A Woman's Heart (30 page)

“No.” She'd been waiting, but he'd remained silent on the matter. “But Michael mentioned he'd introduced you to a Gallagher he knew from Connemara.”

“Patrick Gallagher. A farmer. And bootlegger.”

“Well, now, making
poitin's
not such a crime in that part of the country,” she said, misunderstanding the acid in his tone. “Well, of course, it is a crime, but—”

“I know.” He lifted a hand that felt as if it weighed fifty pounds.

It was more than the fight that had him feeling dead on his feet, Quinn knew. He'd certainly had his share of brawls in his younger days, and they'd never left him so wasted. And it wasn't just that he was older. It was, Quinn thought, because he was so emotionally drained. He felt as if he'd slashed his wrists and let all his feelings drain out with the blood.

“Michael already explained all that. My point was, that looking into his face was like looking into a goddamn mirror.”

“The Gallaghers I've known over the years have always had strong features. And didn't Gram say that she grew up with a boy in Donegal who had the look of you? That's not so unusual, Quinn.”

“I suppose not. But the point is, that got me to thinking about bloodlines. My bloodlines.”

It took her a moment. And when she understood what he was saying, Nora's heart lurched so painfully she was amazed she was able to keep from crying out.

“Oh, Quinn.” She knelt beside him, her hand on his thigh, her green eyes as pained and earnest as he'd ever witnessed them. “You're not like one of Kate's horses. Like the mare you bought Rory. You're a man. You have free will, the intelligence to make choices. Just because your father was a cruel and brutal man…”

“Who used his fists to settle arguments,” he reminded her pointedly as he looked down at his knuckles, skinned and swollen from connecting with the bones in O'Sullivan's face.

“No.” Her hair flew over her shoulders in a brilliant cloud as she shook her head again. “Don't you see he was like Cadel? Just a bully who finally met his match?” She lifted his hand and pressed her lips against the injured flesh. “You're nothing like either one of them.”

How he'd wanted to believe that! “I can't take the risk.”

“And isn't that for me to be deciding?”

“No.” It was his turn to shake his head. Firmly. Resolutely. “It's not easy raising children. One day Rory, or one of his brothers or sisters, if we were to be that lucky to have them, might do something to piss me off. Something that might cause me to strike out instinctively.

“Or perhaps you and I might have an argument. You can be a hardheaded woman sometimes, Nora, and—”

“I know. And I'll be trying to work on that.”

“And you also have a habit of interrupting when a man's trying to make a point.” Although Quinn could find little humor in this discussion, the memory of her doing the same thing that night in Derry when Brady was trying to tell his tale, that night they'd made love for the first time, almost made Quinn smile.

“It's a foolish point,” she muttered.

“Not so foolish.” He looked down at their hands, still linked together. He brought her hand to his lips. “I truly do love you, Nora. And if I ever lifted a hand to you, I'd want to kill myself.”

“You'd never do such a thing.”

“You can't know that. For certain.”

She lifted her chin in that way that always made him want to kiss her silly. “Aye. I do. Because I know you, Quinn Gallagher. I'd stake my life on that.”

“Don't you understand? That could be exactly what
you'd be doing.” This time he did smile, but there was not an iota of cheer in it. It was, Nora thought, the saddest thing she'd ever seen. Even sadder than that thin white scar she now knew had been caused by his father's belt buckle.

“No.” He released her hand and pushed himself to his feet. “I'm not going to take the chance. I'm not going to let you take the chance.”

That said, he gave her one last look fraught with so many emotions Nora couldn't begin to catalog them all. But none of them was the slightest bit encouraging.

“I do love you,” he stressed yet again, wanting her to remember that one vital point. “I always will.”

With that he was gone. Out of her bedroom. And her house.

Laura, who'd been waiting downstairs, paused in the parlor as Quinn walked out to the Mercedes. “I'm sorry,” she said to Nora.

“I know.” Nora never would have thought she could feel a kinship with such a glamorous movie star. But then again, ever since the Americans had come to Castlelough, she'd experienced a host of unfamiliar unexpected emotions. “But it doesn't change things now, does it?”

“Believe me, honey, he'll be back,” Laura assured her. “Quinn can be a son of a bitch, but he's smart enough to know when he's hit the jackpot.” Her judicious gaze measured Nora from head to foot. “And although I would have bet the farm against it when we first hit this place, you turned out to be the treasure at the end of the guy's rainbow.”

That said, she flashed a smile that never failed to bedazzle her fans and left the farmhouse, then climbed into the driver's seat of the Mercedes.

Nora stood in the doorway as the car drove away, watching until it turned the corner and disappeared behind the stone wall separating her farm from Kate's.

He'd said he was leaving to keep from hurting her. The
ragged pained sound that escaped her tightly set lips was half laugh, half sob. Didn't he realize he'd done exactly that? Couldn't he understand that he couldn't have wounded her heart more if he'd taken down one of those antique swords from the wall of The Rose and slashed her heart to ribbons?

Covering her face with her hands, Nora finally gave in to the tears that had been threatening since she'd arrived at the hospital and discovered that the man she loved had retreated into his dark and icy shell. She had no way of knowing that as Laura drove toward Castlelough, Quinn couldn't stop himself from believing that he was leaving the best part of his life behind.

Find a Way Home

Q
uinn was gone. Back to America. Rory sat in his secret wishing place and related the sad news to his best friend, who, now that the movie people had left Ireland, was free to stop hiding beneath the water.

“I thought he was going to be my da,” he told her. He sighed. “He seemed to like me well enough. At least he let me in his tent with him on the father-and-son trek. And he bought me Splendid Mane.”

Rory did not have to explain to the Lady that he'd named the horse after the one that had belonged to Manannan mac Lir, the ancient Gaelic god. The original Splendid Mane was said to be swifter than the spring wind and, as was befitting the patron of sailors, traveled equally fast over the waves of the sea as he did over land.

“I wouldn't think a man would be buying a pony for a boy he didn't love. But Jamie says perhaps he had so much money it didn't seem like such a special thing.”

Rory sighed again, drew his knees up to his chest,
wrapped his thin arms around them and looked out over the darkening blue water. Beside him, Maeve whimpered. Rory could tell that she missed the American almost as much as he did.

A pony is a very special thing,
the Lady assured him.

Rory wasn't as surprised as he'd been the first time she'd spoken to him. But this time her words didn't ease the worry that had been heavy on his heart.

“I wish he hadn't left,” he said again. And sighed yet again. “Mam's been crying a lot. Just like she did before the Americans came. But I don't think she's worried about moving away from the farm anymore. I think she misses Quinn, too.”

He looked up at the Lady, lines of concern etched into his freckled forehead. “I've been worrying that perhaps I did something to make him go away.”

He couldn't think of what that might have been, but hadn't Tommy Doyle's da left when Tommy had gotten the cancer? Rory had heard his grandfather Brady remark that Brian Doyle just couldn't deal with so much trouble, but after Tommy had come back from Dublin, bald, but cured, his da still hadn't returned.

“Perhaps some men aren't made to have families,” he said, repeating what his grandfather had told him about Mr. Doyle. “Perhaps, if it weren't for me, Quinn would have married Mam. And she'd be happy. Like she was before he left to go back to California.”

The American leaving had nothing to you with you, Rory Fitzpatrick.
The Lady's golden eyes rested on him reassuringly.
Doesn't he have some of his own ghosts to calm before he can be making a family? You must be patient. He'll be back.

That said, she turned and disappeared beneath the water without so much as a ripple, returning to her kingdom beneath the waves.

 

“Quinn will be back.” Rory poured milk from the pitcher into the glasses that Celia had set on the table.

“Oh, darling.” Nora turned from the stove, trying to decide whether it was kinder to let her son continue to believe this or to dash his hopes with cold reality so he could move on with his young life. So they could
all
move on. “I wouldn't be counting on that,” she said gently.

“He'll be back.” Rory's expression was, as it had been for the past two weeks, confident. “The Lady told me he just had some ghosts to get rid of first. Before he could be part of the family.”

Nora's first thought was that it wasn't so strange that a boy who talked to a lough beastie could so readily accept the idea of ghosts. Her second thought was to wonder how Rory could understand so well that the man he kept insisting would be his father could have been so haunted.

“I don't know what to say to that,” she said honestly. Having never lied to her child, she wasn't about to start now.

“You don't have to say anything, Mam.” He finished pouring the milk and put the pitcher back in the refrigerator. Then he flashed a grin. “We just have to be patient. The Lady promised.”

 

Half a world away Quinn sat on the deck of his rented house, looking out over the ocean. The white-capped water reminded him too much of Nora. But then, he thought grimly, everything reminded him of the woman he'd left behind in Ireland.

“You realize, of course, that this is getting boring.”

He glanced over at Laura, who was sitting beside him, her bare feet up on the railing, long tanned legs displayed to advantage in a pair of brief white shorts. “Sorry I'm not a better host.”

“Oh, don't apologize.” She took a sip of the fumé blanc and smiled sweetly over the rim of her glass. “I've always
admired your overachieving spirit, darling. And the way you've been behaving ever since we left the ‘auld sod' is by far the best example of a pity party I've ever seen.”

His only answer to that was a succinct curse. He took a long drink of the iced tea he'd made himself stick to the past two weeks, fearing that if he started drinking he might never stop.

“Why the hell don't you just go to her?” Laura asked, not for the first time. “Instead of continuing to make the two of you miserable. Not to mention that poor kid—he's got to feel deserted.”

Quinn didn't want to think about Rory. It was bad enough picturing the boy every night while he was trying to sleep, the image of that open freckled face flashing with all the others he'd betrayed in some kind of bizarre slide show in his mind.

“I explained all that.” It hadn't been easy to open up to her, to share that story of his life yet again. But he'd needed someone to talk to. And amazingly Laura was turning out to be a good friend.

“I know.” She sighed and shook her head. “And I think it's about the most ridiculous excuse for walking out on a woman I've ever heard.”

“That's your opinion.”

“True enough.” She put her feet back onto the deck and stood. Figuring she was going into the house to refill her empty glass, Quinn turned back toward the view of the sun-spangled water, which while admittedly magnificent, was the wrong damn ocean. He let his eyes drift closed.

Suddenly he heard a loud smack and felt a sharp sting on his cheek. He brought his hand to the burning skin and looked up at Laura.

“What was that for?” he asked without rancor.

“It was a test.” Smiling, she raised her hand and delivered a slap to his other cheek. “You might call it a kind of
scientific experiment. Of nurture against nature, so to speak.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” Although on some distant level he thought he might.

“I hit you,” she pointed out unnecessarily. “And you didn't hit me back.”

“Hell, of course I didn't.” Oh yes, Quinn considered grimly, he could definitely see where she was headed with this little bit of amateur psychology.

“Isn't that interesting?” Again she slapped him, this time with enough force to turn his head. “You'd think a man with such violent genetic tendencies would feel the need to strike back.”

“Laura, this isn't going to work.”

“Oh?” She arched one perfect blond brow. “And why not? I thought you told me that you couldn't stop yourself from beating up that thuggish wife-abusing Irishman?”

“That was different.”

“How exactly?”

“You're nothing like O'Sullivan.”

“Now there's a news flash.” She folded her arms. “Neither, would I venture a guess, is Nora Fitzpatrick. Or her son. Or, for that matter, any of the other children.”

When Quinn didn't—couldn't—answer, she put her hand on his arm. “You'd never hurt them, Quinn. Not in a million years. I know it. And I know that deep down inside, you know it, too.”

“Then you know a helluva lot more about me than I know about myself.”

“Your instincts weren't even there. Your hand didn't even make a fist. I watched,” she said when he glanced down at his hand, as if to check out the assertion firsthand for himself. “You allowed your sadistic son-of-a-bitch father to control the first thirty-five years of your life. You're too damn smart—and Nora is too special—for you to allow him to control the next thirty-five.”

The idea of spending those years with Nora was admittedly appealing. Terrifyingly wonderfully appealing.

“I'll think about it.”

She smiled, patted his cheek, which still bore the imprint of her fingers, then kissed him. “Why don't you do that, darling?”

 

Quinn Gallagher was a remarkably intelligent man. Which was why it was such a surprise to Nora that he could be so stupid about something so basic. So important.

She'd tried to be patient, tried to give him time to realize the mistake he'd made, but with each passing day, she feared that the walls that had begun to crumble during his time in Castlelough would begin going up again. Higher, this time. And thicker. Until there'd be no way to breach them. Which was why, three weeks after he'd left Ireland, as she lay alone in her bed—the bed that now seemed heartbreakingly empty—wearing the T-shirt Quinn had left in the laundry, she realized what she had to do.

She was going to have to go to America and convince him that they were perfect together. And then, she considered, she'd tell him that she was willing to leave Ireland and live in California with him.

“I understand it won't be easy,” she told her family as they sat around the table after Sunday mass. “John, I understand that you'll not be wanting to change your plans to go to university. Nor should you.”

“He'll be all right,” Fionna assured her. “I'll be watching out for him. And he can always come and visit you and the rest of the family in California. It's not as if your new husband won't be able to afford the airfare,” she said dryly.

Nora turned to her grandmother, refilling her teacup. “Are you certain you don't want to come?”

“I've lived more than eighty years on this farm, darling. My roots are sunk too deep into the peat to transplant. And then, of course, I'd not be wanting to give up my Bernadette
campaign just when I've finally piqued the Vatican's interest.”

The letter from the Congregation for the Cause of Saints had arrived in yesterday morning's post. By evening Elizabeth Murphy, who considered her postmistress job to be akin to town crier, had spread the word throughout not only Castlelough, but also the entire county. Even Bishop McCarthy had been seen on the nightly news agreeing with the lissome blond interviewer from News One that this was, indeed, a red-letter day for the parish.

The newscast had also featured an interview with a beaming Fionna, who'd been videotaped standing beside the Mercedes that had arrived at the farm a week after Quinn's departure. The same Mercedes Quinn had driven during his visit to Castlelough. The one he'd somehow arranged to have painted with bright murals depicting the life and times of Sister Bernadette.

“But you can be sure I'll be coming to America for the baptism of all those beautiful babies I expect you and Quinn to make together,” Fionna promised.

Although just the thought of leaving her beloved grandmother made her heart heavy, Nora couldn't help smiling.

“And you, Mary?” she asked her sister. “I realize you might find it difficult to be leaving your friends in your last year of school. If you'd like to stay—”

“No.” Mary shook her head. “Though it's true I'd rather stay here, in Castlelough, there's something to be said for going to California, too. Perhaps Quinn can help me find movie work.”

That was not Nora's favorite subject. But she was also relieved that she wouldn't be leaving Fionna to deal with Mary's teenage angst.

“What about Splendid Mane?” Rory asked. There was no doubt he was willing to go to California if that was what it took for them all to be a family. But he hated the thought of leaving his horse behind.

“Kate says we can get papers for your pony to join us in California. And I'm certain there will be some stables somewhere nearby where we can board her.”

It wouldn't be like having her right outside the door, where he could walk out whenever he wanted and give her a carrot or lump of sugar. But, Rory figured, weren't the nuns always saying that God appreciated sacrifice?

“I think that will be just fine, Mam,” he assured his mother, who was looking at him with obvious concern. She hadn't quite gone back to the laughing smiling woman she'd been when Quinn had been living in the house. But at least he didn't hear her crying anymore when he got up in the night.

“I promised Peggy I'd send her a Malibu Barbie from California,” Celia piped up.

Knowing how close the two girls were and understanding that the move might prove difficult for her youngest sister at first, Nora laughed. “I think that's a lovely idea. So long as she can resist any more stake burnings.”

 

It was the night before she was to leave for California. The plan Nora had come up with called for her to go first, then send for the rest of the family once she'd settled into Quinn's house. And his life.

And now, although it wasn't easy, she was saying the farewells she'd been putting off to last.

“You tell that Yank of yours,” Michael said, his voice unusually gruff as he hugged her goodbye outside his farmhouse, “that if he doesn't make an honest woman of you, he'll have me to answer to.”

She laughed as she was meant to. “I'll tell him.” Her voice cracked and tears welled up in her eyes as she clung to her older brother. “I love you, Michael. And I'll miss you something terrible.”

“We'll have our visits.”

“Aye.” Her voice didn't sound any more enthusiastic
than his. Why was it, Nora wondered, that life always seemed to demand a person make such hard choices? “We'll come home for Christmas.”

“Now that will give me something to look forward to,” he promised.

They shared another hug. Then, dashing away the tears she couldn't keep from trailing down her cheeks, Nora drove to Kate's.