The Wild Sight

by Loucinda McGary

  “Happy to hear it.” Donovan replied as Sybil shoved the camera under his nose. The image in front of him looked like wooden pier pilings and seemed familiar somehow.

  “What kind of stuff did they leave as offerings?” Rylie asked, her enthusiasm still apparent.

  “Coins, mostly Roman ones, jewelry, weapons. Only stone and metal objects have survived.” McRory reached into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket and withdrew a flat object half the size of his palm, which he extended in Rylie’s direction. “This, for example, was an ornament on a leather scabbard.”

  The air in the room felt suddenly heavy. While Rylie Powell reached for the metal object, Donovan struggled to pull in a deep breath. A faint buzz whirred inside his head and he raised both hands to his temples in an effort to contain it. He bent to rest his elbows on his knees and pressed harder.

  But it was too late. The objects and colors in the room swirled together then coalesced into an entirely different scene. A robed man with long dark hair stood on the end of a wooden pier that jutted into a lake. Two others, similarly dressed, stood behind him beating out a hypnotic rhythm on small flat drums. Instinctively, Donovan knew them to be holy men, Druids about to make an offering to the spirits within the water.

  Shuddering, he shut his eyes, but couldn’t blot out the vision. The man on the pier held a decorated scabbard over his head. Slanting rays from the setting sun twinkled red and gold on its metal adornments and the beads woven into the man’s hair. Chanting in time with the drums, he pulled the sword from the scabbard with his right hand, extended it with a sweeping gesture, and flung it into the lake. Murmurs of approval came from the crowd gathered around Donovan, who watched as the man cast the now-empty scabbard off the end of the pier. The drums went silent.

  Though he could only see the towering Druid in profile, Donovan recognized him immediately. Like the fierce warrior in his previous vision, this man had been his secret childhood playmate. Hain, brother of Ro.

  The man turned and his intense blue eyes locked with Donovan’s. Recognition flashed across the Druid’s lean face. With a strangled cry, Donovan dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and willed the scene away. Bolts of white light seared across his field of vision and blood roared in his ears, drowning out Hain’s voice, even as he called a warning.

  A fuzzy darkness began obliterating the images in front of Donovan. Unable to breathe, he felt himself being pulled away. Then the tug on his arm became real and from close at hand, a woman’s voice asked, “Is something wrong, Mr. O’Shea?”

  Sudden excruciating pain made Donovan gasp. The incoming air burned his lungs. Leaning back, his hands fell into his lap and the room swam back into view. Sybil Gallagher’s blunt, uneven fingernails clutched his sweater sleeve. He drew in another ragged breath and tried to force words from his parched throat.

  “S-sorry,” he managed to croak, and reached for his mug of tea. His hand shook when he lifted it.

  Blushing, Sybil jerked her fingers away. Professor McRory and Rylie Powell both stared, concern visible on their faces. Donovan averted his eyes a moment and fought to steady both his hands and his breathing.

  The tepid liquid lubricated his vocal cords enough for him to murmur, “Bloody bad headache.”

  “Migraine?” asked McRory, tucking the scabbard ornament back into his pocket.

  Donovan shook his head then took another sip of tea. “Comes and goes, but hurts like the devil.”

  “So sorry to have disturbed you,” the professor apologized.

  “No, no. I was happy to hear your news.” And even more happy that his voice and breathing had returned to normal.

  “We’ll not disturb you further then.” McRory rose to his feet, motioning to his assistant. “I know you’re anxious to complete the sale, but you really should come out to the site again. Maybe tomorrow? You can bring Rylie, show her the old homestead and all.”

  Before Donovan could decline, Rylie clapped her hands together and exclaimed, “I’d love to see it!” She cast a devastating thousand-watt beam of a smile in his direction, thoroughly rattling him. “Tomorrow morning? I can be here at nine.”

  “Grand,” McRory pronounced while Donovan floundered for words. “We’ll see you then.”

  “Thank you for the tea,” Sybil Gallagher murmured with a decided lack of enthusiasm.

  So Donovan wasn’t the only one less than pleased with the sudden plans. He stood and escorted his unexpected guests to the door. Rylie Powell trailed behind the other two.

  “I’d better go too, since I’m afraid my visit has aggravated your headache,” she said with a faint arch of her eyebrows. “But we can finish our discussion tomorrow, Mr. O’Shea. ”

  Her emphasis on his name was not lost on him. “Indeed we can, Miss Powell, though I don’t suppose you’ll be happy with the outcome.”

  She gave him a smug look, “Or maybe you won’t.” Then she turned and exchanged leave-taking pleasantries with the professor and his assistant.

  Trying not to glower, Donovan did the same. As he ushered his guests down the stairs, he placed his hand low against Rylie Powell’s back. His fingers brushed close to her hip. This time, the sudden spark of sexual awareness didn’t catch him off guard as it had when she’d smiled at him. The tiniest jerk of her head told him she felt it too, and when they reached the foot of the staircase, she quickly shied away to break contact.

  Good, let her try to explain that away as brotherly love.

  She didn’t say good night and neither did he.

  Back inside the apartment, he refilled the teakettle and found aspirin to relieve the pounding inside his skull. A half-hour passed before the pain finally lessened. After another fifteen minutes of indecision, he picked up his mobile and rang his sister Doreen.

  She too was glad to hear about McRory’s latest finds because they would expedite the sale. The rundown cottage needed major repairs and she, her husband Sean, and Donovan needed to decide whether or not to raze the structure. Doreen had fretted over losing part of their family history, but with the university taking possession, the decision now became a moot point.

  “Ancient Celtic history is certainly more important than ours,” she said with a firm note of resolve in her voice.

  “While we’re on the subject of family history,” Donovan tried to sound more casual than he felt. “When we were little and Da worked in Liverpool, do you remember how long a time he used to be gone for?”

  “Three or four months at a stretch, to be sure,” his sister answered, her voice softening with recall. “And when he came home, ’twas always like Christmas because he brought us presents. Sweets and such, surely you remember those?”

  “Not very well,” Donovan answered with perfect honesty. “I was only five or six and it seemed he was gone a lot. I know he worked on the Liverpool docks, but did he ever go any place else?”

  “Not that I ever knew.” Then his sister’s tone changed. “Times were hard here, that’s why he went. Lots of other men went too. Besides, where else would he go?” She sounded defensive, as if he had insulted her.

  “I don’t know, but you’re older so I thought you might.”

  “Don’t be daft, Donovan. You know as well as I that Da wasn’t some gadabout.” She was dismissive now, the superior older sister who wouldn’t put up with his juvenile queries. “And what possible difference could it make? That was all a very long time ago.”

  Twenty-five years. Not since their mother had gone missing.

  Neither of them said it, but Donovan knew they both shared the same thoughts.

  “I’m afraid I must run.” Doreen’s voice held a strained undertone. “There’s a special candlelight mass at the cathedral tonight.”

  His sister had always been far more devout than him or Dermot. Prayer continued to be one of her chief preoccupations. For awhile, she’d talked about becoming a nun. No doubt to compensate for their father being a purveyor of liquor. How fittingly ironic that she was now part-owner of th
e pub, as was he. And the pair of them never touched so much as a drop, thanks to all those years they’d dragged their father’s drunken carcass up the stairs after he passed out behind the bar.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, Donovan rang off and set the mobile on the coffee table. A nagging pain still pulsated behind his eyeballs, so he went into the kitchen and brewed himself another cuppa. Back home in New Jersey, he seldom drank tea, but finding a decent cup of coffee outside of Belfast was impossible. All the pub served was instant. In fact, he doubted anyone in Ballyneagh even owned a coffeepot.

  He turned on the telly, but the unsettling events of the evening kept replaying through his mind. There was no way on God’s green earth Rylie Powell could be his half-sister. Of that he was certain. So why had he felt compelled to ring Doreen and ask about their father’s time in Liverpool? And why had she been so defensive about answering his questions? If he didn’t know better, he might think there was something she didn’t want to tell him.

  In her room at the bed and breakfast, Rylie lay on her stomach on top of the down comforter, photos spread in front of her. Besides the two of her and her father, there was another taken at the same time of Rylie and her mother, and one of the three of them snapped by a passerby. Her fingertip traced the smiling image of her mother Jennifer in yet another snapshot. This was one of Rylie’s favorites, taken six years ago on her mom’s fortieth birthday, and the way she liked to remember her. Before the chemo had destroyed her hair and the cancer had decimated her body, eventually killing her at age forty-five.

  Life sucked, then you died.

  Rylie knuckled away the tears in her eyes and fingered the gold ring dangling from a chain around her neck. Her mother would not have approved of her coming here. In fact, Jennifer had openly discouraged her daughter from trying to find Dermot O’Shea.

  Ten years ago, during her rebellious teens, Rylie started using O’Shea as her last name and angrily chastised her mother for not locating her father.

  “People who disappear, like your father did, have good reasons why,” Jennifer counseled Rylie on more than one occasion.

  Young and headstrong, Rylie demanded “Like what?”

  “Things you might be better off not knowing,” her mother replied and refused to elaborate.

  At first, Rylie had been too angry and naïve to think of anything. Then one of her friends, whose parents were in the middle of an ugly custody battle, asked Rylie why she would want to use the name of a deadbeat who’d never seen, much less supported her for most of her life. The words forced Rylie to consider a different perspective Some of her anger shifted to her father, who she realized could have contacted her if he’d truly wanted. Her friend was right. Dermot O’Shea was a deadbeat, maybe even a criminal. But secretly she never quite believed he was genuinely bad.

  Nevertheless, Rylie went back to using her stepfather’s last name and didn’t make good on her vow of going to Ireland and seeking her father. Until her mother died.

  Already devastated by a doomed love affair, losing her mother had cast Rylie adrift in a sea of doubt and uncertainty. Two weeks after her mother’s funeral, Rylie’s stepfather gave her the brown envelope.

  “Your mother intended to give you these herself,” Jim Powell explained hesitantly. “She didn’t realize . . . her time was so short.”

  “None of us realized,” Rylie whispered. While her stepfather fought to compose himself, she examined the handful of photos, the returned letters, and the plain gold ring. “Did she ever tell you about him, my biological father?”

  Jim shook his head, “I don’t know any more about him than you do.” Unexpectedly, he reached over and patted her hand. His voice remained unsteady. “I guess she thought it was being disloyal to me, but she should have talked to you about him, Rylie. She should have helped you try to contact him.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Jim.” She might not have always felt that way, but she knew the anguish her stepfather had endured in the last few months. He looked old and broken beyond fixing, and she pitied him.

  “It’s not too late, you know.” He reached inside his jacket and passed a cashier’s check to her. “This is your share of her life insurance. You can use it to find him.”

  Rylie looked at the check, more than she would earn at her dental assistant’s job in six months. Plenty to pay off her credit cards and even take a vacation. She could already imagine her brothers Jamie and Justin headed for the auto dealer with their shares.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  She stopped by the bank and deposited the check on her way back to her apartment. The next morning, she hired a private investigator to search for her father. That had been the middle of May. She’d suffered through four frustrating months of tiny trickles of information, dead ends, and finally progress. It was now the end of October, and here she was in Ireland. She’d found her father.

  Or had she?

  The investigator was certain that Mr. Dermot O’Shea of Ballyneagh was the same man, who twenty-seven years ago had sailed from Liverpool to New York, married Jennifer Laski and fathered a daughter, Rylie Marie. But tonight, Donovan O’Shea—he of the dazzling smile and the great butt—adamantly disagreed that the man in the photos and named on her birth certificate was the same Dermot O’Shea.

  That smooth, resonant voice echoed inside her head, “My father may be many things, Miss Powell. But he is not a bigamist, nor an adulterer. ”

  Okay, maybe he wasn’t now . . .

  Donovan O’Shea was wallowing in the midst of a serious case of denial. Either that, or he was a liar.

  The archeologist, Professor McRory, had mentioned selling the family property. Maybe Donovan O’Shea feared she might claim a share of the proceeds. So what if he didn’t look like a greedy money-grubber? He still could be. Men were so often not what they seemed.

  And one thing was certain, she hadn’t traveled all the way to Ireland and then not see her father, whether he was ill or not. After all, she might never get another chance.

  Tomorrow, she would find out what nursing facility Dermot O’Shea was in. If her half-brother wouldn’t tell her, then maybe the professor or his assistant knew. Or she could ask the bartender, Gerry Partlan, who by his own admission knew everyone and their business.

  A determined expression tightened Rylie’s jaw. As soon as she learned where her father was, she would pay him a visit. And Donovan O’Shea couldn’t stop her.

  She picked up the pictures and slid them back inside the envelope, her eyes lingering over the image of her mother’s smiling face.

  “You were right, Mom,” she whispered. “He did have good reasons.”

  Chapter 3

  AT QUARTER TO NINE THE NEXT MORNING, RYLIE PULLED on the back door of the pub and found it locked, same as the front door. Seeing no bell or knocker, she rapped with her knuckles and waited. Had Donovan O’Shea stood her up? After several moments and no response, she pounded with her fist, and vowed to kick his gorgeous butt if he had. A long minute later, she switched to her other fist. At last, her thumping roused someone.

  “Hallo?” called out a reedy voice.

  Hand flattened against the heavy door, Rylie looked up and saw a wizened little man leaning out the second-story window above the barbershop next door. Before she could answer his query, the man trumpeted out, “Donovan! Ho! Donovan, lad! Ye’ve company!”

  Rattling noises sounded somewhere overhead, then the faint but distinctive tread of someone hurrying down the creaky stairs. The door twitched and Rylie dropped her hand just as it opened. Donovan O’Shea stood there, a mug in his hand and a perturbed scowl on his handsome face.

  “You’re early.”

  She glanced at her wristwatch, “Only ten minutes.”

  When she looked back up, he’d already whirled around and headed for the stairs. She followed.

  He seemed even taller this morning as he climbed in front of her. His brown corduroys made soft shushing sounds, and his great looking behind was pr
actically at eye level.

  Ugh! Snap out of it, Rylie! She dropped her gaze to her feet, and wrestled her suddenly alert libido back into line. What a sad commentary on the state of her love life. Her body was lusting after her newly discovered half-brother.

  She trailed behind him through the box-strewn living room and into the kitchen. He wolfed down a half-piece of toast and took a huge gulp from the mug before rinsing it under the tap. Rylie had learned from Mrs. Cooke, the manager of the B&B, that it was Irish tradition to offer tea if a guest was welcome. Donovan O’Shea unplugged the electric teakettle and poured the remaining water down the drain, leaving no doubt as to her status.

  “I’ll just get my coat,” he muttered, eyeing her hooded sweatshirt.

  “It’s a nice sunny morning,” Rylie observed, but he turned and stalked away without reply.

  So much for small talk. She walked back into the living room and stood near the door next to three stacked boxes. Since the flaps on the top box were open, Rylie peered inside. A framed wedding photograph lay on top. The dark-haired bride wore a white, long-sleeved gown with a short veil. Her ruddy faced groom looked decidedly uncomfortable in his tuxedo. Neither smiled. The photo didn’t look very old; therefore this must be Dermot O’Shea’s daughter, Doreen. Donovan’s sister. Her sister.

  Breath catching, Rylie looked away fast and just in time. Donovan O’Shea—her brother—walked into the room, shrugging on a black suede jacket. Wordlessly, she preceded him out the door and down the stairs. While he locked the back door from the outside, she glanced at the window over the barbershop to see if the little man watched them. The curtains fluttered.

  “Ready then?” her handsome half-brother inquired.

  Without waiting for her to answer, he approached a dilapidated Morris Minor parked near the pub door.

  “Does that thing even run?” Rylie couldn’t stop herself from asking. “It’s got to be twenty years old.”