“McCleary.”

“McCleary, is it? My mother, she married a James McCleary, and lost him in the Second Great War. He left her a widow and a babe in her belly—and that would be me brother Jimmy. She married my own father some three years later, but we’ve McCleary relations. Do you have people here, Doyle McCleary?”

“Possibly.”

He pointed a long, bony finger. “I can hear some of the Clare under the Yank. And you, the famous Dr. Gwin.”

“A mongrel, like Rory, but with some of the roots in Galway and Kerry.”

“Mongrels, I find, are the smartest and most adaptable. And how long do you plan to be staying in Ireland?”

As she knew the country need for conversation, Riley stood hipshot and relaxed with the dog leaning companionably against her leg. “Hard to say, but we’re enjoying the time. We’re on the coast, staying with a friend. Bran Killian.”

Liam’s eyebrows shot up. “Friends with the Killian, are you? An interesting lad—a magician, it seems. Rumors abound.”

“I’m sure he enjoys that.”

“Quite the place he has on the cliff, I’m told, and built on what was, long ago, McCleary land. Are you connected there, Doyle?”

“Possibly.”

“Doyle’s not as keen on digging up the origins as I am,” Riley said easily. “You’re an O’Dea, an old name, and a prominent one. It’s likely your father’s people lived in Clare, maybe in the villages that carried your name. Dysert O’Dea, Tully O’Dea. The old name was O’Deaghaidh, and means searcher, likely a nod to your clan’s holy men. You lost a lot of land in the rebellions of the seventeenth century.”

“Sure Sean said you were quite the scholar.” Liam’s faded blue eyes danced with amusement. “My mother was born Agnes Kennedy.”

Okay, she thought, I’ll play. “Kennedy’s Anglicized from the nickname Cinnéide or Cinneidigh. Cinn, meaning head, eide translates to grim or to helmeted. Cinnéide was nephew to the High-King Brian Boru. There’s a record of O Cinnéide, Lord of Tipperary, in the Annals of the Four Masters, twelfth century.”

She smiled. “You come from prominent stock, Liam.”

He laughed. “And you’ve an impressive brain in your head, Dr. Riley Gwin. Well now, I expect you want to do some business, so we’ll go into the barn and see what we have for you.”

The barn smelled of hay, as a barn should. It held tools and equipment, a skinny, ancient tractor, a couple of stalls. A refrigerator that had surely been plugged in the first time in the 1950s—and, Riley imagined, held beer and snacks.

In the back, the sloping concrete floor led to a small, orderly arsenal. Rifles, shotguns, handguns stood in two large gun safes. Ammunition, and plenty of it, stacked on metal shelves. A long workbench held the tools for making shotgun shells.

“Make your own?”

Liam smiled at Riley. “A hobby of mine. This would be your interest today.” He took a Ruger out of the safe, started to pass it to Doyle. Riley intercepted.

She checked its load—empty—tested its weight, aimed it toward the side wall.

“Not to speak out of turn,” Liam said, “but that’s a lot of gun there for a woman of your size.”

“There was a drunk in a bar in Mozambique who thought I was too small to object when he put his hands where I didn’t want them.” She lowered the gun, offered it to Doyle. “He and his broken arm found out differently. Can I see the other?”

“Mozambique,” Liam said, chuckling, then passed her the second rifle.

“I haven’t shot this model before. I’d like to test it.”

“You’d be a fool if you didn’t.” Liam took two mags from the shelf. “Out the back, if you don’t mind.” He offered ear protectors. “The wife’s doing some baking in the kitchen. Just let me give her a text so she knows what we’re about.”

They went out the rear of the barn where the land gave way to fields and stone fences, and a pair of chestnut horses grazing on the green.

“They’re beauties,” Riley said.

“My pride and my joy. Not to worry, as they’re used to the noise, as is our Rory here. I like to shoot some skeet out here, and kill some paper targets as well.”

He gestured to fresh circle targets pinned to wooden planks, backed by thick stacks of hay.

“These have a good long range as you know, but as you’re not familiar with the gun itself, you may want to move closer.”

“This is close enough.” About fifty yards, she judged, and when it came to the real purpose, she’d want to shoot true a great deal farther. But this would do.

She slapped the mag in place, lifted the weapon, took her stance, sighted. She’d expected the kick, and the rifle didn’t disappoint.

She missed the bull’s-eye, but by no more than an inch.

“Well done,” Liam said, pleased surprise in the tone.

Riley adjusted, fired again, hit the center. “Better,” she murmured, and shot a more than respectable grouping of five.

“It’s quick,” she decided. “I like the hand grip, the trigger pressure. It’s got good balance, and doesn’t weigh me down.” She glanced at Doyle. “Your turn.”

He did as Riley did, loaded the second rifle, set, fired. Caught the outside of the first white ring, plugged one inside it, managed a decent grouping if not as tight or accurate as hers.