Shadow Spell by Nora Roberts Page B

at his pint and considered. “The customers who booked the package would need some riding experience. The last thing we’d want is a rank novice going into a panic when a hawk lands on their arm and spooking the horse.”
    â€œAgreed there.”
    â€œThe horses won’t spook if I tell them not to.” Iona angled her head, smiled. “Here’s Branna.”
    She’d fussed with her hair, of course, and wore a red scarf over a jacket of strong, deep blue. The flat boots meant she’d walked from her cottage.
    She ran a hand over Meara’s shoulder, then dropped into the chair beside her. “What’s the occasion?”
    â€œMeara and I split a fine tip from an American today.”
    â€œGood. So you’ll buy your sister a pint, won’t you? I could do with a Harp.”
    â€œIt’s my round.” Meara rose.
    â€œShe’s been brooding about her mother,” Connor said when she was out of earshot. “She could use a festive sort of evening. We’ll have a meal, all right, and keep her mood up. I could do with some fish and chips.”
    â€œWhose stomach are you thinking of?” Branna asked.
    â€œMy stomach, her mood.” He raised his glass. “And good company.”
    * * *
    IT WAS GOOD COMPANY. SHE’D INTENDED TO HAVE ONE PINT, linger a bit, then go home, start the wash, throw together whatever was left in the larder for a quick dinner. Now she’d started on a second pint, and a chicken pie.
    She’d leave her truck where it was at Branna’s, walk home from the pub. Toss some wash in, make a market list—for herself and for her mother. Early to bed, and if she made the rise early enough, she could toss more wash in and be done with it.
    Marketing on her lunch break. Go by her mother’s after work—God help her—do her duty. Plant a few more seeds about going off to Maureen’s.
    Connor poked her in the ribs. “You’re thinking too much. Try being in the moment. It’ll amaze you.”
    â€œA chicken pie in the pub is amazing?”
    â€œIt’s good, isn’t it?”
    She took another bite. “It’s good. And what are you going to do about Alice?”
    â€œHmm?”
    â€œAlice Keenan, who’s signaling her churning lust across the pub like one of those flag people.” She waved her arms to demonstrate.
    â€œA pretty face, for certain. But not for me.”
    Meara put on a look of amazement, sent it around the table. “Are you hearing that? Connor O’Dwyer saying a pretty face isn’t for him.”
    â€œWants a ring on her finger, does she then?” Fin asked, amused.
    â€œThat she does, and as that’s more than I can give, she’s not for me to play with. But it is a pretty face.”
    He leaned toward Meara. “Now, if you were to snuggle up here, give me a kiss, she’d think, ah, well, he’s taken, and stop pining for me.”
    â€œShe’ll have to pine, as other foolish women do.” She scooped up more chicken. “My mouth’s occupied at the moment.”
    â€œYou put it on mine once.”
    â€œReally?” Iona pushed her plate aside, leaned in. “Tell all.”
    â€œI was but twelve.”
    â€œJust shy of thirteen.”
    â€œJust shy of thirteen is twelve.” She feigned stabbing him with her fork. “And I was curious.”
    â€œIt was nice.”
    â€œHow could I tell?” Meara countered. “It was my first kiss.”
    â€œAw.” Iona drew in a sighing breath. “You never forget your first.”
    â€œIt wasn’t his.”
    Connor laughed, gave Meara’s braid a tug. “It wasn’t, no, but I haven’t forgotten it, have I?”
    â€œI was eleven. Precocious,” Iona claimed. “His name was Jessie Lattimer. It was sweet. I decided we’d get married one day, live on a farm, and I’d ride horses all day.”
    â€œAnd what