A Woman's Heart

“But you shouldn’t have to, you see.”

“Why don’t you let me worry about it?” he suggested mildly.

“It’s just so…embarrassing. And annoying. As if I’m some over-the-hill spinster who can’t get a man on my own.”

Since she’d practically handed him a gilt-edged invitation, Quinn allowed himself the luxury of an in-depth perusal of the woman sitting so close to him. His eyes, safely hidden behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, looked her over with slow deliberation, from the top of her fiery head to her sneaker-clad feet, where he found a surprisingly whimsical touch—white cotton socks trimmed with lace. And although he knew his mind had no business going off in such a dangerous direction, he wondered if she was wearing more white lace beneath those jeans and that sweater.

“The gold wedding band on your finger proves you’re no spinster. And I’ve no doubt there are more than a few men in Ireland who’d want you, Mrs. Fitzpatrick.”

The color in her cheeks deepened. “I’ll be taking that as a compliment, Mr. Gallagher.” Although her voice remained steady, her eyes had gotten that guarded look again. “Especially since you’ve already assured me I’m not your type of woman.”

He’d been wondering if she was going to bring that up. “I suppose this is where I apologize for my boorish behavior. Although being drunk’s no excuse, I can’t remember the last time I got so wasted. Believe me, I usually display a helluva lot more finesse when I’m seducing a woman.”

“And are you in the habit of seducing women who aren’t your type?”

Quinn gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Hardly. In fact, last night was a first.”

“It was probably the drink,” she offered helpfully.

“Probably,” he agreed, not believing it for a minute. “I suppose that’s what I get for trying to keep up with all the toasts.”

Quinn had quickly discovered that when anyone in the pub offered to stand for a drink, it was bad manners to refuse. Then, of course, you had to return the compliment. Next it would be someone else’s turn. And on and on until he was amazed anyone was left standing at the end of the evening.

“My father doesn’t usually drink so much,” Nora volunteered, as if needing to defend Brady’s behavior. “It’s his habit to drink a pint or two and get his enjoyment from telling his tales.”

“Alcohol’s a slippery slope. Sometimes people can lose their footing.”

“True enough.” She slanted him another curious glance. “You sound as if you have some personal experience with such things.”

“My mother was a drunk.” Quinn had never told another living soul about his mother. He wondered why the hell he’d just told Nora Fitzpatrick.

“Oh.”

She fell silent. And seemingly thoughtful as she drove down the ribbon of road past hedgerows thick with lacelike flowers. The fruit trees blooming in yards along the roadway looked like pink and white bouquets against the blue sky. The windows of the car were open, allowing in air so fresh Quinn felt almost as if he could drink it.

They passed a donkey-pulled cart carrying ten-gallon milk cans, headed, Quinn supposed, to the creamery in Castlelough; amazingly a small dog stood on the donkey’s back. The driver of the cart, an elderly man wearing a tweed suit, billed cap and green Wellies, seemed delighted to see them and waved his hand enthusiastically. Nora lifted a hand to wave back.

“And your father?” she asked Quinn at length. “Did he have a liking for spirits, as well?”

“My father could have been the poster boy for AA. If he’d ever seen fit to attend a meeting, that is. Or go a day without a drink.”

She glanced over at him again, her exquisite face grave. “I’m sorry.”

“So was I.” Quinn hated the sympathy—and worse yet, pity—that seemed to soften her tone.

“And now?”

Out of longtime habit, he shut his mind to thoughts of his father, whose brutal blood tainted his own veins.

“And now I don’t think about it.” He gave her a hard level look. His curt tone, thick with a tension he didn’t bother to conceal, declared the subject closed.

She should just drive Quinn Gallagher into Castlelough, drop him off at The Irish Rose to retrieve his car and return home to finish her chores, Nora thought, biting her lip at his curtness. After all, the bread would need punching down soon, there was laundry to do—the last time Mary had taken on the chore, she’d tossed in one of Rory’s T-shirts and turned all Brady’s underwear pink—and, of course, dinner to prepare.

It shouldn’t bother her that the man sitting beside her in the suddenly too-close confines of the car seemed to be mired in unpleasant memories of his past. He’d been less than charming since his arrival late last night, and the simple truth was that she’d only rented him a room. She was under no obligation to provide guided tours of the county she loved, concern herself with his brooding or care that he seemed to be filled with dark shadows.

Quinn Gallagher meant nothing to her but a rental fee that would keep the farm afloat for the next few months. Whatever internal demons the American might be fighting meant nothing to her. She didn’t care about him or his moods.

The devil she didn’t.

Nora sighed and thought once again how useless it was to fight nature. Hadn’t she learned that lesson with Conor? Living in the west was living poor, and Conor, born on a neighboring farm where Kate still lived, had been determined to outrun and outride poor.

As for herself, so long as she could keep the bankers at bay, Nora had never minded not having money for the extras Conor had seemed to need. Her husband, who’d set his sights even higher than Dublin, had jokingly called her his little country mouse. Indeed, Nora could more easily imagine traveling on a spaceship to the moon than moving away from the family farm.

Conor had been bold, daring and restless as the wind.

He’d also been a wee bit self-centered. But since that had been part of the cocky confidence that contributed greatly to his charm, she’d never complained. Not even when he hadn’t managed to make it home for Rory’s birth.

He’d been competing in the Olympic trials at the time. And although she’d understood the importance of the event, Nora couldn’t deny that she wished he’d been by her side when she’d brought their only son into the world.

At the time, Kate, who was not nearly as unforgiving of her brother’s behavior, had accused Nora of being a natural-born caretaker, always willing to put her own wishes aside in order to concentrate on the whims of others. Nora hadn’t argued then, and truth be told, couldn’t argue the fact now.

She had, indeed, been a caretaker all of her life, and a caretaker she’d undoubtedly die. Normally the personal rewards made the sacrifices worthwhile. She feared that Quinn Gallagher might prove to be the exception to the rule.

“Shall I show you the lake?” she asked into the prolonged silence.

“The lake?” Appearing to pull himself momentarily out of whatever gloomy place he was wallowing in, Quinn looked over at her with surprise.

“Lough Caislean.” She called the lake by its Irish name.

He lifted a brow. “Ah, where the famed monster lurks.”

“The creature,” she corrected quietly, hoping his words didn’t mean the movie people were planning to portray the Lady as some voracious killer from the deep lagoon. Like in those grainy black-and-white Japanese Godzilla films John had been so taken with when he’d been Rory’s age.

“Creature, monster.” He waved a hand dismissively. “What’s the difference?”

Nora thought about that for a moment. “I suppose it’s a matter of semantics. And respect.”

He laughed again, a rough rusty sound that reminded her of the nearly bald tires of Fionna’s miracle-mobile running over a gravel road. It occurred to Nora that Quinn Gallagher was not a man who allowed himself to laugh often.

“Are you saying you believe the Lady exists?” he asked.

She shrugged, feeling foolish. She dearly wished they’d not gotten onto this topic. “I’ve never seen her myself. But I respect others’ beliefs.”

She did not mention that Rory was one of those who insisted he’d not only seen, but talked with the Lady. Since it seemed to give him comfort and she’d had her own imaginary playmate when she was his age, she’d never been overly concerned with her son having the lough beastie for a best friend.

“That’s not exactly the same thing.”

“I suppose I believe that myths are capable of possessing their own reality. And if there is a Lady in the lake—and I’m not saying I believe there is, mind you—” she shot him a stern look “—she deserves the same consideration we give any of God’s creatures. Including a rich and famous American horror novelist.”