FIVE

SHAWN STEEPED HIS tea until he could have danced the hornpipe on its surface, then unearthed the day-old scones left over from the pub. He had an hour before he had to be at work, and he intended to enjoy his little breakfast and read the paper that he’d picked up in the village after Mass.

The radio on the counter was playing traditional Gaelic tunes, and the kitchen hearth was crackling with fine turf fire. For him, it was a small slice of heaven.

Before long he’d be cooking for the Sunday crowds, and Darcy would be in and out of the kitchen at Gallagher’s, needling him about something or other. And this one or that would have something to say to him. He imagined Jude would slip in for an hour or two, and he’d make sure she had a good, healthy supper.

He didn’t mind any of that, not a bit. But if he didn’t grab a handful of alone time now and again, it felt as if his brain would explode. He could imagine himself living in the cottage for the rest of his life, with the badtempered black cat stretched out by the fire, wallowing in quiet morning after quiet morning.

His mind drifted along with the pipes and flutes flowing from the radio. His foot began to tap. And then the loud thud at his back door sent his heart shooting straight to his throat.

The big yellow hound grinned at him, her tongue hanging out and her massive paws pressed against the glass. Shawn shook his head, but he got up to go to the door. He never minded the O’Tooles’ Betty. She was fine company, and after a bit of a scratch and stroke she would curl up and settle into her own dreams.

Bub arched his back and hissed, but that was routine rather than true annoyance. When the patient Betty didn’t react, the cat merely turned his tail up and began to wash.

“Out and about, are you, now?” Shawn said as he let Betty in out of a brisk wind that hinted of rain. “Well, you’re welcome to share a scone and the fire, no matter what that devil there says about it.” But as he started to close the door again, he spotted Brenna.

His first reaction was a vague irritation, for here was someone who wouldn’t settle for a scratch and a stroke but would demand conversation. He kept the door open and stood between the wind and the warmth as he watched her.

A few coils of hair had come loose from her cap and were flying around, red as rubies. Her mouth was set, making him wonder if he, or someone, had done something to annoy her. Which, now that he thought of it, was such a simple matter. Still, it was a fine mouth if you took the time to look at it.

For such a small woman, she had a long stride, he noted. And a purposeful one. She was moving as if she had something to do and wanted it over and dealt with quickly. Knowing the O’Toole as he did, he had no doubt she’d let him know just what that was in the shortest of orders.