Chasing River (Burying Water 3)

“Rowen’s never been involved with any of that?”

“No. He’s never even seen the inside of a prison cell, something no Delaney man for many generations can claim.”

The trail splits off. Most visitors veer to the left. I’m not in the mood for crowds, so I head right, toward the lower of the two lakes, a trail lined with gnarly-rooted trees climbing a steep slope to the left and the lake to the right. Ahead are the soft green rolling mountains, nothing like the ones that loom from my window’s view back home, rocky and jagged and capped with snow even in the summer months. “Your mountains are so different from mine.”

“How so?”

“They’re softer, warmer. Not quite so threatening.”

“You should see the Cliffs of Moher. They’re impressive.”

“I’ve heard. I was planning on driving up there.” I only have four full days left in Ireland. I probably should have gotten there already. My days here have disappeared, consumed first by the bombing, and then by River.

A clearing leads us down to the water’s edge, to a crop of stones that reach into the water, their surfaces dry and bathing in sunlight. It’s mid-afternoon now, and the sun is warm enough to cause a light sheen of sweat to gather along the back of my neck. I’ve always loved being near the water on a warm day. So I peel off my jacket and pick my way over the rocks until I’ve found a perch on a sizeable boulder off to the left, under the canopy of a leggy tree.

“I’ll take you, if you want,” River offers, his strong arm swinging with a practiced angle to send a small stone skipping along the water’s surface. “To the Cliffs.”

I don’t answer him, using that moment to take an extra-long sip from the water bottle tucked in my purse.

Because I just don’t know.

“Come on, Amber.” I sense him closing in, his feet finding my boulder, which is perfect for me but too narrow for two people to sit on. Unless one sits behind the other, which is what River has figured out. He settles himself behind me, and a moment later his legs wrap the outsides of mine and his chest is pressed against my shoulders, and his hand is stealing the bottle of water right out of my hand to take a sip, a move that the charming Irish bartender I knew from just a day ago would do with ease. “I’m the same person I was when you met me.”

I sigh. Is he? I desperately want him to be. Despite everything I now know about him, he still affects me. I know that I still affect him . . . I can feel exactly how much against my lower back.

“Please let me. You’re only here for a few more days,” he whispers, resting his chin on my shoulder, his fingertip slowly drawing a pattern on my bare thigh using a drop of spilled water.

And then I’m off to England, Spain, France, and Italy . . . and a bunch of other countries. Will I be thinking about him as I walk through the streets of each one? Wondering what he’s doing?

Wishing I’d just accepted these days for what they are and enjoyed his company? This was always a fling. There was always an expiration date. Yet I think, subconsciously, I hoped that the fairy tale would prevail. That somehow this could turn into more. Some romantic whirlwind that would withstand distance and time. But it can’t happen.

“I’m never going to see you again, am I? You can never come to America. They’ll never let you in.” A spikey lump forms in my throat, because I already know the answer.

His chest falls against mine with a heavy sigh, his breath skating against my bare shoulder before strong arms wrap around me, holding me tight.

In the country café of a quaint village just outside Dublin—complete with curving cobblestone streets and vibrantly colored storefronts—I finally ask the one question I haven’t yet asked. “What are you going to do, River?” I dip my voice low enough to avoid the attention of the server puttering behind the counter. “Duffy already suspects your brother, maybe you. How is this ever going to end well?” I hear my dad’s influence come through in my words—I’ve heard him say the same thing to Jesse more than once. Obviously under different circumstances, but the message was still the same: Do the right thing.

“It’s not,” he agrees, his finger tracing the bright red circles that smatter the vinyl tablecloth, a heavy weight settling onto his shoulders.

“What?”

He hesitates. “Duffy told me that they’re after Aengus.”

“They?”

“This gang that Aengus and his guys have picked a war with. The fella who runs it—Adrian Beznick—wants Aengus gone. It could be next week, or next year, but eventually someone’s going to put a bullet in my brother’s head. That’s how these things work. Back and forth, like a backward game of chess, where each side takes turns going after the top. A new person rises, then, repeat. Just read the news. It’s full of assassinations over the past few years, too many to count. Someone will get Jimmy. Someone will get Aengus. Eventually, someone will get Beznick, even while he’s behind bars. And then people will just rise up into their places.”

I just stare at River. I don’t get this world, this kind of mentality, at all. I don’t understand how people like this can actually exist. Had I not experienced the bombing, I might not have believed that they do. “So, what is your brother going to do about it?”

He shrugs. “I passed along the warning from Duffy. That’s all I can do. He’ll hide out, keep an eye over his shoulder. What else can he do?”

There’s only thing I know to do: go to my dad. He always knows how to fix situations. “You need to go to Garda Duffy. Tell him everything.”

He chuckles. “That’s not going to stop them from picking Aengus off. That’ll make it easier for them to.” He reaches out to take my hand, running his thumbs along the lines in my palm. “I’m never going to turn my own brother in, Amber.”

“You think you’re protecting him by staying quiet, but you’re not.” His unwavering loyalty to this asshole is beyond frustrating. “And what if you get hurt again because of something he does?”

“Aengus is keeping a low profile right now and he knows to stay the hell away from me. I’ll be fine.”

“I wish that made me feel better.”

“What more can I do? Leave the country? I mean . . .” He smiles. “I guess I could wander around Europe with you for a while.”

“Hide out in a grotto in Italy?” I murmur with a sad smile. Yesterday morning, I would have done anything to hear those words.

“On a beach, in Greece.”

My cheeks flush. That’s not the first time he’s made reference to Greece. What would that be like, hanging out in hotels all over Europe with a convicted felon?

Or just River.

“Could you?” I hear myself ask. Am I insane?

His mouth turns into a deep frown. “I don’t even know if I can get a passport. Plus, I can’t leave Rowen to handle the bar by himself again. As much as I would love to go with you.” He pulls my knuckles to his mouth and I let him, reveling in the softness of his lips against them.

His phone starts ringing. “Speak of the devil.”

I study him as he answers the phone, the hand that rests on mine never pulling away.