The Fifth Season Read Online Free Page B

she stifled the sob that threatened to break forth. Closing her eyes, Emma rested her head on the back of the chair. How could she be angry with a ghost? A woman she loved, no less. It wasn’t right. Of course, Margaret would’ve wanted to leave River Run to one of her descendants. It’d been in the Connor family for more than a hundred years.
    But why hadn’t she left it to Nate?
    “Just deal with it, O’Malley.” Standing up, Emma headed into the small munchkin-size room she used when the resort was full. She tossed the nightgown on the bed and went to her closet. Standing on her tiptoes, her fingers searched the recesses of the upper shelves finally latching onto the cool surface of a metal strongbox.
    She pulled it down and caressed the surface lovingly. It’d been too long since she’d sifted through the contents and a little bubble of anticipation rattled in her stomach.
    Flipping open the lid, Emma settled on the edge of her bed. She carefully pulled out a stack of photographs. Her mother’s bright smile prompted her to smile in return, but it quickly faded into a frown as memories crashed forth shattering the peace.
    Ireland, a country she barely remembered. The pungent aroma of spiced sausages and yeasty mugs of ale invaded her mind but the surroundings were only shadows. Echoes of laughter and happy carousing skimmed across her ears, but she didn’t know why they were there. She couldn’t remember.
    “Hey,” a deep voice crashed into the silence of her room, causing her to jump off the bed and spill the contents of the strongbox across the floor.
    “What’s the matter with you?” she said. “You scared the hell out of me.”
    “Sorry,” he answered, kneeling down to gather up the loose papers scattered on the carpet.
    “I’ll get those,” she cried, suddenly panic ridden at the thought of discovery. What a fool she’d been keeping these incriminating items in her possession.
    “Who’s this?” he asked, handing her a picture. She glanced down at the faces smiling brightly into the camera lens.
    “My parents.”
    “Where are they?”
    “Dead,” she answered, unable to prevent the flicker of glassy eyes and rivers of blood that replaced the couple in the color photo.
    Her father, Hugh Gallagher, battled all his life against the Provisional IRA. He’d viewed them as nothing more than glorified terrorists. Working furiously to aid in the implementation of the Good Friday Agreement, his life came to an abrupt halt when her mother was brutally murdered in their home...a violent act that shouldn’t have a place in the memory of a thirteen-year old.
    “I’m sorry, Emma.” His gentle voice shocked her, and she frowned at him.
    “Nothing to be sorry about. It was a long time ago,” she said, stuffing the documents back into the safety of her strongbox. This alarm at discovery restated how insecure she’d become. “What can I do for you?”
    “Not a thing,” he answered, pausing to read an article. “What’s this?”
    She peered over his shoulder and tried to not let apprehension reach out and betray her. “What does it look like?”
    “A newspaper article.”
    “You win first prize, Mr. Connor. I’m happy to see you can read.” She reached over and grabbed the yellowed sheet of paper.
    “Why do you have an article on the Good Friday Agreement?”
    “I’m a proper Irish Catholic and keep up on my politics,” she said.
    “I buy that, but that still doesn’t answer my questions.”
    “Too bad,” she hissed, relieved that he’d obviously missed the printed names of party members and their families. It wouldn’t take a brain surgeon to connect Emilie Gallagher with Emma O’Malley. “Now, if you don’t need anything then what’re you doing here?”
    He stared at her.
    She swallowed the lump in her throat, refusing to acknowledge her fear and insecurity.
    “I came to apologize, but…” he shrugged, standing up with the grace of a panther, “it seems I’ve only