Chapter Three
When Lassi marched through the front door several hours later, something furry shot past her legs and rocketed into the house. She yelped, barely managing to keep a grip on the bags of food, cleaning supplies, and house repair tools she’d purchased in Dungarvan.
A reddish-brown and black tabby cat faced her from a mere meter away, crouching, eyes mere slits. It let out a menacing growl.
“You’re one to complain. You don’t have to clean this bloody cottage.” She tried to take a step, but the tabby gave another warning growl. “Look. I need to set these things down.” She lifted her packages. She took another step, but the tabby swiped its claws at her calf, drawing blood. “Ouch! You fecking feline beast.”
Unable to wipe the blood from her leg, as her hands were full, she stomped her foot a few times to distract from the stinging pain. Her gaze slid to the front room.
The coffin had been carted away. Only the rickety table remained. Broken commemorative plates were scattered around the legs.
“Good. The boneyard guys came. I thought I saw tire tracks out in the dirt.” She cast her attention around the room, noting the dingy windows, the dust monsters lumbering along the floor—no doubt having eaten the dust bunnies—and the peeling wallpaper.
It sagged in places, came away from the wall in others, and curled at the corners. She squinted, wondering what color blue it had been, as well as what century it had been applied. It still retained bluish stripes in places, but it was all blotched with brown water stains.
“That’s where we’ll start. As soon as I can deal with this live version of Mr. Meow.” In the best slow-motion-move she could muster, she leaned to the side and lowered the bags to the floor.
The cat hissed.
Slowly, she crouched, reaching into one of the bags. Her fingers closed around a chunk of cheese she’d been nibbling on during the drive back to the cottage.
“I’ll bet you’re hungry.” She pulled the cheddar from the bag and broke a piece off with her fingers.
Mr. Meow backed away, growling.
She extended the cheese, being watchful of the cat’s claws.
Mr. Meow’s ears stayed plastered to its head, but it sniffed the air.
“You don’t want to end up like your dead friends, do you?” She extended her hand, hoping the cat wouldn’t take another swipe at her.
The cat stretched its neck in her direction, delicately sniffing.
She tossed the bit of cheese on the floor.
Keeping its eyes on her, the cat inched toward the treat, and then snatched it between its teeth. It scurried backward.
“What’s got you so spooked, puss?” She scanned the room, answering her own question. The whole cottage, inside and out, gave her the creeps. She’d no doubt have nightmares when she returned to Dublin.
Gripping the cheddar lightly in its fangs, it shook its head, the way cats do with their prey. Then, it swallowed. It looked at her expectantly, ears now forward.
She broke off another piece and tossed it out the front door.
The tabby eyed her, studied the cheese on the landing, and sniffed the air. Hunger won over fear. It bolted past her toward the food.
She kicked the door shut behind it. “Poor thing. It was probably one of Great-Aunt Roberta’s. And it's fear and growls are the result of the abuse it endured to get fed.”
She strode into the front room, dumped the contents of her satchels—all except the meager supply of groceries—on the table and took stock. Since she planned to attack the wallpaper first, she picked up the detergent and cellulose paste the hardware guy had recommended. Wallpaper products in one hand, bag of groceries in the other, she headed toward the kitchen.
After putting the foodstuffs away, she searched for a plastic bin. When she found an old metal bucket, instead, she filled it with water, adding the recommended amount of paste and detergent. Hefting the pail, she shuffled toward the front room.
The hardware guy had told her to wet the wall, peel the corners away with a utility knife, and tear off the softened pieces after they had soaked for five or ten minutes. She pushed an end table toward the wall, set the bucket on top, grabbed her tools, and readied to do the task. Remembering something about using a fork to poke the wallpaper allowing the liquid to penetrate, she hastened to the kitchen. Returning a moment later, fork in hand, she began stabbing the walls, getting some of her frustration out in the process.
“This is for dragging me back to Ballynagaul.” Stab, stab, stab. “This is for dying in the first place, Great-Aunt Roberta.” Stab, stab, stab.
When she finished assaulting the wall, she wet a paintbrush with the gooey mixture and dabbed a few strips of wallpaper.
The ancient paper covering came off the lime-washed and plastered wall easily, as if it only needed a nudge. After laboring for an hour, however, she’d only managed to scrape six huge panels free. When she began peeling off the seventh strip of wallpaper, she uncovered something strange. A rectangle, approximately twenty by thirty centimeters, had been carved into the rubble stone and earth wall. On one edge, a half-circle had been cut into the rectangle, like some sort of handle. Pushing her finger into the half-moon shape, cool air, instead of solid stone met her skin. She tugged. Nothing budged. She tugged again. It gave almost imperceptibly. She pulled the utility knife from her pocket and picked and pried at the edges, sending plaster and stone dust flying. She scraped and gouged the wall. Finally, the two-centimeter-thick stone slab tumbled free, landing with a thud on the floor and promptly breaking into pieces.
Musty air drifted from the gap. Lassi squinted, finding an opening about a half of a meter deep.
“More dead cats in there? A cat crypt?” Thinking a flashlight might best serve her exploration, she climbed off the end table and picked her way through the clutter to the kitchen. There, she rummaged in a junk drawer for a flashlight. “Dammit. I suppose Great-Aunt Roberta could see in the dark. The gloom of night was no doubt her preferred time.”
A candle lay in the back of the drawer, along with a box of matches. She pulled both free and hurried back to the front room.
She lit the candle and held it in front of the opening. Inside sat a small box, surrounded by cobwebs and dead spiders. Oddly enough, no dust could be seen on the box itself. It took some careful maneuvering to pull it from the hole in the wall. After blowing out the candle, she settled on the floor with her treasure.
“Wow, this looks ancient.”
Turning the oilskin leather wrapped box over and over yielded no clues as to how to get it open. Her finger grazed a slit along the side. She held up the box to inspect it, then picked up the utility knife from the floor and slid the knife under the edge. Peeling the leather free revealed a hinged lid. Her heart began to pitter-patter. Using her fingertips, she pried the stiff-hinged lid open, hoping for lost jewels or maybe old coins to fund her Barbados dream. Instead, the contents consisted of paper so old it might crumple when she touched it. Her spirits sank.
“You can’t stop a girl from hoping,” she muttered.
Gingerly, she plucked one of the parchment pieces from the box. She did her best to unfold the brittle document without damaging it, then held it up. The handwriting was meticulously small and difficult to read. The words “Strongbow,” and “Waterford County” were all she could make out.
“This is Waterford County, but the name Strongbow isn’t ringing any bells. I know a Jonny Strongman back in Dublin, and strong, he isn’t. More like a wimp. I beat his ass in arm wrestling.” Strongbow...She tapped her temple with a cellulose paste covered finger. I can’t exactly Google the name. No wi-fi out here.
Liam O’Donnell’s offer to serve her some pub grub swirled through her mind. She carefully set the box next to the couch, out of the way of footsteps. A shower first, and a trip to town for a meal seemed promising. She intended to pick the brains of the locals about the name Strongbow, as well as feed her growling stomach.
After her shower, she donned jeans and a long-sleeved, slub jersey and left the front placket unbuttoned down to her cleavage. Since it never seemed to stop raining in this village, she shrugged into her raincoat and jammed her feet into her Wellies before departing.
She practically ran the entire way from the cottage to downtown. Thirty minutes later, she opened the creaky blue-painted door to the Laughing Rat. Even though it was storm-cloud dark outside, she had to pause for her eyes to adjust to the gloom of the interior. Dim lighting, dark, worn-wood booths, and smoke-grimed mirrors surrounded her. The walls, bare of adornment, were covered with a century or more worth of soot and smell. The pub atmosphere fueled the depression she experienced being in Ballyna-numbing. Everything seemed cramped and weighted. Even her footsteps dragged as she clomped across the dirty tile floor toward the bar. Each footstep echoed through the space, bouncing off the walls.
The handful of people who were inside the pub, were hunched over the tables, not looking at anyone else but their dining or drinking companion—if they even had one. No one even turned his or her head to watch her pass.
A chill spiraled up her spine as she reached the vacant bar. She was used to friendly bartenders offering a wink and a flirt, but, behind this bar counter it looked like a tomb. Water drip, drip, dripped into the sink from the leaky faucet. Glassware settled into the plastic tub resting near the sink, creating a sudden, tinkling clatter. She plopped on one of the barstools, and rapped her knuckles on the counter to get someone’s attention.
A few seconds later, Liam emerged from the back, through two swinging saloon doors. The smell of greasy food swirled around him as he approached.
“Lassi!” he exclaimed.
“Hey, Liam.” She placed her forearms on the counter and pivoted in her black-topped seat back and forth.
He sauntered toward the bar-top and placed his palms on the dingy wood. “What can I get for you? Guinness?”
“Sure, that would be great.” The lingering headache from last night’s drinking chimed in with a hearty, temple-stabbing, “yes!”
“Anything else?” He leaned closer, invading her personal space. His gaze darted to her cleavage and back to her face like a ping pong ball.
She drew back and tugged at the placket of her shirt, trying to draw it together without looking too obvious. “A burger and chips would be nice.”
He called over his shoulder, “Penny, love. Fix Miss Finn a burger and chips, would you, darling?”
A loud clang, like a pan being dropped, came from the back.
“Did you hear me, love?” He kept his roaming gaze on Lassi while directing his voice toward the kitchen.
“Aren’t you wondering if I’m all right?” Penny’s sharp-edged voice called back.
“Well, are you?” His eyebrows pinched together yet his attention still lingered on Lassi.
“Yes.”
“Good. I figured you would have yelled if you weren’t, so where’s the problem?” He stabbed his thumb over his shoulder and shook his head. “The wife’s not feeling her best today. She drank one toast too many last night.”
“I understand.” Lassi nodded.
Liam pivoted and crouched, giving her a full view of his bald pate and the crack in his butt. He opened a small refrigerator door. When he rose, he held a frosted glass. He sidled toward the tap, poured a perfect pint of Guinness, and held it out to her.
“What do I get for handing you this Guinness, girl?” He tilted his head toward her, puckering his lips.
Lassi’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t know. A thank you and a few coins?”
“Try again. It’s on the house if you give the right answer.” He pinched his lips harder, in an unappealing sphincter shape.
“You’re the one who should worry, Liam O’Donnell.” Penny stormed from the back. She still wore her frumpy black dress. Her salt and pepper hair had fallen free from her messy bun and hung in her eyes. She tossed her head toward Lassi while fixing her gaze on her husband. “You’ll get your burger and your Guinness, at normal price. He’ll get his ass spanked, that’s what. Now mind your manners, Liam, and leave the girl alone.”
His head pivoted toward his wife. “I’m only having a bit of fun with her.”
“Well, stop it.” She fixed her small-eyed gaze on Lassi. “How are you today? Are you getting things sorted at the cottage?”
“Slowly.” She made a couple more back and forth swings on her stool. “I found something mysterious. Do either of you know anything about the name Strongbow?”
Penny’s eyes slid toward Liam.
He did the same.
They both exchanged a subtle shake of the head.
Penny turned on her heel and headed toward the kitchen, calling, “Sorry, dear, I need to see to your burger.”
Lassi frowned. “Is that a yes or it’s a town secret?’”
He lifted his hand and waved it about. “There are myths everywhere in Ireland, you know that. The name Strongbow is associated with one of them.”
He brought his attention to somewhere behind her shoulder.
She turned to see what he looked at. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. No customer beckoned for him.
She turned back to face him. “Let me guess,” she said with a smirk. “You had a vision just now requiring your full attention.”
He frowned. “Goodness, no. Only seeing if anyone needed anything. I’d best make my rounds.”
He scurried out from behind the counter and headed toward the booths, leaving Lassi to wonder.
She sipped her pint.
“Hey, girlie.”
She twisted in her seat toward the gravelly voice.
An old man sat at a booth, hunched over an empty mug of Guinness a couple of yards away. Foam still clung to the sides of the glass. His palms pressed the table on either side of the mug, as if to prop himself upright.
“Are you talking to me?”
He tossed his head toward the other side of his booth. “Come and talk to an old man. I’ll tell you more about the name Strongbow.”
Her attention perked. After grabbing her pint, she made her way toward his booth. She slid in opposite him and said, “What can you tell me?”
She studied his wrinkled old face as she waited for an answer. If Ballynagaul had a mascot, he could be it.
Red-lined eyelids pulled away from his rheumy gray eyes. His scraggly white hair wisped around his forehead, like the fog she’d seen this morning. The skin of his face sagged, the same way everything seemed to sag in this village. His head hung from his neck like a vulture’s.
She shook her head. Ballynagaul seemed more affected by gravity than any place she’d ever been in her life—not that she’d traveled much. But if she had, she knew it could never be as depressing as Bally.
“The name’s Aengus.” He extended his gnarled hand to her.
“Lassi Finn.” She shook it, noting the papery, dry skin.
His eyes narrowed. “Finn, eh?”
“That’s right. The last of my line.” Sadness pricked at her chest.
“I see.” He nodded, inclining his head to the side and studying her, as if calculating some great mystery. “That might change things around here.”
“How so?”
“Have you seen the tree?”
“Tree? What tree? What does that have to do with change?” She blinked.
He pointed toward the door. “Across town. Near your Roberta’s place, God rest her soul.” He made the sign of the cross over his chest with a trembling hand. “It’s called Strongbow’s tree. That’s where she’s buried.”
He whispered the last sentence in a dramatic stage voice.
“That’s where who’s buried? Mrs. Strongbow?” She lifted her Guinness and took a hearty swallow.
Footsteps scurried in their direction. Liam stopped abruptly in front of their table. A white cloth hung across his shoulder.
“Don’t be filling her head with tales, Aengus.” He lifted the old man’s empty glass mug, tugged the white cloth free, and began wiping the table. Dark stains lined the armpits of his yellowish-white shirt. “I assume you want another?” His eyebrows rose and fell.
“Yes, please,” Aengus answered. “And she asked about the legend. I’m merely telling a tale, is all.”
“Yes, but some tales are better left in their graves,” Liam said. His face paled. “I mean left untold.”
“She looks like a bright lass. She can tell fact from fiction, I’m certain.” He flashed her a slow-eyed wink.
She smiled at him. I like this guy.
Liam’s gaze slid from Aengus, to Lassi’s cleavage, and back to Aengus. “She doesn’t need her head filled with nonsense.”
Aengus stretched his mouth wide in a kind of smile. “Thank you for your advice, Liam. Now fetch me another pint.”
With a nod and a glare, he hustled away.
“Who’s buried at Strongbow’s tree?”
“The bones of a lass who lived here long ago.” He tipped back his head and closed his eyes, as if he knew her. When he opened his eyes, an expression of deep sorrow lined his face, dragging his mouth into a downward curve. “She was a beauty, much as yourself. Her hair was like gossamer angel wings. Silver like the moon, same as yours.”
“Mine leans toward red.”
Aengus squinted at her. “Well, yours is the shiny copper penny equivalent. Anyway, when she sauntered in the room, rainbows trailed behind her. Her eyes shone like stars in the sky. You couldn’t keep from looking at her. People tried to cut locks of her hair to make trinkets and whatnots, cast charms and love-spells and the like.”
Lassi tried to picture crowds of people trying to cut locks of her strawberry hair and shivered. “Did she have a name?”
“I call her Oonagh, like the Queen of the Fairies.” He shook his head, and his facial skin quivered.
Lassi’s eyes furrowed. “What does the legend call her? Mrs. Strongbow?”
Aengus continued spinning his tale. “And Oonagh was in love with Aardan, a poor peasant lad who subsisted on potatoes and grubs.”
Lassi wrinkled her nose. “Potatoes and grubs?”
“Times were hard back then. We had the English to contend with.”
“Right, right. Eight hundred long years of oppression. My history teacher used to make us repeat the phrase before we could enter his classroom.” She hefted her Guinness, said, “To Irish persistence,” and took another swig.
Aengus nodded.
Liam stalked toward their table and placed Aengus’s pint on the table with a thwack. “Here you are, old man. Drink up.” He leaned his hip against the table, facing Lassi, then crossed his arms over his chest. “He’s not still nattering on about dusty old stories, is he?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself, since he’s right next to you?” she said.
“I can think of other things to talk about,” Liam said, adding a leer.
“Then find someone else to talk about other things,” Lassi said. “I want to hear what he has to say.”
“Liam!” Penny called.
His head pivoted. “What?”
“I could use some help.”
Liam pressed his lips together and strode away.
Aengus lifted the Guinness in his trembling hands and took a long swallow.
“So, Oonagh? Aarden? Potatoes and grubs?” Lassi prompted. Her stomach grumbled and growled. She turned toward the kitchen doors, hoping Penny would emerge carrying her food.
“Right.” Aengus set down his half-empty mug. “Their love was true and wonderful. They longed to escape and be together.”
Penny backed out of the kitchen bearing a food-filled platter. Silverware fell from the platter and clattered on the floor.
“Liam!” she called.
“What?” His voice sounded far away.
“Get some silverware so the girl can eat her supper.” She pivoted and marched toward Lassi, a frown on her face.
When she stood before the table, she said, “Here’s your food.”
She placed the white ceramic plate in front of Lassi.
Lassi’s tummy let out another growl as she eyed the burger which lay nestled between lettuce and a tomato slice. The chips were this side of burnt to a crisp.
Penny propped her hands on her plump hips. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Catsup would be nice. And a napkin.”
“Liam’s bringing utensils once he gets around to it.” Her head turned toward the kitchen. “Liam! The girl wants her silverware.”
“I’m coming,” he hollered.
“I asked for catsup.” Lassi pressed her lips together.
Penny fixed her attention on Aengus. “I hear you’re filling her head with tall tales. Ballynagaul is a tourist destination. We can’t have fright spread through the village. Besides that, you can’t go twisting fact with fiction. We all know you lost your first true love.” She cast a kind-eyed gaze his way.
Oh, so, he’s making up the tale. Lassi picked up her burger and took a bite. Mmm. Heaven.
“This has nothing to do with that.” Aengus fixed Penny with a glare. “So, the Strongbow story. Her cock-sucking father, Darragh O’Malley, made her marry a bastard. Now, Darragh had a problem with the drink, as well as a carpentry problem. It seems he couldn’t plane true unless he was half in his cups. He never forgave Oonagh for living when her mother died giving birth to her. He once told Oonagh he wished she had died and her mother had lived, or both of them had died so he could at least ‘start afresh.’”
“Gah! He sounds horrid.” Lassi stuffed another bite of the burger in her mouth.
“Right. He was. And he needed money, what with the drink and all that, so he married her off. The bastard ran her into the ground and murdered her. The girl was turned into the Dearg-Due.”
Lassi held off from taking another bite. The burger sat poised in her hands. “Wait. Dearg-Due? What’s that? And who are we talking about? You or someone long ago named Oonagh who loved Aarden?”
Penny gave a crisp shake of her head. “So, now you’ve named her Oonagh. Her name was Maggie. It was Maggie and Conor, a nothing kind of lad, who were in love. And she wasn’t murdered. She committed suicide. God rest her soul.” She crossed herself and looked toward heaven.
“It’s as good a name as any.” Aengus’s neck wattle shook as he spoke.
Liam pushed through the saloon doors. His foot landed on the fallen silverware and he slid forward, waving his arms. “Fecking shite. Pick up after yourself, woman!” He stalked toward the table, wielding silverware like a weapon and catsup like a trophy. “Here.”
He shoved them toward Lassi.
“Napkin?” Lassi smiled sweetly at him.
He glared at Penny and said, “Napkin for the lass? Are you hard of hearing?”
“I thought you’d bring one,” Penny countered. “Go on now and make yourself useful.” She shooed him away.
He turned and stormed off.
Lassi took another bite of the burger. As she chewed, she twisted the top of the catsup free, turned it upside down, and batted it with her palm. A few drops of catsup dripped on her chips.
The door to the pub opened, revealing a shaft of light surrounding a black clad figure.
“Looks like the rains are letting up,” Penny said with a nod. She squinted at the new customer. “Is that you, Father Ward?”
He stomped his feet on the door mat. “It is, Penny.”
He strode across the room, scattering droplets of water, as if he were a rain angel.
“Come on in and rest your bones.” She beckoned to Lassi’s booth. “Aengus here was starting to share the story of the Dearg-Due with poor Lassi here.”
Father Ward’s steps faltered. His shoulders bunched around his ears for a brief second, like he’d passed through an icy blast of wind.
Lassi frowned. What is it with this myth? She picked up the burger and crammed another big bite in her mouth.
“Look,” she mumbled through a mouthful of food. “I’m not the superstitious type. You don’t need to worry I’ll sleep with garlic or conjure fairies to protect me. I only thought to ask if the paper I found meant anything.”
“Paper? What paper?” Father Ward now stood stiffly next to the table.
“I found some old documents in the wall,” Lassi said. “Something about Strongbow.”
“Oh, boy,” Father Ward said. He pressed his palm to his cheek.
Lassi’s forehead drew together.
Penny eyed him. “You don’t look so good, Father. Let me get you some water.”
“Thank you, Penny, but I’m fine.” He nodded.
Penny said, “I insist, Father.”
She pivoted on her heel and tottered toward the bar.
His gaze slid toward Lassi. Again, a sorrowful expression flitted across his face. “How are you, Miss Finn?”
“Fine. What was the ‘oh, boy’ about?”
“Nothing.” His gaze darted about like a dragonfly.
She massaged her forehead with her fingertips. No one in this town makes sense. “Relax, Father, and sit.” She gestured across the table, then, plucked a few chips from the plate. After shoving them in her mouth, she said, “Ack. These are awful.”
She picked up her burger.
Father Ward turned his head toward Aengus. “Good afternoon, Aengus. How are you?”
“Fine. Sit.” He inclined his head toward the seat next to him.
Father Ward settled alongside Aengus. He leaned his forearms on the table, clasping his hands. “So, how are things coming with the cottage?”
“Since I saw you this morning?” Lassi said, her mouth full of meat. She held out her greasy fingers, looked for signs of Liam or Penny returning with napkins, then shrugged and wiped her fingers on her pants. “Still going. Still slower than I’d like. Who’s the Dearg-Due?”
Father Ward fixed his gaze on his hands.
Aengus took another slow swallow of Guinness. When he set down his mug, he side-eyed Father Ward. “Are you going to tell her, or should I?”
“I should be going,” Father Ward said. He started to get up.
Aengus’s hand shot toward Father Ward’s arm like a viper. “Wait. She needs to know.”
“Why? What? Would someone tell me?” She slapped the table with her palm.
What is it with these people? They’re all fecking nuts.
Father Ward jerked slightly, then let out a huge sigh. “It’s a vampire tale. The Dearg-Due is also known as the Red-Blood-Sucker. When she was murdered she vowed revenge. It’s the stuff of fairy tales.” He shrugged. “Now, I’d best be getting on my way.”
Aengus lowered his voice to his dramatic stage whisper. “You didn’t tell her about the grave.” He fixed his rheumy eyes on her. “It’s covered with stones. Legend has it that once a year, on the anniversary of her death, she pushes free and roams, killing innocent people to quench her thirst. Each year the stones get replaced. Then, we’re safe for another year.” He shook his head, making his neck wattle dance. “We’ve been fortunate here in Bally. Someone, or something, manages to keep us safe.”
Lassi laughed. “I think your tourism could improve tenfold if you used this tale as an attraction. There’s a tiny town in the United States called Forks. They draw teenage groupies who believe in sparkling vampires based on some book. Vampires. Honestly. Utter nonsense.” She lifted her eyes toward the kitchen. “What happened with my napkin and your water, Father?”
He rose to his feet. “I don’t know but I need to leave.”
“Me, too.” She stood, fished a few bills from her pocket, and dropped them on the table. “Do you have time to walk me home, Father?”
A warm smile crossed Father Ward’s lips. “I do, indeed.”
She nodded to him, then slid from the booth. “A pleasure meeting you, Aengus. Thanks for the story.”
“You’re very welcome, Lassi.” He grinned, picked up his pint, and said, “to Irish persistence.”
“To Irish persistence.” She turned toward Father Ward. “Shall we?”
“Please.” He followed her outside.
As soon as her foot landed on the sidewalk, Dylan, Siobhan, and little Paul Riordan emerged from the laundromat next door. They laughed as they scurried along the walkway, as if visiting the laundromat was a high point of their week. Siobhan carried a large sack, probably filled with clean clothes. Dylan clutched Paul to his shoulder, keeping him tucked inside his roomy overcoat, shielding him from the biting wind.
“Oh, Miss Finn,” Dylan said. “There you are.”
“Dylan. Here I am.” She stopped and smiled.
“Father Ward, how are you?” Siobhan said.
They exchanged a few pleasantries about the weather, how was she doing with the cottage and such, but Lassi paid little attention to the content of their conversation. The love the family shared could be cut with a knife and served for dessert. The couple stirred a wistfulness, full of longing, that tickled her ribs, like tiny love-mice searching for escape. Stop with the foolishness, Lassi. You’re only pleased to see such a nice family. They beat all the other sorry residents of this town. She lifted her face and scowled.
Father Ward studied her with a curious expression she couldn’t decipher. Whatever it was, it drew a shiver up her spine.
“Well, we’d best be getting on,” Dylan said. “We don’t want Paul, here, catching cold. Look at his cheeks. They’re like rosy apples.” He leaned down and kissed the child’s head.
They said their goodbyes and scurried in the opposite direction.
Lassi and Father Ward walked the sidewalk at a brisk pace.
The wind howled around them as they headed past the shops and banks toward the outskirts of town.
He fixed his attention on the distance, staying quiet.
Lassi kept her raincoat pulled around her.
Father Ward lowered his gaze.
The wind picked up speed, whistling around the buildings.
He kept his head down, leaning into the wind.
As they reached the end of town, a sudden downpour assaulted them with hail. Without thought, she reached for Father Ward’s hand and tugged him into a run along the narrow, hedge-lined road just past the church.
“Are you okay running?” she yelled through the wind. Do priests even stay in shape or is that an abomination? The hail pounded against her head.
“It’s fine,” he yelled back, keeping up a strong runner’s stride. “I know a shortcut. Turn up here.”
The hedge yielded to ancient rock walls. The rocks had tumbled, leaving an opening at one spot. Father Ward kept a tight grip of her hand as he guided her over the stones, into a muddy pasture.
“Let’s head for the copse of trees.” He pointed to a stand of trees about ten yards away. “We can get out of the hail until it subsides.” He released her hand, climbed through, and took off at a sprint.
She slogged next to him through the wet grass. Her Wellies made serious dents in the muddy ground. Finally, they reached where he’d indicated. Only drips and drabs fell through the lace of branches overhead.
“Whew! This is much better.” She bent forward and pressed her palms against her knees to catch her breath. When she stood up again, Father Ward’s serious gaze fixed on her.
His chest rose and fell in a regular cadence.
Her eyebrows arched high. “You must be in super shape. Not even winded?”
He shook his head.
“Do you work out?”
“Something like that,” he said, his face blank.
A long stretch of silence hung between them. All around came the sound of pounding rain and hail.
“So, this is summer in Ballynagaul, is it?” She stared at the driving rain.
“It seems to be.” Father Ward took a step toward her. His hand reached over her shoulder.
Is he going to pull me in for a kiss? Will I be able to resist?
He cleared his throat. “Over there.”
“Huh?” she came out of her lust-filled stupor and blinked at him.
“Roberta’s cottage. Turn around. You can see it from here.”
She pivoted, her cheek brushing against his fingers. “Where?”
He placed his palm on her shoulder and lifted his other arm next to her cheek, pointing down the hill. “Down there. See it?”
His heat warmed her cold back. She closed her eyes, savoring his nearness. This can’t be right, standing here with the local priest. I’m laying the groundwork for Satan.
Again, he cleared his throat. “Can you see it, Miss Finn? Are you still with me?”
Oh, I’m with you, Father. She swallowed before opening her eyes. “The cottage. Down the hill. Got it in my sights, locked and loaded.”
He stepped away from her.
Instantly, she missed his nearness.
“I’d best be off,” he said.
Her head whipped around. “You’re not coming with me?”
He took another step backward. “Baptism, remember?”
“Right. Well, then.” She lifted her chin to meet his soft gaze.
He shook his head, ever so subtly, as if making some sort of decision within himself. “I’ll be seeing you, Miss Finn.”
“You will, Father Ward. That’s a promise.” For a moment, she swore a current of energy passed between them, sharp and electric.
His shoulders fell as if weighted by a heavy burden. Without speaking, he turned and strode away, breaking the spell, or casting the spell, she couldn’t tell which one. But no spell, good, bad, or otherwise, would keep her from getting back to Dublin as soon as she could.
A niggling little thought, far back in her mind, whispered she might be wrong—dead wrong—sending shivers up and down her spine—shivers that seemed to occur regularly, whenever she was near Father Ward.