Saratoga Summer: 1863
by Dorice Nelson

Prologue

Ireland

Summer, 1843

In the usual fashion of uncut equine males, the leggy chestnut stallion shrieked and whinnied to attract the attention of the mares in the next field. Head held high, he ran the perimeter of his enclosed grassy paddock and worked up a heavy sheen of sweat.

He had been at the farm for a month but still behaved in this fashion when other horses were being led into the nearby pastures. His shrill bellows caused eleven-year-old Connor O’Malley to glance up and shake his head in apparent disgust. No one else seemed to pay much attention to the stallion’s nervous calls, so Connor kept watch.

At the chestnut’s continued trumpeting, Bowes Brennan, a short, bandy-legged young man with a thatch of hair the color of ripe straw, peered from behind the barn’s double doors. He, too, shook his head but grinned as he checked the outside area. He waved to his wife, Annie, round with child, who sat on the top rail of the stallion’s paddock fence. He blew her a kiss and disappeared back into the bowels of the barn.

Annie sat high on the fence, seemingly amused at the prancing stallion’s comical attempts to entice the mares. With a joyful smile on her face, she turned and called out to the elder of her two small daughters playing in the sand pit at the near side of the barn. “Sinead, darlin’. Look,” she shouted, her voice filled with merriment. “Isn’t he the most glorious looking beast?”

“Aye, Mam, he is. Pretty horsey,” came the childish shout from the four-year-old. The little girl smiled broadly, displaying perfectly aligned small white teeth. “Almost pretty as you.”

Annie turned back to watch again, her smile wider than before.

Now unbearably anxious, the chestnut focused on the mares in the nearby field. He snorted and called again. Suddenly, in desperation, he propelled himself into a tearing gallop. His massive muscles bunched and stretched, bunched and stretched. He ran straight at the fence, rocked back on his hocks, and propelling himself forward, leapt to jump from the paddock.

The stallion missed the top rail in his surge for freedom. He was almost over when his front hooves clipped the rail, knocking Annie—and him—off balance. She tipped backward and fell to the ground. The stallion’s back legs crashed onto wood, hard and split the rail in half. The two pieces of stout logs plummeted to the ground, hitting Annie, who lay crumpled in a heap outside the paddock.

Her single scream resounded above the hushed hillsides, silenced by more than a thousand pounds of horseflesh landing atop her. The stallion thrashed and kicked in his struggle to regain his feet. He crushed Annie beneath him before he stood upright.

At the sound of the scream, Bowes, his jockey-sized body pumping his legs like pistons, exploded out the barn doors. Connor bolted from the far pasture where he had been teasing the new foals. The two girls rose and stood in the sand, dumbstruck, their faces crossed with horror and their hands tightly clasped.

Bowes reached her first. He lifted her battered body into his arms. “Annie, Annie,” he sobbed, watching the blood seep from her mouth. Her eyes stared blankly at the serene sky. Her lips hung open as if that one scream would be the last sound she would ever make. “Annie, lass, don’t be leaving me. Please, me darling, don’t go…”

Finn O’Malley, Connor’s father, stormed out of the manor house, shouting, “What in hell’s name is going on out here?” Bowes was on the ground holding a body. Finn turned his head and called, “Mary, come…”

The new stallion hovered nearby, head hanging, muscles quivering, his weight on only three of his four legs, unable to move. Finn’s expression was wild. He shouted to Connor, who was fast approaching from the field. “Fetch the gun from the house. Quickly now, lad.”

Connor swerved at his father’s command and dashed into the house, pushing past his mother, who stood frozen in the doorway, her hand covering her mouth. Finn tore across the lawn toward the accident, his face a mask of sorrow.

Bowes nestled his wife in his arms and looked up at the man standing over him. “Och, dear God! She’s gone, Finn,” he cried. “Me Annie-girl is gone. The babe with her. I felt the last breath leave her.” He sobbed with earth-shaking, gulping howls. “Only a moment ago. Me Annie’s gone and the babe she carried with her.” He clutched his wife closer to his narrow, heaving chest and rocked the body. Keening, he rained kisses over her bruised and bloody face.

Face drawn, Finn hunkered down next to Bowes and put a consoling hand on his shoulder. “Here, man.” He patted the shoulder then rubbed the young man’s head with a gentle hand.

Tears of anguish gushed from Bowes’s blue eyes and forged paths down his cheeks. He looked up at the older man with an almost vacant expression. “What’ll I do without me Annie?”

“Let me take her from ye, laddie. I’ll be bringing her up to the house for me Mary to care for. There’s nothing ye can be doing for Annie now. See to yer girls.” Finn nodded in the direction of the barn. “They’re little forms are shaking yet, stiff with the fright.”

Slowly, with movements meant to soothe, Finn eased Annie’s limp body from Bowes’s grasp and lifted her gently into his own strong arms. Connor ran from the house with a rifle grasped tightly in his hand and moved to his father’s side.

The sight of the blood and gore hit young Connor him with the impact of a runaway train. He fell to his knees. He dropped the gun, crossed himself and murmured a short prayer.

Finn gazed down at his son. “Lad, yer Ma and I will be busy. We must see to Annie. Ye’ll have to be taking care of that crippled creature yerself,” he said quietly, pointing at the forgotten stallion. “There’s none other to do it. ’Tis this very day ye’ll be turning into yer manhood, son. I trust ye to do the deed right, and quick.”

Fighting back tears, Connor’s father turned and shuffled toward the house, carrying Annie Brennan in his arms. The quiet sound of the manor’s door closing was punctuated by the sobbing of a boy becoming a man, the horrific wailing screams of two frightened children and the sound of a gunshot.

* * *

Two months later

The two little girls, eyes wide, gripped each other’s hands tightly. This farm was the only home they’d ever known. Now, they were leaving it. Sitting in a narrow cart amongst their luggage, they stared straight ahead, seeming no longer to recognize the people standing on the porch of the stone manor house. Their father, unlike his former laughing, teasing self, stood morose, stiff.

“Bowes, ye don’t have to be leaving. Ye know me Mary and I will take care of ye and yer lasses.”

“Aye, I do that, sir.” He shook his head. “But the very sight of the horses scares the girls far too much for any pleasure in them. Sinead, in her mourning for her mam, is afraid to leave our cottage. She’s afraid to go anywhere near the horses.”

“We can move ye to another place, perhaps, in the village. At least, ye’d know ye’d be having steady work. Ye’re too much of a horseman to be leaving the beasts forever.”

“Nae, Finn, ’tis better I take the lasses away from the scene of the accident.”

Mary O’Malley, her soft brown eyes filled with unshed tears, asked, “Where will ye go, Bowes? Where will ye be taking those lovely girls?” She paused to look at the sad little girls, her desire for daughters apparent on her face. “I’ll be missing them so. They were the daughters I’ve not had.”

“I think we’ll head toward Dublin first,” Bowes said, taking off his cap and crushing it against his chest. “I have sisters there who will watch the lasses while I work.” He turned away but turned back again, as if reluctant to leave. “They’ll be having family around and a routine to follow. It’ll be better for them.”

Finn put an open hand out to Bowes. “Ye’re a good man with people and a finer hand with the horses. How will ye ever stay away from the beasties? They’ve been yer life’s work, for sure,” he said, in a hopeful pleading tone.

“I think some time soon, we may travel across the pond to America. I have sisters there, too, in a city called New York. It’ll be a new place, a new life for me and the girls,” he said, gripping Finn’s hand then letting it go and walking down the steps, saying good-bye to Mary and Finn O’Malley for a final time.

Finn followed him down to the drive. He put his arm around Bowes’s thin shoulders and hugged the young man to him. They broke apart, embarrassed at the sudden show of affection. Bowes took a step closer to the overloaded cart.

Finn said in a low voice, “The money I’ve given ye is not near enough for the care of your girls. ’Tis not enough for me to do for ye. Bowes, ye know ye can always count on me if ever yer family runs into any kind of trouble.”

“Thank ye, Finn. Ye’ve always been most generous to me and mine. I don’t think things will ever get this bad again. At least, not in my lifetime.”

A short grunt of derision burst from Finn’s mouth. “There’s no telling the amount of tragedy God will put into a fellow’s life, just to test him.” He crossed himself quickly. “But if ever ye should need me or mine, we’ll be there for ye. ’Tis my solemn promise to ye, man to man.”

The two men embraced again and gave each other quick pats on the back. Neither looked up to notice the grave forlorn faces of Connor and his four younger brothers. The boys stood huddled together and watched the leave-taking from an upstairs window.

Bowes trotted toward the cart alone. Inserting himself between the protruding frames, he grasped them and, with a grunt, pulled the cart down the road, away from the manor house. He didn’t look back.

 Chapter One

Ireland

April 1863

 Connor O’Malley scanned the pasture and studied the new foals racing across the field in playful abandon. He chortled over their antics. Lord, but I love these horses!

Looking guiltily to each side, at the ground in front of him, and then up to the sky, he crossed himself quickly and added both his family and Ireland to his mental list of things he loved, whispering aloud, “In that order.”

Connor laughed at himself for the many insignificant superstitions ruling his life. He shook his head in further amusement at his own daftness. He knew full well, whenever he got a chance, he would tell everyone or anyone who would listen or not, about the best breeding program of racing stock in all of Ireland. He smiled. And the best racing training to boot.

This morning, he was puffed up with a sense of pride in what he considered his accomplishments and downright smug in his beliefs about his future in the European world of horseracing. He was hotter-than-hell from planting oak and elm saplings in the pastures, to cover his beloved horses from the ravages of Ireland’s quick downpours and shade them from the strong bursts of sunshine. It became more important each day to maintain the proper condition of their coats.

Beads of perspiration rolled from beneath the blue cloth circling his brow. He stopped digging and, with the turned-up sleeve of his grimy cotton undershirt, wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked around. Where had his four brothers gone, he wondered. The damned fools disappear every time there’s hard work to be done.

A dull jangle of out-of-tune iron bells made Connor turn from the foals clustered around him, now shoving and poking at him, to look down the road leading to the manor. Ill-matched hoof beats of a poorly shod horse accompanied the discordant clang of the bells and drummed up thin clouds of dust on the dirt road.

Slowly, an ancient gray horse struggled into view over the last slight rise in the roadway. Connor chuckled and leaned on his shovel to watch the old gray, with an even older white-haired man perched atop him, approach the stone house.

His cousin Padrik O’Malley from the village, a pouch slung over his shoulder, sat draped atop his plug of a horse. Padrik’s chin rested on his chest. His eyes were closed.

The flea-beaten horse plodded across the gravel path straight to the most vibrant green of the grassy lawn surrounding the house. Once there, he spread his front legs and stretched his neck down to graze.

The sudden movement upset the elderly man’s balance. Slipping and sliding in the leather saddle, almost falling, Paddy grabbed a handful of mane and pushed hard to right himself. He looked around him with a silly and guilty expression on his face, obviously startled by the rude awakening.

“Good day to ye, Cousin Padrik,” Connor called while moving steadily toward the old man.

 “Aye?” Paddy called in return. He looked around with a vacant stare. “Aye? Och, there ye are, Connor, me lad,” he shouted. Cupping his ear as if he could barely hear, he beckoned Connor closer with his free hand. “A good day to ye, laddie. Come closer,” he bellowed, his voice growing louder the closer Connor came. “Yer horses are looking right fine, a rompin’ in that new field at hill’s bottom. Sleek-looking, a gleamin’ in the sun they are.”

“Why, thank you, cousin,” Connor said. He grinned, suspecting Padrik had been sound asleep when he passed the lower field. “’Tis a beautiful day for taking leave from your duties and traveling a bit. A visit to me da, is it now?”

“Nae. ’Tis me duty I’m doing. As post fer the village, I’m deliverin’ a packet to yer da.”

 Connor strolled to Paddy’s side and lifted the horse’s head to wipe the half-chewed grass from his mouthpiece. He handed the reins to his cousin. “Padrik, I think the packet’s for me. ’Tis expecting one from an English breeder I am.”

With the mail pouch clutched to his chest in a tight grip, Paddy shook his head. “Nae, Con. The packet’s addressed to your da, it is.” He leaned down and whispered in a gravelly voice, “Lots of papers shoved inside, it has. Givin’ it some bulk. Came from across the pond, it did. Important, I’m thinkin’.”

“America?” Connor frowned. “Well then, it’s surely not for me.” Connor edged around the horse in the direction of the pasture. “Have yourself a short nip while you’re visiting with me da,” he said as an afterthought.

He wheeled around and strode back toward the pasture, mumbling to himself, “As if you hadn’t thought of that nip all by your wee self.”

Connor briefly wondered how a packet, from America no less, would concern his da, but he shrugged off his thoughts and marched back to the field. Why should he worry about something from America? He had everything he needed to keep his life content. His horses, his family and Ireland itself were the very things on this earth to fill him with supreme happiness.

I am blessed!

* * *

Four days later

Only minutes earlier, a heartbroken Finn O’Malley rang the huge iron bell on the manor’s porch to summon his five ‘boyos’ from the fields. He let the bell peal on by itself while he retired to the library.

Finn’s eyes filled. He let the wetness slither down his face as he stood at the tall windows waiting for his sons to appear in the distance. Vivid sunlight danced over his face in flickering movements. He shaded his eyes from the glow, for its very brightness made a sad mockery of the dark deed he would commit this day.

He wondered what the mother of his sons, his sweet Mary, gone these past ten years, would think of him. What would she think of his promise and of his newfound scheme to honor it? Would she sling curses from heaven upon his head for severing the family life she so cherished?

Over the years, Finn presumed the vague promise, barely remembered, would never come to pass. How could he explain to his grown sons the promise made so long ago, before they were adults? In twenty years, no mention of it crossed the O’Malley threshold. Now, Bowes Brennan had called it in, a Bowes Brennan from the new country, a Brennan who desperately needed an O’Malley.

Finn’s heart filled with sadness. He knew he would lie to his lads. One of his sons must…

They appeared in the distance. Finn shook his head to chase his dour mood away. With pride, not unlike Connor’s, he watched the young men leap the pasture fences with an agility born to them. Each stopped long enough to pat every grazing horse they passed before they met in the center of the biggest field. There, they jostled and shoved each other around in their usual roughhouse ways.

Finn carefully studied them, committing to memory each and every precious feature. They were of the same sturdy stature—tall, with corded muscles thick and deep from daily dealings with the land and the animals. Their coloring, different for each one, was not unlike their rainbow temperaments— from fiery redheaded, green-eyed Egan, the youngest, to enigmatic, dark brown-haired, dark-eyed Connor, the eldest at thirty-one.

He watched them enter the house and knew they would clean up before entering the library. When he heard the shuffle of their feet in the hallway, he turned to face the library door.

* * *

Connor stood in the doorway of the library, his hand resting on the doorknob, his brothers elbowing him to see past his shoulders into the room. He peered in and located his da, half-hidden by a heavy curtain, in the glare of a tall, sunny window. Connor saw his father’s serious, gray face, streaked with tears. No doubt the man had important things on his mind, important things to say to them all.

With a smile, Finn stepped forward and gestured. “Come in lads, come in. Sit ye down. I’m having a sore need to talk with ye. In a most straightforward fashion as is my wont.”

Connor took note of his father’s tone of voice and hesitantly stepped into the room. The four others filed in behind him, concerned with their usual poking, shoving and trying to get past their older, larger brother, who turned sharply and frowned at them.

Finn stood in the middle of the room, waving them in as if anxious to talk to them. “Hurry in, boyos. Don’t be playing about with yer usual antics.”

The twins and Egan, the three youngest, looked at each other then swiveled around to look at Connor, who shrugged. They each must have perceived something unusual in their da’s demeanor, for they came in quickly and settled themselves, according to age, in chairs lined against the wall, just as they did when they were children.

Each looked expectantly at their father, who continued to wave at them. “Nae, boyos. Bring yer chairs closer. Be drawing them into a warm, comfortin’ circle. ’Tis a family thing, this is.”

The scrape of chairs filled the small room, the sound somewhat muted in the thick covers of leather-bound books crowding the bookcases. Finn waited until they were settled and grouped together facing him. “We’re going to have a lottery, boyos.”

“A lottery?” Connor’s eyes widened, surprised, not understanding the message. He stared at his younger brothers, who always trusted him to come up with answers. Again, he shrugged. He was baffled, with no concrete answers to this rare situation.

“A lottery. That’s what Da said. Don’t be dense, Con,” said Egan, the youngest brother, whose face now matched the brilliant carrot-red shade of his hair. He spoke with a touch more animosity than Connor would have accepted under ordinary circumstances. Perhaps he, too, noticed their da’s serious demeanor.

Finn coughed loudly, capturing their attention. “Aye, a lottery it’s to be. Ye see, boyos, there’s a friend, a Brennan, who once gave your great-great-great— Dammit, I don’t know how many greats. But ’tis one of yer forefathers, afore there were real O’Malleys, I’m thinking.”

Finn’s hesitant manner and downcast eyes belied what his smile conveyed. Da is not being truthful, Connor thought. “Is this to be a history lesson about our forefathers, Da? If so, I’ll pass. I’ve work to do with the horses and the trees,” Connor grumbled, half rising from his seat, while glaring at his brothers.

“Sit down lad,” Finn growled. “I must tell this to you all, and all together. I’m wanting no blame put here on anything but circumstance.”

Finn stared down at them with what Conner considered his sternest mien, so Connor smiled, hoping to lighten the terse words he’d spoken. “Well, hurry, Da. The bay mare is in season. I’d like to be putting the stallion to her before this day is out.”

 “Ye best hear the whole story as I know it. ’Tis an important piece of O’Malley history that must be fulfilled if we are to persevere.” His father looked down at the floor then raised his head with deliberate slowness before beginning. “In the fifteen hundreds or so, the chief of a Brennan clan saved one of us O’Malleys from the gallows.” He sighed softly. “’Twas a Grace O’Malley, daughter of a chief, and a foolish woman I’m thinking. Fighting the English, or something, she was. A deal was made then and there for an O’Malley to come to the aid of a Brennan should a severe and odd emergency exist.”

“I take it from your expression, Da, that such an emergency exists,” said the more serious of Connor’s blond twin brothers, Arlen, who sat shoulder to shoulder with his brother, Darren like a mirror image. They both had their hands clasped together in front of them, elbows on their knees. “How does it affect us, Da? Is that why you called us together?”

“Right to the penny, son. It seems a Brennan has fallen upon hard times.” Finn shook his head up and down in agreement. “Powerful hard times.”

“Harder than the famine itself?” asked the muscular, brown-haired Bartley, who was a year younger than Connor.

“Aye. A widow woman is to lose a child entrusted to her by her deceased husband. That is, if her husband’s in-laws have their way. I believe they’ve threatened to drag her through some sort of legal do, but I guess ’tis a long story. I don’t know the whole of it. Besides, ’tis for the widow to relate if she chooses.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do? We’ve no lawyers among us,” Connor asked, suspicious of the story told by his father, thinking it strange indeed. All the brothers nodded in response.

“Are there no O’Malleys nearby to help the poor woman out?” Egan asked. “Doesn’t she have folks of her own?”

When his da shook his head in answer to both questions, Connor asked, “What would you have us do to help?”

“Marry the widow, I presume,” Bartley said. He patted Connor’s back and shook his head as if mimicking their da.

Finally realizing the full import of the situation—the widow woman, the lottery— Connor leaped to his feet. “What are you talking about?” He stared at his father. “Da? Ye’re not telling us a wee tale, are ye? How could any of us take care of a woman with a child when we can barely take care of our horses, our villagers and ourselves? ’Tis a foolish scheme ye have, old man.”

“I’ll not be telling ye again. Sit, Connor! Ye may be within yer thirty years, but ’tis respect ye’ll be showing for yer da. And ’tis no foolish scheme, I’ll have ye know.”

Finn stood with his arms crossed over his chest and waited. Connor sat down. He scowled at his father then at his brothers.

Darren, the younger of the blond twins quipped, “Now, lads, show some consideration for a poor unfortunate who might be losing a child of her very heart. No doubt a wee one she has come to love with all her being.”

“I apologize for my quick temper. But the shock was into me,” Connor said, trying to smile. “But we know you too well, Da. You’ve a plan in mind.”

With his mouth opened wide enough to stuff a full-grown bird in the round ‘o’ it made, the older twin turned to the rest of the brothers, stared at them for a second then turned to their da. “’Tis one of us you’re fixing to marry off.”

Connor spoke quickly. “Well, it won’t be me, for sure. Not right now at any rate. If we’re to match the English in Ireland’s racing scene, I need to keep breeding and training the horses. Once I beat them to a ‘fare thee well’ then maybe—just maybe—I’ll marry that sweet thing from the village, the very one I’ve had me eye on for the last few years. She’d be a real help with the animals, and I kinda’ fancy her.”

His father paced to the windows, anger apparent in the redness of his face. He gulped once then turned and sauntered back, seemingly relaxed. He stood directly in front of the twins. “Ye’re right, boyos. Marriage in the offing. That’s why we’ll be having a lottery. Ye’ll each start out equal in this.”

Finn paused and moved off in another direction but he kept talking as if he couldn’t stop. “’Tis a deed that must be done. Was promised way back when. The Brennans did for us, now we’ll do for them, just as our forefathers would have done. As I would do, were I a younger fella’.”

Finn pointed to a small oak table at one side of the room’s stone hearth. “There are five pieces of straw placed on the table. Drawn from one of our own bales they were. Different lengths, each and every one.”

Aware of the drama of the scene but still wary of what he considered a false tale, Connor watched his da slowly pick up the straws.

Finn laid several in his hand. Glancing briefly at his sons, he made a fist and pushed all the straws down into it. What could be seen were mere pieces, all the same length, one indistinguishable from another.

Connor’s attention was riveted on Finn’s hand. All the straws were level at the top, each one facing in a different direction. This is not right.

“Well, now, boyos, ye’re going to do this. ’Tis an obligation secured for a lengthy time, and it’s fallen to us O’Malleys to equal the original favor.”

No one moved. Still as cats ready to pounce or run, all the brothers sat, staring at their feet. A premonition took hold of Connor. A chill passed over him. He looked up and drew a large breath. He knew his father would not have any of them shirking of their duty. One brother had to ‘pay the piper’ and repay a deed done in kindness. Never let it be said an O’Malley didn’t live up to his honor-bound duty.

“Well there, Connor. Ye were in such a hurry to stand earlier. Have ye no feet, except to look at?” his father asked. “Stand up lad. Ye’re the biggest and the eldest. It’s up to ye to decide whether the shortest or the longest straw gains a wife and a child. Choose long or short.”

“Long.”

“Long, it is. Whichever of ye boyos gets the longest straw will marry the lass and sail to America on the quickest ship to go there.”

Egan leaped to his feet to stand next to Connor. “Sail to America? What do you mean by that?”

“Whoever gets the long straw will marry here in Ireland with a priest in attendance so that the marriage vows are approved and sealed by the church. But the widow-woman lives in America. It’ll be a proxy wedding, so ye’ll have to go to America in order to consummate the marriage, proper-like. She can’t travel over here. The folks causing her problems want to keep the tyke and won’t let her take him out of their sight, much less to Ireland.”

“To America?” Egan’s face grew redder than his hair. His light green eyes doubled in size. He whispered, “I heard ’tis a terrifyin’ trip. To America.” Then he raised his voice louder. “Besides, I’m too young to marry some stranger.”

“Nae, don’t ye get any ideas, my lad. Ye’ll choose like your brothers do.” Finn shook his fist at Egan.

“We’ll all choose,” Bartley said, slightly backing away from the rest.

“Aye, we will, Da, but Connor first.” Arlen turned to Connor. “Hurry up, Con. Choose a straw. Go ahead. You’re the oldest.”

Connor spun around. “You’re in such an all-fired hurry, you draw. You’re not the only one who wants to stay here, at home, in Ireland. America be damned.”

“I’ll be having no battles over this, lads. It’ll be done right and proper. Connor, ye’re the oldest of me sons. Ye have the right to choose whether ye want to go first and pick or go last and have the final straw yer brothers might be leaving in their wake.”

Connor moved next to his da. He stood head and shoulders above him and glowered down.

Finn was not in the least intimidated. “Stop yer dark faces at me, Connor, laddie, and choose yer fate.”

Connor studied the straws in his da’s hand then picked the straw farthest from him. He shoved it behind his back so quickly his da couldn’t see it. Nor did Connor want to look at it. The tips of his fingers grew warm. The straw seemed to burn a trail of fire into his hand.

“Now, Connor, don’t be breaking the straw so it’s shorter. I’m watching ye careful-like,” Bartley quipped, stepping forward to pick next.

The others stepped forward and drew according to their ages. When it was Egan’s turn, he bounced forward and took the last one. He didn’t put it behind him. He opened his fingers and stared down at the brittle yellow piece. “Mine is short.” He gave a chuckle then his face paled. “Da, why are we doing this? None of us is wanting to go. Not me brothers, nor me. I, for one, would hate to be marrying so young. To a stranger. ’Tis a hard thing you’re asking.”

The younger of the blond twins whispered in Eagan’s ear. “’Tis the long straw that goes to America.” He opened his fist and displayed another short straw.

Egan ignored him and continued, “But since I have no lass in mind, any will do. I’ll sacrifice myself for one of me brothers and go to America.”

“That’ll be the day. When you sacrifice yourself for one of us,” Connor retorted with a grin. “It would be a first. So hush now and let Da speak.”

Finn ignored them both. “All of ye, put yer straws on the table in the order ye drew them. Connor, you go.”

Each straw placed on the table was shorter than the first. They all turned to look at Connor. He backed away from the table when he realized his was the longest straw. “Aye, Da. You’ve made your point. I’d be doing the deed but how am I to leave the horses?”

Egan shouted, “Aye. Who’s going to train the horses?”

Connor shouted back. “I will. I’ll take them all with me. I could not go without them.” All the air left his body and his voice softened. “I’ve worked so hard to keep them well-bred and sturdy. They’re me life, Da.”

Finn started to disagree but raised his hand instead.

“At least, would I be able to take the stallion and our best mare?” Connor asked, his voice loud and forceful, as if he couldn’t stop talking. “Our villagers are doing well, better than most of Ireland. We did our best to save everyone during the famine. ’Tis not that I’m swell-headed.” Connor sat, leaned his elbows on his knees and lowered his head to his hands. In a pathetic whisper of lost hope, he moaned, “But I cannot leave the horses. I just can’t. Some must go with me—or I’ll not go, I’m telling you.”

Egan faced his older brother, his hands on his hips, his legs splayed. “You can take a stallion. Not the mares. There must be mares in America. Besides, you don’t know how to handle a mare, anymore than you know how to handle the lasses. Females are different. They’re sensitive. You can’t boss them around like you do all of us.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Egan. You seldom do,” Connor snapped, his lip curled in distaste.

Egan’s expression changed, his face grew white.

Connor was sure Egan would say something he’d regret. He gave him a dark look, hoping to stay his words for the time being.

Egan kept on. “I can imagine how you’ll handle the widow you’re to marry. You don’t know anything about females.”

“And I suppose you do, Egan. How come you don’t have any of the village lasses chasing after you when we go to market?” Connor shot Egan a malicious, one-sided grin.

“You just don’t see them, ye bloody fool. You’re too busy looking at the horse flesh,” Egan spat back.

Connor jumped up. He suspected their argument would escalate into a battle were it not stopped, but he couldn’t give in to this feisty, smaller brother. Not now. He noticed Bartley had moved closer to the two antagonists, the twins farther away.

“Both of ye. Enough!” Finn interrupted with a loud snarling grunt. “Yer darling mother died too young. She never had the chance to socialize ye properly once ye were grown, much less teach any of ye the wonder and glory of a good and caring woman. She’ll live on in our memories, from this day, in shame if ye continue yer silly battles.”

At the mention of their mother, they stopped moving and bowed their heads. They each made the sign of the cross. Their mother’s memory was dear and sacred to them all.

Without raising his head, Connor knew his da had their attention now. Somehow, he understood his time of happiness had come and gone in the space of a moment. The little people—those Irish leprechauns—had made a mockery of his overbearing sense of pride. It was time for him to pay the piper.

Bartley moved to stand by Connor and said, “Con, ye’d be pressed trying to take the stallion and any mare of yer choosing and handling a new wife, a child and a new country. Besides, all of us would lose out as well if ye took them with ye. The horses fit our lives, too.”

Finn uttered a sharp gasp and snapped his fingers as if he had a wonderful idea. The lines in his forehead smoothed out but he hesitated. He turned to look at each of them. “Listen to yer da, son. It’s a long voyage to America. Ye don’t know what conditions ye’ll be facing, Connor, me boyo. Trying to handle a stallion and a mare that might come into season during the voyage will tear ye down and them as well.”

One side of Finn’s mouth creased upward and he broke into a smile. “Instead, take Egan with ye. He’s been bustin’ to go to America since he was but a wee mite. He was ready when the first group left the village in ’48 and him only a wee lad.”

“Take Egan? Toss him into the sea on the way, no doubt. I’d probably kill him before we landed.” Connor glanced at his youngest brother. He studied him. Egan would make good company and a willing hand if horses were involved in America. And horses had to be in his future… He made a half-turn away.

“Con, take me. I’ll behave, I promise. Take me with you.” Egan grinned up at his brother, who seemed to ignore him. He moved in closer to face him. “What’s the matter, Con? Afraid I’ll take the sweet widow-woman away from you?”

“Who cares?” Suddenly, Connor let a big, booming laugh erupt into the room. The sound of it reverberated against the stone of the fireplace but stopped abruptly as he made up his mind to include his brother. He spoke directly to Egan. “Why not? Aye, I’ll take you with me, Egan. I’ve heard America’s big—a scary place—but with lots of room. I hate to be going alone someplace I know little about. The two of us together…?” Connor flung his arm over Egan’s shoulders then gave him a hug fit to break the younger man’s ribs. “But, little brother, you’ll be listening to every word I tell you.”

“Och, for sure, Con,” Egan said with a smirk, shaking his head in agreement.

 Chapter Two

Ireland

Late May

Knowing he falsified his story, Finn O’Malley felt ill about sending two of his five sons to a place called New York, a place where crass strangers ruled. Only the good Lord above knew what went on in such a barbaric place. What he had feared most was one of his boyos going off alone and being left to the monsters he envisioned lived in America.

Even worse, he was sickened and ashamed by the lie he was compelled to relate, but, for some inexplicable reason, he was hesitant to tell them the truth or to remind them of the tragedy that happened twenty years before. At the time, he prayed their young minds would forget the sorrow of the days following the tragedy of Annie Brennan’s death. Now, on a continual basis, he prayed his Mary would forgive his lying.

He wasted several weeks, hoping something might occur to change his decision to send them. One week passed, then another, before Finn finally gathered Connor and Egan close for a manly talk. Not only was he faced with losing one son; he was to lose two, both going far from home.

Perhaps it was better this way, he thought, pacing to a window and back. Finn knew there was little for his sons in Ireland, with memories of the famine and the cruelty of the English still setting neighbor against neighbor at the strangest times. All his sons should go, not stay in a struggling Ireland where the Irish had so little respect from those who seemed to rule them.

Connor and Egan would keep each other company, so he spoke to them quietly. “Connor, make sure yer marriage is properly consummated and yer bride has the child safely in her custody, with no one wanting to take it away from her.” Finn made note of Connor’s grim face and his heart grew heavy. “Lads, ye don’t have to stay in that foreign place forever, ye know.”

Connor nodded at his father’s words, but Finn could see the lad still felt uneasy about the reasons for doing this. Finn understood something in Connor’s demeanor gave credence to the idea he’d heard the lie. Finn knew his boys recognized the fact.

Nevertheless, Finn went on. “Once everything’s settle proper-like, ye’ll be free to bring yer new family back here. Yer horses will still be where ye raised them, and ye’ll be back in the home ye love. Think on it, boyo.”

Connor nodded and Egan patted him on the back.

“Boyos, I want ye to keep this old country and its proper behavior uppermost in yer minds. Keep yer religion close to ye. There’ll be folks who’ll want ye to stray but the faith will bolster yer senses and keep ye well.”

“Aye, Da,” Connor mumbled, his dark eyes saddened with burdensome grief.

“Aye, Da,” Egan said, his green eyes dancing with glee.

Finn studied both Connor and Egan. They were good sons. Each and every one of his sons were fine, fine men. He was as proud of them as any man could be. He breathed a sad sigh at losing any of them to another world beyond the confines of their small breeding farm.

With regret uppermost in his thoughts, he raised himself to his full height, standing straighter and taller than he had since getting the packet. “Well, boyos, ’tis off to the priest we go.”

He turned back for a moment. “Connor, take the papers from that table by the fireplace. They’re in the top drawer. We need to take them with us for the priest. We’ll have a ceremony all fine and legal. Signed and sealed by Father William.”

Egan rushed to the table before Connor. He dragged open the drawer and was about to take the papers out when his brother’s large hand encircled his wrist.

“I’ll get them. Don’t be getting ahead of yourself, little brother. I’ll be wanting to do this myself.”

“Aye,” came the soft answer.

Finn smiled and started for the door. “Och, I think the widow’s name is somewhere on one of those papers.”

Connor opened the drawer and took the papers out. He studied the top one then shuffled through them all until he found what he was looking for. A name. “Sinead Cavanaugh, soon to be Sinead O’Malley.”

Finn’s smile widened. This would work.

* * *

New York City

July 11, 1863

The day dawned hot and sulky without a breath of wind to cool the troubled times Bowes Brennan knew were heading for the city of New York. He could feel the horrors of everyone’s reactions to the Conscription laws permeateing the air. Things were too quiet around his boarding house and the area where he lived, too subdued and peaceful not to matter.

He sighed, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and settled his two matching grays into their places at the front of the open carriage. Once finished with the last belting of the harness straps, he climbed up onto the driver’s seat, took the reins in his hands and clucked to the horses to move forward down the street.

Rounding the corner into a main thoroughfare, the hasty movements of pedestrians and carriages caught his eye. An endless river of people, each pursuing his or her own destiny, marched steadily for the business districts of the city.

Bowes figured the lottery drawing for the draft had already begun at the Conscription offices on Third Avenue and Forty-sixth Street. Rumors were that the authorities intended to start in areas of vacant lots and isolated buildings—so as not to upset the more vocal populace in heavily crowded areas. But he knew the draft would be a clash of race, classes, religions and nationalities, a jam of unrest and tumultuous desires. That was New York, a dissonant chorus, a city of hurried and sparkling waters, a city of spires and masts.

He pushed such incongruous thoughts from his mind. It was time to pick up his daughter, Sinead, and go with her to meet her new husband. Ablaze with plans and possibilities for her, he had coerced her into participating in one of his schemes. He had wanted a good man for her and was surprised he was able to talk her into marrying one, just by her taking her da’s word for everything. His heart would break with grief if she and little Robbie couldn’t make a fresh start in life. It would be his fault.

Bowes vaguely remembered young Connor as being a stalwart youngster, but twenty years passed since he’s seen him. Now, he needed to make sure the man was worthy of his daughter, that Connor had grown into the kind of man she could admire and respect.

* * *

Sinead Brennan Cavanaugh stood staring at her empty room. She was mentally exhausted, physically nauseated and frightened. Disgusted with herself beyond belief, she had done the unimaginable. Stupidly done it. And not for the first time in her life.

Whenever she followed one of her da’s schemes, the pit of her stomach housed the same sick feeling. The man had a million ideas for the future since arriving in America. None of them were remotely successful.

This time, her da’s scheme seemed right to her, even honorable, until the sorry excitement of this morning dawned. But, as usual, her da’s plot, along with the enervating heat she hated, made a mess of her thoughts, her nerves. Now, she wished she had more time to enjoy the last hours of her freedom.

The entire city of New York lay under the siege of an unexpected and oppressive early summer heat wave. Coupled with the people’s escalating opposition to the Conscription Act, tension reigned throughout the city’s boundaries and beyond. The very thought of what might come in the next few days succeeded in making Sinead short of breath and ill.

The wet, stifling hot air refused to move and its torment didn’t help her frame of mind. The overbearing humidity settled on her head, her shoulders and clung to her narrow frame. With a deep sigh, she longed for cooler places, less-confining garments and no tension.

Moisture gathered on her brow and slithered down the side of her face. She brushed at it with one hand then pushed unruly hair back up into the tightly coiled back loop where it belonged. The quick swipe of her forehead didn’t stop a rivulet of moisture traveling down her neck. A drop of wetness trickled into the valley between her breasts. She grabbed a soft, lacy cloth from inside her sleeve, dabbed her face and shoved the cloth between her breasts and her far too-tight corset, hoping her dress wouldn’t show a stain. It was important to keep up appearances.

The heat and her inability to accept a second marriage conspired to make her more nervous, with an edginess that wouldn’t go away. Her new husband, a man she’d never met, was to arrive from Ireland today. Worse yet, she was to meet him then bring him here to the Dewitts’ household. How could she bring a man she didn’t know, here, to this grand but empty wasteland?

She scanned her surroundings. Not a particle of dust marred the wood floors. No warm, colorful carpets covered the wide-boards. No soft drapes hung from the windows. No bright, lively pictures graced the walls. There was little charm or warmth to enhance the dull gray of the suite. The lofty rooms sparkled with such bare cleanliness they gave off a sterile purity. A deep sigh, sounding more like a groan to her ears, escaped Sinead’s mouth.

Often shy, sometimes bewildered, Sinead knew she was only a simple girl with simple tastes and few airs above her lowly, Irish station. Dewitt House was too grand, too elaborate for her and too devoid of any type of character, except for the stultifying atmosphere perpetrated by Dewitts in their often futile attempts to enter the city’s ranks of high society. Sinead slammed her fisted hand down on the tall dresser and pulled out a drawer to destroy the symmetry of the room.

Startled by another elongated sigh, her unhappiness grew, as it had with every moment since the proxy wedding. “I’m not ready to greet a husband,” she said aloud. “And I won’t bring him here to live.”

Despite the intense heat, Sinead stalked to the windows and looked out on the street. Staying with Robbie was the one thing she didn’t regret since her deathbed promise to Robert Cavanaugh. She mumbled to herself. “Where else can I bring him? I have nothing of my own.”

The tap of heels on the wooden steps of the main staircase caught her attention. Adelaide Dewitt, Robert Cavanaugh’s mother-in-law, called out from the landing, her tone unpleasant. “Jane, you’d best hurry. The ship will arrive long before you get to the wharf.”