Mulligan Stew (7 page)

"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.

"What's peat?" Jacob's brow furrowed as he stared at the glowing fire.

"Grass, sort of." Maggie ruffled Jacob's hair, then dropped to the floor and stretched her long legs out in front of her. "A peat fire will last much longer than wood, too."

Bridget liked Maggie almost as much as she liked Fiona. Why couldn't Riley be more like the female members of his family? Well, she didn't really care what he thought of her, but she did care what he thought of Jacob.

Seated before the fire in her rocking chair with her ailing foot propped on pillows, Fiona said, "Riley, fetch me the picture albums, please."

Bridget saw his reluctance. His gaze drifted from his momma to her, and she saw a flash of something indefinable in his expression before he looked at Fiona again and nodded. A moment later, he dropped three huge albums on the coffee table.

"Give me the red one there," Fiona said, pointing at the largest one. Riley placed it gently in his mother's lap, and she motioned for Bridget and Jacob to come closer.

Standing behind the older woman's chair, Bridget noticed the faint scent of rose water wafting up from her hair. She was a tidy woman, with her hair pinned into a neat bun at her nape and her simple cotton dress meticulously pressed. Fiona leafed through several pages of baby pictures, then paused, staring down at a black and white photo of a boy who appeared to be near Jacob's age.

"Is that Culley?" Bridget asked, bending forward to touch the corner of the print. "Look, Jacob."

"Aye, that'll be Culley at seven." Fiona reached up and patted Jacob's cheek. "There's your da, lad." She looked over her shoulder and smiled at Bridget. "Do you see it? The resemblance?"

Bridget's eyes burned and she blinked. The only photo she had of Culley was the Polaroid the lady at the motel had taken of them when they'd checked in for their honeymoon. Bridget hadn't looked at that photo in years, but now she smiled in remembrance. She really had loved Culley Mulligan, and now she regretted the years of resenting him. Of course, she'd had no way of knowing about his accident. Even so, she should've known somehow that he wouldn't have simply abandoned her.
Hindsight is cheap, Bridget.

Clearing her throat, she said, "Jacob looks just like him."

"Aye, the spittin' image," Fiona said with a sigh. The older woman looked across the room at her son. "Do you see it, too, Riley?"

He glanced up from the fire, his hand resting on the mantel near an antique clock. His only response was a slight lift to his shoulder, then he turned his gaze back to the fire.

Maggie gave a short laugh. "He'll not be admitting a thing, Mum, and you know it."

"A body can't deny what's right in front of his face," Fiona said, returning her attention to the album.

Bridget remembered that Mr. Larabee had said Riley refused to believe she'd married Culley and given birth to his son. The mere notion that anyone would believe she could lie about such a thing made her bristle like a porcupine, but she bit her cheek to silence her comments. Instead, she placed a protective hand on her son's shoulder and looked down at the album in her mother-in-law's lap.

Riley Mulligan's opinion didn't really matter.

Fiona's did.

As long as Bridget kept that straight in her mind, she could handle anything Riley threw her way. She glanced up at him again, studying his profile as he scowled down at the fire. And, somehow, she knew he would do everything in his power to make her feel unwelcome and untrusted. Strangely, the lack of trust hurt most—like cutting your finger with a dull paring knife.

She noticed Fiona lingering over a photo of a boy and man standing in the meadow with the black castle looming in the background. "Is that Culley and his daddy?" Bridget asked.

"No, that'll be Riley and his da." Fiona touched the man's image with the tip of her finger and didn't move for several minutes. "Just before..."

"Don't, Ma," Riley whispered without looking at them. "Please."

"Riley, you can't keep pretendin' it never happened." Fiona closed the album and released a long, slow breath. "Then again, as stubborn as you be, maybe you can."

Oh, I don't think there's any doubt about that.
Bridget drew a deep breath and gripped her fists so tightly her nails cut half moons into her palms. She should not and would not allow Riley Mulligan to spoil this for her. She glanced at her son. For them...

Hours later, after they'd looked through all the albums, Riley still stood staring at the fire, and Bridget felt she knew their entire family history since moving into the cottage. Whatever happened before, when the Mulligans had lived in the castle, remained a mystery.

After Riley's whispered plea, Fiona had also circled around the time and subject of Patrick Mulligan's death. Even so, Bridget could determine the approximate time of that tragedy, based on when the photos of him stopped. Riley must've been around ten and Culley seven or eight. How sad for little boys to grow up without a daddy.

Listen to yourself
. Wasn't
she
doing a decent job of raising a boy without a daddy?

Jacob had warmed to Fiona and Maggie, and Bridget smiled. She wanted this for her son—the family life she'd really never really known. Pity his only uncle resented the boy's presence. An uncle could help fill the gap left by a daddy. Most uncles. Not this one.

"Why don't you live in the castle?" Jacob asked hesitantly, earning a scowl from Riley and a moment of stunned silence from Fiona and Maggie. Jacob glanced nervously at his uncle and Bridget silently dared the man to snap at her son again in front of his momma.

Fiona took Jacob's hand and gazed up into his eyes. "Bad things happened to the Mulligans when they lived there," she said. "Once they moved into this cottage and sealed the castle, the bad things stopped. Of course, that was long before any of us were born."

"My... my daddy died," Jacob said as if testing the word on his lips. "That was bad."

"Aye, very bad." A catch sounded in Fiona's voice and Bridget let her hand rest on her mother-in-law's shoulder. "But sometimes accidents happen, Jacob. The things the Mulligans suffered while livin' in
Caisleán Dubh
were constant and terrible. The castle was like... bad luck, I suppose. Is that makin' any sense?"