Mulligan Stew (13 page)

The interior of the pub was as interesting as the exterior. Dark, gleaming wood was everywhere—the floor, the bar, the doors, the ceiling beams. Scratches and worn areas along the bar told of the pub's popularity over generations.

Bridget was relieved to see families inside having lunch, just as Maggie had described. Booths lined the wall of windows, and tables sat throughout the place, nearer the bar. A fireplace with a huge stove occupied the longest wall between the bar and the front door. Maggie led them to a booth near a window.

A woman about Fiona's age approached and passed out menus. She gave Jacob one with a cup of crayons. They were obviously prepared for children. Bridget relaxed even more when a family of four entered with children even younger than Jacob. Several men came in as well and occupied the tables and stools nearest the bar.

"You're still not interested in a job here, Maggie?" the woman asked.

"No. Mum insists I go to university, like Da wanted."

"Well, I can't argue that. Fiona is a wise woman," Aileen said with a grudging nod. "Your da left the money for college, and 'tis glad I am you'll be putting it to use."

"Thank you." Maggie cleared her throat and held her hand toward Bridget and Jacob. "Aileen, this is Bridget and her son Jacob. My nephew."

The look Aileen turned on Bridget made her breath hitch. Bridget had seen Mrs. Harbaugh's old tomcat look at General Lee with a kinder expression. "How do you do, Mrs. Gilhooley?" Determinedly, Bridget thrust out her right hand.

Aileen chewed her lower lip thoughtfully, then shook Bridget's hand, though the look in her eyes was still wary. However, when she glanced down at Jacob, a look of surprise and downright delight replaced the suspicion she'd reserved for Bridget.

"By the saints," Aileen said, "he's Culley Mulligan all over again."

"Aye," Maggie said, reaching across the table to pat Jacob's hand. "Mum's tickled to have both Culley's son and widow with us now."

Bridget arched her brows questioningly at Maggie, who rolled her eyes toward Aileen. The message was clear that Maggie intended to tolerate no insults aimed at her sister-in-law or nephew. Bridged mouthed a "thank you" while Aileen went on and on about how much Jacob looked like his daddy.

"How old are you, Jacob?" the older woman asked.

"Six." Jacob looked up at the woman with a smile. "I'll go to first grade next year."

"You're gonna be a big strapping lad like your da and your Uncle Riley." The woman sighed, smiling. "Lunch is on the house in honor of the newest Mulligan."

The rapid switch from resentment to open welcome startled Bridget. Confused, she waited until Aileen had taken their order and disappeared into the kitchen before she leaned across the table toward Maggie. "What... was that?"

Maggie laughed and took a sip of water. "The Irish are steeped in tradition. The old ways are valued and passed on from generation to generation." She lifted a shoulder and leaned her chin on her fist, her gaze holding Bridget's. "Being a Mulligan in Ballybronagh is tradition, so there you have it."

"And Jacob is a Mulligan by birth." Bridget gave a nod. "The hills of eastern Tennessee are a lot like that, too. Kin's important, no matter who they are or what they've done. It's... unconditional, I reckon."

"Exactly." Maggie nodded and thanked Aileen when she brought their plates to the table.

"What's that?" Jacob asked, staring at a platter filled with something breaded and fried to a perfect golden brown.

"Fish 'n chips," Maggie explained as Aileen walked away, still mumbling about how much Jacob favored his daddy.

"Looks like chicken," Jacob said, looking at Bridget. "Don't it?"

Bridget laughed quietly. "It's batter dipped like my catfish, Jacob."

His eyes widened. "I like that."

"I know."

Maggie showed Jacob how to dip his fish in the malt vinegar, smiling when his eyes lit up after his first bite.

Bridget pointed to the chips on his plate. "Those are like round french fries, Jacob."

"The lady said chips," he argued.

"They just call them chips here. Try one," Bridget said.

He took a bite and nodded, then turned his full attention to the food.

Maggie smiled. "You and Jacob are very close."

Bridget nodded. "Except for Granny, all we've had is each other since Grandpa died."

"I'm glad you've had that." Maggie took a bite of her sandwich.

Bridget tried the bowl of Irish stew she'd ordered and smiled. A bit of chopped celery would've livened up the broth some, but it was still tasty. She broke off a piece of the brown bread in the basket on the table and tasted it. "This is different," she said.

"Not to us." Maggie grinned. "Wasn't Riley's reaction to your breakfast just perfect?"

Bridget nodded. She couldn't deny her sense of satisfaction at watching the way Riley had so thoroughly enjoyed his breakfast. He'd asked for black pudding, though, and she couldn't imagine eating pudding for breakfast.

"Uncle Riley likes to eat," Jacob mumbled around a mouthful of fish.

"So does his nephew, I'd say." Maggie laughed. "A growing lad should."

If only the uncle would accept his nephew.

Maggie looked over Bridget's shoulder and her eyes widened. "Here comes trouble," she whispered fiercely, assuming a bland expression a split-second later.

"Wha–"

"Maggie," a smooth voice said a moment before a heavy floral fragrance invaded their air space. The woman paused beside their table, her skirts perfect, her figure perfect.

Bridget's gaze traveled up past a red sweater with a broach on it, then rested on the long, slender column of the woman's perfectly white neck. Was there anything
im
perfect about this woman?

Though the woman's words were for Maggie, her penetrating glare was for Bridget. "I don't believe you've introduced me to your new... friends," the woman said.

Maggie took the perfect woman's hand and gave it a noticeable squeeze. "This is Bridget and Jacob."

"Oh?" The woman's voice and smile were falsely sweet. "Hello, Bridget and Jacob. I don't believe I caught your surnames."

I'm drowning in molasses. If I was a diabetic, I'd be in a coma
. Bridget bit the inside of her cheek to silence her churning thoughts. "Mulligan," she said, balling up the napkin in her lap with her left hand and offering her right hand to the newcomer.

"Mulli—
oh
." The woman's eyes snapped and she pulled her hand back from what Granny would've called a wet noodle handshake. "You're
her
."

"Her?" Bridget directed a questioning look at her sister-in-law.

"Bridget, this is K–"

"I'm Katie Rearden," the woman said, swinging her glare back in Bridget's direction. "The wronged woman."

Chapter 6

Rain streamed down Riley's face and neck in rivulets that collected in his collar with icy efficiency. Today's chores would have to wait. If he'd started as early as planned this morning, perhaps he could have accomplished more.

Instead, he'd dined like a king with a
cailleach
.

Bridget's arrival had thrown him off his schedule. Well, then, that made this all
her
fault. Didn't it? After all, he'd lost yesterday picking her up at the airport, and today's weather would prevent him from making up for it.

With a frustrated sigh, he stowed the tractor and put his tools in the barn, pausing as he heard a friendly whinny. He stopped to stroke
Oíche.
Midnight. The name suited him. The black horse nuzzled Riley's shoulder. "Aye, there's nothing I'd like better than a good run today, lad, but it's soft the weather's gone on us."

He gave
Oíche
an extra ration of oats, then made his way back to the house. Mum probably had something in need of repair. All Riley knew was that he needed
something
to keep him busy. The restlessness plaguing him of late had grown almost unbearable, and the intruder's arrival had made matters even worse.

He shouldn't allow her that much importance. Wouldn't ignoring the woman be his best recourse? He ducked his head against the steady shower and wound his way around to the back door, trying not to remember the way Bridget had looked this morning in her nightgown, with her hair mussed, and her voice husky with sleep.

Aye, he'd like nothing better than to ignore Bridget-so-called-Mulligan, but he was a man, after all. She wasn't a woman easily ignored by anyone with a drop of testosterone in his veins. And from the way Riley constantly hardened at the sight of her, he must have more than his share.

"A curse, it is," he muttered, glancing up at the sky again and blinking against the slow but steady rain. "Another bloody damned curse."

He slipped through the back door and closed it firmly, then bent down to remove his boots.

"Mary Margaret, is that you, lass?" Mum called from the front room.

"No, it's Riley." He headed toward the stairs. "Just let me get some dry clothes, and I'll—"

"Never mind that," Mum said. "I need a word with you now."

"I'll be dripping all over the place." He paused a moment, waiting for her to change her mind about him fetching dry clothes. "Mum?"

"Bring yourself in here now, Riley Francis, or I'll be pushin' meself up the stairs after you."

With a sigh, Riley grabbed a clean rag and dried the worst of the drips from his head and neck, then went to the front room where Mum sat with her foot propped and her dear face wearing a worried frown.

"What is it?" he asked, stooping beside her chair. "What's wrong?"

"Maggie took Bridget and Jacob with her to the village this morn'."

Aye, he knew that, but the reminder made Riley's belly lurch and his heart slam against his ribs. The thought of Bridget parading herself around as Culley's widow was too much. "Maggie has gone too far."

Mum rolled her eyes. "I'll not be speakin' of your ridiculous mistrust of Bridget now." She drew a deep breath and exhaled very slowly. "'Tis worried, I am, about the weather turnin' soft and catchin' them in the wet."

Riley lifted a shoulder. "Mum, a bit of rain won't hurt them." Not as much as Bridget's lies could tarnish his brother's memory.

"The lad was wearin' cotton, Riley—not wool." She drew a deep breath, but the worry didn't leave her eyes. "Perhaps once they're used to our weather, but until then I don't want the lad takin' cold."

Naturally, Fiona Mulligan would worry about a child. The day she stopped worrying about children would be the day they lowered her into her grave.
Jaysus forbid.
"I'll bring the car 'round and fetch them myself."

"There's a good lad." Mum looked over her shoulder again at the droplets on the windowpane. "Be off with you. Hurry along now."

Riley grabbed his slicker near the back door and raked his fingers through his unruly mass of hair. He would fetch them all safely home all right, but he was considerably more curious about the villagers' reactions to the woman who claimed to be Culley's widow than he was about anyone getting a bit wet. Hadn't he and Culley been soaked through on a regular basis and still grown into men?

The thought of Bridget flaunting herself about Ballybronagh with Culley unable to deny her claims didn't set well at all with Riley. In fact, it made him furious. As he made his way around the house to the car, he kicked a clod of dirt, watching it disintegrate and blend with the mud.

Aye, that was precisely what he'd like to do with the intruder—make her vanish as quickly as she'd thrust herself into their lives. Culley's memory deserved better. All the Mulligans deserved better.

Mum had certainly taken to Bridget and her child. She'd never even questioned the woman's claim. Why? Fiona Mulligan was usually an uncanny judge of character. Why was this time different? Was Mum so eager to resurrect her dead son in any way possible, that her judgment was clouded? Aye, that had to be it. What else could it be? And was the same true of Maggie, then? No, more likely that Maggie simply wanted to annoy Riley.

"She's doing a bloody fine job of it, too," he muttered, swinging himself into the car and starting the engine. He'd rather drive the lorry, but there weren't enough seats in it. On the other hand, he could make Bridget ride in the open bed.