“You do?”
“I do. And bless Keegan for being wise enough to know it. He was wise to tear down that house of evil, and to put in its place the stones, the strong. Wiser still to hear you and add the light. What a day you’ve had.”
“Feels like a week.”
“So I’ll walk you to the Welcoming Tree, and you’ll go over to the cottage.”
“I haven’t seen Morena, or Finola or Seamus.”
“Tomorrow’s soon enough for that. Take your evening.” Marg went back, took her cloak and Breen’s from their hooks. “Sleep well and take your morning for your writing. We need what we need,” she said as she put on her cloak.
Breen couldn’t deny the need as she climbed the little stone steps to the tree and turned to wave to Marg. The farmhouse stood behind her, smoke trailing up from the chimneys in the fading light.
She loved it here, loved the feel of the air, the look of the land, but she had a need for what waited on the other side.
So she stepped onto and over those wide, curved branches, onto and over the smooth rock, and into Ireland.
Bollocks pranced again, his whip of a tail swinging like a metronome, untroubled by the thin, cold rain that fell from a leaden sky.
It didn’t trouble her either as she lifted her face to it, then walked on. The air smelled of damp earth, dripping pine. Instead of his usual detour to splash through a stream, or racing back and forth, Bollocks headed straight down the path.
“Ready to go home, aren’t you?” He looked up at her, topknot bouncing. “Or maybe it’s because I am. Either way, we’ll be there soon.”
She let out a sigh, drew in another breath. “Can you smell it? Peat smoke, the bay, wet grass.”
When they came out of the woods, she saw it, the peat smoke, the bay, the wet grass, her herbs and flowers. And the cottage, the thatched roof, the sturdy stone walls, the charming patio, the lights in the windows.
And like the first time she’d seen it, it simply filled her. All she’d ever wanted.
Bollocks didn’t dash to the bay, but to the door. And barked.
Before she could get there herself, Marco—his beautiful braids tied back, a dish towel over one shoulder—pulled the door open. Music pumped out.
He laughed as Bollocks reared up on his back feet to dance. “You got you some moves. Dance on in here out of the wet. There’s my Breen!”
“Marco.” She’d have flown to him if she could, but settled for a short run and a jump into his arms.
He swung her around out of the rain to give her a noisy kiss.
“Keegan sent your stuff over a bit ago. I got meatballs simmering in red sauce ’cause your man has a fondness for it.”
“He’s not exactly my man.”
“Please.” He kissed her again. “I’ve been keeping an eye out for you. Brian’ll be home in a while, and when he and Keegan get here, we’ll have us a feast. But right now, I’ve got you all to myself.”
He whipped off her cloak, tossed it onto its peg, then grabbed her again to circle. “I love this place. You’d be crazy not to. But it’s just not the same without my girl in it.”
“I’ve missed it, and you, and everything, everyone.”
“Got your laptop set up for you so you can work when you get up before any civilized person does, and your blog posts are holding strong. We’ll talk about all that stuff later. Let’s feed this fine dog here, then sit ourselves down with a glass of wine.”
“Oh yes. Let’s.”
She threw her arms around him and thought: Home. This was home.
How she could have two worlds mean home should’ve been a mystery. But she found it a gift.
CHAPTER THREE