Devin’s. The boy would try to get us any information he could, I just know it.” He ground his fist into his palm. “Why can’t I figure out what it is?”

“Cameron, I’m the first to admit that Devin is a clever boy— a sheer genius of a child.” She jabbed at his knee with her toe as if to prod him into a better mood.

He obliged her with a blustering chuckle.

“But you must realize that Michael is standing right beside him while he speaks to us. It’s possible he wouldn’t even try to send a coded signal to us—or that he wouldn’t succeed in doing so—under those circumstances.”

“Of course, you’re right. But if Devin was trying to get a message to us, I’d hate to think I dismissed it outright. I guess I’d better get
moving
then.” He stood, lengthening the stiff muscles of his legs with great effort. He reached down to pick up his phone, where he had a copy of the message now stored.
“I know there is something on this that will help, Fiona. I just know it.”

“Then find it, Cameron. Find Devin… and Michael.” She did not even try to conceal the fact that despite all this she cared for that man in ways that maybe Cameron did not want to think about. “And secret message or no—you still have your wonderful plan to bait Michael with your Saint Patrick’s Day activities.”

He nodded. “Will you be coming down to the shelter tomorrow?”

“I don’t dare leave the house, what if they showed up here instead?” She gripped the edge of the sink. “Or what if Devin got away,
this
is where he would come, not there.”

“That’s probably for the best.” He snatched up his parka and dragged it on. The warmth seeped into his aching neck and shoulders but did not ease the source of his stress.

She managed a watery smile at that. “For what it’s worth, I think your plan is already working. It sounds as if Michael is getting more than a wee bit nervous about what you’re going to do next.”

“Good.” Cameron couldn’t return her smile as his thoughts focused on the situation and how it might pan out. “Greed and anxiety breed haste and blundering. They’ll be Michael’s downfall.”

“From your lips to God’s ears,” she said, opening her arms to give him a goodbye hug. “Now get going and tomorrow, have a piece of that fine green colored cake for me, won’t you?”

He laughed and returned the hug, briefly. “Fiona, me darlin’, I don’t think I’ve got the stomach for it. In fact, I think that after tomorrow, I won’t want to see anything green for a very long time.”

She wrinkled up her freckled nose. “Went a wee bit overboard on the decorations, did you?”

He rolled his eyes heavenward. “The whole place looks like it was overrun by a clan of crazed leprechauns. And if I hear one more pitiful imitation of an Irish accent—” He groaned.

“Now there’s a fine attitude. An entire holiday intended to celebrate the Irish, and you’re creatin’ a bellyache about it.”

“For sure and I’ll have a bellyache if I have to eat that green cake and wash it down with green punch, no less.” He pulled the door open and stepped over the threshold. “There’s more than one reason I’ll be glad when tomorrow is over.”

*

“Top o’ the morning to ya on this fine and foggy Saint Patrick’s Day in Cincinnati, Ohio. I’m Eric Schultz—make that Sean-Eric McSchultzy for today—and I’ll be reporting to you live from Saint Patrick’s Homeless Shelter where they are honoring the holiday in a grand old style. But first, Stephanie “0’”Zawicki and George “Mc” Maynard have this morning first look news stories.

“You’re clear.” The man with a camera poised on his shoulder gave a thumbs-up sign to the compact, ruddy-faced fellow clutching a microphone.

“You’ll be in the next segment, Mr. O’Dea.” Eric Schultz, billed locally as the Wacky Wake Up Weatherman, motioned for Cameron to join him in the glaring white spotlight.

“I want to thank you and your station for giving us this broadcast this morning.” He shook the man’s hand, surprised at how he towered over the city’s favorite fun loving weathercaster.

“No problem. I have to be somewhere every morning, might as well be here.” Eric contorted his face in one of his trademark rubbery expressions. “It’s you who did us a favor by letting us know about this, anyway. I mean, how often does something like this come along?”

“Saint Patrick’s Day? Comes once a year, if I'm not mistaken," Cameron said, knowing it wasn’t because of the man’s stature that the wry comment would go over his head.

“Naw, not that.” He waved his hand. “I mean a broadcast opportunity like this. It has it all—great visual, human interest, community appeal, and a real Irish person on a real Irish holiday.”

“Actually, this is more of an American holiday—”

“Whatever. The point is, it’s going to come off fresh and fun and with just the right touch of tugging at the old heartstrings.” He glanced down at the handheld TV monitor to check the progress of the morning news report.