were you when I was a teenager and hanging out with birds all day?”
My eyes dart over to the high hedge that runs between this property and the house next door, where Gail lives. “Didn’t you say you got into trouble with the neighbor’s daughter when you were a teenager? Was that Gail?”
“How did ye know it was Gail?”
I fold my arms. “She told me just now over breakfast that she’s an ex-girlfriend and doesn’t expect to be invited to our wedding. She also told me I don’t know you well enough and that we’re moving too fast.”
He doesn’t look impressed. “She said all that just now?”
“I don’t think she likes me much.”
He sighs and looks off toward the house, the breeze catching the tips of his dark hair. “It’s not you. She doesn’t like me.”
“She seems to think you’re a big deal.”
He rolls his eyes. “Right. For the wrong reasons. Anyway, we were messy teenagers and there was a lot of heartache, and I was an arse on many accounts. It was a long time ago but perhaps she carries a grudge. I dunno. But she’s nothing for ye to be worried about.”
“She’s no threat to our fake relationship?”
“No,” he says. He clears his throat and looks me over carefully. “I was going to ask if ye wanted to learn a few things about falconry, but perhaps we should head inside. It’s just about freezing.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine. It’s so fresh out, it’s making my hangover go away. Turns out I can’t handle whisky.”
“First of all, that’s blasphemy. And second of all, I thought you handled your whisky just fine,” he says. “Falling asleep peacefully is what every Irish person should do but it’s usually the opposite.” He sticks his arm out and the owl opens his eyes. “Now, here, the glove that I have is called the gauntlet. Obviously you need this or Hooter’s wee claws are going to break your skin.”
Those claws definitely aren’t wee.
He reaches back to thin leather strips that hang off the owl’s ankles and slips them between his fingers. “These are the jesses. Normally they would tie onto a strip attached to the gauntlet, like a leash, but Hooter ain’t going anywhere, so I just hold the jesses lightly. Otherwise it attaches to the perch over here.”
He starts walking toward the post, the top of it lined with artificial grass.
I start following him, keeping my distance, when Padraig suddenly stops and throws his other arm out to the side, stiff as a board.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head, keeps walking, but then his frame starts to lurch to the side, his legs crossing, and then he’s going down. His glove opens, and just before he slams into the frozen grass, the owl flaps his giant wings and takes flight.
I don’t have time to worry about the owl.
“Padraig!” I yell, rushing over to him and dropping to my knees, hand at his back. “My god, are you okay? What happened?”
He’s on the ground like an injured beast, but he’s not getting up. His eyes are shut tight and he’s trying to breathe. “McGavin. The owl. The owl,” he says, voice hoarse. “I can’t lose him. I can’t lose him.”
I look around, trying to see the owl in the nearby trees, but I can’t. “I don’t know where he went. What happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m not okay. I can’t lose that owl. I can’t, I can’t,” he keeps muttering to himself. “My dad will kill me, he’ll bloody kill me.”
Shit. He’s more upset about the owl than the fact that he lost his balance for no reason and fell over like a damn tree.
“I’ll help you get him back,” I tell him, stroking the back of his head. “Just as long as you tell me you’re okay. Do I need to yell for help?”
“No,” he says, whimpering. “No, I’m … fine. The owl … I can’t. I can’t lose him. It can’t happen again, not again.”
Jesus. To see this big tank of a man down like this, it’s unnerving. I want nothing more than to help him, to protect him.
“Okay, it’s okay,” I tell him soothingly. I try and grab his arm. “Come on, you need to at least sit up.” I pull at him but he’s almost dead weight.
Finally he moves and sits up, leaning against the pole. I crouch in front of him, my hands on his face. His skin is cold to the touch, like the air. “Padraig,” I say