“We made record time today, even without a saddle.”

As the sturdy two-story split-log house with the square dormer windows came into view, Ellie did her best to tidy her hair, braiding the thick red mass before coiling it and pinning it beneath her bonnet. She’d enjoyed her wild ride, but her father wouldn’t be pleased if she returned from Marietta looking like a banshee. She knew of banshees of course because her mother’s family, the Henleys, had been Irish, having sailed from Galway seventy-five years ago to settle in Boston.

Her father’s family were English, but he’d raised Ellie on the Gaelic fairy tales and myths her mother used to tell her, which was why Ellie had named her stallion Oisin. Oisin being the son of the great warrior Fionn MacCool and the goddess Sive.

Ellie embraced all things Irish, with the exception of Mr. Sheenan. He was the one Irishman she disliked intensely.

Home, she was greeted by a stable hand who promptly took the reins from her, and then helped her down. She shared what had happened to the buggy, expressing her surprise and concern that a new buggy should suffer axle failure so soon after its purchase, especially as it was supposed to be brand new. The stable hand promised to take it up with Mr. Harrison, the ranch manager, and she gave directions on where the broken buggy could be found.

Ellie then struggled not to limp her way into the house, anxious to check on her father. She discovered him in the parlor in his favorite chair, his legs up on an ottoman, a blanket over his lap. She didn’t know how it was possible, but he looked even frailer than he had this morning when she’d set off for Marietta.

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about her adventures—or misadventures, including her concern that an expensive new buggy had such a serious defect—when something in his expression made her hold the words back.

She moved to his side, taking small steps to hide her throbbing ankle. “Are you hurting terribly, Papa?” she asked, gently laying a hand to his brow and then his cheek.

“No more than usual,” he said gruffly, but the tiny white lines at his mouth and the deeper creases at his eyes gave him away.

“I don’t believe you,” she answered, lightly smoothing his bushy white and silver goatee, the perfect partner for his white handlebar moustache. He had a grand moustache. He’d always been quite proud of it, keeping the points meticulously shaped and waxed. “Should I send for the doctor?”

“Why? What will he do? There’s nothing anyone can do.”

“We can still go to New York. There’s that Dr. Coley in Manhattan—”

“There is nothing for him to amputate. Not unless you’re ready to be rid of me.”

The very idea made her chest ache. “Never!” She reached out to cover his hands with hers, his skin cool and thin beneath hers. “But he’s doing some experimental treatments—”

“I wouldn’t survive the trip east, Ellie. Turns out I can barely manage a walk around the barn.”

Understanding dawned. “Is that what you did today? Is that why you’re so tired?”

“I needed to let Harrison know to drive some of the sheep from the upper pasture.”

“You couldn’t send Mrs. Baxter?”

“She left early. One of the girls took sick.”

“Papa, what was so important that you couldn’t wait for me to come home?”

“I’ve got a young fellow who works for Avon Gilmore coming to pick up a dozen sheep. I wanted our Harrison to move them from the back pasture toward the house to make it easier.”

“This young fellow is coming today?”

“Should be here anytime now.”

Ellie suddenly had a sneaking suspicion she knew who the farmer might be, and she shuddered as she pictured massive shoulders, black hair, and a pair of unsmiling dark eyes. “Tell me he’s not Irish.”

“Thomas Sheenan is Irish.” Archibald’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What’s wrong with him?”

She wasn’t even sure how to explain what had happened on the road from Marietta. “I passed him earlier.”

“And?”

“I don’t like him.”

“Why not? What did he do? Run you off the road?”

Her face warmed. “No. I had an accident.