Born in Fire Read Online Free PDF Page A

after he died. I could do it.”
    “I never said you couldn’t, I just for the life of me can’t see why you’d want to. Strangers in and out every day.” Why, it gave her the shudders just to imagine it.
    “I can only hope they’ll come. The bedrooms upstairs will need freshening, of course.” Brianna’s eyes blurred as she thought through the details. “Some paint, some paper. A new rug or two. And the plumbing needs work, God knows. The fact is, we’d need another bath altogether, but I think the closet down at the end of the hall upstairs would serve. I might have a little apartment added off the kitchen here, for Mother—so she won’t be disturbed. And I’d add a bit to the gardens, put up a little sign. Nothing on a grand scale, you see. Just small and tasteful and comfortable.”
    “You want this,” Maggie murmured, seeing the light in her sister’s eyes. “You truly do.”
    “I do, yes. I want it.”
    “Then do it.” Maggie grabbed her hands. “Just do it, Brie. Freshen your rooms and fix your plumbing. Put up a fine sign. He wanted it for you.”
    “I think he did. He laughed when I talked to him about it, in that big way he had.”
    “Aye, he had a grand laugh.”
    “And he kissed me and joked about me being an innkeeper’s granddaughter, and following tradition. If I started small enough, I could open for summer this year. The tourists, they come to the west counties in the summer especially, and they look for a nice, comfortable place to spend the night. I could—” Brianna shut her eyes. “Oh, listen to this talk, and we’re burying our father tomorrow.”
    “It’s just what he’d want to hear.” Maggie was able to smile again. “A grand scheme like that, he’d have cheered you on!”
    “We Concannons.” Brianna shook her head. “We’re great ones for scheming.”
    “Brianna, that day on the cliff, he talked of you. He called you his rose. He’d want you to bloom.”
    And she’d been his star, Maggie thought. She was going to do whatever she could to shine.

Chapter Three
    S HE was alone—as she liked best. From the doorway of her cottage she watched the rain lashing Murphy Muldoon’s fields, slashing wildly over the grass and stone while the sun beamed hopefully, stubbornly, behind her. There was the possibility of a dozen different weathers in the layered sky, all brief and fickle.
    That was Ireland.
    But for Margaret Mary Concannon, the rain was a fine thing. She often preferred it to the warm slant of sun and the clear brilliance of cloudless blue skies. The rain was a soft gray curtain, tucking her away from the world. Or more important, cutting out the world, beyond her view of hill and field and sleek spotted cows.
    For while the farm, the stone fences and green grasses beyond the tangle of fuchsia no longer belonged to Maggie or her family, this spot with its small wild garden and damp spring air was her own.
    She was a farmer’s daughter, true enough. But no farmer was she. In the five years since her father’s death, she’d set about making her own place—and the mark he’d asked her to make. Perhaps it wasn’t so deep as yet, but she continued to sell what she made, in Galway now and Cork, as well as Ennis.
    She needed nothing more than what she had. Wanted more, perhaps, but she knew that desires, no matter how deep and dragging, didn’t pay the bills. She also knew that some ambitions, when realized, carried a heavy price.
    If from time to time she grew frustrated or restless, she had only to remind herself that she was where she needed to be, and doing what she chose to do.
    But on mornings like this, with the rain and the sun at war, she thought of her father, and of the dreams he’d never seen come true.
    He’d died without wealth, without success and without the farm that had been plowed and harvested by Concannon hands for generations.
    She didn’t resent the fact that so much of her birthright had been sold off for taxes and debts and the