CHAPTER ONE
IF THERE WAS ANY correlation between bad luck with
men and a poor sense of direction， Kate Neeson
thought it might explain a whole lot about her life.
She was lost. Again. She turned off the ignition and
peered gloomily through the window of the rented
Peugeot at the unfamiliar Irish countryside. Isolated
cottages， stunted windswept trees and stone walls.
Endless stone walls. Around the twists and turns of
the road， she d caught glimpses of pale ocean merg-
ing into pale sky. Before the road started climbing
again， she d heard the low roar of waves breaking.
On the coast， obviously， but in Ireland that wasn t
much help.
With a sigh， she reached for the map and spread it
out over the passenger seat. Cragg s Head， the village
where she d arranged to meet a local reporter， was
barely more than a dot on Connemara s ragged coast.
She d set up the meeting before she left the States，
but had forgotten to ask him for directions. Jet-lagged
and cold， she rubbed her eyes. On the map， the area
looked like a piece of china， picked up and hurled to
the ground in a tantrum.
Momadh had fallen from Connemara s steep cliffs
nearly a year ago. Kate tucked her hands under her
arms， chilled by the damp air seeping into the car.
Moruadh， the young Irish folksinger whose songs of
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