Page 8 of Kiss the Scoundrel Farewell
“Have a seat,” said the big man, grabbing a kettle. He ladled some water into it from a barrel and set it on the fire. “Maggie!”
“I’m right here, ye bellowin’ brute.” A matronly woman entered in her robe, hands on her hips, with auburn hair possibly streaked with gray under her mob cap. Simon wiped at his eyes but couldn’t be sure.
“What in da name o’ St. Patrick happened? Ye look like ye had a visit with da devil himself.”
“Aye, it seemed one and da same for a wee bit. T’was a fire. Meet Hayward,” he nodded at Simon. “Dis is my wife, Maggie. She’ll get started on ye while I fetch Sam.”
“On my way, Da,” said a younger female voice from the doorway. “Did you change occupations and become a coal miner?”
“Ah, my sweet-mouthed daughter, are ye here to help or no?”
“Bring the beast with ye so no one bothers ye,” added Maggie.
Simon squinted at a mane of red hair and a gray beast that looked to be the biggest wolf he’d ever seen. It stood past the girl’s hip. “What in the deuce is that thing?”
“Don’t mind Aonarach. He’s gentle unless provoked,” Paddy said. “Go on, Nora. We’ve been assistin’ with a blazin’ warehouse. Tell Sam to bring whatever salves he might have.”
The older Irishwoman collected cloths and a bowl of water. She wiped the faces, arms, and necks of both men. “Now dis will sting a wee bit,” she said, gently squeezing the wet cloth over Simon’s eyes. “But we must clean them out or ye won’t be seein’ much.”
She was right. It hurt worse than the time he broke his arm at the age of thirteen.
“Now hold dis to yer eyes while I tend my Paddy.”
Simon leaned back in the chair, his mind wandering for the first time since the fire. Had Desiree made it home safely? How would he find her? Because not finding her was no longer an option.
“Let me guess,” said a new male voice. “You were at the warehouse fire.”
“Sampson! Did ye stop for a pint or two?” yelled Paddy as his wife continued cleaning out his eyes.
Simon blinked, amazed at how his vision was clearing, though his eyes still burned. A tall, lean man with blond hair tossed his beaver hat on the scarred wood table. “Nora,” he scolded the lovely redhead beside him, “you didn’t tell me it was an emergency.”
Nora pushed Sampson’s shoulder and laughed. “As if Aonarach would have let you stop along the way,” she said, scratching the gray and white wiry beast.
“Dr. Brooks, but most call me Sam.” He held out his hand to Simon.
“Hayward.” He watched as the physician took some bottles of liquid and jars of salve from his leather satchel. “Did you hear if there were any deaths?”
Sam shook his head with a smile. “It was nothing short of a miracle. Now that I know Paddy was there, I’m not surprised.”
Simon tried not to wince while Dr. Brooks patted the exposed skin with a cloth soaked in something that smelled akin to wine, then applied a thick salve to the raw areas.
“I expected worse. Thank God that you didn’t come into direct contact with the flames,” he said, handing a jar of salve to Simon. “Ever been burned by the sun as a boy?”
Simon nodded.
“It will feel similar to that. This will help with the pain a little. Your skin will peel, so don’t be alarmed, but there shouldn’t be any permanent damage. I would give your eyes a rest for a while. These drops will help the irritation.”
“I t’ink we’ve all earned a drink, eh?” said Paddy after Dr. Brooks finished the same routine on his father. “Let’s retire to da parlor for some whiskey.”
Simon studied his new friends over the rim of his glass. Paddy, or Patrick O’Brien, was older than he’d first suspected. He remembered the man’s strength as Paddy’s blue eyes watched Simon with amusement. Sixty some years, he’d said evasively. Mrs. O’Brien was younger, he guessed, with a pretty, round face and intelligent brown eyes.
The parlor was a cozy room. There was a dark-green Wilton carpet spread before the hearth, a tinder box on the mantel, along with small frames of the O’Brien clan. Simon wondered about the seven portraits. He didn’t see much resemblance between the siblings and said as much.
“Oh, we’re a knot of misfits,” Nora said cheerfully. “They collected us from various places. We were all sick, lost, or abandoned. A family bonded by love and circumstance and the desire of Ma and Da to have children of their own.”
“You’re all foundlings?” he asked, dumbstruck, peering again at the small portraits. It was like a private orphanage.
“We couldn’t have our own, ye see,” began Mrs. O’Brien, “and Paddy knew what a burden it was upon my soul.”
