Free The Angel by Carla Neggers Page A

land in southwest Ireland that jutted out into the stormy Atlantic Ocean.
    She turned onto a bucolic lane that ran parallel to the village’s protected harbor, gray and still now at low tide, and
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    across the bay, the jagged silhouette of the MacGillicuddy Reeks of the Iveragh Peninsula were outlined against the muted sky. Off to her right, the rugged, barren mountains of the sparsely populated Beara Peninsula rose up sharply, with tufts of milky clouds, or fog, maybe, sinking into rocky crevices.
    Keira could hear the distant bleating of the sheep that dotted the hills.
    The ancient stone walls along the lane were overgrown with masses of pink roses and wildflowers—blue, purple and yellow thistles, pink foxglove, various drifts and spikes of white flowers.
    And holly, Keira saw with a smile, lots of it. By tradi
    tion, cutting down a holly tree was bad luck. There were tall rhododendrons and the occasional pop of a bright fuchsia that had long ago escaped cultivation. The southwest Irish climate, warmed by the Gulf Stream, was mild year-round, hospitable to subtropical plants in spite of fierce gales.
    Her rented cottage was just up ahead, a traditional struc
    ture of gray stone that, to her relief, was charming and perfect for her stay. Keira made a mental note to send a postcard to Colm Dermott thanking him for his help in finding it.
    She hugged her sweater closer to her and pushed back any thoughts that might entice her to duck into her cottage and pour herself another whiskey and put on music, then tuck herself among her warm blankets and sketch pretty pictures of Irish scenery. It was tempting just to forget her mission. After another thirty yards, she turned onto a dirt track that wound through the middle of a rock-strewn pasture, marked off with barbed wire and rising sharply. She’d walked up this way yesterday to get a feel for her surround
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    ings. She was surprised at how well they corresponded to the details in Patsy’s story.
    Sheep grazed far up into the hills, part of the Slieve Miskish Mountains that ran down the lower spine of the peninsula to the Atlantic and the now-defunct copper mines, where Patsy’s grandfather had worked. The track leveled off briefly, and Keira heard a grunt nearby.
    A cow. It’s only a damn cow.
    Then came a shriek of laughter, and a woman’s voice.
    “Oh, no! Look—I stepped in it!”
    A man chuckled. “Apparently cows don’t care about prehistoric ruins.”
    The couple climbed over a barbed-wire fence onto the track. They were obviously American, the slight breeze catching the ends of their graying hair as they checked their scuffed walking shoes for cow manure. The woman smiled at Keira. “I suppose if one’s going to traipse through a cow pasture, one should expect cow patties. Are you going out to the stone circle?”
    “Not tonight,” Keira said.
    She’d checked out the stone circle yesterday after her arrival. It was one of over a hundred of the mysterious mega
    lithic structures in County Cork, a particularly good example because it was relatively large and missing just one of its eleven stones. Getting to it required climbing over fences and navigating cows, rutted ground, rocks and manure. The woman gave up on her shoe. “It’s incredible—and to see it this time of year…” She beamed, obviously de
    lighted with her adventure. “Such a thrill. We half hoped we’d run into fairies dancing.”
    Her companion sighed. “ You hoped we’d see fairies.”
    She rolled her eyes with amusement and addressed
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    Keira. “My husband has no sense of romance.” She gestured broadly toward the harbor and village below.
    “We’re staying in Kenmare. You’re American, too?”
    “I’m from Boston—I’m renting a cottage here,” Keira said, leaving her explanation at that.
    “Lovely. Well, enjoy your walk.”
    “Mind the cow flops if you go in the pasture,” her husband said.
    Keira wished the couple a