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to see the bruised feelings hiding under the declaration. She turned away. “It seems the Irish really do lose every battle in this town.”
    Again his well-intentioned actions were being construed as taking sides.
    “ Et tu, Katie?” he muttered.
    The reference clearly confused her. He didn’t explain. If she were in the mood to accuse him of turning on her, nothing he said would likely convince her otherwise
    He paced away. He’d passed a hard twenty-four hours, watching his closest friend hover near death, being plagued by questions of what came next and how bad things would become, wondering what he could possibly do. Behind all of it was the very real truth that he would once again endure barbed comments and thinly veiled accusations from both sides of the feud.
    Even Katie was questioning his loyalties. She had always seemed like the only one who truly understood his desire to stay out of it all. She too had worked to distance herself from the feuding, though, in the end, her nationality had pulled her into the fray.
    Weariness dragged at him. How many times had he pulled the town back from the brink of self-destruction? He’d saved them from themselves by keeping himself apart from them all. What was his reward for that? What did he get for his sacrifice?
    Loneliness. Deep, unending loneliness.
    “I’ll drop you off at Mrs. Claire’s in the morning when I take the girls to the Scotts’ house for the day. Have your things packed. We’ll leave after breakfast.”
    He didn’t look back at her or wait for a response. She’d either be hurt by his dismissal or thunderous. In that moment, he couldn’t bear to see either one.

Chapter Four
     
    Tavish dropped an armful of firewood into the basket near the fireplace. ’Twas ten in the morning already, and he hadn’t yet been out to Ian’s fields. Between the chores at his own place and those he’d taken on at his brother’s, he’d worked without a moment’s pause since well before sunrise.
    He pulled his hat from his head and wiped at the sweat trickling along his hairline. His gaze wandered toward Ian’s room. Biddy said there’d been no change overnight, that Ian stirred now and then, even made the occasional sound, but never truly woke. Tavish had managed an encouraging word for her, but his own hopes were flagging.
    He crossed to the bedroom doorway and pulled back the quilt. Biddy looked up from her position beside the bed.
    “How is he?” Tavish asked.
    Her gaze returned to her husband. The worry in her face answered his question. “If only he’d open his eyes and look at me, or squeeze my hand. Anything. He feels so far away.”
    “Ignoring you, is he? Seems to me you’ve a right lazy bum of a husband.” Striking a laughing tone was painfully difficult. He wanted to rage at the injustice of it all. He wanted to weep at seeing his brother so beaten. But Biddy needed someone to buoy her spirits, and there was no one but him to do it.
    That role had always been his. Even as a child on the boat from Ireland, with his heart breaking for his lost home and the beloved grandparents they’d left behind, he had been charged with bringing smiles and laughter to his family. No one else could manage it, and they were in desperate need of cheering. Though smiling through troubles didn’t always come easily, he’d found strength in it.
    “You know, Biddy, when Ian was just a boy, Da would bribe him with butter candy. Perhaps you ought to give that a go.”
    She gave him a small smile. “I’ve already tried offering him sweet rolls and barm brack.”
    “He didn’t awaken for barm brack? Now that is a stubborn man, that is.”
    Biddy adjusted Ian’s blankets. “I even offered to milk the cow every day from now on if only he’d wake up.”
    Tavish leaned against the doorframe, arms folded loosely over his chest. “Not having to milk the cow—any man would jump at that opportunity. Perhaps if you also promise to muck out the stalls, he’ll quit