“You can go to hell.” She gave Brenna one hard shove, spun on her heel, and marched toward the door.

Then let out a whoosh of air when Brenna tackled her from behind. “You want to settle this with slaps and shoves, that suits me.” She grabbed a fistful of Mary Kate’s hair and had just given one good, satisfying yank when their mother threw open the door and rushed out.

“What in sweet hell is this? Get off your sister this instant, Mary Brenna.”

“The minute she apologizes for calling me a whore twice in one morning.”

“Whore!” Tears of pain and rage blurred Mary Kate’s eyes, but she managed to shout it. “That makes three.”

They rolled into a vicious tangle of arms and legs, and without a minute’s hesitation, Mollie waded in, grabbed each by whatever she could snare, and hauled them apart. And since it was like separating spitting cats, she added a cuff on the side of the head to each to keep them there.

“It’s shamed I am, shamed of the pair of you. Now in the house, and one word before you have my leave, it’s the back of my hand for you.”

Mary Kate got to her feet, brushed herself off, lowered her head. And when she caught Brenna’s eye mouthed “whore.” She had the dark satisfaction of watching Brenna start a swing and get another cuff for the trouble.

“A grown woman,” Mollie muttered, herding her daughters toward the house, where Mick stood struggling to look disapproving, Alice Mae watched owlishly, and Patty stood peering over her father’s shoulder with her best I’m-above-it-all look on her face.

“Sit!” She jabbed a finger at the table, then shot a steely look at her other daughters. “Patty, Alice Mae, I believe you have other things to do. If not, I can find plenty to occupy your time.”

“She landed you a good one there, Brenna.” Alice Mae clucked her tongue as she studied Brenna’s cheek.

“She won’t a second time.”

“Quiet.” At patience’s end, Mollie snapped, “Out.” She pointed to the door.

“Come on, Alice.” Patty laid a hand on Alice Mae’s shoulder. “There’s no point in staring at the heathens.” And the minute they’d rounded the corner, both of them hunkered down to hear what they could.

But when Mick started to slither out the door, Mollie pinned him with a hard stare. “Oh, no, you don’t, Michael O’Toole, this baggage is as much yours as mine. Now.” She planted her hands on her hips. “What started this? Brenna?”

“It’s a personal problem between myself and Mary Kate.” Her eyes clicked to her mother, then to her father when he moved to the pot to pour himself more tea.

“When it’s a problem that has one sister calling another filthy names and the both of you tearing at each other like alley cats, it’s no longer personal. You may be near twenty-five years of age, Mary Brenna Catherine O’Toole, but you live under this roof, and I won’t tolerate such behavior.”