He sank back into his chair and presently was sleeping again.
Deirdre went back to the table and sat there staring before her, listening fixedly. Hour after hour went by.
A quick breath crossed her lips; she ran to the door and threw it open.
A gust of wind rushed into the room, and it brought the sound of a horse on the road. She slammed the door and went back to the hearth, raked the embers and pulled back the log so that it fell with a shower of sparks and the flames leapt up over the new wood. She moved the pots with Conal's dinner in them nearer the fire, and opening the door again, stood by it waiting.
Ginger swung round the corner, and Conal on her. He was riding low, huddled against her neck. The way he dropped from the saddle drove the breath from Deirdre's body.
He threw out his arms and staggered forward. He would have fallen if she had not been there to hold him. She dragged him indoors leaning against her.
"Steve—Steve!" she called.
The old man was beside her in an instant.
Conal had fallen, his legs crumpling up under him. There was a stain of blood on his clothes.
Deirdre tore them from the place where the blood welled. She put the brandy Steve brought to Conal's lips, and sent Steve for water and rags, telling him where to find the soft scraps she kept together for burns or cuts.