Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(99)

“You’d tell me if you . . . had more dreams or any encounter with him?”

“It’s been quiet. That weighs, too. He’s watching, you can feel it. But not too close.” She shuddered, rubbed her arms.

“I don’t mean to upset you talking of it.”

“It’s not the talking. It’s the waiting.”

“Waiting,” he said with a slow nod. “It’s never easy. Iona, I want to—” Mick hailed him, and came down the stalls with quick boot clicks.

“There you are. I wanted to ask if . . .” With his gaze shifting from Iona to Boyle, Mick flushed. “Beg pardon. I’m interrupting.”

“No, that’s fine.” Boyle shuffled his feet, turned. “We’re just finished with Spud here.”

“I’ll dose him, chart it,” Iona offered.

“Thanks for that.”

Alone, Iona leaned against the horse. “He’s been starting conversations,” she realized. “He never does that, but he has been, ever since . . . And he bought me Cokes.” She stepped out, picked up the bottle she’d set outside the stable door, took a long pull.

“Hell, Spud, I think maybe I am being wooed. And I have absolutely no idea how to handle it. Nobody ever really tried before.”

With a sigh, she studied the bottle in her hand, wondered what it said about her that her heart was so easy it could be touched by a damn soft drink.

Just . . . see what happens, she warned herself, then went to get Spud’s medicine.


*


NOTHING HAPPENED REALLY—CONVERSATIONS, SMALL ATTENTIONS, casual offers of help. But he made no move toward more. A good thing, Iona reminded herself as she helped Branna prepare the group dinner. She’d meant everything she’d said to him when he’d brought the flowers to her, the apology to her.

For once in her life she intended to be sensible, to be safe, to look—both ways—before she leaped.

“Your thoughts are so loud they’re giving me a headache,” Branna complained.

“Sorry, sorry. I can’t seem to stop the loop. Okay, we’ll put it on pause. I’ve never made scalloped potatoes before. Not even out of a box.”

“Don’t talk of potatoes in a box in this kitchen.”

“Only as an insult. Am I doing it right?”

“Just keep doing the layers as I showed you.” At the stove, Branna stirred the glaze she intended to use on the ham she had baking.

“Fancy meal for a strategy meeting.”

“I was in the mood. And now we’ll have cold ham for days if I’m not in the mood again.”

Conscientiously, Iona sprinkled flour over the next layer of sliced potatoes. “I was thinking about Boyle.”

“Is that a fact? Never would I have guessed.”

Rolling her eyes at Branna’s back, Iona added the salt and pepper, started the butter. “How do you know? I can’t figure out how you know, sensibly, and that’s what I’m working on. Is he just missing the sex, maybe even the companionship on some level? Is he feeling guilty because he hurt me, trying to be nice to make up for it, to be friendly because that’s what I asked? Or, does he, maybe, care more than he thought?”

“I’m the wrong one to ask about matters of the heart. Some say I barely have one.”

“No one who knows you says that.”

Some did, and there were times she wished they had the right of it.

“I don’t know about men, Iona. Whenever I think I do, think I’ve got it all in a box, just as it is, it all scrambles out when I’m not looking. When I get it all back in, it’s something else than it was.

“I know my brother, but a brother’s a different thing.”

“Love shouldn’t be hard.”

“There I think you’re wrong. I think it should be the hardest thing there is, then it’s not so easily given away, or taken away, or just lost.”

Stepping away from the stove, she moved over to check Iona’s progress. “Well, it’s taking you long enough as you’ve all but placed each slice of potato like an explosive, so careful and precise. But you’ve got that done. Take it over and pour that hot milk right over it.”

“Just pour it over it?”

“Yes, and not drop by drop. Dump it on, put on the cover, stick it in the oven. Timed this first part, for thirty minutes.”

“Okay, got it.” And as if it might explode, Iona let out a breath of relief when she had it inside the oven with the ham.

“You know they shouldn’t both fit in there.”

“They fit as I want them to. Now I think we’ll do a side of the green beans I blanched and froze from the garden last year, then we’ll . . . There’s someone coming now,” she said as she heard the sound of cars. “Let’s just see who it is, and how we can put them to use in here.”

“I’m all for it. You know,” Iona continued as they walked to the front of the cottage, “I think my goal should be to be able to put one really good meal together—figure out what that is, make it my thing. Oh, Iona’s making her brisket. I’m not even sure what brisket is, but it could be mine.”

“A fine goal indeed.”

Branna opened the door. Outside Meara stood beside her truck, Fin climbed out of his, and both Connor and Boyle shoehorned their way out of a bright red Mini.