Beloved for novels that "deliver laughter, tears, and so much joy" (Romantic Times), JoAnn Ross brings another of Coldwater Cove's citizens to life in this poignant tale of family and friendship, loyalty and loss, courage and suffering. Erin O'Halloran has witnessed the atrocities of war firsthand. But when she travels to Western Ireland to attempt to save a dying friend and mentor, she faces her greatest challenge yet. And when she happens to meet the love of her life, matters become unexpectedly complicated. After spending years capturing war's horrors in his camera lens, photojournalist Michael Joyce escapes to his Irish family's farm, yearning to shut out the world. But fate has other plans for him—including unbidden feelings for Dr. O'Halloran and the unexpected rewards of fatherhood. Surrounded by Ireland's magic, Erin and Michael begin to see nightmares replaced by dreams. But it will take more than one miracle before they discover the answers to their deepest questions—the ones they had never dared ask. "Affaire de Coeur" JoAnn Ross has the reputation for scribing some of the best contemporary romances on the market today. New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author JoAnn Ross has been published in twenty-six countries. A member of the Romance Writers of America’s Honor Roll of bestselling authors, she’s won several awards, including RT Book Reviews ’ Career Achievement Awards in both category romance and contemporary single title. In addition, she received RWA’s national service award and was named RWA Pro-Mentor of the Year. JoAnn lives with her high school sweetheart, whom she married twice, in her beloved Pacific Northwest. Chapter One A Wild Rover Castlelough, Ireland There were those in the village who claimed that Michael Joyce must be mad. What else, they asked, could make a man leave the green fields of Ireland to risk life and limb all over the world? "Besides," Mrs. Sheehan, proprietor of Sheehan and Sons Victualers, had told him just last week after he'd sold her husband a dressed hog destined for bacon and chops, "if it was trouble you were seeking, Michael James Joyce, you needn't have gone farther than just across your own country's borders." "Aye, it's a good point you're making, Mrs. Sheehan," he'd replied through his teeth. Despite some less-than-subtle coaxing from locals -- and wasn't the butcher's wife the worst of them? -- Michael never talked about those risk-filled years he'd spent in places where the voices of sanity had gone first hoarse, then mute. Nor had he discussed the incident that had nearly succeeded in getting him killed. Not even with his family, and certainly not with one of the biggest gossips in all of Castlelough. Still, there were times he was willing to admit -- if only to himself -- that perhaps those who questioned his mental state might have a point. He may well have been touched with a bit of madness as he'd traveled from war zone to war zone throughout the world. Given an up-close and personal view of man's inhumanity toward man through the lenses of his cameras, Michael had begun to wonder if insanity was contagious. Despite having grown up in a large, loving family, he'd long ago decided against bringing a child into a crazed world where innocent people could be blown up by terrorists in a Derry railway station or burned out of their homes and murdered by a political policy gone amok called ethnic cleansing. Whatever part of him had stupidly believed he could make a difference in the world had been blown out of him, and now, like the prodigal son in his grandmother Fionna's well-worn Bible, he'd returned to hearth and home, content to spend his days working his farm and his evenings sitting in front of the warm glow of a peat fire reading the epic Irish tales that had once spurred a young west Irish lad to seek adventure. His first few months back in Ireland, he'd been haunted by ghosts who'd show up in his bedroom nightly like mist from the sea, ethereal and always so damnably needy, wailing like a band of banshees on a moonless night. No amount of Irish whiskey could silence them; deprived of a voice during life, they seemed determined to make themselves heard through even the thickest alcoholic fog. They'd succeeded. Admirably. Their bloodcurdling screams had caused him to wake up panicky in the black of night, bathed in acrid sweat. It was then he'd grab yet another bottle of Jameson's and go walking out along this very cliff, which, given his state of inebriation on those occasions, he now realized had been as close to suicide as he'd ever want to get. But just as he hadn't died covering wars, nor had he died reliving them. And so, as he'd always done, Michael had moved on. In his way. And while the specters from those far distant places still visited on occasion, he'd managed to convince himself that he'd given up his dangerous ways. Now, as the wind tore at his hair and sleet pelted his face like a shower of sto