The Wild Sight (3 page)

A fuzzy darkness began obliterating the images in front of Donovan. Unable to breathe, he felt himself being pulled away.
Then the tug on his arm became real and from close at hand, a woman’s voice asked, “Is something wrong, Mr. O’Shea?”

Sudden excruciating pain made Donovan gasp. The incoming air burned his lungs. Leaning back, his hands fell into his lap and
the room swam back into view. Sybil Gallagher’s blunt, uneven fingernails clutched his sweater sleeve. He drew in another
ragged breath and tried to force words from his parched throat.

“S-sorry,” he managed to croak, and reached for his mug of tea. His hand shook when he lifted it.

Blushing, Sybil jerked her fingers away. Professor McRory and Rylie Powell both stared, concern visible on their faces. Donovan
averted his eyes a moment and fought to steady both his hands and his breathing.

The tepid liquid lubricated his vocal cords enough for him to murmur, “Bloody bad headache.”

“Migraine?” asked McRory, tucking the scabbard ornament back into his pocket.

Donovan shook his head then took another sip of tea. “Comes and goes, but hurts like the devil.”

“So sorry to have disturbed you,” the professor apologized.

“No, no. I was happy to hear your news.” And even more happy that his voice and breathing had returned to normal.

“We’ll not disturb you further then.” McRory rose to his feet, motioning to his assistant. “I know you’re anxious to complete
the sale, but you really should come out to the site again. Maybe tomorrow? You can bring Rylie, show her the old homestead
and all.”

Before Donovan could decline, Rylie clapped her hands together and exclaimed, “I’d love to see it!” She cast a devastating
thousand-watt beam of a smile in his direction, thoroughly rattling him. “Tomorrow morning? I can be here at nine.”

“Grand,” McRory pronounced while Donovan floundered for words. “We’ll see you then.”

“Thank you for the tea,” Sybil Gallagher murmured with a decided lack of enthusiasm.

So Donovan wasn’t the only one less than pleased with the sudden plans. He stood and escorted his unexpected guests to the
door. Rylie Powell trailed behind the other two.

“I’d better go too, since I’m afraid my visit has aggravated your headache,” she said with a faint arch of her eyebrows. “But
we can finish our discussion tomorrow,
Mr. O’Shea.
”

Her emphasis on his name was not lost on him. “Indeed we can,
Miss Powell,
though I don’t suppose you’ll be happy with the outcome.”

She gave him a smug look, “Or maybe you won’t.” Then she turned and exchanged leave-taking pleasantries with the professor
and his assistant.

Trying not to glower, Donovan did the same. As he ushered his guests down the stairs, he placed his hand low against Rylie
Powell’s back. His fingers brushed close to her hip. This time, the sudden spark of sexual awareness didn’t catch him off
guard as it had when she’d smiled at him. The tiniest jerk of her head told him she felt it too, and when they reached the
foot of the staircase, she quickly shied away to break contact.

Good, let her try to explain that away as brotherly
love.

She didn’t say good night and neither did he.

Back inside the apartment, he refilled the teakettle and found aspirin to relieve the pounding inside his skull. A half-hour
passed before the pain finally lessened. After another fifteen minutes of indecision, he picked up his mobile and rang his
sister Doreen.

She too was glad to hear about McRory’s latest finds because they would expedite the sale. The rundown cottage needed major
repairs and she, her husband Sean, and Donovan needed to decide whether or not to raze the structure. Doreen had fretted over
losing part of their family history, but with the university taking possession, the decision now became a moot point.

“Ancient Celtic history is certainly more important than ours,” she said with a firm note of resolve in her voice.

“While we’re on the subject of family history,” Donovan tried to sound more casual than he felt. “When we were little and
Da worked in Liverpool, do you remember how long a time he used to be gone for?”

“Three or four months at a stretch, to be sure,” his sister answered, her voice softening with recall. “And when he came home,
’twas always like Christmas because he brought us presents. Sweets and such, surely you remember those?”

“Not very well,” Donovan answered with perfect honesty. “I was only five or six and it seemed he was gone a lot. I know he
worked on the Liverpool docks, but did he ever go any place else?”

“Not that I ever knew.” Then his sister’s tone changed. “Times were hard here, that’s why he went. Lots of other men went
too. Besides, where else would he go?” She sounded defensive, as if he had insulted her.

“I don’t know, but you’re older so I thought you might.”

“Don’t be daft, Donovan. You know as well as I that Da wasn’t some gadabout.” She was dismissive now, the superior older sister
who wouldn’t put up with his juvenile queries. “And what possible difference could it make? That was all a very long time
ago.”

Twenty-five years. Not since their mother had
gone missing.

Neither of them said it, but Donovan knew they both shared the same thoughts.

“I’m afraid I must run.” Doreen’s voice held a strained undertone. “There’s a special candlelight mass at the cathedral tonight.”

His sister had always been far more devout than him or Dermot. Prayer continued to be one of her chief preoccupations. For
awhile, she’d talked about becoming a nun. No doubt to compensate for their father being a purveyor of liquor. How fittingly
ironic that she was now part-owner of the pub, as was he. And the pair of them never touched so much as a drop, thanks to
all those years they’d dragged their father’s drunken carcass up the stairs after he passed out behind the bar.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Donovan rang off and set the mobile on the coffee table. A nagging pain still pulsated behind
his eyeballs, so he went into the kitchen and brewed himself another cuppa. Back home in New Jersey, he seldom drank tea,
but finding a decent cup of coffee outside of Belfast was impossible. All the pub served was instant. In fact, he doubted
anyone in Ballyneagh even owned a coffeepot.

He turned on the telly, but the unsettling events of the evening kept replaying through his mind. There was no way on God’s
green earth Rylie Powell could be his half-sister. Of that he was certain. So why had he felt compelled to ring Doreen and
ask about their father’s time in Liverpool? And why had she been so defensive about answering his questions? If he didn’t
know better, he might think there was something she didn’t want to tell him.

In her room at the bed and breakfast, Rylie lay on her stomach on top of the down comforter, photos spread in front of her.
Besides the two of her and her father, there was another taken at the same time of Rylie and her mother, and one of the three
of them snapped by a passerby. Her fingertip traced the smiling image of her mother Jennifer in yet another snapshot. This
was one of Rylie’s favorites, taken six years ago on her mom’s fortieth birthday, and the way she liked to remember her. Before
the chemo had destroyed her hair and the cancer had decimated her body, eventually killing her at age forty-five.

Life sucked, then you died.

Rylie knuckled away the tears in her eyes and fingered the gold ring dangling from a chain around her neck. Her mother would
not have approved of her coming here. In fact, Jennifer had openly discouraged her daughter from trying to find Dermot O’Shea.

Ten years ago, during her rebellious teens, Rylie started using O’Shea as her last name and angrily chastised her mother for
not locating her father.

“People who disappear, like your father did, have good reasons why,” Jennifer counseled Rylie on more than one occasion.

Young and headstrong, Rylie demanded “Like what?”

“Things you might be better off not knowing,” her mother replied and refused to elaborate.

At first, Rylie had been too angry and naïve to think of anything. Then one of her friends, whose parents were in the middle
of an ugly custody battle, asked Rylie why she would want to use the name of a deadbeat who’d never seen, much less supported
her for most of her life. The words forced Rylie to consider a different perspective Some of her anger shifted to her father,
who she realized could have contacted her if he’d truly wanted. Her friend was right. Dermot O’Shea was a deadbeat, maybe
even a criminal. But secretly she never quite believed he was genuinely bad.

Nevertheless, Rylie went back to using her stepfather’s last name and didn’t make good on her vow of going to Ireland and
seeking her father. Until her mother died.

Already devastated by a doomed love affair, losing her mother had cast Rylie adrift in a sea of doubt and uncertainty. Two
weeks after her mother’s funeral, Rylie’s stepfather gave her the brown envelope.

“Your mother intended to give you these herself,” Jim Powell explained hesitantly. “She didn’t realize . . . her time was
so short.”

“None of us realized,” Rylie whispered. While her stepfather fought to compose himself, she examined the handful of photos,
the returned letters, and the plain gold ring. “Did she ever tell you about him, my biological father?”

Jim shook his head, “I don’t know any more about him than you do.” Unexpectedly, he reached over and patted her hand. His
voice remained unsteady. “I guess she thought it was being disloyal to me, but she should have talked to you about him, Rylie.
She should have helped you try to contact him.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Jim.” She might not have always felt that way, but she knew the anguish her stepfather had endured
in the last few months. He looked old and broken beyond fixing, and she pitied him.

“It’s not too late, you know.” He reached inside his jacket and passed a cashier’s check to her. “This is your share of her
life insurance. You can use it to find him.”

Rylie looked at the check, more than she would earn at her dental assistant’s job in six months. Plenty to pay off her credit
cards and even take a vacation. She could already imagine her brothers Jamie and Justin headed for the auto dealer with their
shares.

“I’ll think about it.”

She stopped by the bank and deposited the check on her way back to her apartment. The next morning, she hired a private investigator
to search for her father. That had been the middle of May. She’d suffered through four frustrating months of tiny trickles
of information, dead ends, and finally progress. It was now the end of October, and here she was in Ireland. She’d found her
father.

Or had she?

The investigator was certain that Mr. Dermot O’Shea of Ballyneagh was the same man, who twenty-seven years ago had sailed
from Liverpool to New York, married Jennifer Laski and fathered a daughter, Rylie Marie. But tonight, Donovan O’Shea—he of
the dazzling smile and the great butt—adamantly disagreed that the man in the photos and named on her birth certificate was
the same Dermot O’Shea.

That smooth, resonant voice echoed inside her head,
“My father may be many things, Miss Powell. But he is
not a bigamist, nor an adulterer.
”

Okay, maybe he wasn’t now
. . .

Donovan O’Shea was wallowing in the midst of a serious case of denial. Either that, or he was a liar.

The archeologist, Professor McRory, had mentioned selling the family property. Maybe Donovan O’Shea feared she might claim
a share of the proceeds. So what if he didn’t look like a greedy money-grubber? He still could be. Men were so often not what
they seemed.

And one thing was certain, she hadn’t traveled all the way to Ireland and then
not
see her father, whether he was ill or not. After all, she might never get another chance.

Tomorrow, she would find out what nursing facility Dermot O’Shea was in. If her half-brother wouldn’t tell her, then maybe
the professor or his assistant knew. Or she could ask the bartender, Gerry Partlan, who by his own admission knew everyone
and their business.

A determined expression tightened Rylie’s jaw. As soon as she learned where her father was, she would pay him a visit. And
Donovan O’Shea couldn’t stop her.

She picked up the pictures and slid them back inside the envelope, her eyes lingering over the image of her mother’s smiling
face.

“You were right, Mom,” she whispered. “He did have good reasons.”

Chapter 3

AT QUARTER TO NINE THE NEXT MORNING, RYLIE PULLED on the back door of the pub and found it locked, same as the front door.
Seeing no bell or knocker, she rapped with her knuckles and waited. Had Donovan O’Shea stood her up? After several moments
and no response, she pounded with her fist, and vowed to kick his gorgeous butt if he had. A long minute later, she switched
to her other fist. At last, her thumping roused someone.

“Hallo?” called out a reedy voice.

Hand flattened against the heavy door, Rylie looked up and saw a wizened little man leaning out the second-story window above
the barbershop next door. Before she could answer his query, the man trumpeted out, “Donovan! Ho! Donovan, lad! Ye’ve company!”

Rattling noises sounded somewhere overhead, then the faint but distinctive tread of someone hurrying down the creaky stairs.
The door twitched and Rylie dropped her hand just as it opened. Donovan O’Shea stood there, a mug in his hand and a perturbed
scowl on his handsome face.

“You’re early.”

She glanced at her wristwatch, “Only ten minutes.”

When she looked back up, he’d already whirled around and headed for the stairs. She followed.

He seemed even taller this morning as he climbed in front of her. His brown corduroys made soft shushing sounds, and his great
looking behind was practically at eye level.

Ugh! Snap out of it, Rylie!
She dropped her gaze to her feet, and wrestled her suddenly alert libido back into line. What a sad commentary on the state
of her love life. Her body was lusting after her newly discovered half-brother.

She trailed behind him through the box-strewn living room and into the kitchen. He wolfed down a half-piece of toast and took
a huge gulp from the mug before rinsing it under the tap. Rylie had learned from Mrs. Cooke, the manager of the B&B, that
it was Irish tradition to offer tea if a guest was welcome. Donovan O’Shea unplugged the electric teakettle and poured the
remaining water down the drain, leaving no doubt as to her status.

“I’ll just get my coat,” he muttered, eyeing her hooded sweatshirt.

“It’s a nice sunny morning,” Rylie observed, but he turned and stalked away without reply.

So much for small talk.
She walked back into the living room and stood near the door next to three stacked boxes. Since the flaps on the top box were
open, Rylie peered inside. A framed wedding photograph lay on top. The dark-haired bride wore a white, long-sleeved gown with
a short veil. Her ruddy faced groom looked decidedly uncomfortable in his tuxedo. Neither smiled. The photo didn’t look very
old; therefore this must be Dermot O’Shea’s daughter, Doreen. Donovan’s sister.
Her sister.

Breath catching, Rylie looked away fast and just in time. Donovan O’Shea—
her brother
—walked into the room, shrugging on a black suede jacket. Wordlessly, she preceded him out the door and down the stairs. While
he locked the back door from the outside, she glanced at the window over the barbershop to see if the little man watched them.
The curtains fluttered.

“Ready then?” her handsome half-brother inquired.

Without waiting for her to answer, he approached a dilapidated Morris Minor parked near the pub door.

“Does that thing even run?” Rylie couldn’t stop herself from asking. “It’s got to be twenty years old.”

“Twenty-two, actually,” he replied stiffly. “And it runs sufficiently well. People don’t drive that much round here.”

She eyed the numerous rusty spots on the exterior and the disintegrating interior with distaste. “I think we better take my
car.”

“Fine.” He held out his hand for the keys.

She hesitated. “I should probably drive. The clerk at the car rental office was pretty insistent about me being the only driver.”

“I’ll spare you my opinion of the car hire clerk,” he huffed out, then rolled his eyes. His hand remained extended.

Rylie slapped the keys into his palm with a frustrated sigh.

They hadn’t gone far down the main road toward Dungannon when Donovan turned right onto a country lane. The paving was all
but nonexistent, grass grew thick between the numerous cracks, and tall hedges lined either side. Rylie wondered whether,
if they met another vehicle, there’d be room for them to pass. That must be why he drove so slowly.

Through an approaching gap in the hedge, she could see a whitewashed cottage surrounded by trees loaded with golden leaves.
In front of the cottage, the lawn shined so green she had to squint. She’d never appreciated the description of “Emerald Isle”
until she saw it for herself three days ago.

“I’ll bet your family has lived here for generations, haven’t they?” she asked as they passed by the charming house.

“Since the mid-1800s at least,” he replied, keeping his eyes straight ahead. “Probably longer. Records weren’t terribly clear
during the Hunger, what you’d call the Potato Famine.”

“I can’t imagine how great it must be to have that much family history all around you.” She didn’t bother trying to disguise
the envy in her voice.

When he didn’t answer, she studied him for a moment. Even in profile he looked handsome, his features just rugged enough,
without being rough or coarse. If he resembled his father—
her father
—then she understood why her mother had fallen in love so fast, so completely.

She cleared her throat. “Don’t you miss Ireland?”

“No, not really.”

He turned the car down another lane, this one unpaved and deeply rutted so that the car bounced and scraped a couple of times.
The hedge fences on one side turned into low walls of stacked stones. A half-dozen curly-horned sheep grazed in the middle
of the field in a scene that could have been lifted from a tourist brochure.

As if he read her thoughts, he shot her an exasperated glance. “In spite of how picturesque this all looks, Miss Powell, the
day-to-day reality isn’t nearly so grand.”

“So that’s why you moved to America? And please, call me Rylie.” She paused for a beat before adding, “Donovan.”

His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel but his voice remained impassive. “Americans don’t appreciate how good they have
it. Trust me, you wouldn’t really want to be my sister,
Rylie.
”

The inflection he put on her name raised her ire. “Well, neither of us had any say in that, did we?” She hated how petty she
sounded.

Her aggravating half-brother gave her another annoyed look. “No, indeed,” he stated, then turned the car through a gap in
the stone wall.

They bounced even more over the rough track toward a ramshackle house with peeling white paint and a rusty tin roof. Two Range
Rovers and a jeep sat in the yard. Beyond the house Rylie could see a canvas canopy and several people moving about. Donovan
pulled the car between the Range Rovers and cut the engine.

“So here we are then.”

Sybil Gallagher emerged from the house and waved in greeting. “Morning Miss Powell, Mr. O’Shea.”

“Rylie, please.” She extended her hand to the other woman. “I hope we’re not too early.”

“Oh, not at’all.” Sybil ran her palm down the leg of her pants before shaking hands. “We start working when the sun comes
up, because we have to quit when it gets dark or starts raining, whichever comes first.” She bobbed her head at Donovan, but
continued speaking to Rylie. “You’ll want to see inside the cottage then?”

“Yes, please.”

“Not much to see,” Donovan muttered as they stepped over the raised threshold into the shadowy interior.

“I’ll just put on the kettle, then go and fetch Aongus.” Sybil fluttered over to a camp stove, the anxious hostess. She cast
a worried look at Donovan. “The lads have taken over down here, and I’m afraid they’re not much for housekeeping. Aongus and
I have moved up to the loft.”

Donovan waved a dismissive hand at the clothes and other items scattered over and around a couple of camp cots set against
the far wall. “Doesn’t matter. This place has been vacant for years. You’re really roughing it.”

Blushing, Sybil nodded in acknowledgment before dashing out the door. Rylie looked around the room, which was dominated by
an enormous stone fireplace that had once served for both cooking and warmth. She peeked through the open doorway into the
adjoining room, where the same fireplace had a second hearth. Two additional camp cots and more masculine paraphernalia littered
the area.

Cold seeped from the flat gray stones of the floor through the rubber soles of her sneakers, a testament to the uncomfortable
reality Donovan had mentioned earlier.

“How long did you live here?” she asked.

“My first seven years.” He motioned to a steep set of stairs built into the wall behind the front door. “My sister and I slept
in the loft, same as my mother and her sister had done.” His tone and expression softened, no doubt with memories. “The roof
was thatch when my mum and Aunt Fee were little, but my grandfather replaced it with tin.” He looked over his shoulder at
the door in the end wall “He also added the wash room and loo onto the back, along with electricity.”

Rylie searched her mind to recall where she had lived at the same age. They had moved to California when she was five, so
she didn’t remember much about New York. A year later, her mother had married Jim Powell and they moved from their two-bedroom
apartment to a house in the L.A. suburbs. Four years after that, they moved into a bigger house with a pool. Her step-dad
and half-brothers still lived there. She had never seen where her mother grew up in Brooklyn, but she knew for sure it had
running water and electricity.

Donovan O’Shea stood with one foot resting on the bottom step, gazing up into the attic space that had once been his shared
bedroom. Guilt washed over Rylie at the recollection of how she’d questioned him about moving to America. But she would be
damned before she gave him the satisfaction of admitting he was right.

How much would it take before Rylie Powell had a sufficient
dose of quaint, rural Ireland?
Donovan sought to distract himself with speculation rather than worry about the uncomfortable tightening in his gut caused
by being here in his childhood home. Time and the elements had reduced the place to little more than a hovel. Not that it
had been much better when he and his family lived here, but he’d been too young to know any different. The living quarters
over the pub were posh in comparison.

From the corner of his eye, he watched Rylie survey the stark, chilly room, her attractive mouth pressed into a thin line
She obviously wasn’t finding this realism too pleasant. A little nudge of self-satisfaction tugged at his own lips.

The reappearance of Sybil Gallagher with Professor McRory in tow broke the awkward silence. Sybil rushed to fill the teapot
with water from the kettle while McRory stood outside the open door and shed his mud-caked boots and waterproof coveralls.

“We’ve started a new trench out in the fens,” the professor explained. “’Tis nasty going at the moment.”

He stepped carefully over the threshold and walked in stocking feet to the back room. Donovan didn’t envy him washing up,
for the hot water heater hadn’t been connected in years. As if to confirm his thoughts, he saw Sybil pour hot water from the
kettle into the sink to wash the dishes stacked there.

“Let me help,” Rylie offered, picking up a tea towel.

To keep out of the way, Donovan settled himself on the stairs and rested his elbows on his knees. By the time McRory rejoined
them, Sybil was pouring tea into four cups.

“I’m sorry, all we have is powdered milk,” she apologized as she reached for a covered tin.

“That’s okay, I take mine plain.” Rylie took the offered cup.

“As do I,” Donovan remarked. He watched McRory snag a three-legged stool and offer it to Rylie as Sybil passed him a mug.

“And here’s two sugars for you, Aongus,” The sudden look of censure McRory shot his assistant left her mouth agape for a moment
before she murmured, “I . . . I mean, Professor.”

Donovan narrowed his eyes; so much for the cozy little domestic scene. He happened to know McRory was married. And apparently
McRory was aware that he knew. A fleeting look in Rylie’s eyes as she hastily lifted her mug told Donovan that she had put
it together as well. He wondered if she shared his same disgust for infidelity.

The professor sat on one of the cots and spoke quickly to cover the silence. “I’m afraid we’ve all the artifacts bundled and
boxed up for Brian to take back to Queen’s this afternoon, but I can fetch the carton from the Land Rover if you’d like.”

“No!” Donovan felt all eyes jump at his sharp tone, but the last thing he wanted nearby was a passel of items that could trigger
his “gift.”

“That is,” he fumbled, “I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

“No, please don’t,” Rylie agreed, flashing a demure smile. “Donovan and I probably wouldn’t recognize, much less appreciate,
what any of those things were.”

For an uncomfortable moment, Donovan gawked, not sure which had surprised him more, her sudden support or the easy way she
uttered his name. Realizing his mouth was open, he snapped it shut and nodded in agreement, then quickly gulped some tea.

McRory looked ready to protest, but Rylie spoke again before he could. “I’d like to see your dig site though, if that’s all
right.” She took a sip from her cup then added, “And I’m afraid I don’t really know what a fen is.”

Donovan suspected her of being disingenuous, but the ploy worked. He could see McRory switch into professorial mode.

“Most people will tell you that a fen is nothing but a patch of marshy ground, but that’s not entirely true. Point of fact
is that Irish fens are unique.”

A ruckus from outside interrupted the lecture. Someone shouted for McRory and a moment later, a young man burst into the cottage.

“Professor!” His breathless cry halted upon seeing the four of them. “So sorry, but—you—we—”

“Slow down, Johnny, and catch your breath,” McRory admonished. He rose to his feet and hurried to the young man’s side. “’Tis
an emergency?”