Chapter 8
Gwen looked at her herself in the mirror.
Originally, she had dressed like someone else.
But in the end, she decided that the best lies started with the truth so she should just go looking like herself.
She wiped her mouth with a napkin blotting off more lipstick.
There that was much better. Just because she was going to lie about her identity didn’t mean she had to lie altogether.
Gwen blew out a curse as she eased off the accelerator, her tires crunching along what could only generously be called a road.
It was narrow enough to induce mild panic, with barely enough room for one car, let alone two.
The hedgerows loomed like green walls on either side, and her GPS had long since stopped pretending she was on anything paved.
And as if that weren’t enough, she’d already managed to get herself lost.
Not to mention the twists—God, the twists. She couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead at any given time.
She’d just turned off what a local farmer had called a shortcut.
If she could turn around and find him, she would—just so she could slap him.
This was no shortcut. It was a winding, rutted sliver of road that could barely accommodate a wheelbarrow.
At one point, the incline had been so steep she couldn’t even see over the dashboard.
Now, if that doesn’t take a few years off your life, nothing will.
Shortcut my ass!
She certainly wasn’t expecting to follow the bend in the road and nearly end up straight up a tractor’s backside.
And not just any tractor. Oh no. This one looked like it had been dragged out of retirement with a crowbar and a lot of prayer.
Rust coated the entire thing like it was trying to return to the earth and one of the huge rear wheels wobbled with every rotation, rattling so violently that she half expected it to roll off and bounce right over her roof!
Just then the engine let out a moan that sounded suspiciously like a death rattle before blowing a puff of black smoke and veering off into a field.
Well, that wasn’t so bad. If being stuck behind a wobbly, slow, filthy tractor was the worst thing to happen today, she could survive it.
Then she rounded the next bend—and had to slam the brakes again.
Coming toward her was an old Land Rover, the kind built like a tank and wide enough to take up the entire road.
Its blue paint was dull and dented and there was some kind of bent metal bracket sticking out from the front.
The man behind the wheel—a weathered local with a cigarette dangling from his lips and the expression of someone who had been driving these roads since birth—didn’t slow down.
He could have pulled over into the small pull off created for moments like this but he didn’t.
He didn’t even blink. Just gave a lazy wave, eyes fixed straight ahead like she wasn’t even there.
Gwen pulled as far into the hedgerow as possible as he passed at a crawl, with only nano-millimeters to spare. Her breath caught somewhere in her chest, and then… Tick.
The Land Rover’s rusted side mirror clipped hers.
“Kiss my mirror why don’t you! Honestly!” Gwen shouted, twisting in her seat as the rust bucket lumbered on like it hadn’t just committed vehicular assault.
First a fake shortcut, then a death-trap tractor, now this. Gwen dragged a hand down her face. At this rate she would need a pint, a shot, and possibly therapy.
She crept forward again, muttering every swear word she knew and inventing a few new ones.
Living in Dublin and rarely ever leaving the city meant she had little experience with this sort of terrain—or with the next obstacle that greeted her like it owned the road.
A handful of sheep had decided to take a leisurely stroll across her path.
Gwen braked—not hard, since she’d still been driving at a snail’s pace—then threw her hands in the air. After a couple of minutes of staring at fluffy sheep bottoms, she rolled down her window.
“Of course. Why not? Take your feckin’ time, why don’t you?” she complained to absolutely no one. Certainly not the sheep. Though one did blat back at her as he passed by her window. She didn’t speak sheep, but she was pretty sure it said póg mo thóin.
“Well, right back at you. Cheeky bugger,” she said out the window.
Great. Now she was arguing with sheep.
The sheep didn’t so much as blink. Just kept walking like they had all the time in the world and every right to the road, which, to be fair, they did.
She sat back, exasperated, and looked out the windshield at the landscape before her and then something in her chest loosened.
The hedgerows had disappeared. Now, mountains stretched up in the distance before her—bold and brooding, their peaks shrouded in mist. Small waterfalls traced their way down the slopes like veins.
Rolling hills spilled into the horizon, dotted with stone walls, wildflowers, and the occasional cottage.
It was wild and untamed, nothing like the chaos of Dublin.
She wasn’t used to this kind of silence, or all this space.
It made her feel exposed. Small. And yet…
There was something about it. The way the air smelled of moss and rain.
The way the hills rolled on like they had nowhere else to be.
The quiet didn’t feel empty—it felt ancient.
Steady. Like the land knew she was part of it, whether she remembered or wanted to admit it or not.
This was her home—not the city with all its noise and crowded streets.
For once, there was no pressure to be anyone. Just Gwen.
She let herself get lost in a daydream. Then a loud blat of sheep sounded through her open window, snapping her back to reality.
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She didn’t want to admit it, but it was breathtaking.
Absolutely maddening.
But breathtaking all the same.
Still, she couldn’t afford to get distracted.
Gwen sat up straighter, brushing her hair back with a shaky hand.
This wasn’t a scenic drive or some spontaneous escape from the city.
She wasn’t here to admire the landscape or lose herself in some misty daydream.
She had a purpose—a plan . And it had nothing to do with waterfalls or adorable swearing sheep or the way the wind tugged at her hair like it knew her.
She was here with a purpose. A plan. One that made her stomach twist in knots the closer she got.
She was here to learn more about the O’Brian family. Quietly. From a distance. She’d go to O’Brian’s Taproom, blend in, observe. Ask a few casual questions. Nothing too obvious. Nothing that would tip anyone off.
She had a story all mapped out—practiced it a dozen times on the drive from Dublin. But still, she found herself whispering it now.
“My name’s Ruby Daly. I’m traveling through for a few weeks, doing freelance writing. Just small-town human interest pieces for an online magazine. I heard O’Brian’s Taproom had charm and history, and I thought it might make a good article."
It sounded natural. Innocent.
And it wasn’t even really a lie, not completely anyway. Just… selective truth. That’s how she justified this whole thing. It wasn’t personal. She wasn’t here to hurt anyone. She only wanted answers. And if that meant a little pretending, well... so be it.
Even if her stomach was currently in her shoes and her hands wouldn’t stop sweating.
She wasn’t a liar. Not like her father. She’d never wanted to deceive anyone, not for any reason. But this… this was different.
Gwen gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, the pub finally coming into view as she rounded the bend.
She needed to focus. Stay calm. Because if she let her nerves take over, if she slipped even once, this whole thing could blow up in her face.
Just as she was starting to steady herself, something up ahead caught her attention. Something... odd.
* * *
Gwen pulled into the gravel lot and parked under the shadow of a hand painted sign that read O’Brian’s Taproom .
Before stepping inside, her gaze lingered on the mural covering the side wall of the building.
It was a vibrant swirl of color and movement in rolling green hills dotted with sheep and cows, a golden sand beach, musicians in mid-song, a woman with a tilted pint and a wry smile.
It was beautifully done, not some amateur job slapped on for tourist appeal. There was heart in it.
She paused for a breath, taking it in.
She shook herself. Admiring murals wasn’t part of the plan.
Gwen pushed open the front door and stepped into the pub, the soft clunk of the door echoed behind her.
It took a second for her eyes to adjust from the sunlight to the dim, golden glow inside.
The place wasn’t crowded, just a scattering of locals nursing pints, laughing in the low, easy way of people who didn’t have anywhere else to be.
The place smelled faintly of hops and polished wood, and something savory coming from the kitchen—maybe beef stew or roasted chicken. Gwen couldn’t place it.
The pub had clearly been renovated, but not in a way that stripped the place of its soul.
The original stone walls stood proudly with their uneven texture catching the light in a way that made everything feel older and warmer.
Exposed wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling overhead, their age and grain preserved rather than sanded away or painted over.
She spotted old black-and-white photos hung in a line along one wall—snapshots of the pub through the years, filled with laughing faces and raised glasses.
And that bar…
It was a piece of craftsmanship. Gleaming wood worn smooth with age and care. It was the kind of bar that had stories soaked into it and someone had lovingly restored it. Gwen couldn’t help but wonder if that someone had been Keefe O’Brian himself.