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yer gob,” Riley said. “You can’t carve like that. You’re just a baby.”

      Danny’s eyes narrowed. “I’m eight years old.”

      “Prove it,” Riley challenged. “Prove you carved that.”

      “I don’t have to do anything you tell me,” Danny said. “You’re not my da, so feck off, the both of you.”

      “Maybe he did,” Kellan said. “He’s a clever little shite. After all, he found this place, didn’t he?”

      “I did,” Danny insisted. “And I’ll show you.” Plopping down on the sand, he opened his rucksack and began to pull out all the carvings he’d done in the past few months. His collection was always changing—some he kept, some he gave to school chums and some he threw into the sea when they looked too crude against the others.

      Riley and Kellan watched him, silently, suspiciously. But as his menagerie of animals and insects and mythic creatures grew, they leaned in more closely. “Will you look at that,” Kellan murmured. He reached out and picked up a beetle that Danny was particularly proud of, carved out of a palm-sized piece of driftwood. “How do you do this?”

      “I have to find a good piece of wood first,” Danny explained. “Then I stare at it for a while, and pretty soon I see what I want to carve. Then, I just take away everything that isn’t the beetle. My teacher says that’s how the great sculptors do it.”

      “Look at this,” Riley said, grabbing a dinosaur. “He’s even got the spikes on the tail.”

      They sat down on either side of him and examined all of Danny’s carvings, their comments filled with awe and respect for his talents. This was the first time in his whole life that his brothers had taken him seriously. Usually, they just ignored him and left him behind. But now, he could do something they couldn’t. And that was like gold.

      “Would you like one, then?” Danny asked.

      His brothers looked at each other. “We can have one?”

      “Sure,” he said. “Any one you like.”

      “Can ya make me something?” Kellan asked.

      Danny nodded. “I can. If you find a picture, I can carve it.” He rummaged in his rucksack until he found the photo he’d torn out of a magazine. “I’m going to make this troll for Ma’s garden, for her birthday, but I have to find a big piece of wood.”

      “We’ll help you find one,” Riley said. “There’s got to be a good piece around here somewhere.”

      He and his brothers searched the beach for a long time, climbing over the rocks and talking about Danny’s carvings. It was the best day of Danny’s whole life, better than any day he could remember. Somehow, he knew things had changed, that he was someone important to Riley and Kellan now. The duo was now a trio.

      “I can show you something else,” Danny offered. “It’s a secret and you can’t tell Da or Ma or they’ll take the strap to us all. And you can’t tell anyone else. None of your friends. It has to be for Quinn brothers only.”

      “We swear,” Kellan said.

      “You have to make a blood oath,” Danny said. He opened his pocketknife and held out his hand. Without flinching, he cut the tip of his index finger, then handed the knife to Riley. “Do it,” he said. “Or I won’t tell you.”

      Reluctantly, both Kellan and Riley cut their fingers, then let the blood drip onto their palms. Then the three brothers grasped hands, mingling their blood. Riley grinned at Kellan. “He’s a brave little bugger, isn’t he?”

      “Let’s see it,” Kellan said, drawing his hand away.

      “It’s a cave,” Danny said. “In the cliff. It’s deep and I didn’t go all the way in because the tide comes up into the opening. But I think that smugglers might have used it.” He pulled a tiny flashlight out of his jacket pocket and turned it on. “We’ve only got an hour before the tide starts coming in. We’ll have to hurry.”

      “Are you sure we should do this?” Riley said. “What if it’s dangerous?”

      Danny gave him a look. “If you’re afraid, you can stay on the beach.”

      As he walked across the sand to the rocky outcropping, Danny smiled to himself. Though he was only eight, he felt like a full-grown man. Maybe now, he’d have enough courage to talk to Evelyn Maltby.

       1

      “SO THIS IS BALLYKIRK,” Jordan Kennally murmured to herself, peering through the windshield of her car at the picturesque village below.

      She’d been in Ireland for nearly sixteen months now, working as the project manager on the Castle Cnoc renovation. And though she’d seen a lot of the countryside, she was still amazed at how every sight managed to look exactly like some picture-postcard. Ireland was nothing if not quaint.

      She glanced at the clock on the dash, then calculated the time it would take her to find Danny Quinn, discuss their business and get back to the castle. She wasn’t used to chasing around the countryside looking for workers, but she’d been told that Danny Quinn was the best. And Jordan needed the best.

      She steered her car down the winding road that led into Ballykirk, following the carefully drawn map that Kellan Quinn had provided. The town was like so many others along the coast of County Cork—a pretty collection of colorful buildings set against a stunning landscape, this time the blue waters of Bantry Bay.

      When her father had assigned her the project at Castle Cnoc, she’d looked at it as both punishment and reward. It was her first project as manager, solely in charge of a five-million-dollar budget and pleasing one of her father’s wealthy clients. It was also a way of putting her firmly into her place at Kencor.

      She’d been doggedly scratching her way up the corporate ladder of her family’s multimillion dollar real estate development firm, working hard to carve out a place for herself. But with four equally driven and talented older brothers above her on the ladder, just the process of getting noticed was impossible.

      She’d begged for good projects to manage, but had always been given a secondary role, usually as the interior designer, for projects that her brothers headed. She’d been sent to Ireland to oversee the restoration of a once grand manor house and castle keep, because no one else could be bothered to come. They were all too busy with hotels and shopping malls and office towers.

      “Whistler Cottage.” No street, no number, just a name. Jordan studied the map. “Behind the bakery and up the hill to the blue cottage,” she read. The bakery was easy enough to find and when she did, Jordan parked her car, grabbed her bag and jumped out of the vehicle.

      There were blacksmiths scattered all over Ireland, their skills ranging from amateur to competent artisan. But Danny Quinn was known as one of the best ornamental blacksmiths in the country, a true artist, and she intended to hire him for her project.

      His brother, Kellan, had served as the architect on the Castle Cnoc restoration and Jordan had assumed that Danny would jump at a big-budget job so close to home. But he hadn’t returned any of her calls. So Jordan had decided to force the issue. She needed an answer, one way or another, or she’d be put off schedule.

      The pressure to bring the job in on time and under budget was immense. If she did, her father wouldn’t be able to ignore her anymore. The next logical step would be the boutique hotel they were developing in SoHo and after that, progressively larger projects. They wouldn’t think of her as the company “decorator” anymore.

      Jordan cursed softly. They all looked at her like some swatch-wielding cream puff, unable to exert any power with the mostly male contractors on the job sites. Maybe she didn’t curse and throw tantrums and berate the workers, but that didn’t mean she didn’t get the job done. Jordan had always preferred a quiet confidence

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