Free Falling, Book 1 of the Irish End Games

  Chapter One

  Mike Donovan looked up from the drawings in front of him on the makeshift wooden desk, his reading glasses perched on his long, very un-Irish nose. His sister, Fiona stood in the opening of the lean-to, an empty cook pot resting on one hip, watching him. He sighed and removed his glasses, tossing them down on the desk.

  “We’ve got a problem,” she said, pursing her lips as if she’d just tasted a lemon.

  “Whatever it is, Fi,” he said, “couldn’t you have softened the blow with a cuppa?”

  “It’s Gavin,” Fi said, jerking her head to indicate the direction of Mike’s son. “And young John.”

  He looked up with interest. “John?” he said, frowning. “What trouble has Gavin gotten the boy into now?”

  Gavin was a good lad, and immensely helpful as an extra hand, but he lacked the judgment that would enable any sane body to call him mature. The fact that he had taken Sarah’s boy, John, under his wing as the little brother he never had was rarely to anyone’s benefit.

  “Their roughhousing knocked the chicken stew in the dirt. It’s only fit for the hogs now.”

  “None of it could be saved?” Mike stood up. Wasting food was a serious offence. Probably would have been even before The Crisis, but now it could mean the difference between life and death. And there were none of them that didn’t know that to the very marrow of their bones. “Where are they?”

  “Waiting for you. In the barn.”

  “Shite.” Mike stood to his full height then ducked to avoid hitting the short lean-to’s ceiling. His hand rested on the belt around his waist.

  “You’ll not beat them?” Fiona asked. She stepped out of his way, as if half expecting him to bowl her over in his eagerness to reprimand the boys.

  “Gavin’s too old,” he said tiredly. He glanced at his sister, whose eyes snapped with irritation over the ruined stew.

  “And little John?” she said. She stared him down, challenging him. He knew what she was thinking. Sarah’s boy. You wouldn’t dare.

  “Tell Gavin to take the night watch on the south pasture,” he said. He knew he had to send him mounted. No sense in sending the daft bugger on foot—although Mike was sorely tempted to do it—in case he needed to sound the alarm. “But he’s wasted enough food for one day. He can do it on an empty stomach.”

  “And John?” Fiona repeated, more gently this time.

  “He knows what’s coming,” Mike said gruffly. “Tell Gavin to go. I’ll be on my way directly.” He could see his answer satisfied her, which annoyed him. “And maybe you can find something in the way of replacing the meal we’ll be needing in a few hours?” he added acerbically.

  She nodded and hurried off toward the barn.

  Shite. Mike took a moment to look over the edge of the camp to where David and Sarah’s cottage sat. He hated that they refused to join the community. But they let John come as much as they could spare him. And they knew the rules as well as he did. Even so, he didn’t relish telling the American soccer mom, who only countenanced “time-outs” and lengthy written exercises as punishments, that he was about to beat the pants off her boy with a leather belt.