About the book
Borrowed Cottage Hearts
Ronan O’Doherty had never liked the way the cottage fell quiet at night. It wasn’t real quiet, not with the wind coming in off the Atlantic and rattling the old storm windows, and the sea pushing itself up against the harbour wall like it might finally work out how to climb. The pipes clanked, the turf in the grate sighed and settled, and somewhere down the hall his father snored like a tractor that ought to be retired.