Three weeks later . . .
Kieran stared atthe cottage beyond the gate.
It was a typical English parsonage with a gabled roof and ivy growing over one window, the vine evergreen even in the crisp winter air.
At any other time, he might have even called the house quaint.
But the ache in his chest only focused on the end goal—
Find Jamie.
Find his wife.
Reverend Gillespie had told them quite the tale—one that led them to this small cottage in a forgotten corner of Yorkshire.
The Brotherhood waited at a nearby inn. Kieran had begged to come alone. To confront this without his friends as witnesses.
But now that he faced the house . . .
His heart galloped in his chest.
His hands tingled, nerves rendering him jittery.
He swallowed. Hard.
With a deep breath, Kieran squared his shoulders, walked through the wee gate, and rapped on the front door.
Silence.
He rapped again, louder this time.
Still . . . nothing.
No footsteps from within.
No low murmur of voices.
The turn of events was . . . anticlimactic, to say the least.
He had expected someone to be home.
A weight sank in his chest.
Had he, once more, been led astray?
Would he not find what he sought here?
No.
He had come too far, suffered too long. He would have answers.
Today.
Kieran took a step sideways and peered through the front window. The room within was dark.
But when he backed up along the front walk, he could see a thin wisp of smoke drifting from one chimney. Surely someone was at home.
Frowning, he doffed his hat and rapped once more on the door. This time the noise was loud enough to shake the window panes.
