Free Mulligan Stew by Deb Stover

had manipulated this somehow. Maybe she'd known exactly what time Maggie would come downstairs.
    The voice of logic protested from the back of his mind, but he banished it. "I've chores," he said, stomping toward the back door.
    He wrenched open the door and slammed it behind him, shivering on the stoop in the early morning fog. "You bloody eejit ," he muttered, glancing down at his bare torso and feet. How was a man to save face in this house filled with conniving women? The whole lot of them were ganging up on him.
    Nevertheless, a farmer couldn't put in a fair day's work without his boots. With a sigh, Riley opened the door and re-entered the warm kitchen. Both Maggie and Bridget sat staring at him, as if they'd been waiting for him to return for his shirt and boots.
    Head held high, Riley strolled past them to the back staircase, refusing to even acknowledge them. A man had his pride, after all.
    Halfway up the worn wooden steps, he allowed himself to breathe. From now on, he would keep a safe distance from Bridget. With any luck, she would pack up and take her son back to the States where they belonged.
    On the next step, something sharp and burning impaled his toe. "Ow!"
    Female twittering drifted up the narrow staircase. Gnashing his teeth, Riley sat on the step and yanked the offensive splinter out of the soft underside of his big toe, then continued up the steps. They were laughing at him. Well, let them.
    The sooner he set about his work, the sooner he could put Bridget Not -Mulligan out of his mind. The woman was a cailleach and a temptress. A siren. Aye, and a dangerously appealing one at that.
    Even though he didn't believe her innocent hillbilly ruse, or her claim of having married Culley, he couldn't prevent himself from lusting heartily after the woman. He burned for her with a fierceness he had never known, except in those wretched dreams.
    That thought shot through him like an flaming arrow, setting his gut—and other more aggravating regions—on fire. Aye, he wanted the woman with an intensity very similar to those relentless dreams. Why? His breath caught as he remembered the way she moved, the fall of hair over her shoulder, the silk of her voice.
    What was it about her? Who was she, really? What was she?
    And why did he suddenly feel trapped?
    He was so distracted, he walked right into the low beam at the top of the steps. "Ow!"
    * * *
    Bridget took several deep breaths, forcing her tears to cease. She listened while Maggie made excuses for her brother's behavior. Though Riley had upset her, he hadn't made her cry. All those years of hating Culley had made her cry—not his brother. She would never be free of the guilt she bore over her late husband. If only she'd known. If only she could undo all the days of resenting him.
    But that was past. Culley was dead and buried, but she was here with his son and the rest of his kin now. She would make up for thinking ill of him. She would. Otherwise, the confounded guilt would destroy her.
    She sniffled, vowing to be strong. She didn't want Jacob coming down to catch his momma carrying on so. Hearing Riley's second "ow" did the trick, and Bridget soon found herself giggling along with Maggie.
    When Maggie rose to fetch her soda, Bridget pondered the memory of how Riley had looked when she'd first walked into the kitchen this morning. She'd never seen such broad shoulders, or muscles so well defined. Heat suffused her all over again and her pulse did a square dance along her veins.
    Mercy. The only time Bridget could remember feeling so physically drawn to a man was when she'd first met Culley. Sex appeal obviously ran in the family, though she'd already had her quota of Mulligan men.
    Still, a girl was allowed to admire the scenery. Wasn't she?
    Warmth settled low in her belly and she squirmed, crossing her legs as if that would banish her sinful thoughts and urges. Of course, this was mild compared to that dream she'd had last night. Erotically frustrating.