Free Briarwood Cottage by Joann Ross Page A

uncovering the story. The reasons why something happened. Or, as they’d taught in journalism class, the Who , What , When , Where , Why , and How of an event.
    The thing about miscarriages, he’d learned, was that while the best doctors in the world might know those first four facts, those all-important fifth and six facts remained a mystery.
    In Cass’s case, her injuries pointed to the most logical cause. However, the doctor had told her, her miscarriage could well have happened at any time. There was, they were told, often no rhyme nor reason.
    As much as he’d grieved the loss of their child, what had been more heartbreaking was Cass believing he might think she’d purposely kept her pregnancy a secret so he wouldn’t try even harder to prevent her from going to Egypt.
    He’d admittedly been sick with worry, but not for one instant when the Cairo GNN bureau chief had called him with the news had that suspicion even crossed his mind.
    The doctor had gone on to explain that many women miscarry before they know they’re pregnant. That often what they mistake for a period is actually abnormal break-through bleeding.
    Which must have happened with Cass, because she’d been ten weeks pregnant when she’d miscarried. Although they hadn’t learned the baby’s sex, Duncan would always privately believe she’d been a girl. With her mother’s expressive lake-blue eyes and hair the warm, golden color of honey. In his mind, he’d named her Skye. For his family’s ancestral lands and the warm, happy color of a sunlit summer day.
    Because Cass had been so wounded, no, so shattered , he’d grieved in silence, trying to care for her. To support and comfort.
    But he’d failed. And in doing so, had lost not only a child but the wife he loved beyond reason, as well.
    But that was then. And this was now. And Cass was not only in Ireland, she was in his cottage.
    Which was, Duncan thought as he headed back to Briarwood Cottage after some less-than-successful conversations with locals about the Lady, a start.

9
    C assandra awoke to find the cottage quiet. The only sound was the patter of a light rain on the roof. She called out, and when there was no answer, she decided Duncan must still be out digging up a story about the Lady seekers.
    At least she hoped that was what he was doing. She hadn’t come all this way to end up bailing him out of Castlelough’s jail for pub brawling.
    The little antique clock on the bedside table revealed that she’d been sleeping for three hours. Which at least partly made up for the sleepless night she’d spent trying to decide what to say to Duncan.
    Despite the long nap, her head still felt fuzzy and a bit floaty. She was also stiff from long hours sitting crowded between two businessmen, both of whom had commandeered the armrests and the overhead bin, leaving her squeezed into the compact middle seat like a sardine packed into a can. Deciding to take a walk to explore her surroundings and work out the kinks, she wrote a note to Duncan, which she left on the kitchen table, put on her coat and a wool hat she’d bought in a Shelter Bay dress shop, and left the cottage.
    A rainbow arched across a rain-washed sky the color of the inside of an oyster shell and over stone walls studded with shamrocks and moss. Except for the rustling of leaves in the trees and the musical trill of hidden songbirds, Cassandra found herself surrounded by absolute stillness.
    In the distance, framed by the shimmering rainbow, the lake shone like polished silver. Surprisingly, none of the Lady seekers she’d seen crowding the streets of Castlelough as she’d driven through the village had made their way to the reedy banks. Or even to the hills, topped by the crumbling castle ruins that, along with the lake, had given the town its name.
    She was wondering about that as she passed a cemetery, a somber place of high Celtic crosses standing like silent sentinels. A few rounded gravestones, names worn away by salt