He felt like he was anchored in a stormy sea, and the shore was just in sight. Home had never made that much sense to him, not after what had happened stateside, but he'd put in an effort to accept it, to help Murphy. It turned out, however, that Murphy had adjusted just fine, and it was Connor who couldn't see beyond his own demons. Having Pam back had made them fade from the fore of his thoughts, but they were far from forgotten. In fact, they seemed tenfold now, between Pam, and her daughter, his brother, his blood, and the McGees. He'd always been protective of his, and now was no exception. He wasn't sure, however, if he'd be able to do what was needed if the time came. He'd lost Pam once to the killing, and he feared that it was about to start all over again. Pam's words had chilled him the morning they rode back to Seamus', and they echoed in his head with his own sentiments.

Moreover, there was the bond that had been forged between Murphy and Pam's daughter. Connor would be lying to say he wasn't jealous of Shayne's obvious affection for his twin, and he'd be lying to say he wasn't envious of the look Pam afforded said twin when she discovered her daughter had been brought home safe without so much as a scratch. He sighed into his tea, glancing out the kitchen window to watch Shayne dog Murphy around the east paddock. There was no way he could hear their conversation, but the way Shayne chattered incessantly, Connor could only guess as to what it sounded like: her high, clear chirping answered by Murphy's non-committal grunts, and the shrugging of his shoulders.

When Connor really thought about it, though, he'd wager all of last month's winnings on the fact that Shayne was wary of Connor, and his closeness to her mother. He hadn't been alone with the woman since their return to the ranch, with finalizing plans for Danny Leary's wake, and arranging for Shayne's flight home. He tried to push away the kernel of relief that sprung with the last thought; he would never admit it, but the little girl made him nervous.

Disgusted, Connor made a face and tossed the remainder of his tea down the drain, and moved off to the back door. With Seamus' arm out of commission, Noah had taken it upon himself, along with Pam's younger brother Jack, to ensure that the fences and the security measures around the ranch were in working order. He grabbed his jacket, shoved his boots on, and stepped onto the porch.

Maggie was waiting for him, pitchfork in hand. Connor stopped short at the sight of the slight, fair-haired woman, and mustered a polite smile. "Mornin', Maggie. Thought I might make meself useful an' help with tha fences."

Maggie's mouth twisted into a smirk and she shook her head. "Yer Da an' Jack have it under control." She held the pitchfork out to Connor. "Stalls need muckin'."

Connor opened his mouth to protest, but there was a flash of something in the woman's eyes, daring him to argue with her. That must be where Pam got it from. He huffed and narrowed his eyes, staring out into the field where Pam walked with Seamus. "M'not shovellin' shit, Maggie," he growled.

The wooden handle of the pitchfork rocked into Connor's ribs as Maggie shoved it into his body. "Take th'fuckin' fork an' get ta work, Connor. Ya need a good, hard day's work, an' not wit yer knuckles."

She was right – he needed to sweat and push himself until he was physically exhausted. Still, he wasn't happy about her observation. He wasn't that transparent, and he brushed the handle aside, staring down at Maggie. "How d'ya know what I need?"

Maggie snorted and rolled her eyes, and gave the pitchfork another hard shove into Connor's chest. "Because I've been married to an Irishman for a good forty years, Connor MacManus. Only one thing is gonna make that storm that's hangin' in yer face pass." She cocked an eyebrow. "Get movin'."

Connor growled and uttered a curse, and snatched the pitchfork from Maggie's grasp. He stomped away, Maggie's voice calling after him, "I'll send lunch fer ya in a few hours."

He made no sign to reply, and continued on to the barn.


"Yer so much like yer mother, Connor."

Noah's voice broke through Connor's fuming thoughts, but he barely hesitated in hefting another load of horseshit into the wheelbarrow outside of the stall. He grunted, and continued shoveling.

Noah sighed and stepped into the stall where his eldest son worked. It had been so hard to break through the walls Connor had stubbornly constructed when he returned to Ireland. Murphy had tried, and failed, and Noah had watched, his guts turning, as Connor had descended into a black mood, riddled with whiskey and fists. When news of Pam Leary's return had reached his ears via Murphy, Noah had bit his tongue. She may be a temporary solution, but anger tended to fester within Connor, just like his mother, and Noah feared it would continue to cripple, no matter how hard Connor tried to fight it.

When Connor had returned two days prior, there had been fewer shadows across his face, but there was still a flash of wildness in his blue eyes. Watching Connor now, Noah saw that anger resurfacing in his son's bunched shoulders, and the vicious way he stabbed at the filth he heaved over his side.

"Connor," Noah called with the stern gentleness only a father possessed.

Another grunt sounded and Connor paused, his hands still clenched the handle of the pitchfork. He glanced to the side, just beyond his shoulder, and fixed his father with a hard, sidelong stare. "What."

At the acidity in Connor's voice, Noah nodded to himself. "Yer thinkin' about killin' Frankie, aren't ya?"

Connor clenched his jaw, a mirthless chuckle passing his lips. "M'not tha only one."

"Murphy, too?"

Connor closed his eyes, gathering his patience. He wished it was Murphy, though he was certain his twin was thinking something similar. "Pamela," Connor muttered tightly. He turned his head a fraction more and pinned his father with a steely glare. "Pam wants ta kill em. Kill em all."

Noah's eyebrows went up, but he recovered his surprise in seconds, and settled on a hard frown. "Aye," he finally replied. He could have guessed as much.

"That's all ya have ta say?" Connor threw the pitchfork against the stall and turned in the straw to face Noah head on.

Noah narrowed his eyes. "What would ya have me say? Frankie threatened her, an' her daughter. I'd be more surprised if she didn't want ta kill him." Noah looked closer at Connor. "Am I t'understand that you're not in agreement?"

"That's one way o'puttin' it, aye," Connor snapped. "She's a mother. She's not supposed ta be thinkin' on revenge. Jesus Christ, Noah."

Noah flinched, but not at the Lord's name. Connor had successfully avoided addressing him in any manner since their return, and to be called anything other than 'Da' stung. Still, the elder MacManus recovered. "Lord's name," he grumbled.

Connor hastily drew the cross and heaved another sad chuckle. "Why did ya keep this from us fer so long? From me an' Murph?"

Noah nodded again, and leaned against the stall, reaching into his coat for his pipe. Connor took a cue and leaned on the opposite wall, lighting a cigarette. "Ta be quite honest, boy, I never thought I'd be back here. Or that you an' yer brother would be wit' me."

"But you knew," Connor interrupted. "You knew who Pam was when ya met her before we left Boston. Ya knew, and ya still said nothin'. Didn't ya think Danny Leary wouldn die eventually?"

"No, Connor, I didn't," Noah replied sharply. He pushed off the wall, his pipe forgotten, and he approached his son with an edge of resolve in his face. "Danny Leary was the epitome of good health. He should have lived ta see eighty five, at least. Heart attack, my arse." Noah leaned close and lowered his voice. "I know that Frankie McGee had something ta do with it."

Connor's eyes widened momentarily, and his unlit cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. "Yer fuckin' serious?"

Noah scowled at Connor's curse, but he nodded faintly. "I'd bet me life on it, boy."

Connor processed his father's admission. "I hafta tell her."

"It won't help anythin'," Noah pointed out.

"Look, you may have been all right with lyin' ta Ma fer all those years, but I'm not about ta start lyin' ta Pam. I tried it once and I won't do it again. Not after…"

Noah growled, and a sneer settled on his face. "After what? Ya think one night is goin' ta solve all of yer problems? All o'hers?"

Connor flinched at his father's words, but was silent.

Seeing the anguish his son's eyes, Noah tried another approach. "She can't stay here, Connor. She's got a family, small, but she's still got one. An' a business. She doesn't strike me as the type to just up and leave everythin', no matter what yer history wit' her is."

"I won't lie ta her, Noah."

"When did ya decide ta start callin' yer father by his first name?"

"When did you decide ta start callin' yerself me father?" Connor shot back. But he moved on before Noah could retort. "I will not lie ta her."

Noah rolled his eyes at his son's stubbornness. "Then be warned, Connor: the entire Dublin choir will be at Danny's wake. That includes tha McGee boys."

"What tha fuck fer?" Connor snarled.

"Protocol, among other tings. Tradition, if you will."

"Fuck tradition; these men threatened Pam an' Shayne."

"That they did," Noah was quick to agree. "But ya can't go callin' them out among their peers. This has ta be done like any other job you've done before: quickly, and quietly. So go, Connor, an' make peace wit' Murphy. Yer goin' ta need him before tha end."


Work stopped on the Leary Ranch at eleven am. The funeral mass would be held at 2 that afternoon, and those wishing to attend the wake could start arriving at anytime after that. After finishing the perimeter with Seamus, Pam had collected Shayne from a weary-looking Murphy and ushered her into the house to help Maggie with last minute details, which mostly included sorting through the booze on hand, and making a note of anything that needed to be picked up on the way back from the cemetery. The food would arrive with the guests, but Maggie had been cooking for a week straight already, freezing meat pies, boxty, stews, and soups. Caterers with platters of meats and cheeses would arrive at four to set up, so Maggie waved Pam and Shayne off to get ready, and took the duty of calling the men in from the fields to wash up.

Pam concentrated on Shayne first, dunking the girl in the tub, scrubbing away the dirt from under her fingernails as the five year old chattered about what she and Murphy had talked about. Pam couldn't help but grin at her daughter's voice, and the sparkle in her eyes – she was smitten, an easy thing to happen when Murphy was in the picture. Part of Pam wished that Shayne would be able to stay beyond the next day, but Sloane had already agreed to hop on a red-eye to Dublin to pick Shayne up, only to turn around six hours after and fly back stateside. Pam thanked her profusely, while Sloane assured her that she was happy to do it: "Anything to get out of work for a few days."

When Shayne was out of the tub, a towel wrapped around her dark curls to squeeze most of the water out, Pam shooed her out, promising to tackle the curls when she was done with her own shower. Noticing that she'd left her towel hanging on the back of her bedroom door, Pam stole across the hall in her t shirt and panties. The pile of dirty clothes just inside the doorway nearly killed her, and Pam swore under her breath at Shayne. Sometimes, the girl was off in her own world, and didn't pay attention to what she was doing. She bent and scooped up the muddy jeans and sweater, and skittered down the hall to the laundry room, and dumped the pile into the hamper there. Then, she turned back to the bathroom.

Bursting through the door, the last thing she expected to see was Murphy standing in nothing but his briefs and his rosary, craning his neck to inspect his reflection in the mirror. Her entrance, of course, made him start, and he whirled around as Pam settled back against the door with an audible 'eep'. Her cheeks flamed.

It wasn't the first time he'd been shut in a bathroom with Pam, and the corner of his mouth lifted gently. "Hallo."