A Woman's Heart

Since it was obvious that the men at the pub had been telling tales, Nora decided there was little point in trying to avoid the question. “I worried about that. But Mr. Gallagher assures me it was an aberration. And he was, after all, with Brady.”

“That does explain a great deal,” the priest allowed. “However, if he gives you any trouble, Nora, I could always find room for him at the rectory.”

“Thank you, Father. That’s very kind. But I’m sure he won’t be any problem.” With that lie stinging her tongue, she smiled and drifted away, hoping she could gather up the family and get back to the farm before the troublesome American awoke and demanded his breakfast.

Yesterday’s storm had passed, leaving behind a brilliant blue sky that seemed like a benediction. As she drove back to the farm, Nora decided to take the glorious day as a sign that her next encounter with her boarder would go more smoothly.

* * *

Quinn finished putting away his clothes in the old oak chest and had returned to the kitchen to take another stab at coffee making when he heard the crunch of car tires on the gravel outside.

Moments later the door burst open and two children—a boy and a girl who appeared to be about the same age—ran into the room, followed by a pair of teenagers, then Fionna and Brady. Bringing up the rear and backlit by a sun that turned her hair to flame, was Nora Fitzpatrick.

She was wearing a high-necked heather-hued dress that stopped just a bit above the knee and a well-worn blazer the color of rain. If the skirt had been a few inches longer, she could have been a nun. When she shrugged out of the blazer to hang it on a wooden hook beside the door, Quinn discovered that the widow Fitzpatrick’s body, which last night had been hidden beneath a bulky sweater, was far more curvaceous than he’d first thought. And the softly clinging dress was anything but nunlike.

A face of a convent girl and a body built for sin. It was, he was discovering, a perilous combination. The woman wasn’t merely trouble. She was pure TNT.

And Quinn felt as if he’d just been handed a lit fuse.

She greeted him with a hesitant smile. “So you’re up,” she said. Her scent, which made him think of making love in a meadow of wildflowers during a soft summer rain, had entered the kitchen with her.

Deliberately, to prove to himself—and to her—that he could, Quinn aimed cool dark eyes at her exquisite face. “I woke up about an hour ago.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to fix you breakfast.”

When she didn’t look away from what other women had assured him was a quelling stare, Quinn decided she might just be tougher than she looked.

“The dog and I managed.”

“The dog?” She glanced down at the beast, who was lying beneath the table, head on its forepaws, looking adoringly up at Quinn. “Isn’t that amazing.” She tilted her head and studied him. “You’re obviously a miracle worker.”

“Maeve’s afraid of everyone but my aunt Kate, my mam and me,” the younger boy volunteered.

He had a shock of dark hair, blue-black eyes and a scattering of freckles across his face. But even with the difference in coloring, Quinn had no difficulty in recognizing him to be the grandson Brady had boasted about.

“Her name is Maeve?” Quinn asked.

“After the warrior queen of Connacht from the old stories. It was Mam’s idea. She thought being named after such a powerful person might help give Maeve courage.”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” Quinn said with a sideways glance at Nora. Her face curtained by her hair, she began taking cups down from the open shelf. “She seems like a great dog.”

Admittedly, he might have been a bit of a bastard when it came to Nora. But Quinn didn’t have it in him to be cold to a child. Especially one forced to grow up without a father. Not that having a father was any real guarantee of happiness.

“I assume you’re Rory.”

“I’m sorry. I should have introduced you to everyone,” Nora said before her son could answer. “Rory, this is Mr. Gallagher.” She went on to introduce the other children.

“I have all your books, Mr. Gallagher,” offered the tall gangly teenage boy with the serious eyes she’d introduced as her brother John.

“Call me Quinn.” Being called Mr. Gallagher reminded him uncomfortably of his father. “And thanks for the support. Your father said your favorite is The Night of the Banshee.”

“That was my favorite. But I think I like The Lady of the Lake best now. And I especially like that you set it right here in Castlelough.”

“Perhaps you’d like to come watch some filming.”

“Could I? Really?” It was such a small thing. And offered without thought. But it obviously meant a great deal to John Joyce.

“How about me?” This from the younger girl with the bright nest of Orphan Annie curls. Celia, Quinn remembered. Which would make her the child Brady’s wife had died giving birth to. “May I come, as well?”

Nora lit the stove, then shot a stern warning look over her shoulder as she filled a kettle from the tap. “That’s enough, now,” she said. “I won’t be having you all pestering Mr. Gallagher. He’s here to work on his movie and is to be left alone.”

“I don’t mind,” Quinn lied. Although he was not usually diplomatic, he could be when necessary.

Nora gave him a look that said she didn’t believe him for a moment. “You’re a paying guest. Don’t you have a right not to be pestered to death?” Her voice lilted with the soft cadence of the Irish west. “Would you be wanting some tea?”

“Of course he’ll be wanting tea,” Brady said, entering into the conversation. He looked hale and hearty, revealing not an iota of hangover. Yet further proof, Quinn considered grimly, that life wasn’t fair.

“Nora makes the best tea in the county,” Brady assured Quinn. “Stout enough to trot a mouse across, it is.”

“Now there’s a thought,” Quinn murmured, watching as his words caused the corners of her mouth to curl in a faint smile. “Tea sounds good. I tried making coffee, but I couldn’t get the knack of boiling it.”

“Didn’t I tell you we should have bought one of those Mr. Coffee machines, Nora, darling?” Brady said.

“Really, tea’s fine,” Quinn insisted.

Everyone but Nora was watching him again, as if he were some sort of unique animal. A unicorn, perhaps. Or the creature in the lake.

“I knew a Donovan Gallagher when I was a girl,” Fionna said. “He had family in Donegal. Would you be knowing of them?”

“No.”

She tilted her head and studied him. “You have the look of the boy I knew. Perhaps while you’re in Ireland, you might be wanting to take a visit to Donegal and—”

“No.” Realizing he’d snapped at her, Quinn softened his expression. And his tone. “I’m afraid I’m going to be very busy working on the film. I doubt I’ll have time for sight-seeing.”

“Ah, isn’t that a shame, now?” Fionna’s direct gaze told him that she suspected there might be more to his refusal than a scheduling problem. “To come all this way from America and not see your family…perhaps next time,” she suggested.

“Next time,” he agreed. Wanting to move the conversation away from himself, Quinn turned back to Rory. “So, what grade are you in?”

“Oh, I’m in first form.”

Quinn remembered attending three different schools in three different states during his first-grade year. He also remembered the broken arm his father had given him when he hadn’t fetched the bottle of Coors fast enough that September they’d lived in Boulder. “Do you like school?”

“Aye.” The small freckled forehead creased. “But I’m not so sure about next year.”

“Why not?”

“Because when you’re in second form, everything changes. You have to learn cursive, and start learning about the lives of the saints, and you become culp…culp…”