Bracing The Storm (Bracing the Storm #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

“ A re you sure you know where you’re heading, love? There’s nothing here.”

I peer from the taxi driver to the hand-drawn map in my hands, trying to make sense of all the Gaelic names. The more I stare, the more it becomes gibberish to me.

The driver sighs for the umpteenth time. He’s been doing so the entire drive from Cork airport to wherever we are. His patience is wearing thin, and I can definitely understand why.

“Give me a second, please.”

I run my finger over a line on the map, unsure whether it’s supposed to be a highway, a river or just an ink smudge from a runny pen. It could be any of these, and the letter in my handbag is definitely not helpful in navigating my way around.

It’s not like everyone knows where the Walsh residence is, which is probably why the lawyer’s office drew a map. Together with a village name I can’t pronounce, that pretty much sums up all the directions I have.

The driver starts to drum his fingers on the taximeter, drawing my attention to the old thing. My heart skips a beat as I catch sight of the exorbitant amount, and I almost tell him to pull over and let me walk the rest of the way. He must have caught my shocked expression because his brows draw together. I can almost hear the workings of his brain. He probably thinks I may not be able to pay the fare.

“I have money,” I assure him, and open my bag to show him the wad of cash I withdrew before boarding the plane, draining my bank account to the max.

His brows shoot up and something shimmers in his eyes.

Stupid!

I feel like slapping myself upside the head at my stupidity. We’re alone in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by lush hills and giant stones that could hide a body, and the poor soul wouldn’t be found in this century. There’s nothing stopping the driver from killing me and taking off with my money. He would probably even get away with it. No one knows my exact whereabouts. No one would notice my disappearance for days, or longer. And by that time, people would assume I’d just cashed in my inheritance and took off to the Bahamas.

I can almost see my face on the back of a milk carton.

Missing person: Lori Crest

Age: 21 for the last few years

Height: 5’4”

Weight: You don’t ask a woman personal stuff like that!

Hair color: brown bordering on boring, also in dire need of a haircut

Last seen: Boarding a plane to who knows where

Possible whereabouts: Tough one. Could be six feet under or sipping cocktails on a sandy beach in the Bahamas. Anything’s possible.

I shake my head to get rid of the dark thoughts that threaten to engulf me.

“It’s not as much as it looks,” I hurry to add before he gets the wrong idea. “Let me live and there’s more for you where this came from.”

Argh! I groan inwardly.

Now I’ve just given him the idea of kidnapping me and holding me for ransom. What’s wrong with me today? It must be the Irish food. All those delicious pies they kept throwing around on the flight from NYC probably didn’t agree with my blood sugar. Not only did they leave me with a false sense of safety but also with some extra padding around the hips, which I really don’t need.

“Relax, love,” the driver says in that accent of his that basically forces me to try to read his expression because I can barely make out a word. “I’m not going to rob you. At least not today,” he adds with a wink, followed by raucous laughter at his own joke. I don’t know whether to join in out of sheer relief or be annoyed that he’s making fun of me.

In the end, relief wins. “Good one. Thank you. You had me scared there for a few moments.”

“Shoo me.” His laughter dies just as quickly as it came. He’s staring at me now, waiting for me to do something.

Only…what?

I frown. “You want me to…” I look around helplessly as my mind works hard to make sense of his strange request. “Shoo you?”

He nods.

“As in…away?” Does he want me to shoo him off like you shoo off an annoying fly, kick him out of his car, maybe pretend that I’m stealing his cab?

Actually, that last part makes little to no sense.

I gawk at him in disbelief. Why would he want me to steal his cab?

Maybe he’s sick of driving me around and charging a fortune in the process. But he seems like a good person who wants to help a damsel in distress. Maybe he’s hoping to make it look like grand theft auto for insurance purposes? I get a car to find my way to my destination without paying an arm and a leg, and he gets a new ride. Sounds like a win-win situation.

Oh, hell no!

“I’m really sorry but I can’t.” I shake my head vehemently. “No, sir. I’m the honest type. As generous as your offer is, in a mobster kind of way, I might add, I’ll have to politely decline.”

He frowns.

I take a sharp breath, realizing I’m not giving him the answer he wants to hear, which in turn might make him angry. I’ll be kicked out in no time. I peer around me as I consider my words carefully. His car looks a little worse for wear and could draw its last drop of gas any second. I’ve seen vehicles in better condition at the automobile graveyard. I know because I got mine from there. He’s not going to dump this on me.

“I’m sure some people would jump at such a generous offer,” I say. “But I couldn’t be involved in any sort of dishonesty.”

“That letter you keep clutching to your chest, like a drowning rat a life raft. Shoo it to me,” the driver says and holds out his hand. I swear there’s a glint in his eyes, like he’s messing with me on purpose while the meter’s still running. “Do you have an address where you need to go?”

That “go” sounds like “goo”.

I laugh because I’m officially an idiot. “Oh, you want me to show you the map.” I make sure to overemphasize the word, and he nods. “I?—”

I hesitate, considering my options. The letter is marked as “confidential” and explicitly asks me not to share the information, in particular the whereabouts of the Walsh estate, with anyone. Apparently, the people who lived there valued their privacy. It doesn’t even come with an address, that’s how exclusive it is.

Then again, given that I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere I’m sure the legal firm would understand my predicament and agree to making an exception.

“Just a quick peek.” I rummage through my handbag, past chocolate wrappers, lipstick, and everything that was too precious to pack into my suitcase and risk losing.

Disclosure: I don’t trust airplanes with their crowded cargo holds that could probably hide an entire army of the living dead and no one would suspect a thing; apart from me, that is.

I finally find the letter stashed between a chunk of tissues and a magazine a nice old lady gave me at the airport after she caught me snooping over her shoulder.

“I got this in the mail the other day.” I hand over the letter and wait to catch his expression, convinced that I’m making a mistake. I don’t like breaking the law or rules.

Besides, I really shouldn’t trust a stranger with my personal stuff. But there’s something about him that tells me he might not be out to kill me after all.

It’s the photo dangling on the dashboard, I realize. It depicts a middle-aged woman with her arms wrapped around a boy and a girl. It could be fake for all I know, strategically placed there to induce a false sense of security into unsuspecting victims. But even I realize that sounds a bit out of a Netflix movie.

I clear my throat and wait for him to make whatever he wants of the letter. I chew on my lower lip as his expression changes into a frown.

What’s wrong?

Why is he frowning?

Is the letter nothing but a big hoax and I was stupid enough to fall for it? Maybe the scam is well known in Ireland and he doesn’t want to break my heart by telling me.

“Well?” I prompt, hoping he can’t sense the sudden anxiety that’s sent my stomach into painful knots.

Stomach ulcers, here I come.

“You pronounced it wrong, love. I can’t take you there. Sorry.” He hands me the letter and retrieves a sleek-looking phone. I can’t help but stare. We’re in the middle of nowhere and here’s their newest version I would call “does-the-world-really-need-it?”. Trust the brand manufacturer to know how to sell their products even in an area with cell coverage that is spotty at best.

“What do you mean you can’t take me there?”

He shrugs and points out the window at the setting sun. “It’s getting late. The wife expects me back for dinner. You know the saying ‘happy wife, happy home?’ Can’t keep the old crow waiting.”

I stare at him for a moment, unsure whether he really just called his wife an “old crow” or whether my brain’s just not very good at converting his accent into words that actually make sense.

Does it even matter?

“I understand that,” I say, even though I don’t understand the principles of marital bliss. Never been married, not planning on ever doing it. Too many hassles and all that. Besides, divorce isn’t cheap, which is probably what the man’s thinking, and why he’s so hellbent on catering to his missus’ whims. “Can you take me back to the airport then and I’ll find another driver? Or maybe call one, if one’s nearby?”

“There isn’t one nearby. We don’t usually drive this way. People around this area have cars. ” He winks. “It’s usually the tourists, the rich, and the city people that need us, but I’m not complaining. It puts food on the table.”

“And that makes the wife happy,” I mumble. “So, what am I supposed to do now? You can’t just leave me stranded here.”

“Don’t worry, love. I happen to know someone who lives in—” He says the name of the village, which, admittedly, sounds nothing like how it’s spelled in that letter or how I pronounced it.

Gleann Searúill.

The pronunciation is so strange, if I were to repeat it I would probably sound like I’m choking on a piece of bread and trying to cough it all up, and failing in the process.

It’s definitely not supposed to be pronounced Glenn Cereals, which is what I communicated to the driver and why we’re in the middle of nowhere. We are in some sort of Glenn, just not the right one.

I groan inwardly. What was I thinking coming here?

How will I ever learn to say the name of a village that isn’t even on Google Maps, let alone understand the locals with their “goo” instead of “go” and their “dine” instead of “down”?

“He’s a nice chap. I’ve been driving him to and back from the airport for years,” the driver says, oblivious to my doubts. “It’s a small world.”

“Not where I come from, it isn’t,” I mutter.

“I’ll sort this out for you, love.”

Holding my breath, I listen to him as he barks out lots of words into his cell phone. All I can make out is a name that sounds like “Paddy” and where his laughter starts and ends. He disconnects the call as abruptly as he started it and tosses his cell onto the passenger seat before he turns to face me. “He’ll be here within the hour.”

Who is this mysterious nice chap, I want to ask but refrain from it. Even if he told me the name I doubt I’d understand it. “Thanks. Obviously, I’ll pay you for your time while you wait with me.”

He grimaces. “I’m afraid I can’t, love. Can’t keep the wife waiting.” He looks at the watch around his wrist for effect. It’s one of those smartwatches that counts your steps and reminds you to drink more water.

“You can’t just leave me here on my own.”

He hands the letter back. “It’s not too far. He’ll be here before darkness falls. Don’t you worry.”

Like being told not to worry has ever stopped anyone from worrying!

I open my mouth to shout, beg, barter—whatever it takes—then close it again as I catch him peering out the windshield at the setting sun and grimacing again. I follow his line of vision, suddenly concerned.

“He’ll be here before it gets dark,” the driver mumbles. It sounds a bit like he’s trying to convince himself more than anything as he mutters under his breath, “Let’s hope so.”

Let’s hope so?

My fear returns full-force. Why? What happens when it gets dark around here? According to Google, there’s lots of creepy stuff lurking about. What does the guy know that I don’t?

The thought of being stranded in the middle of nowhere isn’t comforting at all! I know my fears are probably unfounded, but one can’t be careful enough these days.

“Can’t you stay? I’ll pay you double,” I offer, even though I doubt I can afford to waste money left and right when it’s supposed to last me a couple of weeks— or as long as it takes me to sort this whole inheritance thing out.

“I really can’t, love. But Paddy?—”

“—will pick me up shortly. I know.” I shake my head as I fight the urge to start begging. The driver gets out and retrieves my baggage—a suitcase and a backpack that’s seen better days. Apart from the stuff in my handbag and a laptop that’s so old I doubt kids nowadays would even know how to turn it on, it’s all I’ve brought with me.

“Here.” I hand the driver his fare plus a generous tip because generosity is my thing. I may not always be kind or considerate but at least I’m a giver.

The man’s face lights up as he takes the money. “I’m sorry I can’t take you farther than this.”

“Don’t worry about it. You go and do whatever it is you need to do. I’m sure I’ll be taken care of.” I shoot him my most reassuring smile and watch him settle in the driver’s seat.

As the tires stir up the tiny gravel in their wake I realize I don’t feel particularly reassured. I’m stranded in the middle of nowhere, sitting on my hard-case baggage so as not to get my jeans dirty. The sun is setting faster than you can say “cheese” while the hills remain as silent as a tomb. I get my cell phone out and begin to play a mean old game of Bubbles because obviously I won’t be brainwashed into getting one of those new sleek gadgets yet. Given that I can’t afford anything bearing a brand name, that might not be the victory I’m making it out to be.

Come to think of it, I should have forked out the few extra quid for a phone with better cell reception because all my phone is good for is to tell me that my battery is dying. Which it is…right this instant.

Ah, crap!

Coming here is slowly starting to feel like a really bad idea.

I should have worked on my psychic abilities when I realized a new phone wasn’t anywhere within my budget.

Too late for that now.

As darkness descends and the moon slowly rises, I don’t need a clock to tell me that an hour has long come and gone. Whoever agreed to pick me up probably got lost on the way and didn’t bother asking for directions. In fact, I bet he never left the house in the first place. And who could blame him? I know I wouldn’t leave my cozy abode for a stranger who might or might not be stranded somewhere in the Irish wilderness.

The place is slowly starting to creep me out, and I haven’t even started to think about the local leprechaun legends or the gazillion other stories I skimmed through on the plane to get a better “feel” for this part of the world. I let my gaze roam, scanning the darkness frantically, as I realize that train of thought wasn’t a good move.

I’m doomed to spend the night in the wilderness! Actually, it’s the bumpy road leading from nowhere to nowhither, but it might as well be the Amazon forest for all I know.

“Way to go, Lori,” I mumble and start marching down the road, dragging my suitcase behind me. What sounds like an owl hoots nearby. Something yowls in response, making me flinch at the prospect of coyotes or worse. Wolves? Bears? Fairies? Gargoyles? I mean, we are in Ireland—the land of myths and legends. I’m not usually the superstitious kind, but this place is feeding my usually underwhelming imagination.

Who knows what’s out here?

What feels like another hour passes. At some point it gets so dark I can barely see my hand in front of my eyes and there’s no approaching car in sight. But I’m not giving up hope. I’m not going to end up as wolf dessert.

I see the taillights before I hear the whirring sound of an engine and a car snaking its way up the bumpy road at the pace of a snail.

Gee, could he drive more like a grandma?

But who’s complaining?

The man could take an hour or a couple. I don’t care as long as he is coming.

“Yes. Yes!” I high-five the air and start jumping up and down for joy. There is civilization out here. Honestly, for a moment I had my doubts. It feels good to know I’m not the only human being left after a huge asteroid wiped out most of the population.

I place myself in the middle of the narrow road to ensure the car won’t drive past me, and then I yell, “Hey! Over here!” while waving my hands about like a maniac.

The car is slowly approaching and I realize it’s a pickup truck. The beat of some unknown music is blaring through the speakers, and my heart begins to thrum erratically in my chest. The music is so loud, I doubt the guy could hear his own voice. I can only hope the driver isn’t texting while driving or otherwise mentally occupied.

“Hey, over here, please,” I yell while chanting, “Please let him see me. I’m too young to die out here.”

The headlights reach me, illuminating me from head to toe. Yet there is no sign of the person even thinking about slowing down.

Is he blind?

For a split second, I think I’m having a flashback of my life before my eyes. And then my survival instinct finally kicks in and I jump aside, landing on my butt in the nearby bushes.

The tires screech to a halt. The music dies down, and the truck’s door opens. I peer up at the large, menacing figure of a man approaching me. In the car lights, he looks huge, at least 6’2”, with the broad physique of someone who doesn’t spend his time slaving away at a desk. I can make out black hair. His face is shrouded in darkness and mystery, but there’s a vibe wafting from him, gloomy and dangerous.

Maybe hailing a car at night in the middle of nowhere wasn’t my brightest idea. He might not even be the person who was supposed to pick me up. He could be a serial killer for all I know.

What was I thinking?