2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Kieran Gallagher propped his boots on the metal railing atop Gull’s Point Lighthouse and slurped his tea—strong, dark Irish breakfast brew, none of that wimpy supermarket swill.
In most ways, he’d long ago adapted to life in the States, but a proper morning cuppa was sacrosanct, ditto a proper full Irish breakfast—minus the black pudding, nearly impossible to find on the Washington coast. He’d tried making that from scratch once, and it took days to get the burnt grease smell out of his cottage.
No bad smells today, though, especially at this early hour, when wisps of mist clung to the shoreline and a bracing breeze ruffled his beard.
This was his favorite time of day. The lighthouse didn’t officially open until ten, giving him a few precious hours to drink in the view, breathe the crisp sea air, and let his thoughts roll by unheeded.
His therapist called it meditation, but to Kieran, it was simply the art of being.
Learning this skill had saved his sanity—and probably his life.
Down on the beach, a dog raced along the waterline, a comically large stick in its jaws.
The big brown pup sprinted in joyful figure eights, kicking up puffs of sand, then dashed back to its human—a woman with dark hair, dressed for a blustery autumn day in a windbreaker and jeans, with sandy runners on her feet.
Intrigued, Kieran leaned over the gallery railing for a closer look. He’d met most of the locals in Trappers Cove, but he didn’t recognize this one.
The dog dropped its stick at her feet. Moving with relaxed grace, she picked it up and flung it far, sailing end over end.
Maybe he should get a dog of his own, another warm creature to keep him company during his solitary nights.
Not that he craved much interaction after a long day of entertaining tourists, but dogs are simple, undemanding souls.
Empathetic, too, though he’d probably terrify the poor beast when he bolted upright in bed, screaming, “Get to the lifeboats!”
The woman’s laugh carried on the wind, a mellow, musical sound.
Maybe he should get one of those too—a proper girlfriend to share his cozy cottage at the base of the lighthouse.
Since that horrible day, he limited his encounters with women to harmless flirtation and the occasional services of a sex worker.
Why get attached to someone who’d inevitably flee when the terror came back?
And it always came back.
So the lighthouse keeper’s cottage remained his alone, though many a pretty tourist had exclaimed how she’d loooove to live there. Technically, he was a park ranger, since all the Washington lighthouses had been automated in the seventies, but everyone in town still referred to him as the keeper.
Pretty sweet deal: a job where he could indulge his Irish talent for storytelling, and a home he didn’t have to share with dozens of bunkmates. Just himself, the surf’s soft whisper, and the occasional visit from a hundred-year-old ghost—much less scary than the hauntings in his head.
A bark rang out from nearby. He rose to his feet and peered down the footpath winding through the dunes.
Sure enough, the woman and dog were heading his way.
She kept up a steady patter of one-sided conversation, something about…
No, he couldn’t have heard that right. Sounded like she said, “Bumfuck.”
When she stepped over the chain closing off the parking lot, he cupped a hand to his mouth. “Ahoy, miss.”
She jumped backward a good meter and clapped her hand over her heart—not the effect he was hoping for, especially from such a lovely visitor. Even from this height, he was struck by her shining dark hair and bright eyes. Too bad he couldn’t make out their color.
“Good morning,” she replied when she’d recovered her composure.
He’d been about to tell her the park didn’t open until ten o’clock, but a playful notion nudged different words from his lips. “Care for a tour?”
Pale neck arched, she stared up at him, probably trying to decide if he was trustworthy. “I’m afraid my dog couldn’t make the climb.”
“Hang on. I’ll be right down.”
As his footfalls clanged on the spiral metal staircase, he chuckled at his own impulsivity. Something about this visitor and her pup intrigued him. And after a crucial hunch saved his life, he’d learned to respect inner nudges like this one.
If nothing else, he’d pet a cute dog and discover the color of the woman’s eyes, information that suddenly seemed very important.
When he flung open the lighthouse door, they were still there. The woman crouched to rub the dog’s belly. Tongue lolling, the beast wriggled and panted in canine glee.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya both.” Laying the Irish accent on thick usually charmed the ladies—and he found himself particularly interested in charming this one.
The beauty laughed and pushed to her feet. “Is that accent for real?”
Green eyes, pale and glittering like the sea over a sand shoal, scanned him from head to toe before narrowing. She wrinkled her pointy, freckle-dusted nose and swiped a hank of nearly black hair from her forehead.
“As real as my beard, darlin’,” he assured her, “and if you’re not Irish too, I’m not standing here before you.”
“What makes you say that?” She crossed her arms, clearly not buying his blarney. Her dog, however, showed no such mistrust. Despite his grizzled snout, he picked up his oversize stick and dropped it at Kieran’s feet, his fat tail wagging with all the enthusiasm of a puppy.
“Because you’re the very picture of a Black Irish beauty. May I?” He gestured toward the stick, and when the woman nodded, flung to the far side of the parking lot. The dog tore after it, barking joyfully.
He thrust out his hand. “Kieran Gallagher, lighthouse keeper and teller of tall tales, at your service.”
The flicker of a smile warmed her expression as she slid her hand into his. “Addy Connor. Pleased to meet you Kieran.”
“Irish name. I knew it. Where’s your family from?”
That bewitching smile tilted into a smirk. “Bumfuck, Nebraska.”
He spluttered a laugh. So he had heard correctly.
“Actually, it’s Smithsville, but same difference. And you?”
“Well, I’ve been in Trappers Cove for a while now, but originally, I’m from your sister city, Ballygobackwards, Ireland.”
She had the loveliest laughter, musical and low. “I like your version better. Let me guess—a small farm town where nothing much happens, and people are all up in each other’s private business?”
“Accurate. And yours?”
“The same.”
The dog returned, his wagging tail well peppered with marram grass seeds.
“Sorry about that.” Kieran stooped to pluck the seeds from the dog’s fur. “What’s your name, fella?”
“It’s Snoot.” When Addy crouched to join him, her knee bumped into his, sending a spark of awareness over his skin.
Living up to his name, the dog gave Kieran a thorough sniff, then nudged his head into Kieran’s palm.
“I’ve never met a Snoot before.” While petting the pup, his hand brushed Addy’s, and damn if another electric thrill didn’t zing his nerves.
“His previous owner named him.” When he raised an eyebrow, she added, “He was an Army explosives detection K9.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “A very skilled snoot indeed.”
At the mention of his name, the pup tried to crawl into Kieran’s lap, knocking him onto his bum.
“Easy, bud.” Addy grabbed the dog’s collar, but the beast was determined to give Kieran a tongue bath.
“Snoot, leave it.” Her tone was stern now, and the dog immediately obeyed, sitting at her feet and gazing at her with rapt attention.
“Good boy.” She gave his head a pat. “Well, we’d better move along.”
“You’ve come all this way and don’t want a tour?” Kieran hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the lighthouse tower.
“Up there? The vet says he should avoid stairs, so…”
“Not a problem. I’ll carry him. Come on, pal.”
Tail wagging, the dog trotted after him, and after an audible scoff, so did his owner.
Kieran opened the door and began his well-rehearsed patter. “Welcome to Gull’s Point historic lighthouse. Dating from 1894, it helped sailors navigate the treacherous waters at the mouth of the Columbia River, and—”
“Don’t we need a ticket?”
“Consider it a veterans’ discount.” He flipped a switch, illuminating the information plaques that showed the building’s structure and history.
“Over here you’ll see trinkets left behind by the former lighthouse keepers: spy glasses, logbooks, snuff tins.
” He tapped the glass. “Here’s my favorite—a racy novel from the 1920s. ”
While Addy bent to examine Lady Donatella’s Gardener, Kieran examined her.
Lithe, graceful, with threads of silver wound through her wavy dark hair.
The hand she held those tresses back with had short, unpainted fingernails.
Her casual, outdoorsy clothing revealed nothing about her background.
He’d have to tease that information out of her, and he only had a brief time to do so.
“Care to go up? It’s a bit of a climb, but I promise, the view is worth the effort.”
She nibbled her full lower lip before giving a crisp nod. “Why not?”
“Right. Up we go, doggo.” He scooped the Labrador into his arms and tilted his chin toward the spiral staircase. “Ladies first.”
She flashed a knowing grin over her shoulder and started up, fully aware of his intention to gawk at her arse.
And what a fine view it was, curvy and firm, muscles clenching with each step.
Good thing his hands were full with fifty-plus pounds of panting pup, lest they be tempted to stray where they weren’t invited.
And what would it take to get an invitation from the lady?