Ireland—A Land Of Unbridled Spirit, Ancient Legends, Whitewashed Cottages And Storybook Castles. A Place Where Anything Can Happen And There Are No Strangers—Until Now.

Quinn Gallagher has reluctantly come to Castlelough. He’s cynical, bitter and disillusioned. But the magic of the west coast is about to change him.

He’s never met anyone like Nora Fitzpatrick. Despite all of life’s hardships, the young widow still has a generous heart. Quinn can’t help himself. He falls in love.

But life has taught Quinn never to trust in anything…especially a happy ending.

In A Woman’s Heart, JoAnn Ross has created a rich, lyrical love story about land, community, family and the very special bond between a man who doesn’t believe in anything and a woman who believes in him.

Praise for A Woman’s Heart by JoAnn Ross

“JoAnn Ross masterfully paints a picture of a magical, mystical land. With delightful touches of folklore storytelling, Ms. Ross tells a tale that delivers laughter, tears and so much joy.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Filled with warmth and wisdom and magic, A Woman’s Heart is sure to appeal to readers who love deeply moving romance, children, relatives, horses, big dogs and Irish charm.”

—Antoinette Stockenberg, bestselling author of Dream a Little Dream

“A Woman’s Heart will find a place in every fan’s heart, as it is an extraordinary tale that will charm the audience. This is one time the luck of the Irish will shine on every reader.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“The beauty of the people is what kept me reading this excellent-in-every-way novel. If you’re not already a JoAnn Ross fan, you will be after reading A Woman’s Heart.”

—Rendezvous

“A Woman’s Heart is...a warm and winning story of the redemptive power of love.”

—The Romance Reader

“A Woman’s Heart blends elements from legends within a contemporary story line to produce a brilliant novel. JoAnn Ross presents her readers with a bouquet of four leaf clovers.”

—Painted Rock Reviews

A Woman’s Heart

JoAnn Ross

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Jay, who first took me to Ireland

Dear Reader,

A Woman’s Heart, the first book in my Irish trilogy, originally published in 1998, is a story very close to my heart because so much of it comes from my own family. My Grandda McLaughlin, the model for Brady Joyce (including the “kidnapping” when my grandmother’s wealthier Cavanaugh family wouldn’t let them marry), was a seanachie—an Irish teller of tales. My earliest memories are listening to the music of his lyrical brogue spinning grand stories of kings and castles, battles and banishments, magic and miracles.

Hardly a day goes by that I don’t realize how fortunate I am to be able to follow in his storytelling footsteps. In all his tales, heroes and heroines ventured forth on perilous quests against seemingly impossible odds, slaying myriad dragons along the way. Tyrants were toppled, lovers united, the wicked were punished, justice prevailed in the end and the good always lived happily ever after. As they always will in my stories.

I hope you enjoy your visit to Grandda’s and my beloved, magical Ireland.

Slainté,

JoAnn

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Prologue

Unanswered Prayers

It was twilight, that mystical time when the world seems suspended between day and night. The remote lake, carved by glaciers into the surrounding folded green hills, glimmered with the reflection of the ruins of the twelfth-century castle that had given the Irish town of Castlelough its name.

As the sun sank lower and lower in the cloud-scudded sky, six-year-old Rory Fitzpatrick sat in his secret wishing place and related the events of the day to his best friend.

“Johnny Murphy stole communion hosts. And not just ordinary bread ones, either, but the special holy hosts in the tabernacle that were already blessed. You know, the ones Father O’Malley takes to shut-ins.

“And Johnny even passed them out on the playground. A lot of kids who haven’t had their first communion yet and didn’t know better ate them. But I didn’t.”

The Lady didn’t answer. She never did. But Rory sensed her unspoken approval.

“He got in a lot of trouble. Sister Mary Patrick paddled him, and he’s not going to be allowed to go on the father-and-son trek.”

He sighed, drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his thin arms around them. Across the reed-fringed lake, the stone castle seemed to brood in the gloaming.

“I think I’m going to pretend to get sick that day. Father O’Malley says you don’t need a da to go, and Cousin Jamie says I can share his, but it’s not the same thing. And besides, his da’s drunk a lot. And mean even when he’s not. So I wouldn’t want to be sharing him, anyway.”

Rory put his chin on his bent knees and looked out over the darkening blue water. “I wish I had a father.”

Beside him, Maeve, the gray, white and black Irish wolfhound his aunt Kate had given him, whimpered. Rory might have thought she was feeling sorry for him, but the dog whined all the time. His mother said poor Maeve was the most fearful beast ever born in all Ireland. Or probably anywhere else, for that matter. Rory figured she was probably right. Which was why it was strange she’d never seemed afraid of the Lady.

“Great-grandma Fionna says that God always answers our prayers. But you know how I’ve been praying forever. Ever since I was a little kid. And Aunt Kate gave me a special rock she said is just like one the druids used for making magic—” he pulled the rune with the marks scratched into its surface from the pocket of his jeans and showed it to her “—but I still don’t have a da.”

Another sigh. “If I had a da, maybe Mam would stop crying.”

The Lady’s bright eyes, which were exactly the color of Rory’s favorite aggie marble, asked a silent question.

“Oh, she never cries when anyone’s around,” he said quickly. “But sometimes, late at night, when I have to get up to go to the bathroom, I hear her. I think she’s worried she’s going to have to take the job working for that businessman in Galway.”

He’d been telling the Lady all about this for a month. A month during which his mother had been pretending nothing was wrong.

The mountains were changing colors in the shifting light. Rory knew if he didn’t get home soon, she’d worry.

And didn’t his Mam already have cares enough without having to wonder where he was always taking off to? He could practically hear his aunt Mary scolding.

“If we had a father,” he said to the Lady, “we’d have more money. And then we wouldn’t have to leave Castlelough.” And you. The unspoken words hung suspended on the soft moist air between them.

“Grandfather rented a room to one of the Americans who are coming to Castlelough tomorrow,” he reminded her unnecessarily.

The Lady never forgot anything Rory told her. That was only one of the reasons she was his best friend. Another was that he could share anything and everything with her. Things he couldn’t even share with his mother.

“The American is paying a lot. Maybe it’ll be enough.”

Rory’s throat closed up the way it always did whenever he thought about having to move away from the farm. He swallowed painfully. Maeve nudged his hand, coaxing it onto her huge head; Rory absently stroked her while he battled with his unruly feelings.

“I guess you’ll be staying out of sight while the Americans are here.” As much as the family needed the money, Rory hated this idea.

The Lady slowly nodded her head. Although it could have been a trick of the light reflecting off the water, Rory thought he saw the shimmer of tears in her gentle golden eyes. It made him want to cry himself.

“It’s only a month.” It seemed like forever. “And after they’re gone, I’ll come back.” If he wasn’t living in Galway by then.

Rory wiped his burning eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. He hated the way his voice, all thin and shaky, sounded just like some stupid crybaby.

“I’ll come back.” He made his voice stronger, as if saying the words out loud could make them true. Beside him, Maeve thumped her tail.

Of course you will.

Rory’s blue eyes widened with surprise. It was the first time the Lady had ever spoken to him! Oh, the words weren’t really out loud, they were inside his head, but he heard them just the same.

The sun was setting behind the mountain in a blinding flare of ruby light. It made the Lady’s green scales glitter like emeralds. His spirits lifted, his hopes renewed, Rory watched as the ancient lake creature gave one last flick of her tail, then disappeared beneath the cobalt water.

Chapter One

Nora

The news came to Castlelough as if riding on wisps of early-morning fog, winding its way from Donal’s gift shop on the tidy medieval square, to The Irish Rose pub on Gaol Road, to Molly Lee’s Confectionery at the top of the ancient steps, from which visitors made a breath-stealing descent down the towering limestone cliffs to the sea.

From schoolyard to church to cottage to manor house to the post office—where Elizabeth Murphy was quick to announce whenever another red, white and blue overnight express letter arrived from America—the question was always the same:

“Did you hear? The movie people are coming.”

By the time Nora Fitzpatrick arrived in the village on the day the movie people were due to arrive, the whispers and murmurs had risen to a near clamor.

Although the sunshine yellow gorse was blooming vividly in the hedgerows and the taste of late spring rode faintly on the soft wet sea air, the day had turned chilly and threatening.

Nora dropped into O’Neill’s Chicken and Chips for a cup of tea, to warm up after her long ride from the farm, and watched the oldest O’Neill daughter flirt with the handsome boy delivering an order of canned lemonade. Feeling a great deal older than her twenty-five years, Nora left them merrily laughing at some joke the boy had made.

As she crossed the stone bridge over a river rushing its way toward the Atlantic, it occurred to her she’d been jealous of eighteen-year-old Brenda O’Neill.

“Not jealous,” she amended out loud. “Perhaps just a wee bit envious.” The sight of the carefree couple had brought back thoughts of when her husband, Conor, had been courting her. She sighed at the memory, which was both pleasing and sad at the same time.

Conor Fitzpatrick, who’d grown up on the neighboring farm, had matured into a man as handsome and bold as an ancient king. Nora doubted any woman would have been able to resist falling in love with him. After spending time on the continent, he’d literally burst back into her life and eased the grief she’d been suffering so at the time. And for that she’d always love him.

She pushed her bicycle up the steep narrow cobblestone street. In the distance she could see the lake, carved out by a glacier thousands of years ago, limpid against mountains tipped with silvery fog. On the far bank a pre-Christian ring of stones appeared to be silently awaiting a solstice ritual fire. The sap had begun to flow in the birch trees, turning the winter brown twigs a brilliant eye-pleasing purple.

It was spring when Conor had first made love to her—their wedding night—and Nora hadn’t even thought to be afraid, she’d trusted him so. The bittersweet memories were as preserved in her mind as fossils captured in amber.

“I had a ‘dream’ about your mam the other night,” Nora’s sister-in-law had told Nora just the week before. “She thinks you need a new man in your life.”

Nora was not particularly surprised that Kate would be claiming to be in communication with Eleanor Joyce. The fact that her mother had been dead for years had certainly not stopped Nora from talking to her. Since the conversations were a source of comfort, she never bothered to wonder if others might think her a bit daft. Besides, Nora often thought she’d probably go daft if she weren’t able to talk things out with her mam. But although her mother never actually answered her back—except in Nora’s own mind—she suspected it might possibly be quite a different case with Kate.

Ever since childhood, Kate had been able to “see” things. Like when she was five and saw the black wreath on Mrs. Callahan’s door two months before the old woman dropped dead of a heart attack while weeding her cabbage patch. Or the time they were teenagers and had been picnicking on the beach with a couple of boys and Kate saw little Kevin Noonan floating facedown in the surf seconds before a white-crested wave swept the wandering toddler off his feet—but soon enough to warn his mother, thank God.

When her sister-in-law had brought up the subject of men the week before, Nora had reminded Kate—and her mother, in case Eleanor Joyce had been eavesdropping from heaven—that she already had enough males in her life. “There’s Da,” she’d said. “And, of course, Michael and John.”

“I don’t think your mam was talking about your father or brothers,” Kate had argued. “She thinks you need to marry again. You need a husband.”

Nora had grown up in Castlelough. As a child she’d run barefoot in the meadows with boys who’d grown up and were now the county’s eligible males. She knew them all, liked most of them well enough, but there wasn’t a single solitary one whose boots she’d want to put beside her bed.

“Well, then,” she’d said with a soft laugh, “since there’s none handy around here and I’m too busy taking care of the farm and the children, along with trying to keep Da on the straight and narrow, to go out and find myself a proper husband, I guess you’ll have to tell mam to pull some strings up there and send me one.”

“I suspect that may be what she has in mind to do,” Kate had answered. “But I doubt she has a proper one in mind. What would be the challenge in that, after all?”

What indeed? Knowing her father’s quicksilver nature all too well, Nora suspected Eleanor Joyce had certainly had a great many challenges in her own life. As did Kate. And most of the other married women of her acquaintance. Irish men, while charming, unfortunately did not always make the easiest of husbands, she thought as she stopped in front of her destination.

The sparkling windows of Monohan’s Mercantile were filled with treats designed to lure the passerby inside—colorful tins of biscuits, bags of saltwater taffy, tidy rows of Cadbury chocolates, jars of skin creams and bath lotions made from the carrageen moss still gathered by hand from the rocky western coast and bunches of perky golden daffodils displayed in dazzling white pots.

A paper banner, handpainted kelly green on white, welcomed the cast and crew of The Lady of the Lake to Castlelough. Bordered with blatantly touristy shamrocks, the banner also featured an imaginative rendition of the creature rising from the water. Nora guessed it had been drawn by the Monohans’ twelve-year-old daughter, Margaret, a talented young artist who always won, in her age group, the summer’s Sea Safety poster contest.

Beneath the sign was a collection of miniature sea monsters for sale, ranging from cheap plastic ones to sparkling crystal serpents hand-blown by local artisans. A towering pyramid of hardcover novels claimed the center spot of honor in the gaily decorated window.

A small brass bell tied to the Dublin blue door signaled Nora’s arrival in the shop.

“So, today’s the big day, is it?” Sheila Monohan asked, looking down from the top rung of a ladder where she was replacing a burned-out fluorescent tube. “The day your movie man arrives.”

“Mr. Gallagher is a writer.” Nora repeated what she’d already told Mrs. O’Neill.

She glanced at the pyramid of books. From this vantage point, the author photo on the back of the dust jacket seemed to be looking right back at her. Scowling at her, actually, which she didn’t believe was the best expression to encourage people to buy his book. Still, even with his glower, Quinn Gallagher didn’t appear old enough to be so successful. Perhaps success, like so many other things, came easier in America.

“I don’t read horror novels,” Sheila confessed. “There are so many things to worry about in the world. I’d much rather settle down at night with a nice love story. But I hear many consider him quite a fine writer.”

“John certainly thinks so.” Nora’s youngest brother had stayed up all night reading the American horror novelist’s latest book. “Kate sings his praises, as well. But it still strikes me as odd the way everyone’s behaving. You’d think a bunch of Americans arriving in Castlelough was as important as the Second Coming.”

After all, Americans weren’t an uncommon sight. Even perched on the far west coast of Ireland as it was, Castlelough received its share of tourists. Still, Nora hadn’t seen so much excitement since the time it was rumored—erroneously, it turned out—that the pope was coming to visit the rural county.

“People figure the movie folk will liven up the place,” Sheila said.

“We’re already lively.” When the older woman lifted a jet-black eyebrow at the outrageous falsehood, Nora shrugged one slicker-clad shoulder. “Well, we may not have the bright lights of Dublin, but that’s the point. Some of us appreciate a quiet life.”

“If it’s a quiet life you’re seeking, Eleanor Rose Joyce Fitzpatrick, you should have stayed in that Dublin convent.

“Besides—” Sheila nodded, appearing pleased with herself when the light flickered to life “—you know as well as I do there’s not much opportunity in a small village like Castlelough. Tourism or emigration, that’s our choice, my Devlin always says.”

Even as her heart took a little dive at the depressing prospect of having to leave Castlelough, Nora couldn’t resist a smile at the mention of Sheila’s son, the man who once, in what seemed like another lifetime, had taught her to French-kiss, even as she’d worried for her immortal soul.

Sister Mary Augustine had taught all the girls in her class that letting a boy put his tongue in your mouth was one of the vilest of mortal sins.

“And don’t forget, girls, every sin you commit is another thorn in our Lord Jesus’s side.” Sister had glared like Moses standing atop the Mount at the group of tartan-clad adolescents. “French-kissing debases a girl. And makes the devil smile.”

Although Nora certainly hadn’t wanted to make Satan smile, three years after that memorable sex-education lecture, Devlin Monohan’s kisses had proved so thrilling she’d recklessly risked hell on more than one occasion during that idyllic summer of her first love.

“How is Devlin?” she asked now.

“Fit as a fiddle. He rang up last night, as a matter of fact, to say he’s been offered a position at the National Stud.”

“That’s wonderful!” Graduating from veterinary college and working at the National Stud had been Devlin’s dream. He’d talked about it a lot between kisses.

“Isn’t it just? I’ll have to admit I’m guilty of the sin of pride at the idea of my son helping to breed the best racehorses in the world.”

“It’s no sin to be proud of a son.” On this Nora had reason to be very clear. Nora wondered if her mother knew this latest news about Devlin and decided she probably did. Not much had ever slipped by Eleanor Joyce.

The woman who might have been Nora’s mother-in-law climbed down from the ladder and brushed her dusty hands on her apron, which, like the poster, bore a fanciful image of the lake creature—which, in a way, was the source of all this uproar.

If those old myths hadn’t existed, Quinn Gallagher wouldn’t have written the book, Hollywood wouldn’t have bought the film rights and the movie people would have stayed in Hollywood.

“We were all surprised when you went off to become a postulate,” Sheila said suddenly, as if that life-altering Sunday morning were only yesterday and not eight long years ago. “Everyone expected you and my Devlin would get married.”

“I thought we might, as well. For a time.” After all, Nora wouldn’t have risked hell for just anyone. “But I truly believed I had a vocation.”

“Just because you could memorize all the prayers and catechism answers faster than any girl at Holy Child School,” Sheila said, “didn’t necessarily make you a candidate for the convent.” She was only pointing out what Nora’s own mother had told her as they’d loaded her suitcase—filled with the muslin sheets, black stockings, black shoes and white cotton underwear the nuns had instructed she bring to the convent—into the family car.

“I would have eventually realized that.” Nora wondered briefly if this out-of-the-blue discussion might be no coincidence. Her mother had supposedly told Kate she might be sending Nora a husband. Could she be trying to get the two childhood sweethearts back together again?

“As it turned out, you didn’t have time to make up your own mind,” Sheila said with a regretful shake of her head. “What with your poor mam dying giving birth to Celia and you having to leave the order.”

It had been the second-worst time of her life. “Someone had to tend to the house and children.” And Da, she thought, but did not say.

“I’ve always said it was too much responsibility for a young girl. A child raising children was what you were. Lord knows Brady, as good a man as he is in his way, couldn’t take care of himself, let alone those babies.

“Considering how lonely you must have been, it’s no wonder you fell head over heels for Conor Fitzpatrick when he came back from the continent with all those flashy trophies.”

“I loved Conor,” Nora stated firmly.

Her love for her dashing husband—who’d held the promise of becoming one of the world’s greatest steeplechase riders—had been the single constant in Nora’s life during that time. And if she hadn’t married Conor, Rory, the shining apple of her eye, wouldn’t have been born.

And then Conor had been killed in a race, which had been the worst time of her life.

“He’s been dead for five years, Nora. It’s not good for a woman to be alone. Especially a woman with children to raise.”

“I manage.”

“Of course you do, dear.” Sheila paused, giving Nora the impression she was choosing her words carefully. “Devlin had other news.”

“Oh?”

“He’s engaged. To a young woman he met in veterinary school.”

The older woman’s gaze had turned so intent Nora felt as if she were standing at the wrong end of one of those telescopes all the lake-monster trackers inevitably carried.

“I’m so happy for him,” she said. “You’ll have to give me his address so I can write him a note.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course not. It’s been over between Devlin and me for a long time. I’m pleased he’s found someone to share his life with.”

So much for her mother’s perceived matchmaking.

“Here’s my list.” Not wanting to discuss her love life—or lack of it—any longer, Nora handed the piece of paper to the storekeeper. “I hope you have some of those Spanish oranges. Rory loves them, and they’re so much better for his teeth than sweets or biscuits.”

“You’re a good mother, Nora Fitzpatrick,” Sheila said. “And no one can fault the job you’re doing with the children. But it’s easier on a woman to have a man around the house. Sons, especially, need a father’s firm guiding hand.”

As the older woman began plucking items from the wooden shelves, Nora almost laughed as she thought how much Sheila Monohan sounded like her mother. Which made sense, she decided, since the two women had been best friends.

“Brady brought in your eggs this morning, in case you’re wondering,” Sheila offered as she began adding up Nora’s purchases on her order pad. “I gave him a credit.”

Nora had worried her father might have forgotten to sell the eggs before heading off to the pub for a day of storytelling and gossiping. She was also grateful Sheila hadn’t paid cash for the eggs. Da could make coins disappear faster than the magician she’d seen at last year’s Puck Fair in County Kerry.

“Thank you.”

“No thanks necessary. They were good-size eggs, Nora. A lot bigger than Mrs. O’Donnel’s. We’ll get a good price for them.”

Nora smiled at that. “John says it’s the Nashville music he’s started playing in the henhouse. Perhaps I ought to write a letter to Garth Brooks and ask if he’d be interested in paying me for a commercial endorsement.”

Although Nora still refused to believe that the piped-in tunes had any effect at all on the hens, she couldn’t deny that since her seventeen-year-old brother’s latest science experiment, they’d begun laying more—and larger eggs.

“Brady said you were thinking of joining the cheese guild,” Sheila said after laughing at Nora’s suggestion. Her sentence tilted upward at the end, turning it into a question.

“I’m considering it. The man from the guild assures me I could increase my profits by twenty percent. He suggested Cashel blue.”

“That’s one of our most popular cheeses,” Sheila agreed. “And a twenty-percent profit increase is certainly nothing to scoff at.”

“I know. And it’s not as if we couldn’t use the money.”

Which was, of course, the only reason Brady had arranged to rent out her bedroom. Her father had informed Nora—after the fact—that the American novelist, Quinn Gallagher, would be staying in their house, and Nora had no option but to agree. Besides, the man was paying an amazingly generous price for a bedroom, shared bath, and morning and evening meals.

She’d almost resigned herself to moving the children to Galway and taking that job as a bookkeeper to a land developer, a former schoolmate who’d become wealthy refurbishing the bay waterfront for tourism. Now she could allow herself to think she might actually be able to turn down the offer.

“Money’s always something we could all use more of,” Sheila said with a sigh.

Yes, Nora thought, it wasn’t easy resisting the lure of the city with its high-paying jobs. And traffic congestion, and polluted air, and so many people a body couldn’t take a breath without invading the private space of her neighbor.

Nora knew that her brother John and her sister Mary longed for the bright city lights, but she supposed that was natural when you were seventeen and sixteen. Not that she herself ever had. Conor, who’d certainly enjoyed the fast life, had accused her of having the green fields and rich black peat of the family farm in her blood. Nora had never denied it. It was, after all, true.

Chapter Two

Forty Shades of Green

From the air, Ireland was a panorama of field and hedgerow, patchwork valleys set amidst abrupt mountains. Quinn Gallagher thought he’d never seen so many shades of green in his life—sage, olive, beryl, jade, emerald, malachite, moss, sea green, bottle green—the list seemed endless.

“Christ, it looks just like a postcard,” he murmured as he looked out the window of the Aer Lingus jet.

“It looks like a gigantic bore,” his seatmate in the first-class cabin countered. “We haven’t even touched down yet and I’m ready to go home.”

Home. The word had never had any real meaning for Quinn. Home was a place you wanted to go back to, a place where people would take you in. Welcome you. The roach-infested apartments and ramshackle trailers where he’d spent his hardscrabble early years certainly didn’t fit that description.

Neither did the succession of brutal foster homes until, weary of working on farms from sunup to sundown and being beaten for his efforts, he’d run away at sixteen, lied about his age and joined the navy. And while the navy had, admittedly, represented the most stability he’d experienced in his life, the ships on which he’d sailed around the world certainly hadn’t been home.

The sun reflecting off the water below was blinding. Quinn shaded his eyes with his hand as he took in the sight of the farmhouses looking like tiny white boats floating on a deep green sea.

“Boring’s relative. I think it looks like God’s country.” As soon as he heard himself say the words, Quinn wondered where the hell they’d come from. He also immediately regretted having said them.

Laura Gideon’s trademark sexy laugh revealed she was every bit as surprised by his statement as he was. “Strange words from a card-carrying atheist, darling.”

Quinn forced a reluctant laugh as something indefinable stirred inside him, something that resisted his writer’s need to analyze and label.

“Okay, so I overstated. But you have to admit, it does look beautiful.”

“Of course it does,” the actress agreed. “You said it yourself. The quaint little scene looks like every postcard of Ireland you’ve ever seen. Heaven help us, I have a horrible feeling that the entire country might turn out to be a living cliché.”

Shuddering dramatically, she linked her fingers with his, a familiarity that came from being a former lover.

“Perhaps it’s something else.” She turned toward him, her eyes gleaming with the wicked humor Quinn had always enjoyed. “Perhaps it’s your ‘auld sod’ roots calling to you.”

“I strongly doubt that.” He might be one of the hottest horror writers in the business, but even Quinn couldn’t think up a more terrifying idea.

“Roots tie you down, Quinn, baby,” he remembered his mother saying. “They wrap around your ankles so bad you can’t never get free.”

It was the only thing Angie Gallagher had ever told him that Quinn had taken to heart. Twenty-four hours after making that boozy proclamation, Angie was dead. Quinn had gone to her funeral in the company of the Elko County sheriff and his tearfully sympathetic wife, watched the rough-hewn pine coffin being lowered into the unmarked grave and wondered if his rambler of a mother had known she was fated to spend the rest of her life in Jackpot, Nevada, population five-hundred and seventy, not counting the cows.

The memory, which he usually avoided revisiting, was not a pleasant one. Quinn fell silent as he watched the verdant landscape rush closer. Laura, busy repairing her makeup before facing the press at Shannon Airport, didn’t seem to require further conversation.

The wheels touched down with a thud. As the jet taxied toward the terminal, Quinn felt his entire body clench—neck, shoulders, chest, legs.

Enter, stranger, at your own risk, an all-too-familiar voice hissed in some dark lonely corner of his mind. Anxiety coiled through Quinn like a mass of poisonous snakes, twining around phobic pressure points, reminding him of that awful endless summer of his ninth year when he’d slammed the secret doors on his psyche—and his heart—and nailed them shut to keep out the monsters.

He forced a vague unfocused public smile, heard himself exchanging farewells with the first-class flight crew, even watched himself sign an autograph for the captain’s seventeen-year-old son who was, the silver-haired pilot assured him heartily, his “number-one fan.”

It would be all right, Quinn told himself firmly. He would be all right.

But as he walked toward the light at the end of a jetway that had suddenly turned claustrophobic, the raspy little voice belonging to Quinn’s personal bogeyman whispered another warning: Here there be dragons.

“I still can’t believe that real-estate agent’s screwup,” Laura complained while they waited for their bags in the terminal. “How on earth could she have forgotten to book you a room in town?”

“She explained that. My name somehow got left off the list of crew members.”

“You’re not just any crew member. You’re the screenwriter, for Christ’s sake.”

“With the emphasis on writer. The only reason I agreed to write this screenplay in the first place is because I’m tired of the way Hollywood screws up my books.”

“If you feel that way, perhaps you ought to stop selling them to Hollywood.”

“I may be a control freak, sweetheart, but I’m not crazy enough to turn down the big bucks.”

His accountant had assured him he’d passed the millionaire mark three books ago. But Quinn couldn’t quite make himself stop running from his old demons that continued to pursue him. There were still times when he’d awaken in the middle of a hushed dark night, drenched in sweat, deafening screams ringing in his ears.

“Besides,” he said, “things probably worked out for the best. I’m playing with an idea for a new story, and it’ll be easier to think about it if I go home to the Joyce farm at the end of the day, instead of partying every night with all of you.”

“I can remember when you liked partying with me,” Laura pouted prettily.

Her blatant flirting succeeded in banishing the lingering chill. “Those were fun times.”

“And could be again.” She laughed when he didn’t immediately answer. “Good Lord, darling, you remind me of a wolf sensing a trap. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to rope you into any long-term affair. I just thought, since we’re both going to be stuck in this Irish backwater for four long weeks, we may as well try to make the best of it.”

Quinn liked Laura. A lot. She was smart, witty, easy to look at and a tigress in bed. But he’d always subscribed to the theory that when something was over, you moved on. And didn’t look back.

“I don’t think that’d be a very good idea, sweetheart.” His eyes, rife with a practiced masculine look of appreciation, swept over her. “Not that I’m not tempted.”

She laughed again, a rich throaty sound designed to strum sexual chords. “That is undoubtedly the nicest rejection I’ve ever had. I’ve known a lot of men, Quinn, but none of them have perfected the art of hit-and-run relationships better than you,” she said without rancor.

“This from a woman who’s been engaged four times.” And broken it off every time.

“So I’m a slow learner.” She grinned up at him, seemingly unapologetic about behavior that had provided the tabloid press with more than a few headlines. “That’s why we’re so good together. Neither of us has any wide-eyed expectations about the other, and we don’t harbor any dreams of a rosy until-death-do-us-part romantic future. You and I are two of a kind, Quinn.”

There was no arguing with the accusation. Besides, it was a helluva lot better than the one he’d heard too many times to count—that his heart was little more than a dark pit of ice water covered with a crust of snow. Quinn merely muttered something that could have been agreement as the baggage carousel rumbled to a start.

After retrieving his bags and clearing customs, he found his way blocked by a phalanx of reporters. Laura, damn her, had ducked into a rest room, leaving him to face the horde alone.

“Mr. Gallagher, do you believe the Castlelough lake creature exists?” a red-haired man wearing a rumpled wool sport coat and holding up a small tape recorder called out.

“I’ve always believed in the existence of monsters. I know you call her the Lady, but technically she’s still a monster.”

A murmur of interest from the reporters.

“Do you expect to see the Lady while you’re in Castlelough?” a bald man wearing thick-framed black glasses asked.

“That would be a plus since it would undoubtedly save a fortune in special-effects costs if we could get her to perform for us,” he answered, drawing the expected laugh.

“Do you plan to research your Gallagher-family roots while you’re in the country?”

“No.” His tone was curt. His eyes turned to frost. “If there are no more questions—”

“I have one.” This from a winsome young woman. Her hair was jet, her thickly lashed eyes the color of the Irish sea, and her skin as pale as new snow. The invitation in her bold-as-brass eyes was unmistakable.

“Ask away.”

“Is the female protagonist in your story based on a real woman? Perhaps someone you met on a previous trip to Ireland?”

“Actually this is my first visit to your country. And Shannon McGuire was an entirely fictional character.”

The heroine of his most recent novel was unlike any real woman Quinn had ever met. Unrelentingly optimistic, softhearted, ridiculously virtuous and brave as hell. And even knowing her to be a product of his imagination, Quinn had been fascinated by her.

Usually, by the time he finished writing one book, his mind was already well on to the next, and so he was more than glad to get rid of the characters he’d begun to grow bored with. But the widowed single mother had been strangely different. He’d found her difficult to let go.

“And speaking of Shannon,” he said, turning toward Laura, who’d finally decided to make an appearance, accompanied by Jeremy Converse, the film’s producer/director who’d taken the same transatlantic flight from New York, “of course you all recognize the lovely Laura Gideon. She’ll be playing Shannon McGuire in the film.”

Quinn practically pushed her forward. “It’s show time, sweetheart,” he murmured. As the reporters all began shouting out questions to the sexy blond actress, he made his escape.

Since he wouldn’t be staying in town with the crew, Quinn had arranged to rent his own car. He found his way to the Hertz booth where he rented a four-door sedan from a tartan-clad beauty who was a dead ringer for Maureen O’Hara. Quinn decided he must be suffering from jet lag when he found her directions difficult to follow, but she willingly took the time to draw the route to Castlelough on his map. How difficult could it be? he asked himself as he headed out of the airport.

How difficult, indeed. At first Quinn was entranced by the scenery—the stone fences, the meadows splashed with purple, white and yellow wildflowers, and the mountains—the rare times the sun broke through the rain—streaked with molten gold. Here and there stood whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs. Little grottoes featuring statues of the Virgin Mary—many adorned with seashells—seemed to have been built at nearly every crossroad, and every so often he’d pass a small statue of the Madonna standing in the center of a white-painted tire, perky plastic flowers surrounding her bare feet.

The road seemed to go in endless circles. And the myriad signs, many written only in Irish, hindered more than helped.

Ninety minutes later, when he realized that the cemetery with the high stone Celtic crosses he was driving by was the same one he’d passed about an hour after leaving the airport, Quinn was forced to admit he was hopelessly lost.

“I’ll make you a deal, Lord,” he muttered, conveniently forgetting he’d given up believing in God a long time ago. “If you just give me a sign, I promise to stop at the first church I see and stuff the poor box with hundred-dollar bills.”

He cast a look up at a sky the color of tarnished silver, not surprised when the clouds didn’t part to reveal Charlton Heston holding a stone tablet helpfully etched with a proper map to Castlelough. So much for miracles.

Then again… When he suddenly saw an elderly woman wearing a green-and-black-plaid scarf and blue Wellingtons weeding the grave nearest the gates, Quinn told himself she must have been there all along.

He pulled over to the side of the road and parked, then climbed out of the car and walked over to her. The rain had become a soft mist.

“Good afternoon.”

She stopped raking and looked up at him. “Good afternoon to you. You’d be lost of course.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You passed by earlier. Now here you are again. Isn’t that certainly a sign you’ve lost your way?”

“I’m trying to get to Castlelough.”

“Well, you’ll not be getting there driving circles around the Holy Name Cemetery, will you now?”

The merry laughter in her dark eyes allowed Quinn to keep a curb on his temper. Although he wasn’t accustomed to being laughed at, especially by a woman, he couldn’t deny that it was probably one of those situations he’d look back on and laugh at himself. A very long time from now.

“I thought I had the directions clear—” he held out the wrinkled map with the fluorescent green marker outlining what the rental clerk had assured him were the proper roads “—but they turned out to be more confusing than expected.”

“Americans always get lost,” she said. “But then again, haven’t I known native Irishmen to have the same problem from time to time? Especially out here in the west.” She shot a look at the car—the only Mercedes in the Hertz inventory when he’d arrived—and then another, longer look up at him. “You’d be one of those movie folk,” she guessed.

Quinn decided there was no point in denying it. “Yes.” He prepared himself for the usual barrage of questions about the so-called fast life in Hollywood.

“I thought so.” That settled, and seeming less than impressed by his exalted status, she took the map from his hand, making a clucking sound with her tongue as she studied it.

“Ah, here’s your problem. You should have taken the second left at the roundabout right before you got to Mullaghmore.”

Quinn had suspected all along that one of the many roundabouts—the Irish answer to eliminating four-way stops—had been his downfall. “Could you tell me how to get back there?”

“That’s not difficult at all. The first thing you need to do is turn around and go back in the direction you just came from. Then keep driving until you see a sign pointing off to the right that says Ballybrennan.”

“Ballybrennan?” The name sounded like several he’d already passed by.

“Aye, Ballybrennan,” she repeated with a nod of her scarf-covered head. “Now, mind you don’t take that road—”

“I don’t?”

“Oh, no. You’ll be wanting to take the one that comes a wee bit after it. To Mary’s Well. You’ll not miss it. There’s a lovely statue of the Virgin standing right beside the sign. Follow that road straight through and you’ll be finding yourself in Castlelough in no time.”

Considering how many virgins he’d spotted, Quinn wasn’t certain the landmark was going to be a very big help, but didn’t quibble. “Thanks. You’ve been a great help.”

“’Twas no trouble at all,” she assured him with a nearly toothless grin. He was almost to the car again when she called out, “Of course, the sign might not say Mary’s Well, mind you.”

Biting back a flash of irritation, he slowly turned back toward her. Having always been a direct-speaking kind of guy, Quinn was beginning to realize that the land of his ancestors may prove more of a culture shock that he’d suspected.

“What might it say?” he asked mildly.

“It might be in Irish—Dabhac a Mhaire.”

He was having enough trouble untangling the woman’s thick west-country brogue. There was no way he was going to attempt to translate this incomprehensible language.

Quinn had known that Castlelough was located in a Gaeltact area of the county, where, despite the penal laws enforced by the British government, the Irish language had never been allowed to die out. At the time, he’d thought it might add quaint color to his story. He’d never, until now, worried he might be unable to communicate with the natives.

Thanking her again, he climbed back in the car and headed off in the direction he’d come. Quinn considered it another near miracle when he found the turnoff. Although the rest of the directions weren’t quite as simple as the woman had promised—the road split into different directions a couple of times and he had to choose—he felt of flush of victory when he finally viewed the sign welcoming him to Castlelough.

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