Dawn of the Golden Promise by BJ Hoff Page B

he started in right away. “It seems her name was Moran. The family was from Drogheda, but there would appear to be a distant blood-tie with Michael Moran.”
    Morgan gaped at him. “Zozimus?” Michael Moran, the blind street musician and legendary patriarch of the itinerant ballad singers, was better known by his nickname, Zozimus. So great was his fame that his reputation had spawned countless numbers of imitators.
    Cassidy nodded. “Finola Moran is your wife’s name, right enough.”
    Finola. So, then, her name really was Finola, after all.
    Morgan fought to control the conflicting passions that warred within him. Hadn’t he wanted to discover Finola’s past and help her come through the darkness she battled? Yet now, selfish man that he was, all he could think of was the possibility that someone else, someone with a greater claim to her, might try to take her from him. He wanted what was best for Finola, of course, but…by all the saints, he couldn’t face the possibility of losing her!
    Trying to check the trembling of his hands, Morgan clenched them on the desk in front of him. “And…did you find…the family?”
    Cassidy shook his head. “There was only herself and the father. And the old man is dead.” He paused. “Murdered, ’tis said, in a shooting incident. He was a widower, and the girl—Finola—his only child.”
    Relief poured over Morgan like a river, only to be replaced by a wave of guilt. Was he really so selfish that he could take comfort from Finola’s loss?
    â€œThere is no one else, then?” he managed to ask, gripping his hands even tighter. “No one at all?”
    Cassidy shook his head. “Only the two of them, the girl and the father—and him gone. James Moran owned an apothecary and raised some crops on a patch of land outside the city. A respected man, it would seem. ’Twas the son of his housekeeper from whom I finally heard the story—and a sad story it is.”
    Morgan squeezed his eyes shut.
    There was no one out there waiting to take her away from him, no one else with a claim to her affection. Another stab of guilt, this time even sharper, pierced through him.
    For so long he had dreaded the truth….
    Suddenly it struck him that Cassidy had mentioned a murder. “What’s this about the father being murdered?” he managed to ask, opening his eyes. “Tell me everything you’ve learned.”

    In her bedroom, Annie sat at the small desk in the corner. She had completed her recitations with Sister Louisa and was now studying what she considered her most skillful piece of artwork to date.
    She touched the tip of her sketching pencil to her lower lip, then gave a nod of satisfaction. At her side, Fergus uttered a soft bark, obviously intent on having a look for himself.
    Annie glanced at the wolfhound. “Very well,” she said, replacing the pencil in its box. “You may look at it. But you must be very careful not to drool. I’ll not be giving Finola a portrait smudged by your great tongue.”
    She held up the sketch at a considerable distance from the wolfhound’s huge head. He studied it, his expression sober. At last he gave a short bark.
    â€œDon’t be such a pup,” Annie scolded. “Didn’t I tell you the cat would be included in the portrait? ’Tis only right, her being Finola’s special pet.”
    Fergus whimpered, but Annie ignored him as she resumed her study of the portrait. The sketch portrayed Finola, seated by the fire in the great room, with baby Gabriel on her lap and Small One, the cat, at her feet.
    The sketch was quite good, if she did say so herself. Sister had promised to help her mat it later, which would make it even more presentable.
    Annie did hope Finola would be pleased. From the beginning, she had determined to make her gift, wanting to give Finola something personal, something that would