Ireland always
             turned out all right. Still, she could be deported. She could be put
             right back on a plane to go back to the states, and then what' She had
             sold everything she had after that nasty divorce to buy her ticket and
             scrape up enough money to live while she looked for someone who would hire
             a Yank to work with horses in a land full of horses, and fuller still of
             horse people. And then, of course, she'd have to marry someone pretty
             quick so she could stay, she figured, or get someone to fast-track her
             application for citizenship based on her heritage; her grandmother had been
             born here, but that was more than 100 years ago. Granny had been almost 70
             when Moira was born, and had been dead a good few years now. And all this
             had to happen PDQ as they said in the States, because her biological clock
             was ticking on and she wanted children. She had wasted all those years
             with "laughing boy" as her brother wryly called her always-sour ex-husband.
             The Gard returned. "I'll just have to ask you a few questions until
             my superior arrives. All right then. Where are you staying in Ireland'"
             "Dublin. Well, Swords, really. With a friend. On her horse farm.
             Well, not a horse farm. A little farm. But she has a couple of horses.
             And she wanted the wormerâ€" Moira had to stop talking. She was going all
             ...