Running Back (New York Leopards 2)

“We didn’t want you to get it,” Dad said bluntly. “How long are you going to do this, Natalie?”

I slowly straightened. “How long am I going to do what?”

He waved his fork through the air; Mom tracked it, her gaze pinned to the speck of translucent onion ready to slide off. “It was fine when you were in undergrad, but you can’t seriously expect to spend your life chasing after adventure. You have to settle down.”

I had to press down on my frustration, because I didn’t want to get into a fight with Dad. Peace was fragile enough in my parents’ house without me adding to the unbalance. “Dad, I’ve been in my program for the past three years. What did you think I was going to do?”

He finally put his fork down. “You said you were going to be a professor.”

I nodded slowly. “Yes, and I still probably will, but this is my fieldwork. I have to do it to get my doctorate.”

He shifted. “But you don’t have to do it with that idiot—”

My fork clattered against the table. “Professor Anderson’s not an idiot.”

“No? He hasn’t found anything in half a dozen years. I read up on him. He’s essentially the laughingstock of the academic community.”

“Well, you’re not part of that community, so I don’t see why you—”

A thunderous expression crossed his face. “We have supported you in whatever you want to do, but enough is enough. What am I supposed to tell people when they ask where you are? Say that you’re off chasing leprechauns? What was wrong with Ecuador, for Christ’s sake? If you have to stay in this ridiculous profession, can’t you at least be realistic? If you align yourself with Jeremy Anderson, no one is ever going to take you seriously.”

My nails bit into my palm and my mouth tensed. “Dad, I got a grant from an independent non-profit. And the whole reason I received it was because of all the research I did, which shows there is a very, very good chance that the harbor of Ivernis is buried somewhere on Kilkarten. So, no, I don’t think I?

??m being ridiculous or following insubstantial rainbows. I’m doing my work, and I expect results. Results that I intend to present to the American Academy of Archaeology in September.”

Mom tilted her head. “The what?”

I must have told them about the conference at least three times, but I made myself explain again without snapping, though my gut twisted unpleasantly. “It’s the conference Jeremy and I are presenting at in the fall. It’s one of the annual archaeology conferences? We were really lucky to get a space to talk about our fieldwork—usually people just present papers or workshops.”

Dad grunted. “And what if you don’t find anything? Then what are you going to talk about?”

“Dad. I’m pretty sure we’ll be okay.”

“Are you? You know what I learned when I was researching Professor Anderson? That whenever people write about him, they also write about a Dr. Henry Ceile.”

My shoulders slumped. Great.

Like Jeremy, Dr. Ceile studied pre-historic Ireland, but he was of the opinion that focusing on Greek and Roman ancient sources was ridiculous and useless. He also had a personal bone to pick with Jeremy, since Jeremy had received funding to look for Ivernis that had originally gone to Ceile’s research. I tried to avoid calling the relationship between Jeremy and Ceile a feud—but it was kind of a feud.

Dad pointed his fork at me again. “This Ceile says that Anderson is crazy. Do you want to be caught up in the middle of this?”

“Yes, Dad, I do.”

“That’s not how I raised you.”

“Please,” I snapped, and then bit down on my tongue so none of the other words flew out. You barely raised me at all. You barely came home from the office for long enough to pat me on the head before disappearing into your study.

He raised his brows. “What was that, young lady?”

I shook my head and dug into my Pad Thai.

Silence descended and stretched.

Then Mom sniffed. “I went to Ireland once.”

“You went to Scotland,” Dad corrected.

“I went to Ireland too.”