In Love and War

By Suzanne Barrett

Embittered war correspondent Quinn Lawlor returns to his ancestral home in Ireland where he finds solace in the arms of Waterford dairy farmer Meaghann Power, while Meaghann must separate her daytime life as farmer and daughter of Irish rebels from nights of blazing desire for the one man she shouldn't love. Will their passion prove strong enough to overcome a decades-old bitter struggle?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzanne Barrett
• Release date: Feb 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889555186

Suzanne Barrett

Following a career in engineering, Suzanne has returned to her first love of writing and literature. Born in Southern California, Suzanne, along with her husband and a loving tuxedo cat, make their home in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Suzanne is also a jewelry designer, and her wirework has been shown at various arts and wine events throughout the county. When she’s not writing, Suzanne loves to garden.Her books have been published by Kensington Books and Turquoise Morning Press. Sierra Bride is Suzanne’s first published historical and is set near the eastern slope of the Sierras where she spent an enjoyable part of her childhood collecting rocks and riding horses. Late Harvest, a story about winemaking, was a two-time Golden Heart finalist for Romance Writers of America. In Love and War is set in Suzanne's favorite part of Ireland, County Cork and tells of the decades-old conflict between Irish Republicans and the Free State. Taming Rowan draws on Suzanne's career in engineering and is set in another favored location, Northern England.

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In Love and War

By

Suzanne Barrett

In Love and War

Copyright © 2011, 2023

Barrett, Suzanne

Media > Books > Fiction > Romance Novels

Category/Tags: romance, contemporary, Ireland, politics

Digital ISBN: 979-8-88955-518-6

Digital release: January 2011, February 2023

Revised and Re-edited

Edited by Suzanne Barrett

Cover Design by Nancy Fraser

Trade Paperback Printing as In Love and War: August 2012

Original Electronic Release as In Love and War: August 2012

All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden.

This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

This edition is published by agreement with Barrett Enterprises, 137 Rustic Lane, Santa Cruz, CA 95060, Santa Cruz, CA 95060.

Dedication

For Sean Barrett, the son I wasn’t supposed to have

Honey, this one’s for you.

Acknowledgments

Heartfelt acknowledgments to best bud and critique partner Carolyn Woolston.

Reviews

A wonderful creative writing style…so easy to visualize the settings and characters with such raw intensity. I highly recommend IN LOVE AND WAR to anyone who loves a well-written and thought-provoking story, complex characters, and powerful emotions.

~Carole, The Romance Reviews

TAMING ROWAN

A rich, strong romance to please any true contemporary romance fan.

~MSReads, Martha’s Reviews

A totally sexy read with charming characters that will keep you glued to every page…a great romance that you won’t want to put down. If I have my way, I’ll be reading much, much more from Ms. Barrett!

~Night Owl Reviews

AN IRISH ROGUE

Suzanne Barrett writes a book so good it stays with you long after you’ve finished the final page.

~Lynna Banning, Harlequin Historicals author

GIFT OF THE HEART

I fell in love with her writing style…have added Suzanne Barrett to my must-read authors list for future releases.

~Booked Up Reviews

PROLOGUE

1993 - A village near Mostar, Bosnia

Quinn propped his lanky frame in the fork of a gnarled oak, scant shield from the icy March winds whipping off Mt. Plo to the southwest. Below him lay a battered Muslim hamlet shrouded in darkness, lit occasionally by bursts of mortar fire. The low hum of voices rose and fell from the Serb encampment at the base of the mountain where three journalists, himself the lone American, watched the Serb platoon position their artillery toward a remnant of Bosnian Muslims holed up in a rocky canyon. For the Muslims, it meant certain annihilation. And still they fought.

Quinn rubbed his frozen fingers. Damn fools, the lot of them. Killing each other for God knew what. Freedom? Honor? Religion? It beat the hell out of him.

All he knew for certain was that he'd spent too damn long in countries where hatred swept human decency out the door. Even in Ireland, his ancestral home, the country reeled under the siege of a bloody war, only in Ireland it was Protestants and Catholics rather than Muslims and Christians.

He reached into the breast pocket of his camo jacket for the tiny flask, tipped it upward to his lips, and let the last mouthful of slivowitz sear his raw throat. What the hell difference did it make, they all worshipped the same God, didn't they?

A piercing whistle forced his gaze skyward. From the canyon, blue-white light streaked across the sky, followed by gunfire. The acrid stench of sulphur permeated the air. One-oh-five millimeter, if he read the blast correctly. Jesus, the bastards had begun an offensive. Nearly surrounded, and hideously outnumbered, and still the Muslim rebels refused to give in.

This was it. He capped the empty flask, pushed it into the right-hand waist pocket and tore out his mini recorder. Howitzer fire belched from the mountain; bullets cracked over his head. He placed the tape recorder inches from his mouth to offset the explosive scream of artillery.

It appears the Muslims have decided to take the offensive even though—

Gunfire to his left cut him off in mid-sentence, then he heard soldiers running toward him in the copse beyond.

Fall back! a voice shouted in Croatian. Clear the area.

Quinn jammed the recorder in his side pocket, calculated the distance between himself and the retreating soldiers, then dropped out of the tree.

The earth erupted in front of him, raining pebbles and dirt onto his head and shoulders. He hit the ground and crouched behind the thick tree trunk. Too late for an escape. He ducked for cover.

The sky lit up like Fourth of July, and the ground trembled beneath him.

A mortar blast deafened him, then fire shot through his temple. He grabbed his cheek.

Blood streamed through his fingers. Nausea swept over him, and he pitched forward.

Another blast and pain exploded through his leg. The earth spun, then blackness enveloped him.

***

Serb?

No, sir, the medic answered in a heavy Scots accent. This man's one of yours, and he's still alive. Just.

The medic flicked his gaze over the wounded man, then turned away. Hardly recognize ‘im.

His companion took a closer look, then swore. Poor bastard.

Chapter 1

Timnagh, County Waterford - 1993

Well, my girl, you’ve done it, now! Brid O’Donnell’s efficient voice sliced through the stillness inside the cheese barn, sharp as a knife through curd.

Meaghann Power straightened, wiped milk-spattered palms on her white apron, and turned to face her aunt. No secret remained long in the village, but the speed with which this particular news had traveled surprised even her. "What have I done, Aunt Brid?" she began.

Arms akimbo, the stout middle-aged woman loomed in the open doorway in a dripping yellow mackintosh. She smoothed wisps of rain-dampened hair from her eyes as moisture pooled beneath her on the barn’s concrete floor. Aunt Brid’s usually set features tightened into a disapproving frown. Outside the barn door, Ireland’s continual rain misted the hillside and ran in rivulets, forming a lake in the driveway.

Meaghann plunged her hands into the sink’s soapy water and groped for the wooden paddle floating on the surface. Please God, not another lecture. She drained the suds and refilled the sink, staring at her work-roughened hands. A paraffin heater in the corner hissed as a drop of water landed on its black enameled surface. Above her a string of incandescent bulbs cast a golden glow over the paint-peeled ivory walls.

Done? the older woman snapped. You invite a single man to live with you, then act as if it’s nothing! Brid’s voice rose several decibels. The decent people of the parish won’t be seeing it that way, and neither do I. It’s not seemly for a single woman and a strange man to be livin’ together, Brid clucked. "This sort of carry-on may happen in Dublin, but not in Timnagh. And not in my own family." She punctuated her remark with an irate shake of her head.

Caught by a gust of wind, the door behind Brid creaked on its hinges, and Meaghann stepped to the threshold and wrenched it closed. Only then did she face her aunt. We won’t be ‘living together’. He’s renting the keep. And he’s not a stranger. The Lawlors came from the village.

Brid gave a humph, then moved to the dusty corner where the heater glowed. Hardly! They left thirty-five years ago. Besides, you know nothing about him. If you’d come to your senses and take Seamus, you’d not be struggling to run this farm by yourself.

Meaghann stiffened her jaw. Didn’t she have the devil’s own troubles trying to keep the place from falling to bits around her without her aunt determined to foist onto her every available man under seventy? With a sigh, she lifted the washed utensils from the sink onto a towel. Aunt Brid, the truth of the matter is, I don’t want to marry Seamus. I— She paused, not waiting to give thought to her reluctance, then plunged on. I ... don’t want to marry anyone—least of all Seamus.

She’d wanted to marry once, but that was a long time ago. Then she could afford to dream, now.... Her jaw tightened and she picked up another utensil. Now there was just today, and an endless stream of work, which never quite got done.

Brid’s heavy arms crisscrossed her ample bosom. Ginger brows furrowed as she spoke. The way I see it, you’ve little choice. I hate to remind you, but you’re growin’ no younger. Seamus is a good man, and a fine farmer.

Meaghann whirled around, her hand wielding a three-foot paddle like a sword. Seamus McHenry is fifty-seven years old!

Brid snorted. Don’t see as how you can afford to be choosey, girl. You’re goin’ on for forty yourself.

How well she knew. Noisily, Meaghann expelled her breath, at this point not caring if her frustration carried over in her voice. You’ve been at this for the last three years. Give it up. Seamus doesn’t want a wife—he wants a mother for that brood of his. Five young ones and little Cara not out of nappies.

Meaghann turned her back on her aunt and plunged the still-damp wooden paddle into the milk curd. She gave the curds another swirl, then, satisfied the culture was working, set the paddle on a plate. I’m managing just fine, Aunt Brid. I don’t need a husband to help me run my farm.

Bold words, she thought as she pushed the ribbed cuffs of her cardigan up her forearms. Fact was, she needed help in the worst way. If Bridget knew, she’d have Seamus McHenry standing on the doorstep within the hour. And that Meaghann could not tolerate. The image of the balding widower rose, and she slammed the stainless steel lid back onto her vat of cheese. Desperate, she was, for an able-bodied worker, but not that desperate.

Jack Power’s daughter wasn’t one to crumble under a little adversity when keeping her farm meant everything—security, a sense of place—of continuity. She’d grown up here in Timnagh, seeing the cycle of life repeat itself again and again. She loved the welcoming acceptance a small, close-knit community offered, as well as the chance to grow old with those you loved. But there were times when the load she carried threatened to crush her.

She strode toward the wooden door and swung it open for her aunt.

Outside, the rain had stopped. Pungent leaf mold and wet meadow grass perfumed the air, and tiny water droplets glistened on the tree bark. Meaghann walked her aunt to the bicycle propped against the building, carefully skirting the sea of mud in what normally was her driveway. Even as the older woman eased her plump derriere onto the bicycle, she fired another salvo. When Father Donovan hears what you’ve done, if he hasn’t already, he’ll be askin’ you to leave the Altar Society. That’d shame us, y’know. Did you think of that? Not waiting for an answer, her aunt pedaled down the muddy lane to the road and turned left toward the village.

Meaghann watched until Brid faded from view. Maybe three hundred acres and seventy-five of the best dairy Frisian Holsteins in County Waterford had proved too much for her father, but she was made of stronger stuff. The farm was hers. And now, with success just on the horizon, she had to keep on. Hadn’t she run the farm alone since her brother Declan had gone off to school in Dublin nine years earlier? She’d counted on him to share the responsibility, but after graduation Declan would have none of it. He’d had a teaching position in Rathmines until politics got in his blood. Even after their father’s stroke, he’d stayed away. Now he shared a house in Waterford City with two men she didn’t know, and he rarely came home unless it was to beg a favor.

But never mind. In two weeks, she would have a boarder, someone to help with the chores. And with his rent, she could hire the Foley twins full time.

Two weeks earlier, at dinner, her uncle had told her about the Lawlors. While Brid dished up dessert in the kitchen, Tom O’Donnell’s expression had turned thoughtful. Pat Lawlor says his son Quinn from America wants a quiet place where he won’t be disturbed. Wants to write a book. Fine lad—great hunk of a fellow if my memory serves me right. He’d be a help to ye. And he can afford to pay well for a place. Her uncle cocked an ear toward the kitchen and continued. I’m thinkin’ the old keep on your property would be a fine spot for him. It’s fixed up—only needs a little cleanin’. He’d be out of your hair, so to speak and— A smile curved her uncle’s mouth. —So would Seamus. I’m thinkin’ with rent money comin’ in, you could afford to hire someone to give you a hand. And with the lad there full time— Tom chuckled. It would be right discouragin’ to old McHenry.

She had to admit Tom had a point. She’d never given a thought about the old keep. Once the home of a nobleman associated with the Butler family, the house had long since disappeared. Only the turreted keep remained, its stones green with moss. She and Declan played there as children, before her father modernized it for her grandfather who had lived there until his death. It would make an ideal rental if one didn’t mind stone floors and no central heat. And her renter could be some help to her on the farm. For starters, fences needed mending, and the house surely could use a coat of paint, not to mention new window glazing....

Yes, her keep would make a fine rental. She didn’t care what Aunt Brid or Father Donovan said.

***

Meaghann squared her shoulders under the loose knitted cardigan, grabbed a tea towel and dried the knife and enameled spoons she had just washed. Finished, she plunged a long-handled paddle into a vat of curd and drew it slowly back and forth. Another day of cheesemaking. Unseasonably warm for May, the heat inside the low-ceilinged room intensified the smell of yeast and the pungent, slightly sour aroma of cheeses aging on wooden shelves in the storeroom next door.

At the end of the vat, the Foley twins, her youthful part-time helpers, worked—one inserting wooden followers into each perforated cheese mold, the other placing the filled molds, end-on-end, into a press. They’d been at it since six this morning with only a lunchtime break. Now the clock on the yellowed wall read three o’clock. Another half hour and they’d be finished for the day.

Meaghann straightened, her back stiff. Moisture beaded her forehead, and she brushed away the dampness with the frayed sleeve of her sweater. Beneath a white apron, her cotton shirt clung damply to her skin. After this and the milking, she’d allow herself the luxury of a soak in the tub. The thought of warm water lapping over aching muscles brought a tired smile.

A vehicle clattered up the drive and Meaghann turned to look. Gerry Delaney’s white van slowed to a stop in front of her house. Now, what was the vet doing here today? Her cows were the picture of health, all their inoculations up to date.

The diminutive vet skipped around to the passenger side and opened the door. A jean-clad man swung a long leg over the side and lowered himself to the ground, then reached inside the vehicle. He said something to Gerry, turned, and made his way slowly along the shady path toward the cheese barn.

Surely not another official from the Milk Council? Meaghann glanced at him, noting his awkward progress. She set the paddle aside and stepped to the door, sneaking a furtive look at herself in the mirror as she retied the apron around her slim waist.

She frowned at her reflection. Her russet hair hung in an unkempt braid down her back, and several flyaway tendrils escaped in disarray around her face. Perspiration soaked the underarms of her faded work shirt, thankfully hidden under the cardigan. Oh, well, one could not expect to look one’s best after nine hours of back-breaking work in that oven of a room. She smoothed her hands over her milk-splotched apron and stepped into the daylight.

When Gerry hauled suitcases from inside his van, realization dawned. This was her boarder! He’d come a week early.

Her gaze took in the length of him. Goodness but he was tall. A bit too much on the lean side, but with broad shoulders, apparent even under his black turtleneck. The pushed-up sleeves revealed bronzed forearms. As he stepped from the shade of a tall beech, the late May sun glinted on a brow-skimming shock of chestnut hair. He walked unsteadily across the rough cobbles, his left leg pulled stiffly behind, and his hand clenched around the head of a cane.

A cane? Meaghann’s heart plummeted. He was crippled.

He halted. He gripped the cane with both hands, knuckles whitening as he took in his surroundings. Spotting her, he plodded along the uneven path toward the barn.

Meaghann grimaced. Damn. She’d been so eager for help she’d never questioned whether her renter was able to work. This man obviously was not. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. Well, she had no choice now; she’d have to make the best of it. At least he was a paying boarder.

Meaghann swallowed her disappointment and stepped forward. Mr. Lawlor is it? Welcome to— She halted mid-sentence as the man looked up. Penetrating eyes, the color of green moss, stared at her from beneath straight brows a shade darker than the reddish-brown, windblown hair which swept across his smooth forehead. The gaze boring into hers showed neither friendliness nor greeting. An angry scar slashed from left temple to cheekbone, the skin around it shiny and puckered. A knife wound. Her heart skipped a beat. Was he dangerous? She forced her gaze back to Lawlor’s.

Not handsome, but arresting, despite the disfiguring scar.

She attempted a smile and tried again. Welcome to Ireland, Mr. Lawlor. I’ll be finished in a moment, and I’ll show you to your rooms.

Gerry Delaney dropped the last of the suitcases on the walk. I’ve left his bags here.

That’s good of you, Gerry. Her gaze took in the mound of tan canvas and sacks of groceries. Lawlor must have stopped at the market next door to Gerry’s surgery and got a lift from the obliging doctor.

The vet swept a hand toward the massive stone ruin on the hillside between her house and the river. I’d take them on across, but I’ve a call at the Doyles’. Old Blossom has a nasty case of mastitis.

Meaghann nodded. Then you should be on your way.

"Right. Nice to have met you,