Dances With Demons - A Phoenix Chronicle Novella by Lori Handeland Page A

connect them somehow to the well and the generator, but that would involve workers and permits, payments and the like.
     Would explaining all that arouse her suspicions higher than they already were? What kind of man kept a home that was off the grid unless he had something to hide?
    A man who wasn’t truly a man. One who might never be.
    The thought distracted him so that when she moved to set the sickle on one chair at the same time he reached for the bag of scones-that-rhymed-with-cones, his hand connected with the flint.
    He drew in a breath, dropped the bag, spun as the pain ripped through him, cradling his hand against his belly, waiting for things to get much, much worse.
    But they didn’t.
    Megan leapt to her feet so fast her chair tumbled over. “Did I cut you?”
    She yanked at his shoulder. He remained right where he was. He could not let her see.
    “A little,” he lied. “It’s fine.” He started for the door.
    “Wait. Let me—”
    “Eat,” he said shortly. “I’ll wash it at the pump. ’Tis nothing.”
    Quinn hurried to the garden. He spared a quick glance at the cottage. Megan stood in the doorway. From there she couldn’t see anything important, so he stuck one hand beneath the spout and used the other to pump. Cool water gushed. He let it cascade over the appendage until she returned to the table. Then he stopped and peered at the mark caused by the brush of the flint against his flesh.
    “ D’anam don diabhal ,” he muttered.
    There was no way he could explain why his hand had been burned and not cut.
     

Chapter 7
    The scones were soft, light, fluffy, not burned at all. So why had I smelled that unmistakably acrid scent when Quinn had dropped them on the table?
    I sniffed at what was left of my coffee but it didn’t smell burned either. Perhaps someone had set fire to garbage nearby, and I’d merely caught a whiff.
    Or I was losing my mind. Wouldn’t be the first time.
    Max’s death had sent me to the edge. Only the kids, and Liz, had pulled me back. But I’d been close enough to feel that madness, sometimes I felt it still.
    The scones were better than any I’d ever had in the States. Not that I’d tried any after the first, which had been dry, hard and downright nasty.
    I had a sudden urge to try everything I’d ever heard was better here than there. Clotted cream, Guinness, wine, brown bread.
    Irishmen.
    I glanced through the window. Quinn was gone.
    I ran to the front door, threw it open, let out a breath. He stood at the trunk of the Fiat, poking around within.
    “You need help?”
    He straightened and banged his head on the top, reaching up to rub it with his uninjured hand. “I’m good.”
    He had been. My lips curved. Maybe I’d try the clotted cream on the Irishman. Couldn’t hurt.
    “I’ve got a first aid kit in here somewhere. I’ll be right in.”
    He continued to poke around in the trunk. I lost interest and returned to the table where I contemplated the last scone. I should really save it for him.
    I waited as long as I could, which wasn’t very long at all, and ate it. If everything here tasted like that, I was going to need two seats on the airplane when I returned home. Where my children were, or would be, should be.
    My easy mood disappeared. How was I going to call them? What if there was an emergency and they tried to call me?
    Quinn walked in, hand shrouded in gauze.
    “Should you get that looked at?” I asked.
    He shook his head. “It was in an odd place. I’ve cut myself before there. If I don’t keep it wrapped, it’ll just open again and again.”
    “I’d like to go to town.”
    “I’m fine.”
    He strolled to the table. I couldn’t help but admire the view and agree. He was fine.
     He lifted his brows when he found nothing but an empty bag and coffee cup.
    “We can get more in Red Door.”
    “I’m not going back to Red Door.”
    “I want to call the children. What if they have to call me? My cell has no service.”
    “I already