Mulligan Stew

by Deb Stover

  Something compelled Riley to look at the boy again. The lad was the image of Culley at the same age. No, it's pure coincidence, Mulligan, and don't be forgetting that again. They started toward him and Riley cleared his throat, returning his keys to his pocket. The lad really did have a Mulligan look about him. Listen to yourself. The world was crawling with dark-haired children.

  He released a ragged sigh as they came nearer. She was a beauty, to be sure, and Culley had always appreciated a comely face. Riley’s gaze lowered and he noticed the way her breasts filled out her green jumper. Aye, Culley could easily have fallen for her charms, but married her...? No, Culley would never have married a woman he barely knew—not with a local lass waiting for him to come home and marry her. Besides, there was the Church to consider.

  This American woman was a scab—after money or the farm, but certainly not Culley’s widow. Keep it straight, you bloody caffler. Girding himself, Riley straightened and squared his shoulders as the pair stopped directly in front of him.

  No one spoke as they stood staring at each other. He grew uncomfortable with her scrutiny and shoved his infernal hair out of his face again.

  "You're Riley Mulligan," she said quietly, her voice quavering a bit.

  "Aye." He gave a curt nod, not bothering with the formalities. He didn't want this woman and her son here, and he wasn't about to pretend otherwise.

  "Forgive me for staring, but..." She drew a shaky breath and a nervous laugh followed. "You look so much like..."

  Riley nodded again, not wanting to admit that the woman had recognized him because of the familial resemblance. The explanation was simple—she'd seen a photo of him, or at least of Culley. Any gobshite with eyes could see the resemblance.

  He glanced down at the lad again. His eyes were green like his mother's—not Mulligan blue. Somewhat relieved, Riley allowed himself this one small victory, though he knew the battle ahead would be long and bloody. Something told him this woman would not give up easily.

  Nor would he.

  "You my Uncle Riley?" the lad asked, his head tilted back so he could stare into Riley's eyes.

  Heat crept up from Riley's collar and he bit the inside of his cheek to silence his thoughts before he said something unsuitable for a youngster's ears. Any youngster. Even this one. "I'm Riley Mulligan," he said instead.

  The child released his mum's hand and shoved his right one toward Riley. "I'm Jacob Samuel Mulligan, and I'm right pleased to meet you, sir."

  A rehearsed speech if ever he'd heard one, but Riley couldn't suppress the grin that tugged at his lips. The lad's accent screamed American hillbilly like those Country and Western singers they sometimes heard on the radio. He squirmed inwardly, not wanting to like the woman or her son. Even so, there was nothing to do but shake the lad's hand, so he did.

  Unfortunately, the woman seemed to have recovered from her initial shock and thrust her hand forward, too. "Seems my son's got better manners than his momma." Her smile made her entire face glow. "I'm Bridget Colleen Mulligan."

  Hearing the Mulligan name leave her lips tensed every nerve in Riley's body, but he reluctantly shook her hand. He tried, and failed, not to notice how small and delicate hers felt in his callused farmer's paw. His face warmed and his throat tightened. Aye, Culley would've been attracted to this siren.

  Could she be his brother's widow? Enough of this.

  "We'd best be about finding your bags," he said, struggling to ignore the battling voices in his head. "Did they give you a pass in customs?"

  "Yes, but not without stealing all my herbs."

  "Herbs?" He blinked.

  "Homegrown and now they're gone." She released a long sigh. "I packed enough to last for months, too."

  The foolish woman had packed fresh herbs, and from the sound of it, enough to open her own market. Didn't she think they had food in Ireland?

  "Your momma didn't come?" she asked.

  "She's down with a bit of the gout." Guilt reared its ugly puss. Mum had asked him to pass along her regrets at not being able to come herself. He sighed and muttered, "'Tis sorry she is for not being able to fetch you and the lad herself." There, he'd done his duty and could now revert to his natural charm.

  "Gout?" She made a tsking sound with her tongue and shook her head. "Grandpa used to get gout and the only thing that helped were cherries."

  "Cherries?" Riley echoed, arching a brow in disbelief. "What'd he do? Stomp on them to make wine?"

  She blinked and gave him such an innocent look, he decided then and there she had to be either the world's greatest actress or genuinely naive.

  Finally she giggled. "Oh, a joke. I'm sorry." After a few moments, she shook her head. "No, he ate the cherries for the gout and they always fixed him right up." She tilted her head closer and whispered, "Kept him regular, too, which always improved his spirits."

  Riley's first instinct was to throw his head back and roar with laughter, but he managed to save himself by summoning a scowl instead. The woman had perfected the art of playing the fool, but he didn't buy it for a minute. This was all part of her evil ruse, of course.

  But he saw right through her. Life had thrown him plenty of hard knocks—enough to train him to recognize deceit on any level. A nasty smile spread across his face as he turned and started walking. After a moment, he glanced back and saw the pair of them struggling with their backpacks and carry-on items. Aye, charm, Mulligan. That's you.

  Cursing under his breath, he swaggered back and hefted the largest bag onto his shoulder, inclining his head to indicate they should follow. Without another word, he started down the crowded corridor.

  Finally, they were on the road home and would be lucky to reach it before dark. Mum would be worried, and as much as he resented Bridget and Jacob's presence, he would tolerate almost anything to avoid upsetting Mum.

  Bridget chattered endlessly about every little thing as they drove west. Riley didn't need to talk—she kept the silence filled quite thoroughly. Not that he'd have minded a bit of silence about now.

  Barely saving himself from growling aloud, he glanced in the rear view mirror and saw the lad had fallen asleep. With his eyes closed he looked even more like Culley.

  By the time Riley turned onto the narrow lane that led to the cottage, Bridget had blathered on about cooking, gardening, her granny, grandpa, the Larabees, and someone named General Lee who'd killed her granny. And what was this "y'all" business anyway?

  Confident he'd heard her entire family history, he breathed a sigh of relief when the whitewashed cottage came into view. It was shortly after five o'clock and in early May that meant they had a bit of daylight left to this very long day.

  "Are we there yet?" a small voice asked from the back seat.

  "I don't know," the lad's mother said.

  Riley felt her gaze on him and he resented it all over again. She was an intruder on his land and in his life, and the last thing in the world his family needed was more trouble. The saints knew the Mulligans had known enough in this lifetime and generations past.

  "Aye, we're there yet," he snapped, regretting his harsh tone immediately. After all, hadn't he promised Mum he'd behave himself and mind his manners... such as they were? "Almost."

  "Oh, it's beautiful." Bridget looked out the open window and Riley glanced over at her.

  As she strained to see the cottage in the distance, her breasts thrust forward, her nipples clearly outlined against her jumper. His gut pressed upward against his heart and his blood heated and thickened. She had a right nice pair of breasts. Once upon a time, he and Culley would've called them diddies. He shocked even himself by growing hard before he could draw his next breath.

  Jaysus, what's come over you, Mulligan? He dragged his hands through his hair. A breeze wafted through the open window and the salty scent of the sea calmed him and soothed his sudden lust.

  "Momma, look!"

  Both adults turned to stare at the lad, who pointed toward something, his eyes round and dark. "Is t
hat it?" he asked.

  A chill washed over Riley and his mouth went dry. He knew without looking what the lad saw. "That'll be Caisleán Dubh," he said stonily, staring straight ahead.

  Bridget leaned toward him, ducking her head to see through the window on his side of the car. The scent of something spicy

  drifted up from her glossy brown curls, but he caught himself before he could draw a second appreciative sniff.

  The cailleach—witch—had cast a spell over him. That was it. Had she done the same to Culley with her false innocence and lush body? He glanced at her lovely face and swallowed hard. Aye, it could've happened. There was no denying her appeal.

  "Is it really cursed?" Jacob asked, shattering the silence.

  The castle's curse was Riley's least favorite subject, but he'd rather talk about that than dwell on the fierce attraction he felt for this woman. Even a curse was safer than whatever magic Bridget possessed.

  "Aye, there is a curse." He steered up the winding lane toward his home.

  "Do you live there?" the lad persisted.

  Pressure commenced in Riley's gut and he wished he had remembered to bring his antacids along. "No one has lived in Caisleán Dubh for over a hundred years."

  "Why?"

  If there was one thing Riley Mulligan didn't want to discuss, it was Caisleán Dubh. Being Americans, he supposed they couldn't help themselves, though the woman was uncommonly quiet. Thank heaven.

  "Why doesn't anyone live there?" the lad asked again.

  Riley gnashed his teeth and released a slow breath. "Because it's old," he finally said.

  "But—"

  Bridget straightened and turned toward her son. "Don't ask so many questions, Jacob," she said quietly.

  Riley glanced at her again. Her features seemed pinched, her tone strained. The castle had that effect on some.

  Like him.

  "I just wanna know why," Jacob said, his tone taking on a whining quality that sliced right through a man.

  Gripping the steering wheel so tightly his arms trembled, Riley held his breath. He counted to himself, willing his heart to slow and his head to cease its infernal pounding. He should've torn that castle down stone by bloody stone right after—

  "Can we go in there?" Jacob asked. "I wanna see inside."

  "No." Groaning, Riley shoved his wayward hair back from his face again. He wouldn't lose control. The iron door at the back of his mind squeaked open, allowing the memories to creep closer to the surface. Threatening. Not now. Not now, please.

  "Stop whining, Jacob," Bridget said. "Just let it be. Maybe you can go see the castle later."

  "Never," Riley said, still staring straight ahead.

  The lad said, "Why c—"

  Rage whipped through Riley and he slammed on the brake, whirling around to face the cowering child.

  "No one goes there. Not now. Not ever."

  Chapter 3

  "Begging your pardon," Bridget said stonily, struggling against her rising anger, "but you don't have the right or reason to speak to my son in that tone."

  Riley's knuckles whitened against the steering wheel, then he gave a curt nod and glanced in his mirror. "I'm sorry for snapping at you, Jacob." Without another word, he continued the short drive to the cottage.

  Bridget gave her now silent son an encouraging smile, then turned her attention to the countryside again. She didn't like starting off this way with Culley's brother, but she wasn't about to let him verbally abuse her child either. Drawing a deep breath, she looked out at the lush green fields, huge rocks along the shore, the ocean glistening just beyond, and nary a tree in sight, save a few near the cottage. It looked like something out of a storybook.

  Her gaze returned to the castle and her breath froze. A cold sweat sprang from her pores and she shivered. Granny would've said someone had walked across her grave.

  You're being silly, she told herself and drew a steadying breath, turning her attention away from the castle and back to the beautiful farm. Yes, the Mulligans' farm was like a fairy-tale place—a magical kingdom complete with a castle. And a curse. She shot Riley a sidelong glance. No handsome prince, though.

  Oh, he was handsome enough, but it was downright difficult to see beyond that shaggy mop of hair and persistent scowl. Still, he was Culley's brother and she would grant Riley the same tolerance she would've given her own brother if she had one.

  As long as he didn't mistreat Jacob again. That she would tolerate from no one—kin or not.

  A tall auburn-haired woman stood on the porch of the cottage, leaning heavily on a cane. She shaded her eyes and waved as the car approached.

  Bridget swallowed hard. A pity her husband wasn't the man bringing her home to meet his family. Grief welled within her, sudden and fierce, but she swallowed her tears and drew a shaky breath. "Is that... Culley's momma?" Bridget asked.

  "Aye, and mine," Riley reminded her, his tone curt.

  Fuming in silence, Bridget gnashed her teeth as he swung the car around and parked it beneath the lone shade tree before the cottage. A profusion of spring flowers distracted her from her dark mood and she counted to ten, banishing thoughts of strangling Riley Mulligan. The flowers bloomed around the base of the porch, bordered by a neat row of rocks that ended at the steps and a worn dirt path.

  Mrs. Mulligan came down the steps with the aid of her cane. A tall, redheaded girl followed. She looked so much like her mother, she had to be Mary Margaret, Culley's sister. They paused at the base of the steps, waiting.

  Bridget drew another steadying breath and reached for the door handle. Riley jumped out of the vehicle as if it were on fire, racing around to open her door before she had the chance. So he's minding his manners in front of his momma. She couldn't prevent the smile that tugged at her lips. A man willing to please his momma couldn't be all bad, no matter what he wanted her to think.

  Odd, but she was suddenly certain that Riley had been deliberately baiting her, and now he was putting on a show for his momma. Fine, let him. He didn't want her to like him or to feel welcome here when no one was watching. She had no idea what his motives were for either sort of behavior, but Granny would've said to watch for the true color of his stripes.

  Dismissing Riley for now, she remembered the women waiting to meet her and Jacob. Bridget climbed out and took her son's hand as he scrambled from the back seat. "Let's go meet your Granny Mulligan and Aunt Maggie."

  Riley made a snorting sound, muttered something Bridget couldn't understand, and slammed the car door. He went to the trunk to fetch their suitcases, leaving Bridget to introduce herself and Jacob. Well, fine, you ornery old so-and-so.

  Squaring her shoulders, she gave Jacob's hand a squeeze and started toward the woman and girl. "Mrs. Mulligan?" Bridget asked, pausing before them. "I'm Bridget and this here's my son, Jacob."

  The woman smiled, her blue-gray eyes twinkling. She reached out and patted Bridget's shoulder. "'Tis glad I am you've come," she said, and turned her attention to Jacob. Her eyes widened and her lower lip trembled. She held one hand to her throat. "Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, if you aren't the image of me Culley at the same age." She bent forward and enveloped Jacob in a one-armed hug. "Welcome, young Jacob. Welcome home."

  "I'm Maggie." The redhead thrust out her hand and shook Bridget's in a very matter of fact way. "Welcome to Ireland, Mrs. Mulligan."

  "Here, now, we'll be having none of that nonsense," Mrs. Mulligan said, straightening but still smiling. "You'll be callin' me Fiona and you're Bridget in this house. 'Mrs. Mulligan,' indeed." She turned her brilliant smile on Jacob again, who blushed to his earlobes. "And you, young man, will call me Mamó. It means granny. I've always wanted grandchildren, Jacob. You're a dream come true to this old heart."

  Granny. Mamó. Thank you, Lord. Bridget smiled and released a long-held sigh.

  "'Tis almost like having me Culley..." Fiona bit her lower lip and drew a shaky breath. "Thank you, Bridget, for bringin' Culley's son home to us. Thank you, lass."


  Overcome by the woman's enthusiasm and affection, Bridget blinked back the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. She felt Riley's accusing and perplexing glare on her back, but she'd be danged if she would let him see her cry. She had her pride, after all, and for more years than she could remember that was about all she'd had.

  "Thank you for inviting us, Mrs.—er, Fiona," Bridget said, smiling. On closer inspection, Bridget realized the woman's hair had once been as fiery red as her daughter's, but streaks of gray now dulled its brilliance.

  "You're quite welcome, lass." She shook her head and her smile faded. "'Tis sorry I am not to have met you at the airport, but this gout misery plagues me something awful from time to time."

  "Have you tried eating cherries?"

  Fiona tilted her head to one side. "Cherries, is it? No, I can't say I have, but if you think it'll help, I'll send Maggie here to market tomorrow morning to fetch a basket." She pointed her cane toward the cottage. "You must be tired and half-starved. Come in, let us be showin' you and Jacob your rooms."

  The house was cozy and filled with antiques. A coat of arms on the wall bore the Mulligan crest. Back in Tennessee, the "cottage" would've been considered a rambling farmhouse. It seemed far too large to call a cottage, though Bridget had already discovered many differences between Tennessee and Ireland.

  After a barely edible dinner—though both Bridget and Jacob had pretended to enjoy it—Fiona bid them all to gather near the hearth, where a low and welcome fire burned.

  Jacob settled near Fiona's rocker and asked, "What's that weird smell?"

  "Ah, 'tis the peat you're smelling, Jacob," Maggie explained. "Even in spring, we often have a fire come evenin'."

  "Back in Tennessee," Bridget explained, "we burn hickory or oak."

  "And how many trees did you count drivin' across our island?" Fiona smiled, obviously not expecting an answer.