Free A Woman's Heart by Joann Ross

boy and a girl who appeared to be about the same age—ran into the room, followed by a pair of teenagers, then Fionna and Brady. Bringing up the rear and backlit by a sun that turned her hair to flame, was Nora Fitzpatrick.
    She was wearing a high-necked heather-hued dress that stopped just a bit above the knee and a well-worn blazer the color of rain. If the skirt had been a few inches longer, she could have been a nun. When she shrugged out of the blazer to hang it on a wooden hook beside the door, Quinn discovered that the widow Fitzpatrick’s body, which last night had been hidden beneath a bulky sweater, was far more curvaceous than he’d first thought. And the softly clinging dress was anything but nunlike.
    A face of a convent girl and a body built for sin. It was, he was discovering, a perilous combination. The woman wasn’t merely trouble. She was pure TNT.
    And Quinn felt as if he’d just been handed a lit fuse.
    She greeted him with a hesitant smile. “So you’re up,” she said. Her scent, which made him think of making love in a meadow of wildflowers during a soft summer rain, had entered the kitchen with her.
    Deliberately, to prove to himself—and to her—that he could, Quinn aimed cool dark eyes at her exquisite face. “I woke up about an hour ago.”
    â€œI’m sorry I wasn’t here to fix you breakfast.”
    When she didn’t look away from what other women had assured him was a quelling stare, Quinn decided she might just be tougher than she looked.
    â€œThe dog and I managed.”
    â€œThe dog?” She glanced down at the beast, who was lying beneath the table, head on its forepaws, looking adoringly up at Quinn. “Isn’t that amazing.” She tilted her head and studied him. “You’re obviously a miracle worker.”
    â€œMaeve’s afraid of everyone but my aunt Kate, my mam and me,” the younger boy volunteered.
    He had a shock of dark hair, blue-black eyes and a scattering of freckles across his face. But even with the difference in coloring, Quinn had no difficulty in recognizing him to be the grandson Brady had boasted about.
    â€œHer name is Maeve?” Quinn asked.
    â€œAfter the warrior queen of Connacht from the old stories. It was Mam’s idea. She thought being named after such a powerful person might help give Maeve courage.”
    â€œSounds reasonable to me,” Quinn said with a sideways glance at Nora. Her face curtained by her hair, she began taking cups down from the open shelf. “She seems like a great dog.”
    Admittedly, he might have been a bit of a bastard when it came to Nora. But Quinn didn’t have it in him to be cold to a child. Especially one forced to grow up without a father. Not that having a father was any real guarantee of happiness.
    â€œI assume you’re Rory.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I should have introduced you to everyone,” Nora said before her son could answer. “Rory, this is Mr. Gallagher.” She went on to introduce the other children.
    â€œI have all your books, Mr. Gallagher,” offered the tall gangly teenage boy with the serious eyes she’d introduced as her brother John.
    â€œCall me Quinn.” Being called Mr. Gallagher reminded him uncomfortably of his father. “And thanks for the support. Your father said your favorite is The Night of the Banshee. ”
    â€œThat was my favorite. But I think I like The Lady of the Lake best now. And I especially like that you set it right here in Castlelough.”
    â€œPerhaps you’d like to come watch some filming.”
    â€œCould I? Really?” It was such a small thing. And offered without thought. But it obviously meant a great deal to John Joyce.
    â€œHow about me?” This from the younger girl with thebright nest of Orphan Annie curls. Celia, Quinn remembered. Which would make her the child Brady’s wife had died giving birth to. “May I