Riding Irish Read online

  True to his word, he did most of the heavy lifting for me, carrying my bags into the parlor at the front of the house. I had to stop myself from laughing a little when I saw the interior decorating my grandmother had been responsible for. Lovely or not, this was definitely the house of an old lady. On every table there were doilies and old photographs in silver frames. Every piece of furniture seemed to double as a display rack for a variety of colorful quilts.

  I signed a couple of pressing forms that Mr. Carlisle had for me – mostly concerning funeral arrangements – and agreed to meet him in his office later in the week once everything had been attended to. I took his business card and set it on one of the many small tables covered with doilies.

  “Thank you again, Mr. Carlisle,” I told him

  He retrieved his hat from a rack just inside the front door and gave it a tip as his put it on. “Welcome to Dublin, Miss Flynn,” he said. With that, he left me alone in my new house. I slowly walked through the rooms, investigating everything. It was strange enough to think that I now owned a house in Ireland. Even more strange was the knowledge that I owned all of the odd nick-knacks and photographs that seemed to fill the place. I walked the halls looking at row after row of old photographs of people I had never met before. Were they my extended relatives? Were they old friends? For all I knew, these were the pictures that came in the frames, and my late grandmother was simply a hoarder.

  I made my way to the kitchen and looked through the cupboards. It was mostly bare. What there was consisted mostly of products I’d never heard of. I knew my grandmother had been in poor health for some time before she passed, and I can’t imagine she had been spending much time in the kitchen in her last days. With only a poor imitation of breakfast I’d been served on the plane in my belly, I was getting quite hungry. I wasn’t going to find anything in the house though, so I decided to head off into Dublin to find some dinner. I had to double check the clock on the wall before I realized that it was, in fact, dinner time. I was still on Baltimore time, but I had to get used to being five hours ahead eventually.

  My new house was in a residential area that seemed to be composed of many charming cottages. Although I could see the tall glass towers of the modern Dublin skyline in the distance, here on Grey Lane things were still much more pastoral. On the taxi ride in, I’d seen some businesses nearby and I figured at least one of them must be a restaurant of some variety. I grabbed my purse and the ring of keys Mr. Carlisle had given me and headed out the door. It wasn’t a long walk to the area I’d seen, and I wanted to get a feel for the neighborhood anyway.

  Ten minutes later I was beginning to get bored with the residential outskirts of Dublin. Happily, I stumbled upon an inviting pub called the Bleeding Hart. The pun in the name was enough to sell me on a visit to the place, but it was charming enough that I didn’t really need a second reason beyond my growling stomach. I stepped inside and smiled. This was everything I’d always thought an Irish pub should look like. Low tables filled with friendly looking locals were everywhere. A long bar that looked like it had seen hundreds of years of drinks pushed across it dominated one side of the room. Behind it, an older, white haired man stood chatting with a patron across the bar. He was smoking a wooden pipe. In places like this, smoking bans and modern concerns went out the window. This was a place for locals and it always would be.

  I got a few stray looks as I walked in, but fortunately I fit right in here in Dublin. I had my father’s fiery red hair and fair skin – a gift he’d gotten from his mother, from the looks of her old photographs – and if it wasn’t for my accent, I was sure that I could have been taken for a local myself. I glanced at the tables but ultimately decided I’d be better off at the bar. I sat on a stool and the bartender made his way over to me, setting his pipe on the bar as he went.

  “Welcome to th’ Hart, lass, what’ll it be?” he said in a thick brogue.

  I was so enchanted with the place, that my fantasies got the better of me for a moment. “Give me a pint, and have you got any food ‘round the place?” In my head it sounded like just the thing someone would say in an Irish pub, but with my accent it was practically laughable.

  He merely smiled, and I was glad he didn’t mock me for what I knew was a poor impression of Irish manners. “I’ll see what I can find for ye,” he said and went to fetch me a pint. He set the foaming glass down in front of me and went off to the kitchen through a tall door. I took a few sips of my beer, but I knew that I should wait. Drinking a pint of beer on an empty stomach was a good way to find trouble fast.

  A few minutes later a server came up to me with a plate. It was piled high with roast beef, potatoes and cabbage. I didn’t know whether the kitchen had been humoring the American girl with a stereotypical Irish meal or if this was genuinely what was for dinner that night in the Bleeding Hart, but I was too hungry to care one way or another. I dug into my plate with abandon, drinking my beer down quickly as I went. Over the course of the meal, I ordered another beer and drank it as well. As I sat back on my stool, feeling full and comfortable, the bartender brought me my third.

  “Ye’ve quite an appetite tonight, lass. Did ye jes’ fly in, then,” he asked as my fingers curled around the frosty glass of my third pint.

  “Yes, my grandmother died recently and I inherited her house. She lived just a few minutes down the road. Brighid Flynn was her name,” I told him, before taking a long sip of beer.

  “Oh, you’re a Flynn, are ye? Terrible sad about Brighid, but she’d had a good long run of it, aye,” he said. I nodded along, taking another long sip. “Ye’ll be her granddaughter then? Catrina.”

  I nearly spit my beer across the bar at him. How had he known my name? “Er, yes,” I told him, “How’d you know?”

  “Oh, Brighid and I’ve known each other a long time. She told me plenty o’ times about her son and his daughter in the states.”

  “Honestly,” I told him, “I’d never even met her. I had no idea she even knew who I was.”

  He nodded as if he’d expected me to say it. “She found out about you when yer father died. She told me she was trying to get the gumption to write to you, but she took ill and never got around to it I suppose.”

  I found that to be so sad. Here was this lovely old woman, thousands of miles away, who had wanted to reach out to me, and never had the chance. I knew right then that I wanted to stay in Ireland. After all, what did I really have to go back to? I had a crummy apartment and a crummier job. The few friends I had were nice enough, but not enough to keep me from spending a good long time here on the Emerald Isle.

  In my contemplation I noticed that much of the pub had cleared out. I glanced at my phone and saw that it was only 8:30. It seemed a bit odd to me that the place should be so empty at this hour. Only a couple tables of older fellows remained and I was now alone at the long bar. I was just about to ask my new friend the bartender what the deal was when I heard a low rumbling in the distance outside the pub. As it grew louder, I recognized it as the unmistakable sound of motorcycles.

  The bartender scurried around behind the bar. I heard the bikes outside cut their engines and noticed that he was already pouring pints which he was lining up on the bar. I caught his eye for a moment with a confused expression. He quickly dodged my glance and went back to filling glasses. The front door of the pub swung open and they began to enter. One by one they streamed in, taking seats at the bar. Each one of the bikers was wearing a black leather jacket with a variety of patches and insignia sewn onto it. As the last of them entered he turned to close the door behind him and I caught sight of the large patch on the back of his jacket that said ‘Druids’.

  I’d never seen a real motorcycle gang before. I’d certainly seen the type in movies and television shows, but this was suddenly very real. The bunch of them were as rough looking as any crowd I’d ever seen. Their jackets were dusty and cracked from constant use. Here and there amongst them I saw scars on their hands, arms and even their
faces. This was no Hollywood imitation – this was the real thing.

  The man who had come in last walked down the length of the bar and took the first available stool. As it happened, this was the stool right next to my own. He didn’t spare me a second glance and grabbed the pint that the man to his right had pushed in front of him. I knew I must look like a deer in headlights as I stared at him. He had the rough look that they all possessed, but there was something more. He had dark hair – nearly black – that was cut short. Black stubble coated his face. His skin looked weathered but well cared for. While some of the men looked like they hadn’t bathed in a week more, he seemed to be cut from a different cloth. After he’d taken a long draw off his pint, he set it back down on the bar and began removing his fingerless gloves. Without taking his eyes off of the bar in front of him he said, “A look is free, lass, but any more and ye’ll have to buy me next pint.” He grinned without looking at me and the man to his right laughed loudly. I quickly turned away from him, blushing fiercely.

  I suddenly realized how surrounded I felt. I was at the end of the bar with only this man beside me, but the long line of Druids that led out to the door suddenly seemed like an impenetrable gauntlet. I attempted to catch the bartender’s eye again to silently ask him for some kind of advice, but he was busy at the other end of the bar, already refilling glasses for the thirstiest bikers.

  The man next to me seemed to sense my apprehension. He turned to face me with his pint glass in hand. “Oh, now don’t be afraid, lass, we’re not going to bite ye.” Somehow, he managed to turn his sly and frightening grin into a warm and inviting smile. As comforting as it was, I was still on edge and couldn’t manage to turn my head to look him fully in the face, let alone speak a word. The isolation of my current situation was suddenly becoming clear to me. Not only was I alone here in this bar with all of these dangerous looking bikers, I was alone here in Ireland. Aside from a friendly bartender and an impish banker, nobody had given me a second thought.

  The man didn’t turn his gaze from me as I hoped he might. He seemed intent on waiting as long as necessary for me to acknowledge his presence. I timidly reached across the bar and took my glass in hand. I silently willed myself to not shake as I brought it to my lips and took a long sip. I was terrified at the prospect of setting the glass down and knowing that I’d have to face him, and so I tilted my head back and finished my beer. I’d heard the term “liquid courage” before, but I’d never seen it put into action quite so dramatically.

  I closed my eyes for just a moment and then opened them again. I turned to face the man to my right. He was still smiling that same warm smile. “There she is,” he said. I could feel myself blushing again and nearly turned away, but I managed a weak smile instead.

  “Hello,” I said, almost too quiet to be heard.

  His smile widened further. “What was that?” he asked.

  I coughed slightly and then repeated myself more loudly. “Hello.”

  He cocked his head slightly to the side. “If that’s the best I can get out of ye, I must be losing me touch,” he said. He wiped his palm against his pant leg and extended his hand towards me. “Let’s do this proper. Name’s Ronan. And yourself?”

  I tried again not to shake as I tenderly placed my hand into his. His fingers and palm felt warm and powerful, as though he could crush my hand in his if he wanted to. I tore my eyes away from our hands held together and looked up into his clear, blue eyes. “Catrina,” I told him, “My name’s Catrina.”

  “Ohhh,” he said, pulling his hand back from mine, “Look here boys, we’ve got an American in the pub tonight!” There was a brief roar of laughter and cheering from the other end of the bar, but no eyes seemed to turn our way. It was clear that Ronan commanded a great deal of respect in this group. When he expected them to hang on his words, they did so. “And what’re ye doin here in Dublin, then?”

  I was momentarily unsure of how much I should tell this man. He seemed genuinely interested and kind enough, but these were bikers. They were outlaws. They were dangerous men, and I was alone here in Ireland with a new home to take care of. Still, in the face of his cool stare and roguish smile, my imagination failed me. I could barely recall the details of the true story for my visit to Dublin, let alone concoct something out of thin air. I decided that I wouldn’t give him too much information about myself, but that a vague story was fine. “My grandmother died. I’m taking care of her affairs,” I told him in a steady voice.

  “I’m sorry, lass. If I’d have known ye were in mourning, I’d not have disturbed ye, honest,” he said. I couldn’t tell whether he was putting me on or not. He kept his solemn expression a moment longer before his grin broke through once again. “Let me buy you a pint to make it square,” he said.

  “Oh, no, really,” I told him, covering my empty glass with my palm, “it’s alright. I… I should probably just be getting home.”

  “I insist. You’re a visitor, and any good Irishman would never send of a visitor without a drink,” he said.

  “Really, I should be going,” I kept myself on course, unwavering.

  “Now, Catrina,” he said. My blood simultaneously froze and boiled when I heard him speak my name. He was clearly dangerous, but he was also incredibly handsome. He was, without a doubt, the most exciting man I’d ever met. “I canne let ye walk away without one more pint.” He held up his hand and, without a word, the bartender appeared in front of us at the bar. “Bernard, pour the young lady another pint.” The bartender snatched my glass off the bar and began filling it from the tap without even glancing at me to see if I was a willing participant to this display. He set the beer down on the bar before me. My eyes were still fixed on Ronan’s. Maybe it was the drinks I’d already had, but something about this man was irresistible. In retrospect, I can’t believe I had managed to deny his charms – and the drink – for as long as I did.

  I broke my gaze from his and set about drinking my fresh pint. I knew I was already in too deep. I couldn’t walk away now as perhaps I should have the moment I heard the bikes in the distance. Ronan finally turned away from me and faced the bar, sipping at his own beer. I was glad to finally not have his eyes on me, if only for a moment. When he looked at me, I felt penetrated by his stare. It was as though he could see through every word I spoke and divine the true meaning. Every irresponsible urge in my body was bare to him. When he looked at me, he could see desires that I couldn’t even consciously admit to myself.

  He turned back to me suddenly with his pint in hand. “What was old gran’s name?” he asked. I was taken aback for a moment. I was so flustered by his presence that I could barely recall my own grandmother’s name. Finally I shook my head and looked at him.

  “Her name was Brighid Flynn,” I told him.

  He raised his glass towards me and said, “To Brighid, then.”

  I clinked my glass against his and took a long drink, never taking my eyes off of him. He pulled the glass away from his lips and set it on the bar. “May she be in a better place than this.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I told him, “I actually like this pub quite a bit.”

  He smiled, perhaps realizing that he’d finally found a way to drag me into a real conversation. The beer was having its effect on me and my tongue was looser than it had been before. “Th’ Bleeding Hart is a fine enough place if ye want to sip swill and dine on last week’s roast, I suppose.” The bartender, whose back was to us as he polished glasses against the rear wall of the pub, made a hoarse sound. “Oh, I’m just foolin’, Bernard,” he said in the bartender’s direction, “Ye know I love the old place.” Bernard dismissively waved over his shoulder.

  “Truth is, Cat,” he said, sending another shiver through my body, “Me and my boys pass through here often enough, and we’re always glad for a little of ol’ Bernard’s hospitality – and the new acquaintances we make on every trip.”

  I smiled without saying anything. Ronan knew how to lay it on thick
, but I was buying everything he was selling. With every compliment dripping with Irish charm, I could feel myself warming to him. I didn’t know whether he was this way with all the girls he met in bars or if we shared a genuine connection that made me feel this way about him. The truth was that I didn’t care. I knew what kind of man he was and what kind of life he lived. I had little doubt that he’d put the same charming moves on hundreds of Irish girls and no shortage of visiting Americans as well. That didn’t make him any less magnetic.

  “Where’re ye from then, Cat?” he asked, trying to draw me further into conversation. At this point my resistance was completely worn away.

  “Baltimore, born and raised,” I said proudly. Baltimore wasn’t a place many people were happy to claim as their own, but it was the only home I ever had.

  “Ye may’ve been born to Baltimore, but there’s no doubtin’ ye’ve got a taste of Ireland in ye,” he said before reaching out and grasping a small lock of my long, fiery hair. I smiled back at him. His flirtations were becoming more bold and I felt like I was putty in his hands.

  “Oh, yes,” I said, “I’m a Flynn just like my grandmother. Never been here before today, but I love it.”

  “Glad to hear it,” he said, “This island’s been known to enchant plenty o’er the years, but it’s got a dark side as well. It’s good that ye’ve found it to yer liking. Still, there’s more to this land than the pit of wankers that is our fair Dublin.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Oh really,” I said, taking another drink of my beer, “And what’s better than dear old Dublin?”

  He smiled as if my question had set him back on his heels. I don’t think he was prepared for me to try to engage him quite as ardently as he had tried to engage me. “Well,” he said, “They don’t call it the Emerald Isle because all her sons and daughters are covered in jewels.” As he said the last he flashed him hands at me, front and back, showing off his lack of jewelry. “I noticed ye’ve not got so much as a bauble on ye, either,” he said with a wink.