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Authors: Declan's Cross
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rotator cuff.
Sean took in a deep breath and told himself that any physical pain was in his head at this point. Fin Bracken had brought a bottle of rare, dear Bracken 15-year-old whiskey on his last visit to Declan’s Cross earlier that year. Sean hadn’t opened it until September. During the worst days of his recovery, he hadn’t touched so much as a pint. He stayed away from alcohol when it was all he wanted.
He’d taken time to heal before he’d opened the Bracken 15, and even then, he hadn’t drunk alone. He’d invited his uncle in for a taoscán . A few days later, he’d been able to walk into the village for a pint at his favorite pub.
Now it was early November, and what had changed? The Bracken 15 was still on the top shelf in the farmhouse kitchen. He was still walking into the village for the occasional pint.
Still working on the farm.
Sean didn’t known what Fin had told Julianne Maroney about him, but it had obviously been very little. She struck Sean as feisty and yet uncertain, perhaps not fully trusting her motives for coming to Ireland. He wondered if her FBI agent friends had picked up on that ambivalence and that’s why they were in Declan’s Cross checking on her.
Interesting that the main offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery were in Heron’s Cove, just down the coast from Rock Point where Fin was. Fin had mentioned Emma Sharpe. She was the granddaughter of Wendell Sharpe, who, last Sean had heard, was on the verge of retiring in Dublin.
Had Julianne’s choice of Declan’s Cross for her Irish sojourn piqued Emma’s interest, given the theft at the O’Byrne place ten years ago and her grandfather’s interest in the unsolved case?
It had Sean’s.
He hadn’t been a farmer ten years ago.
Then again, he wasn’t much of one now. He noticed his uncle puttering toward him on the tractor, an ancient John Deere with mud permanently encrusted on its green exterior. Paddy kept it in working order. Sean had given up. In his seventies now, his uncle liked to take the tractor out to the fields and was happy to leave the more tedious farm work to his nephew.
The wind had subsided. Sean recognized his own restlessness. He wanted to know what had happened to Lindsey Hargreaves, but he didn’t trust the foreboding that was starting to gnaw at him. He attributed it to the last of what his doctors had described as a normal process of post-trauma stress recovery—or, more likely at this point, boredom.
He had no business thinking of himself as bored. There was always work to do on the farm, and it was most often work he enjoyed, or at least appreciated. But that was different from loving it, wasn’t it?
And it was different from being part of an elite garda investigative unit in Dublin.
An Garda Síochána . Guardians of the Peace.
The guards.
The Irish police.
Sean had joined the gardai at twenty-two. He’d never wanted to be anything else. He’d help out at the farm—it was home as no place else ever would be—but he’d never imagined being a farmer.
Technically he was still a member of his unit. He was on leave, recovering from the thrashing he’d taken during the messy arrest of smugglers back in June. He’d won the day and broken open the smuggling ring, but he’d paid the price with a long recovery.
Being back in proximity to the proprietor of the O’Byrne House Hotel probably wasn’t helping.
“Ah, Kitty.”
Was she suspicious of her FBI guests’ motives for checking into her hotel?
She’d at least be curious.
Sean waved to Paddy and then started down the lane to the village. Walking meant he could stop for a pint or two without having to worry about his blood-alcohol level. He wasn’t one to over-imbibe, but better to fall over a stone wall than drive over it. Fin Bracken liked to say that walking was soul work. Sean didn’t know about that, but walking had helped him these past few months. At first he could only manage to the barn and back to the couch, but
Sean took in a deep breath and told himself that any physical pain was in his head at this point. Fin Bracken had brought a bottle of rare, dear Bracken 15-year-old whiskey on his last visit to Declan’s Cross earlier that year. Sean hadn’t opened it until September. During the worst days of his recovery, he hadn’t touched so much as a pint. He stayed away from alcohol when it was all he wanted.
He’d taken time to heal before he’d opened the Bracken 15, and even then, he hadn’t drunk alone. He’d invited his uncle in for a taoscán . A few days later, he’d been able to walk into the village for a pint at his favorite pub.
Now it was early November, and what had changed? The Bracken 15 was still on the top shelf in the farmhouse kitchen. He was still walking into the village for the occasional pint.
Still working on the farm.
Sean didn’t known what Fin had told Julianne Maroney about him, but it had obviously been very little. She struck Sean as feisty and yet uncertain, perhaps not fully trusting her motives for coming to Ireland. He wondered if her FBI agent friends had picked up on that ambivalence and that’s why they were in Declan’s Cross checking on her.
Interesting that the main offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery were in Heron’s Cove, just down the coast from Rock Point where Fin was. Fin had mentioned Emma Sharpe. She was the granddaughter of Wendell Sharpe, who, last Sean had heard, was on the verge of retiring in Dublin.
Had Julianne’s choice of Declan’s Cross for her Irish sojourn piqued Emma’s interest, given the theft at the O’Byrne place ten years ago and her grandfather’s interest in the unsolved case?
It had Sean’s.
He hadn’t been a farmer ten years ago.
Then again, he wasn’t much of one now. He noticed his uncle puttering toward him on the tractor, an ancient John Deere with mud permanently encrusted on its green exterior. Paddy kept it in working order. Sean had given up. In his seventies now, his uncle liked to take the tractor out to the fields and was happy to leave the more tedious farm work to his nephew.
The wind had subsided. Sean recognized his own restlessness. He wanted to know what had happened to Lindsey Hargreaves, but he didn’t trust the foreboding that was starting to gnaw at him. He attributed it to the last of what his doctors had described as a normal process of post-trauma stress recovery—or, more likely at this point, boredom.
He had no business thinking of himself as bored. There was always work to do on the farm, and it was most often work he enjoyed, or at least appreciated. But that was different from loving it, wasn’t it?
And it was different from being part of an elite garda investigative unit in Dublin.
An Garda Síochána . Guardians of the Peace.
The guards.
The Irish police.
Sean had joined the gardai at twenty-two. He’d never wanted to be anything else. He’d help out at the farm—it was home as no place else ever would be—but he’d never imagined being a farmer.
Technically he was still a member of his unit. He was on leave, recovering from the thrashing he’d taken during the messy arrest of smugglers back in June. He’d won the day and broken open the smuggling ring, but he’d paid the price with a long recovery.
Being back in proximity to the proprietor of the O’Byrne House Hotel probably wasn’t helping.
“Ah, Kitty.”
Was she suspicious of her FBI guests’ motives for checking into her hotel?
She’d at least be curious.
Sean waved to Paddy and then started down the lane to the village. Walking meant he could stop for a pint or two without having to worry about his blood-alcohol level. He wasn’t one to over-imbibe, but better to fall over a stone wall than drive over it. Fin Bracken liked to say that walking was soul work. Sean didn’t know about that, but walking had helped him these past few months. At first he could only manage to the barn and back to the couch, but
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