“I’m a stranger,” Ryan pointed out. He scowled at her. “Don’t you know you should never accept a ride with a stranger?”
Father Francis chuckled. “I think she can take the word of the priest that you’re a positive gentleman. As for the rest, Ryan Devaney, this is…?” He glanced at the young woman and waited.
“Maggie O’Brien,” she said.
A beaming smile spread across the priest’s face. “Ah, a fine Irish lass, is it? Ryan, you can’t possibly think of turning down a fellow countryman.”
Ryan suspected Maggie had spent even less time in the Emerald Isle than he had on his ventures to learn the art of running a successful Irish pub. She sounded very much like a Boston native.
“I think we can probably agree that Ms. O’Brien and I are, indeed, fellow Americans,” he said wryly.
“But you carry the blood of your Irish ancestors,” the priest insisted. “And a true and loyal Irishman never forgets his roots.”
“Whatever,” Ryan replied, knowing that for the second time tonight he might as well give in to the inevitable. “Ms. O’Brien, I’ll be happy to give you a lift if you can wait till I close in an hour. In the meantime I’ll give you the keys to my car. You can transfer all that food you’re carrying to it.” He shot a pointed look at the priest. “Father Francis will be happy to help, won’t you, Father?”
“It will be my pleasure,” the priest said, bouncing to his feet with more alacrity than he’d shown in the past ten years.
“Ms. O’Brien,” Ryan called after them as they headed for the door. “Whatever you do, don’t listen to a word he says about me.”
“I always sing your praises,” Father Francis retorted with a hint of indignation. “By the time I’ve said my piece, she’ll be thinking you were sent here by angels.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” Ryan said. For some reason he had a very bad feeling about this Maggie O’Brien getting the idea, even for a second, that he was any sort of saint.
“I’m not sure Mr. Devaney is very happy about doing this,” Maggie said to Father Francis as they transferred her belongings from her car to Ryan Devaney’s. She considered leaving the things in the trunk behind, but snow was just starting to fall, the flakes fat and wet. If it kept up as predicted, it was going to make a mess of the roads in no time. There was no telling how long it might be before she’d be able to come back for the car.
“You mustn’t mind a thing he says,” the priest said. “Ryan’s a good lad, but he’s been in a bit of a rut. He works much too hard. An unexpected drive with a pretty girl is just what he needs.”
It was an interesting spin, Maggie thought, concluding that the priest was doing a bit of matchmaking. She had to wonder, though, why a man like Ryan Devaney would need anyone at all to intercede with women on his behalf. With those clear blue eyes, thick black hair and a dimple in his chin, he had the look of the kind of Irish scoundrel who’d been born to tempt females. Maggie had noticed more than one disappointed look when he’d turned his attention to her at the bar. Come to think of it, quite a few of his customers had been women, in groups and all alone. She wondered how many of them were drawn to the pub by the attractiveness and availability of its owner. Then again, there had been clusters of well-dressed young men around as well, so perhaps they’d been the lure for the women.
“Has Ryan’s Place been around a long time?” she asked Father Francis.
“It will be nine years come St. Patrick’s Day,” he told her.
Maggie was surprised. With its worn wood, gleaming brass fixtures and antique advertising signs for Irish whisky and ales, it had the look of a place that had been in business for generations.
The priest grinned at her. “Ah, I see you’re surprised. Ryan would be pleased by that. He spent six months in Ireland gathering treasures to give the pub a hint of age. When he makes up his mind to do something, there’s nothing halfway about it.” He gave her a canny look. “In my opinion, he’ll be the same way once he sets his sights on a woman.”
Despite the fact that she’d spent less than a half hour with Ryan Devaney, Maggie couldn’t deny that she was curious. “He’s never been married?”
“No, and it’s a sad thing,” the priest said. “He says he doesn’t believe in love.”
He said it with such exaggerated sorrow that Maggie almost laughed. “Now why is that?” she asked instead. “Did he have a relationship that ended badly?”
“Aye, but not like you’re thinking. It was his parents. They went off and abandoned him when he was just a wee lad.”
“How horrible,” Maggie said, instantly sympathetic, which, she suspected, was precisely the reaction the sneaky old man was going for. “He’s never been in touch with them again?”
“Never. Despite that and some troubled years, he’s grown into a fine man. You won’t find a better, more loyal friend than Ryan Devaney.”
“How long have you known him?”
“It’s been seventeen years now.”
Maggie regarded him intently. “Something tells me there’s a story there.”
“Aye, but I think I’ll let Ryan be the one to tell you in his own time.” He met her gaze. “Would you mind a bit of advice from a stranger?”
“From you, Father? Of course not.”
“Ryan’s a bit like a fine wine. He can’t be rushed, if you want the best from him.”
Maggie laughed. “Father, your advice is a bit premature. I’ve just met the man. He’s giving me a lift home—under pressure from you, I might add. I don’t think we can make too much of that.”
“Don’t be so quick to shatter an old man’s dream, or to dismiss the notion of destiny,” the priest chided. “Something tells me that destiny has
