Irish Chain by Earlene Fowler Read Free Book Online Page B

considering leaving a tidy little endowment to the retirement home.” Edwin’s narrow face grew complacent, thoughts of regular trustee checks probably dancing in his horsy head. “Not,” he added hastily, “that we expect or even desire Mr. O’Hara’s departure for a long, long time.”
    “Edwin,” Thelma said. “You make it sound like we’re waiting for a train here.”
    The song ended and the disc jockey’s buttery voice came over the microphone. “Here’s a waltz for you country fans. Grab your favorite cowgirl and give the little lady your best.”
    Edwin opened his mouth and I was on the verge of bolting, when Clay held out his hand.
    “I believe you owe me this one,” Clay said.
    “I believe you’re right,” I answered.
    We circled the floor in a country waltz as Anne Murray wondered if she could have this dance for the rest of her life. I didn’t speak as we danced, trying not to think about how Jack used to sing along to this song whenever it came on the radio. By this time the floor was filled almost entirely with young people dancing with each other, performing for the weary senior citizens, who sat and smiled at them with the pleased expressions of new grandparents. We still had the crowning of the king and queen, helping the guests back to their rooms and cleanup. With a bit of hustling, I’d be home and under warm flannel sheets by midnight. I scanned the room looking for Gabe and wondering who I could ask to crown the king and queen if he didn’t show up, when I realized Clay was speaking to me.
    “Excuse me?” I said.
    “I was saying you dance pretty good for someone who isn’t even paying attention. And here I’ve waited seventeen years for this dance.”
    “Oh, Clay, I’m sorry. My mind’s just scrambled with thoughts about what I need to do to get this dance wrapped up.” I looked up into his brown eyes and marveled at how kind the aging process is to men. Do they really look better with a few pounds and some wrinkles, or is it just a cultural thing we’re raised to believe? Whatever the case, Clay O’Hara had been a good-looking boy and he’d grown into a downright attractive man.
    “Maybe thinking about Jack a little?” he asked softly, giving my hand a squeeze. The familiar rancher’s calluses on his hand caused me to inhale sharply, and for a moment I longed for that hand to touch my cheek.
    “Maybe.”
    “Then I’ll shut up and let you think.”
    Working our way through the crowded dance floor, we swung by the refreshment table, where Brady O’Hara stood jabbing an angry finger at an arm-crossed Oralee. My heart dropped in dismay. All we needed now was Miss Violet to make it a knockdown dragout. I looked around, but couldn’t spot her in the crowd.
    “Oh, dear,” I said, straining to peer over Clay’s shoulder.
    “Looks like they’re at it again,” Clay remarked.
    “You know about the argument?”
    “Haven’t heard about anything else since I arrived three days ago.”
    We watched his uncle and Oralee each give one last retort, then storm off in separate directions. Oralee limped determinedly toward the kitchen, where she was probably going to chew on Mac’s ear for a while, and Mr. O’Hara lurched toward the door leading through the side gardens to the bedroom wing.
    “Well, I tried my best to bring about a truce this afternoon and your uncle gave me a knock in the shins with his cane for my efforts.” Heat rose up my neck the minute the words popped out. What did I expect him to do, punish his uncle?
    Clay’s laugh was strong and clear, the laugh of someone used to open spaces. “That sounds like Brady. Am I going to have to worry about a personal injury lawsuit on top of all his other legal problems?”
    “No,” I said, laughing with him. “I can’t believe I even mentioned it to you.”
    “He’s an ornery old cougar, that’s for sure. I humbly apologize on behalf of the entire O’Hara clan and promise to buy you a steak dinner in the