Tears of the Moon by Nora Roberts Page B

it?”
    â€œIf I’ve wanted it, why don’t I have it?”
    â€œBecause you haven’t made any real effort to get it as yet.”
    â€œAnd why haven’t I?” He arched his sandy brows. “Am I slow or just stupid?”
    Brenna thought it over, decided he couldn’t know he’d just insulted his firstborn. Then she nodded slowly. “Maybe a bit of both in this particular case.”
    Relieved to have the conversation turn to a safe area, he gave her a fierce grin. “Then I’d stop being slow and I’d stop being stupid and I’d take good aim at what I wanted and not dawdle about. Because when an O’Toole takes aim, by Jesus, he hits his mark.”
    That, she knew, was true enough. And was certainly expected. “But maybe you’re a bit nervous and not quite sure of your skill in this area.”
    â€œGirl, if you don’t go after what you want, you’ll never have it. If you don’t ask, the answer’s always no. If you don’t step forward, you’re always in the same place.”
    â€œYou’re right.” She took his shoulders, transferring a little grease from her hands to his shirt as she kissed him soundly. “You’re always right, Dad, and that’s just what I needed to hear.”
    â€œWell, that’s what a father’s for, after all.”
    â€œWould you mind finishing up this business here?” She jerked a thumb under the car. “I don’t like to leave it half done, but there’s something I have to see to.”
    â€œThat’s not a problem.” He wiggled under the car and, delighted he’d put his daughter’s mind at ease, whistled while he worked.

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FIVE

S HAWN STEEPED HIS tea until he could have danced the hornpipe on its surface, then unearthed the day-old scones left over from the pub. He had an hour before he had to be at work, and he intended to enjoy his little breakfast and read the paper that he’d picked up in the village after Mass.
    The radio on the counter was playing traditional Gaelic tunes, and the kitchen hearth was crackling with fine turf fire. For him, it was a small slice of heaven.
    Before long he’d be cooking for the Sunday crowds, and Darcy would be in and out of the kitchen at Gallagher’s, needling him about something or other. And this one or that would have something to say to him. He imagined Jude would slip in for an hour or two, and he’d make sure she had a good, healthy supper.
    He didn’t mind any of that, not a bit. But if he didn’t grab a handful of alone time now and again, it felt as if his brain would explode. He could imagine himself living in the cottage for the rest of his life, with the badtempered black cat stretched out by the fire, wallowing in quiet morning after quiet morning.
    His mind drifted along with the pipes and flutes flowing from the radio. His foot began to tap. And then the loud thud at his back door sent his heart shooting straight to his throat.
    The big yellow hound grinned at him, her tongue hanging out and her massive paws pressed against the glass. Shawn shook his head, but he got up to go to the door. He never minded the O’Tooles’ Betty. She was fine company, and after a bit of a scratch and stroke she would curl up and settle into her own dreams.
    Bub arched his back and hissed, but that was routine rather than true annoyance. When the patient Betty didn’t react, the cat merely turned his tail up and began to wash.
    â€œOut and about, are you, now?” Shawn said as he let Betty in out of a brisk wind that hinted of rain. “Well, you’re welcome to share a scone and the fire, no matter what that devil there says about it.” But as he started to close the door again, he spotted Brenna.
    His first reaction was a vague irritation, for here was someone who wouldn’t settle for a scratch and a stroke but would demand conversation. He kept the door open