by Deb Stover
She nodded slowly. "He... he said he had some business over there."
"As far as the highway patrol were concerned, his identification indicated they had a dead Irish citizen on their hands in a rented car." Mr. Larabee shrugged and shook his head. "They had no way of knowing about your marriage or that you should've been contacted." He arched a brow. "You didn't notify the police about his disappearance. Remember?"
Scalding tears filled her eyes. "We... we had a fight that morning about what his family would think about me not being Catholic." Though she'd been more worried about it than he had. "I thought..."
Mr. Larabee sighed. "So you thought he changed his mind about being married?"
She nodded vigorously, unable to speak. After clearing her throat, she dabbed her eyes dry and lifted her chin. "So they sent him back to Ireland?"
"He's buried in Marysville, but his possessions were returned to his family in Ireland."
"He told me about his momma, a sister, and a brother. And his granny." Bridget's eyes burned and her throat clogged with unshed tears. "All these years I've raved at the man for leaving me... and he was dead. All this time. I can't believe it."
"I know."
"It's like losing him all over again." A thought made her breath catch. "What should I tell Jacob?"
"I'm not sure. He never knew his father." Mr. Larabee lifted one shoulder. "It depends on what you decide to do. Maybe it would be best to tell him nothing at all."
"And let him grow up believing his father—his daddy—abandoned him?" Bridget shook her head and lifted her chin a notch. "I'll tell him the truth. I've done the man wrong by believing the worst. I owe him this."
"Whatever you think best." A gentle and bewildering smile curved Mr. Larabee's lips. "You know I sent the divorce papers on to his last known address in Ireland."
"Yes, I remember."
"They've been hidden until now."
"Hidden?"
Mr. Larabee lifted an envelope with an unusual looking stamp. "According to this letter from Culley's mother, she found the envelope containing the divorce papers among her late mother-in-law's personal belongings."
"She hid them?" Perplexed, Bridget furrowed her brow. "Why?"
"Mrs. Mulligan said her mother-in-law probably thought it best the family believed her grandson died unmarried, rather than married to a woman who would, uh, 'stoop' to divorce."
Liquid fire suffused Bridget's cheeks. "That's hogwash. She didn't know what—"
"Of course, she didn't know, but that's past now," Mr. Larabee continued. "I received this letter the day after your grandmother died, and I wanted to wait until everything was settled."
"What's there to settle?" Her throat turned drier than August dog days. "I've lost my home, my granny, and learned my husband died instead of abandoning me. Mercy, what a lucky break." Bitterness edged her voice and her hands trembled.
"Don't you see, Bridget?"
"See what?"
"You and Jacob have family. In-laws." A shock of white hair fell across Mr. Larabee's forehead and he shoved it back with slender fingers. "And there's property."
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she wiped her sweaty palms and reached for the letter. "Property? I don't understand."
"Mrs. Mulligan believes you have a right to your share, especially since you weren't notified of your husband's death."
Culley's momma...? "Is the property valuable? Can I sell it?"
Mr. Larabee smiled. "Being unfamiliar with Irish real estate, I can't—"
"Irish? Of course, it's Irish. I wasn't thinking." Bridget leaned forward. "So Culley's property is in Ireland."
"Yes. Culley Mulligan didn't own anything in the States."
Except my heart. "I know." She shook her head. "If I had a brain..."
"You have an excellent brain, and don't ever forget that." He placed both palms flat on the surface of his desk and leaned forward. "Your husband's family owns a farm in County Clare. That's on the west coast of Ireland."
"What do I have to do?" Property for her son? But in Ireland? Of course, once upon a time, she'd believed she would go home with Culley....
"It's a fairly large farm by Irish standards, and it includes the original keep."
"Keep?"
One corner of Mr. Larabee's mouth turned upward. "A castle, Bridget."
"A castle?" Crazed laughter erupted from her throat. Here she'd been fretting the loss of an old trailer, only to learn her dead husband had owned a castle. After a moment, she wiped her eyes dry and cleared her throat.
Culley had never mentioned the castle, though she remembered him talking about his family with love. He'd described his home so vividly, she'd laughingly accused him of painting pictures with words. Except for the castle...
She really had loved the man. A shaky sigh escaped her parted lips. He's dead. She would have to visit his grave to convince herself of that fact.
"The property—there has to be a catch," she said, bringing herself back to the present.
"It's part of his family's estate." Mr. Larabee flipped through the papers on his desk and removed one. "This is a printout of the microfiche file from Dublin."
With trembling fingers, Bridget took the document.
"As you can see, the family has clear deed to the land, but it's an entailed estate. You can't take your share and sell it unless the rest of the family agrees. In writing."
No sense getting greedy at this late date. "Right. His family." A family full of Irish folks she'd never met sounded like more trouble than General Lee that time Mrs. Baldwin's poodle went into heat.
But Jacob would have a granny, an aunt, and an uncle. In fact, he might even have little Irish cousins near his own age. Children were what made a family a family. She'd never had brothers, sisters or cousins to play with. Until this moment, she hadn't realized how much she wanted that for her son.
"What do you think about all this?" Mr. Larabee asked gently.
"Not only is this written in legal mumbo-jumbo, but there are words here I'm pretty sure aren't even English. Do you know what it really says, Mr. Larabee? The bottom line, sir, if you please?"
Mr. Larabee returned the document to the folder and removed another. "Read this letter from Fiona Mulligan instead. It might make more sense."
She took the letter and removed it from its envelope. Neat handwriting on crisp white paper leapt out at her. It was brief but friendly. "She wants to meet me."
Mr. Larabee nodded, his expression compassionate. "That makes perfect sense. Her son died and left a wife behind she's just now learned about."
"Yes, I reckon she's curious."
"When I spoke with her on the phone, I got the impression she's a lot more than just curious."
Realization made the flesh around Bridget's mouth tingle again and she had to swallow several times before she could speak. "You... you told her about Jacob."
Mr. Larabee's cheeks reddened. "It should have come from you, but... the divorce settlement Culley never received did mention child support. I'm sorry."
"And...?"
A huge grin split Mr. Larabee's face and his eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. "She said, 'I want to hold me boy's flesh and blood in me arms, and see the lad's face with me own two eyes.'"
Bridget had to laugh at Mr. Larabee's attempt at an Irish accent, though nothing about this was humorous. The man she'd married was dead, and his momma wanted to meet his son. Bridget owed Culley that. "I understand." She leaned closer, sliding the letter across the desk's smooth surface.
"I'll be blunt, Bridget." Mr. Larabee sobered again. "Mrs. Mulligan indicated to me that her older son—Riley, I think she said—believes you might try to con the family out of their land."
"Con?" Silently seething, she tried to quell her rising indignation. And failed. "Con?"
"Mrs. Mulligan also said that Riley will want proof."
She stiffened. "I don't need to prove anything to anybody. I know the truth."
Mr. Larabee cleared his throat. "Y
our mother-in-law had just the opposite reaction, however. She can't wait to meet you and Jacob. In fact, she reminds me of you."
That's what Culley said. Her heart stuttered and she warmed from within, realizing with a start that she could now give herself permission to have loved Culley Mulligan. "Culley's momma wants us to come for a visit?"
Mr. Larabee nodded. "More than a visit, Bridget. She wants you to bring her grandson home. Her words."
"Home?"
"Where he belongs, according to her."
An odd tremor of fear and excitement coalesced and pulsed through Bridget. Her cheeks grew warm and she clutched the fabric of her skirt in both fists. "He belongs with me."
Mr. Larabee pulled off his glasses and leveled his gaze on her. "Mrs. Mulligan's said her late husband's will was pretty specific."
"Specific?" She knew it was too good to be true. There was probably some catch to all this that would keep Jacob from receiving his inheritance.
"I mentioned earlier, this is what's called an entailed estate. One family member can't sell any portion without the permission of them all."
"I remember."
"Your son will be entitled to an inheritance when he reaches his majority."
"That's good. Culley would've wanted that."
Mr. Larabee sighed. "They may require proof of paternity since the marriage was sudden and secret—"
"I'm not the one who kept it secret."
"I know, but they can probably prevent Jacob from inheriting anything, or at least drag it out for many years." Mr. Larabee met her gaze. "Going there will show good faith, and—let's face facts—you have nothing here except your job with us."
Bridget reminded herself of the eviction notice. She had a child to feed, and that child's daddy might finally come through with some support. Remembering Culley's laughing eyes, tears welled in her own. She'd much rather have had Culley with her all along than have his property now without him.
In fact, she owed it to Culley to make sure his son took his rightful place in the Mulligan family. Pride made her lift her chin and square her shoulders. A slow, determined smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "Then I reckon I'll take my son to meet his daddy's family."
"That's the spirit." Mr. Larabee returned her smile. "When shall I tell Mrs. Mulligan to expect you?"
A sinking sensation struck Bridget. The final blow. Her mouth went dry and her eyes burned. "Never." She held her hands out, palms up. "I don't have the money for the trip." Her breath came out in a whoosh and she fell back against the chair. Defeated. "I guess that's the end of—"
"No. It's just the beginning." Mr. Larabee smiled again and handed another envelope to Bridget. "Open it."
Shaking from the inside out, she leaned forward and took the envelope and looked inside. "It's full of cash."
Mr. Larabee nodded. "Mrs. Mulligan wired the money for you and Jacob to use for plane fare."
"I see." Bridget stared at the money in amazement. "And she trusts me enough to believe I won't use this for something else?"
"She said if you don't bring Jacob to Ireland, she'll assume you lied about his paternity."
Bridget's pride reared its offended head and she rose, her knees quaking beneath her. "I never lie."
Mr. Larabee rose as well and gave her a satisfied nod. "I know."
After several deep breaths, she trusted herself to meet his gaze again. His eyes twinkled approvingly.
"Now what do I do?" She held the envelope against her chest, afraid it might vanish as magically as it had appeared. "I don't even have a passport. And what about General Lee?"
"We'll walk you through the process, but it will take a few weeks," Mr. Larabee promised. He rolled his eyes heavenward and chuckled. "And, heaven help me, we'll take care of General Lee."
She laughed along with him, and a strange new emotion filled and empowered her. A feeling she'd rarely known in her twenty-eight years.
Hope.
"Is there enough here to buy plane tickets and repay you and Mrs. Larabee for your generosity?"
"That's not ne—"
"Yes, it is necessary." She met his gaze and he nodded.
"Very well. I'm sure there's plenty."
A huge grin spread across her face and she hugged the envelope close. "A real castle, Mr. Larabee?"
He nodded, smiling. "Caisleán Dubh—Cash-Lawn Doov. At least that's how Mrs. Mulligan pronounced it."
"Doov?" Bridget echoed. "I wonder what it means."
"Mrs. Larabee said you'd want to know, so she looked it up on the internet. We think it means black."
"Black? So Caisleán Dubh must mean Castle Black."
"Or Black Castle, I suppose." He folded his arms across his lean abdomen, his expression paternal. "We're going to miss you, but I think you're about to embark on an adventure."
"Lord, yes." Bridget stared out the window at the soft drizzle. "An adventure."
"I think I'm jealous."
She smiled. "You're just going to miss my biscuits and red-eye gravy."
The man blushed to his ears and gave an emphatic nod. "And everything else you cook."
"I'll leave recipes."
"Much obliged."
She released a long sigh and grinned. "By golly, that finance company can have the trailer with my blessing."
"Good for you."
"After all," she hugged herself to make sure she was awake, "who needs a rundown old trailer when they have a castle?"
Purchase Mulligan Stew through your favorite eBook Retailer
from Deb Stover's eBook Discovery author page
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Excerpt from Some Like It Hotter
by
Deb Stover
Chapter
"I'll bet Dirty Harry never had to do this," Mike Faricy said, leaning back against the worn vinyl upholstery.
"I hear that." Barney aimed his binoculars toward the three-story building again.
Parked in a lonely alley behind a waterfront warehouse, the Chevy was more like a prison cell than a car. Darkness settled over the sleeping city of Natchez like a shroud; a thick bank of fog from the river blotted out the stars. The streetlights appeared as nothing more than faint golden halos in the unseasonably cool, moisture-laden air.
Trying to fill the boring hours with happier thoughts, Mike allowed himself a smile. Barney and Carrie's great news more than compensated for the gloomy ambiance. "Man, this is great—I'm going to be an uncle," Mike said, feeling himself warm from within. His sister, Carrie, had been trying for years to have a baby. Finally, it looked as if her dream might come true. "Let's see, today's June twentieth, so when's the baby due?"
"Sometime in early March, you'll be an uncle and I'll be a dad." Barney gave a satisfied grunt, keeping his curly head turned toward the dark building as he spoke. "I hate stake-outs."
"Yeah. Me, too." Mike sighed. "Having a brother-in-law for my partner's bad enough. I can just imagine what having an expectant father around is going to be like."
"It'll be far freakin' out, and you know it." Barney chuckled low in his throat, never interrupting his surveillance of the still-dark building. "You don't suppose Milton's men are going to let us down again tonight, do you?"
"Nah." Mike shifted in his seat to peer toward the building. "If they do, it'll be embarrassing as hell after all the trouble we had convincing the state police this was Milton's point of operation."
"A little town like Natchez sure as hell isn't the most likely spot." Barney shot Mike a crooked grin, barely visible in the increasing darkness. "Yeah, Mike, I'd say after ten days of this crap, it's past time for them to come out and play."
"That's for sure."
"So, you think the kid'll be as good-lookin' as his old man?"
Mike chuckled, ignoring his partner's indignant grunt as he turned to face the warehouse again. "I don't know, Barney. I think Carrie'd prefer he take after his Uncle Mike."
"In your dreams."
They la
ughed quietly, nervously, continuing to stare in silence at the building.
Nothing happened. Minutes turned into hours. Well after midnight Mike was ready to call their shift another waste of time when a van, headlights off, pulled into the alley adjacent to the warehouse. "Hot damn." A few minutes later, light filled an upstairs window.
"It's about time," Barney whispered, drawing his gun from his shoulder holster and releasing the safety.
Mike mimicked his partner's actions, sharing Barney's obvious excitement. "This is one crack shipment that isn't going to find its way to the streets." Barney didn't have to respond—Mike knew they both felt the same way. Group think became automatic after all the years they'd worked together.
"Milton's mine."
"Don't be an ass." Mike reached for his partner's arm. "That kid's overdose wasn't your fault and you know it."
Barney sat quietly for several seconds, then released a sigh. "I know, but if my last collar had stuck, Milton would've been locked up...and that kid would be getting ready for his frigging prom about now."
Mike nodded, knowing this wasn't the time to press. "I'll call for backup."
"Do that." Barney turned toward the warehouse again.
Mike reached for the radio and wasted precious seconds waiting for the frequency to clear, then he called for backup. Every time they were on the brink of busting Milton's operation, something always interfered. The drug lord had more than his share of luck, but he was pure pond scum.
"Ready?"
"Yeah," Mike whispered, climbing from the dark car. Barney'd permanently disabled the dome light to allow them to get out of the car without tipping off the bad guys. He and Barney were the white hats now, out to see justice done, to preserve the American way. But this wasn't a game like the cops and robbers they'd played together as children.
This was for keeps.
"Cover me, Mike," Barney whispered over his shoulder, breaking silently for the open alley before his partner could stop him.
"Barney, damn you. Wait for backup," Mike whispered fiercely—futilely—then darted from the sidewalk, adrenalin pumping through his body. He flattened himself against the cold brick building across the alley, squinting to get his bearings through the thick fog. Barney had always been the brave one—foolishly so, on more than one occasion.
