JoAnn Ross - A Woman's Heart

Ireland—A Land Of Unbridled Spirit, Ancient Legends, Whitewashed Cottages And Storybook Castles. A Place Where Anything Can Happen And There Are No Strangers—Until Now.

Quinn Gallagher has reluctantly come to Castlelough. He’s cynical, bitter and disillusioned. But the magic of the west coast is about to change him.

He’s never met anyone like Nora Fitzpatrick. Despite all of life’s hardships, the young widow still has a generous heart. Quinn can’t help himself. He falls in love.

But life has taught Quinn never to trust in anything…especially a happy ending.

In A Woman’s Heart, JoAnn Ross has created a rich, lyrical love story about land, community, family and the very special bond between a man who doesn’t believe in anything and a woman who believes in him.

Praise for A Woman’s Heart by JoAnn Ross

“JoAnn Ross masterfully paints a picture of a magical, mystical land. With delightful touches of folklore storytelling, Ms. Ross tells a tale that delivers laughter, tears and so much joy.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Filled with warmth and wisdom and magic, A Woman’s Heart is sure to appeal to readers who love deeply moving romance, children, relatives, horses, big dogs and Irish charm.”

—Antoinette Stockenberg, bestselling author of Dream a Little Dream

“A Woman’s Heart will find a place in every fan’s heart, as it is an extraordinary tale that will charm the audience. This is one time the luck of the Irish will shine on every reader.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“The beauty of the people is what kept me reading this excellent-in-every-way novel. If you’re not already a JoAnn Ross fan, you will be after reading A Woman’s Heart.”

—Rendezvous

“A Woman’s Heart is...a warm and winning story of the redemptive power of love.”

—The Romance Reader

“A Woman’s Heart blends elements from legends within a contemporary story line to produce a brilliant novel. JoAnn Ross presents her readers with a bouquet of four leaf clovers.”

—Painted Rock Reviews

A Woman’s Heart

JoAnn Ross

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Jay, who first took me to Ireland

Dear Reader,

A Woman’s Heart, the first book in my Irish trilogy, originally published in 1998, is a story very close to my heart because so much of it comes from my own family. My Grandda McLaughlin, the model for Brady Joyce (including the “kidnapping” when my grandmother’s wealthier Cavanaugh family wouldn’t let them marry), was a seanachie—an Irish teller of tales. My earliest memories are listening to the music of his lyrical brogue spinning grand stories of kings and castles, battles and banishments, magic and miracles.

Hardly a day goes by that I don’t realize how fortunate I am to be able to follow in his storytelling footsteps. In all his tales, heroes and heroines ventured forth on perilous quests against seemingly impossible odds, slaying myriad dragons along the way. Tyrants were toppled, lovers united, the wicked were punished, justice prevailed in the end and the good always lived happily ever after. As they always will in my stories.

I hope you enjoy your visit to Grandda’s and my beloved, magical Ireland.

Slainté,

JoAnn

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Prologue

Unanswered Prayers

It was twilight, that mystical time when the world seems suspended between day and night. The remote lake, carved by glaciers into the surrounding folded green hills, glimmered with the reflection of the ruins of the twelfth-century castle that had given the Irish town of Castlelough its name.

As the sun sank lower and lower in the cloud-scudded sky, six-year-old Rory Fitzpatrick sat in his secret wishing place and related the events of the day to his best friend.

“Johnny Murphy stole communion hosts. And not just ordinary bread ones, either, but the special holy hosts in the tabernacle that were already blessed. You know, the ones Father O’Malley takes to shut-ins.

“And Johnny even passed them out on the playground. A lot of kids who haven’t had their first communion yet and didn’t know better ate them. But I didn’t.”

The Lady didn’t answer. She never did. But Rory sensed her unspoken approval.

“He got in a lot of trouble. Sister Mary Patrick paddled him, and he’s not going to be allowed to go on the father-and-son trek.”

He sighed, drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his thin arms around them. Across the reed-fringed lake, the stone castle seemed to brood in the gloaming.

“I think I’m going to pretend to get sick that day. Father O’Malley says you don’t need a da to go, and Cousin Jamie says I can share his, but it’s not the same thing. And besides, his da’s drunk a lot. And mean even when he’s not. So I wouldn’t want to be sharing him, anyway.”

Rory put his chin on his bent knees and looked out over the darkening blue water. “I wish I had a father.”

Beside him, Maeve, the gray, white and black Irish wolfhound his aunt Kate had given him, whimpered. Rory might have thought she was feeling sorry for him, but the dog whined all the time. His mother said poor Maeve was the most fearful beast ever born in all Ireland. Or probably anywhere else, for that matter. Rory figured she was probably right. Which was why it was strange she’d never seemed afraid of the Lady.

“Great-grandma Fionna says that God always answers our prayers. But you know how I’ve been praying forever. Ever since I was a little kid. And Aunt Kate gave me a special rock she said is just like one the druids used for making magic—” he pulled the rune with the marks scratched into its surface from the pocket of his jeans and showed it to her “—but I still don’t have a da.”

Another sigh. “If I had a da, maybe Mam would stop crying.”

The Lady’s bright eyes, which were exactly the color of Rory’s favorite aggie marble, asked a silent question.

“Oh, she never cries when anyone’s around,” he said quickly. “But sometimes, late at night, when I have to get up to go to the bathroom, I hear her. I think she’s worried she’s going to have to take the job working for that businessman in Galway.”

He’d been telling the Lady all about this for a month. A month during which his mother had been pretending nothing was wrong.

The mountains were changing colors in the shifting light. Rory knew if he didn’t get home soon, she’d worry.

And didn’t his Mam already have cares enough without having to wonder where he was always taking off to? He could practically hear his aunt Mary scolding.

“If we had a father,” he said to the Lady, “we’d have more money. And then we wouldn’t have to leave Castlelough.” And you. The unspoken words hung suspended on the soft moist air between them.

“Grandfather rented a room to one of the Americans who are coming to Castlelough tomorrow,” he reminded her unnecessarily.

The Lady never forgot anything Rory told her. That was only one of the reasons she was his best friend. Another was that he could share anything and everything with her. Things he couldn’t even share with his mother.