Heart of the Lonely Exile by BJ Hoff

Author:BJ Hoff
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780736939683
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers, Inc.

Belfast, Ireland

Joseph Mahon the priest arrived at the hospital in Belfast two days after Christmas. There he found Morgan Fitzgerald bundled in a wheelchair by the room’s only window. Vaguely, Joseph noted that the window looked out on a stone wall.

Morgan turned as Joseph entered the room. The change in the young giant struck Joseph like a blow. The wind-whipped bronze of the younger man’s skin had paled. His strong features were gaunt, sunken. The unruly copper hair had grown longer and wilder, framing the pain-ravaged face in an angry blaze of fire.

But it was the winter in Morgan’s stare that seized Joseph’s breath and brought the sudden sting of tears to his eyes.

God have mercy, what would it take to warm such a desolate spirit?

The room was as grim as a gaol cell, and the weak afternoon light scarcely relieved its gloom. As Joseph drew closer, Morgan’s eyes registered surprise for just an instant. He gave a brief parody of a smile that did nothing to relieve the bleakness of his gaze. “Ah, but you are too late, Joseph. I have decided to live, as you can see.”

Joseph stopped directly in front of him. “And aren’t we all glad for that?” was all the retort he could manage.

With effort, he concealed his dismay at Morgan’s appearance. Gray of face and too lean by far, the lad had a plundered, defeated look on him that chilled Joseph’s heart. Ever burdened with the Celtic curse of occasional melancholy, Morgan now looked more devastated than morose, more vanquished than disconsolate.

“Grandfather sent for you, I suppose.” Morgan’s voice was flat and lifeless.

“He did, thanks be to God. How else would I have heard about the fix you have gotten yourself into this time?”

“And have you come as priest or friend, then, Joseph?”

Ah, Lord, such pain…such bitterness! Where to start praying for the lad… how to speak?

“I would hope I could be both, lad, but it is your choice,” Joseph replied gently.

Morgan lifted a hand in an idle motion. “Only a priest would come so far to see a fool.”

Joseph was not deceived by the quiet voice, the slightly mocking smile. Morgan Fitzgerald was in pain—and not the worst of it physical. “He is no fool who risks his life to save another. I am told that Smith O’Brien is alive because of you.”

Morgan turned his face toward the window. With his broad shoulders slumped against the back of the wheelchair, his long, once powerful legs hidden beneath the lap robe, he looked ten years and more past his age.

An aging Irish warlord. Joseph could have wept for the once mighty oak, now felled.

Yet he would not show pity. God forbid that a man such as Morgan Fitzgerald ever think himself to be pitied!

“So, then, where is your grandfather?” he asked casually. “And how is his health?”

“He went back to the inn earlier, to rest.” Without turning, Morgan went on. “He’s worn himself out entirely, sitting with me. Even now, he has it in his head that he dare not leave me for a moment.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.