Cradle and All by M. J. Rodgers

Author:M. J. Rodgers [Rodgers, M. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance
ISBN: 9781460320730
Google: 6uXFEXmqaHUC
Amazon: B00CFX587A
Barnesnoble: B00CFX587A
Goodreads: 113010
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2003-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 58

THE GALAHER HOUSE was about a mile and a half east of town. Justin and I went directly to it, almost as if we’d been there before.

I kept getting the feeling that none of this was in our control, and it frightened me in ways I’d never experienced. That morning, the Herald Tribune had carried stories of a terrible famine in India, a plague in Mexico, the polio outbreak in the United States. The stories reminded me of a scary book I had read years before called The Hot Zone. Ebola had almost seemed the work of devils.

As we pulled into the graveled car park, clouds snuffed out the sunshine, casting the tiny thatched and whitewashed cottage into gloom. There was nothing welcoming about the house, the yard, even the walkway.

“That’s a peat fire you smell,” Justin said as we climbed out of our rented car. “The smoke can be stifling. You won’t forget that smell.”

What I wouldn’t forget was how I felt as we started to walk toward the cottage. We were in Ireland, by God. We were about to meet the second virgin, and our opinion was important to solving a great mystery.

“Colleen’s father died a year or so ago. A regular Finn McCool sort of man,” Justin said. “Her mother was felled by a stroke. She’s nearly senile as well — at forty. She’s in her bed most days. The doctors out here are not terribly sophisticated. It’s not the best situation for the girl. Not like life with the Beaviers.”

“Kathleen’s life isn’t an easy one,” I said, feeling a little defensive for some reason. “Not anymore it isn’t.”

“I know that, Anne,” Justin said. “I like Kathleen very much. Now we have to find out some things about Colleen.”

“Like how the Church in Ireland has been able to keep this a secret?” I said.

Justin shrugged. “That’s no surprise to me. But I know the Irish Church. If Jesus Christ had been born on this island, the word still might not be out.”

There was a rusting iron gate in the stone wall surrounding the cottage and it creaked as it opened under Justin’s hand.

At that exact moment, the blue-painted cottage door swung open as well. A nun, a large, severe-looking woman, her black habit blowing in the soft breeze, stood there before us.

“I’m Sister Katherine Dominica,” she announced curtly. “Who might you be?”

We introduced ourselves, and the nun nodded her head. She said she was expecting us. Dun-colored hairs peeked out from under her stiff white cap. She eyed us distrustfully but showed us inside.

The sister looked as forbidding as a crow and that was a fact. But I forgot her as soon as my eyes adjusted to the low light in the cottage.

There was a movement at the fireplace. A girl stood up from a low stool to greet us.

She wore a printed housedress under a frayed lace apron and had a striking mass of dark red hair curling down her back.

“Hello!” she said with obvious delight and surprise.

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