The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

the silence dragged on, he rose to bank the fire, to listen to the whisper of the wind. Though he was sure he was too edgy to sleep, he went upstairs and prepared for bed.
    Almost as soon as his head settled on the pillow, he drifted into dreams of a lovely woman standing in the garden while the moonlight silvered her pale gold hair. The wings of the white horse beat the air, then settled as hooves touched ground. The man astride it had eyes only for the woman. As he dismounted, the silver bag he carried sparkled, shot light like little sparks of flame.
    At her feet he poured pearls as white and pure as the moonlight. But she turned away from him, never looked at the beauty of the gems. Behind the sweep of her nightrobe, the pearls bloomed into flowers that glimmered like ghosts in the night.
    And in the night, surrounded by those moon-washed flowers, Shawn reached for the woman. The pale hair had turned to fire and the soft eyes became sharp and green as emerald. It was Brenna he drew into his arms, Brenna he surrounded with them.
    In sleep, where reason and logic have no place, it was Brenna he tasted.
     
     
     

 
SIX
     
     
     
    “H AND ME MY crooked stick, will you, darling?”
    Brenna picked up her father’s level—he had affectionate names for most of his tools—and walked across the paint-splattered drop cloth to pass it to him.
    The nursery was taking shape, and already in Brenna’s mind it was the baby’s room rather than Shawn’s old one. Some might not be able to see the potential of the finished project beyond the clutter of tools and sawhorses, the missing trim and the snowy shower of sawdust. The fact was, she loved the messy middle of a project every bit as much as she did the polished end of it.
    She enjoyed the smells and the noises, the good, healthy sweat brought on by swinging a hammer or hefting lumber. Now as she stood back to watch her father snug the level onto the vertical length of the shelves they were building, she thought how much she liked the little pieces of work. Measuring, cutting, checking, rechecking until what you had built was the perfect mirror of what had been inside your head.
    “Right on the money,” Mick said cheerfully, then propped his level in the corner. Without realizing it, they stood as a pair: hands on hips, legs comfortably spread, feet planted.
    “And as it’s built by O’Toole, it’s built to last.”
    “Aye, that’s the way of it.” He slapped her companionably on the shoulder. “Now there’s a good morning’s work here. How about we go down to the pub for a bit of lunch, then we’ll finish the unit this afternoon?”
    “Oh, I’m not feeling hungry.” Avoiding his eyes, Brenna walked over to examine the trim they’d already made to frame the shelves. “You go ahead. I think I’ll just go on and trim this out.”
    Mick scratched the back of his neck. “You’ve not been into Gallagher’s all the week.”
    “Haven’t I?” She knew damn well she’d not set foot in the door since Saturday last. And she calculated she’d need another day or two before her humiliation level bottomed out enough for her to stroll in and see Shawn.
    “No, you haven’t. Monday it was ‘Well, I brought something from home,’ and Tuesday it was ‘I’ll eat later.’ Then yesterday it was how you wanted to finish something up and would come down when you had— which you didn’t.” He angled his head, reminding himself she was a woman, and women had their ways.“Have you and Darcy had a fight?”
    “No.” She was grateful he’d assumed that, and that she didn’t have to lie about it. “I just saw her yesterday when she dropped over here. You’d gone on to see about the Clooneys’ drainpipe.”
    Keeping her voice and movements casual, she held up the trim. “I suppose I’m just anxious to see how this will all look when we’re done. And I had a big breakfast. You go on and get your lunch, Dad. If I feel peckish after a while, I’ll go downstairs and raid Jude’s kitchen.”
    “As you like, then.” His daughters, bless them all, were often a puzzle to him. But for the life of him he couldn’t think of a thing that could be wrong with his Mary Brenna. So he winked at her as he pulled on his jacket. “We get this done, the least we can do is lift a pint at the end of the day.”
    “Sure, and I imagine I’ll be thirsty.” And she would find some excuse to head straight home.
    When he was gone, she set the trim in place with the glue