Free A Woman's Heart by Joann Ross Page A

come, as well?”
    Nora lit the stove, then shot a stern warning look over her shoulder as she filled a kettle from the tap. “That’s enough, now,” she said. “I won’t be having you all pestering Mr. Gallagher. He’s here to work on his movie and is to be left alone.”
    â€œI don’t mind,” Quinn lied. Although he was not usually diplomatic, he could be when necessary.
    Nora gave him a look that said she didn’t believe him for a moment. “You’re a paying guest. Don’t you have a right not to be pestered to death?” Her voice lilted with the soft cadence of the Irish west. “Would you be wanting some tea?”
    â€œOf course he’ll be wanting tea,” Brady said, entering into the conversation. He looked hale and hearty, revealing not an iota of hangover. Yet further proof, Quinn considered grimly, that life wasn’t fair.
    â€œNora makes the best tea in the county,” Brady assured Quinn. “Stout enough to trot a mouse across, it is.”
    â€œNow there’s a thought,” Quinn murmured, watching as his words caused the corners of her mouth to curl in a faint smile. “Tea sounds good. I tried making coffee, but I couldn’t get the knack of boiling it.”
    â€œDidn’t I tell you we should have bought one of those Mr. Coffee machines, Nora, darling?” Brady said.
    â€œReally, tea’s fine,” Quinn insisted.
    Everyone but Nora was watching him again, as if he were some sort of unique animal. A unicorn, perhaps. Or the creature in the lake.
    â€œI knew a Donovan Gallagher when I was a girl,” Fionna said. “He had family in Donegal. Would you be knowing of them?”
    â€œNo.”
    She tilted her head and studied him. “You have the look of the boy I knew. Perhaps while you’re in Ireland, you might be wanting to take a visit to Donegal and—”
    â€œNo.” Realizing he’d snapped at her, Quinn softened his expression. And his tone. “I’m afraid I’m going to be very busy working on the film. I doubt I’ll have time for sight-seeing.”
    â€œAh, isn’t that a shame, now?” Fionna’s direct gaze told him that she suspected there might be more to his refusal than a scheduling problem. “To come all this way from America and not see your family…perhaps next time,” she suggested.
    â€œNext time,” he agreed. Wanting to move the conversation away from himself, Quinn turned back to Rory. “So, what grade are you in?”
    â€œOh, I’m in first form.”
    Quinn remembered attending three different schools in three different states during his first-grade year. He also remembered the broken arm his father had given him when he hadn’t fetched the bottle of Coors fast enough that September they’d lived in Boulder. “Do you like school?”
    â€œAye.” The small freckled forehead creased. “But I’m not so sure about next year.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause when you’re in second form, everything changes. You have to learn cursive, and start learning about the lives of the saints, and you become culp…culp…”
    â€œHe’s trying to say culpable,” Celia broke in with a toss of her head that suggested feminine superiority.
    â€œCulpable?”
    â€œYou get reason,” Celia explained. “It means you become responsible. You can’t say you didn’t know any better because by the time you’re in second form, you’re supposedto know the difference between good and evil. So all your sins go against your permanent record.”
    â€œI can see where that might be a worry.” Quinn decided he didn’t ever want to get a look at his permanent record. “But I can’t believe you could have all that many sins,” he assured Rory.
    â€œEverything’s a bloody sin.” Mary spoke up for the first time, her dark