Hearing voices, Rachel looked up and saw three men appear over the rise. They wore shorts and running gear, and she watched as they jogged easily through the field. Noticing her, one of the men lifted a hand in greeting and Rachel waved back. Aware they were watching her and feeling self-conscious, she took two steps forward and then shrieked as her feet sank into a murky quagmire. Thrown off-balance, she fell forward, but there was no solid ground to break her fall, only thick, wet mud that sucked at her hands and feet and threatened to pull her down. She scrabbled for purchase, reaching for something—anything—when a strong hand suddenly caught her beneath her arm.
“Easy, I’ve got you.”
One of the runners had come to her rescue. Rachel clung to him as she felt herself sinking deeper into the hole, past her knees. “I’m still sinking! It’s like quicksand!”
“Hold on, I’ll pull you out.” He was tall and strong, and in one easy movement, he hauled her upward. The mud made a wet, sucking sound as it released her, and then Rachel was free. Feeling unaccountably shaken, she collapsed against the man, her muddy fingers clutching the front of his jersey.
“Thank you, thank you,” she gasped, and then started to laugh. The absurdity of the situation, combined with her relief at having escaped certain death, released something inside her and she laughed until tears streamed. Aware that her rescuer was watching her in bemusement, she made an effort to pull herself together. Wiping her damp cheeks with one hand, she managed to speak. “So that’s a boghole!”
“It is, yeah. Have you hurt yourself?”
He was looking at her as if she had lost her mind, and aware that she was still clinging to him, Rachel pushed herself away, balancing on one foot. “No, I don’t think so, but I seem to have lost a shoe.”
Worse, she was covered in thick, reeking black muck up to her thighs, and her arms and front were wet and muddy from where she had fallen.
“Right, well, let’s get you onto firmer ground first, and then we’ll find the shoe.” He held on to her arm as she half hopped beside him, back to the path where the other two men waited. “She’s okay, lads. Why don’t you go on ahead and I’ll see her safe into town?”
With a wave, the other two men continued their run. For the first time, Rachel got a good look at the man who had rescued her. She guessed him to be no more than thirty. He was tall and lean and had bright hair that glinted with burnished gold and copper highlights in the sun, and the bluest eyes Rachel had ever seen.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, feeling herself blush beneath his regard. “If you hadn’t come along—”
“You’d be just another tourist gone missing down a boghole.” Seeing her horrified expression, he grinned. “I’m joking. Truly. I’m glad I could help. You’re American, yeah?”
She liked his accent and the way he rolled his r’s, so that tourist sounded like toor-rist.
“Yes, I’m Rachel.” She extended her hand, only to swiftly pull it back when she realized it was covered with black mud. The front of his jersey was also filthy where she had grabbed on to him. “Sorry.” She gave him an apologetic look. “Looks like I owe you a new shirt.”
He laughed. “It’s fine, really. I’ve plenty more where this came from.” Extending his own mud-covered hand, he grasped hers and smiled into her eyes. “I’m Conall. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Same here.” Aware that she was still smiling stupidly at him, she withdrew her hand and tried to pull her scattered thoughts together. “Mrs. O’Leary did warn me about bogholes, but I honestly had no idea they were so treacherous.”
“They can be, yeah,” Conall agreed. “Most folk take a stick with them when they go hill-walking, to test the ground.”
“Well, that would make sense, but I only just arrived today and I’ve never been hill-walking.” She laughed. “Until now, I’ve never even seen a bog.”
“Right. Well, let’s see if I can recover your shoe. Stay here, don’t leave the path.”
“Don’t worry,” Rachel assured him. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
She watched as he made his way carefully back to the spot where she had fallen. He had an athlete’s physique, with broad shoulders and long, muscled legs. Bending down, he plunged his hand into the boghole and triumphantly came up with her shoe, dripping with mud and water.
“Success,” he said as he retraced his steps and handed her the shoe.
Rachel grimaced. Turning the ballet flat over, she poured out the mud. “Oh, that smells terrible! These are definitely ruined.”
“Might as well put it back on,” Conall said cheerfully. “You’re already covered in the stuff and it will at least protect your foot from rocks on the way back.”
Using his arm for balance, Rachel managed to push her bare foot into the wet shoe. “Ugh, that feels disgusting!” In fact, she was extremely uncomfortable with her jeans clinging wetly to her legs and mud squelching between her toes. And the smell was beyond anything she had ever experienced. “Why does it smell so bad?”
Conall laughed. “That’s literally millennia of decomposed plant material.”
“Oh, it’s awful!”
“I agree. Let’s get out of here.”
Conall led the way back down the hill, reaching out to help her over the tricky spots, and checking to make sure she was able to keep up. “Doing okay?”
“Yes. I can’t wait to take a hot shower.”
“Staying at O’Learys’ B&B, are you?” He took her hand and helped her across the stream at the point where she had previously left the path. He made it seem effortless.
“Yes. Do you know the O’Learys?”
“Oh, sure. Pauline’s a good sort and she’ll treat you well. You’ll be sitting by her fire and sipping tea before you know it.”
“That sounds like heaven,” she confessed. “Then . . . a long nap.”
“Where are you from, in the States?”
“Chicago, born and bred.”
“Ah, the big city. This must be quite a change for you, then.”
Rachel thought of the small apartment she shared with her cousin, Lori, in the middle of the city. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d visited the countryside or had seen the ocean. Her apartment building was surrounded by other high-rises so she never saw a wide-open vistas unless she went down to the waterfront and looked out over Lake Michigan. At night, she fell asleep to the sounds of sirens in the streets and the rumble of the Metra train that ran behind her building. It was the third week in March, but Chicago was still encased in ice, while Ballylahane was already vibrant with color. The only green she’d seen back home had been the Chicago River on St. Patrick’s Day, when the local plumbers union had dyed it green in celebration of the Irish holiday just a week earlier.
“You have no idea,” she said with a huff of laughter. “Ballylahane is like something out of time. It’s so quaint.”
“Yeah, it is that.”
They reached the livestock gate, and Conall gave her his hand as she negotiated the wooden step through the opening that led to the road. Soon they reached the gate to Mrs. O’Leary’s yard, where her three sheep still grazed. Rachel turned to Conall with a smile.