Chapter 3 #2
He tested the name. “Rory.” Now that seemed far more fitting for the woman who sometimes had appeared to snarl and growl.
But more than temper, she obviously possessed zest and a crackling sense of energy his own spirits responded to.
Most of the women he’d come across in his work were either victims or so career-focused they were almost robotic in their focus.
He grew aware the older woman was still looking at him, no doubt waiting for him to say something more. But he didn’t want to admit to how much the redhead was playing on his mind, so simply nodded. “Okay, thanks.”
Her head tilted. “Is that an Australian accent I hear?”
“Yep. I’m from western Sydney, in New South Wales.”
She nodded. “I have a nephew who moved to the Southern Highlands several years ago. Connor married an Aussie and they live there. It’s very hard on his mother, my sister, especially now they have grandchildren.”
“The distance is a challenge, I bet.”
“They try to come back each year, but it’s not the same as watching them grow up nearby.” She sighed. “But I shouldn’t complain. People can’t help who they fall in love with, now can they?”
He offered a small smile, but said nothing more. In his experience he’d met plenty of people who might have fallen in love but hadn’t practiced real love during hard times. Hence his work with domestic abuse victims.
“I’ll leave you to it. Don’t forget to ask if there’s something we can help you with.”
“Thank you.”
He picked up the glittery cover children’s book. Hmm, he might wait to talk to the younger member of staff before deciding to get it or not. He studied a few other volumes, when he became aware of an approaching figure.
“Hello.”
He glanced across. His chest thudded. If her voice hadn’t already made his heart skip then that tentative smile definitely would have. “Hi.”
“I know Mary was here not so long ago, but at the risk of seeming like we’re overly helpful or desperate to sell books, is there anything I can help you with?”
He smiled. Tapped the book cover. “Yes.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “There is?”
“Do you think this book”—he held up the volume on Irish fairy-tales with the glittery cover—“would be appropriate for a five-year-old girl?”
Her eyes slammed into his. “Your daughter?”
Come on. Did he really look old enough to have a kid? “My niece.”
“Oh.” She took it, examined the back, then peered up at him. “Can she read?”
“I don’t think she’s quite at this level.”
“I see. Well, perhaps it’s more suitable if someone reads it to her.” She opened it up to the centre pages. “But the illustrations are quite beautiful, aren’t they?” She traced what looked to be a picture of a princess holding a sword.
He blinked, distracted by her shiny pale pink nail, then looked at the illustration more closely. His heart clenched. The picture looked very similar to the dream he’d had yesterday. The one with a redheaded Irish heroine, fiercely protecting him with her sword.
He inched away. Obviously he was extremely sleep-deprived to be thinking such things. This was a book about make-believe, not something he should take as gospel truth.
She eyed him uncertainly, and he realised that his shifting away might be misconstrued. Just when he’d thought he was making some headway with her too.
“Well, it’s up to you, of course,” she finally said. “It would make a nice souvenir, and at least it’s been written and illustrated by true Irish folk, and not those who wish they were.”
He chuckled. “Does that happen?”
Her chin dipped. “Like you wouldn’t believe. People whose ancestors left these shores a century or two ago then boast about long distant heritage like they think they still have some right to claim our land.”
His chest banded. Judging from the sound of that it didn’t seem she’d be too open about why he was here. Which might prove difficult, seeing as he was staying on the very site his grandmother had said still rightfully belonged to his kin.
“Ah, but I shouldn’t get carried away. It’s not very tourist-friendly of me, is it?” Her lips formed a rueful smile. “And I know I have not exactly provided the warmest of welcomes.”
He could agree, or he could let it slide. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Her golden laughter burbled again. “That’s kind of you. Now, did I spy you looking up some of our local history books before? You know we have several at the castle.”
“That’s what drew me here. I, uh…” Hmm. How could he explain what he was doing and not sound exactly like the kind of person she despised? “I found it interesting,” he finished, conscious of how lame he sounded.
“Well, in that case, perhaps you should meet the author of one of them. I’m sure she’d be very happy to speak with you.”
“Um, sure.” She led him back to the aisle with the local history books, then pulled out one. “See this?” She tapped the cover. “Written by a very local local.”
“Yeah? How local is that?” He grew aware that Mary, the shop owner, had drawn near.
Mary’s smile at Aurora turned to him. “Me.”