A Celtic Witch

Chapter 5



Cass pulled the front door of the inn shut behind her with haste—this part of Nova Scotia wasn’t any warmer than Margaree. She put her hands over her frozen ears, not entirely sure which were colder.

Taking a long moment to grin at the spunky daffodils probably hadn’t been smart—but anything dumb enough to bloom up here in March deserved a little love.

“You must be from somewhere warmer than this,” said a musical voice from the hallway, amused.

“Nay.” Cass blinked, trying to see into the shadows. The voice held the lilting tones of home. “I’m just a silly girl who left her woolies in the car.”

“Ah.” An elderly woman stepped forward into the light. “Well, I’d venture you’re big enough to decide for yourself whether to wear them or not. I’m Moira. Welcome to the Sea Trance Inn.”

It seemed like a big place for one little old lady to run, but Cass knew better than to underestimate an Irish grandmother, wherever she found one. “I was hoping to get a room for a night or two.”

“You’ve come to the right place.” Moira’s smile was welcoming, her hands already reaching for the jacket Cass was shedding. “Come on in and have a cup of tea and get warm. There’s a lovely fire here in the parlor. Aaron’s gone to take some scones over to the church, but he’ll be back momentarily.”

It was the kind of hospitable chatter that anchored every hearth in Ireland. And it made Cass miss her nan terribly. “You sound so much like my grandmother.”

“Miss her, do you?” Warm green eyes took in Cass from head to toe. “You’ve been away from home a while, I’d guess.”

Scrubby jeans and a big sweater fit in just about anywhere. “I go back.” At this moment, her heart said it wasn’t nearly often enough.

“We all have roads to travel,” said Moira softly. “Come sit a spell and tell me about yours.”

Manners very belatedly made their way through the pulsing homesick. “I’m Cassidy Farrell.”

Green eyes glinted with humor and something else. Almost a recognition. “Ah, and of course you are.”

Huh. The name “Cassidy Farrell” meant something in some circles, but she hadn’t expected it to here.

And then the old lady leaned forward and touched her copper-brown curls. “Named you for your hair, did they?”

Cass gaped—she’d never met a soul outside Ireland who knew the meaning of her name, and not that many at home did either. “Yes. My mum said I was born with these curls. My grandda took one look at me and the name stuck.”

“A wise man. It suits you.” Moira smiled and gestured toward a doorway. “Please come in—I assume the hordes will be here shortly.”

She didn’t have long to wonder. The door opened behind her, a gusting wind blowing in along with a smiling woman and a young girl dressed in an enormous turquoise jacket.

Cass returned the smile, always ready to meet a new friend.

A head popped out of the sea of turquoise. “Hi, Gran. Who’s the new lady?”

“This is Cassidy.” Moira helped with the formidable outerwear. “She’s come to stay at the inn for a wee bit.”

Inquisitive eyes looked up. “I hope you like strawberry shortcake. Aaron only makes it in the winter if he has a guest who likes it. It’s totally scrumptious. I helped pick some of the berries. Well, the ones I didn’t eat, anyhow.” An impish grin joined the dancing eyes. “If you like it, I’ll ask him really, really nicely to make you some.”

Cass was fairly certain that grin was well used to getting its way. “Strawberries are one of my favorites. We don’t get very many on tour.”

“What kind of tour?” The smiling woman ruffled the little girl’s curls and then reached out a handshake in welcome. “I’m Sophie, by the way, and this chatterbox is Lizzie.”

Fisher’s Cove might be small, but it was definitely friendly.

“I’m a musician. A fiddler.” Cass took the offered hand and felt the glow of immediate kinship strengthen. “Taking a bit of a break right now to smell the flowers.”

“You should come back in summer.” Lizzie was not-so-subtly herding them all into the parlor. “We don’t have very many things blooming right now, but Gran’s gardens are the best in the whole world.”

Summer was the height of music festival madness. Last year, Cass had headlined twenty-seven. She’d barely seen a flower.

The rocks murmured under her feet. Chiding, almost.

Lizzie led the way to a pair of enormous chairs closest to the fire. “These are the best places to sit if you like to curl your feet up and stuff. Gran says they must have been built for giants.”

Moira chuckled, already seated on a sofa, bag of knitting at the ready. Cass detoured—the yarn was gorgeous. Bending over, she ran a few strands through her fingers. “It’s wondrous. Like the color of crocuses in springtime.”

“Aye.” The old lady looked very pleased. “Sophie just dyed up a fresh batch for me.”

Ah, no wonder she felt like she’d found her people. Cass turned and found the woman in question sitting at an old desk, a pile of ancient books in front of her. “Do you have more?”

“More can easily be made.” The slow smile offered friendship as well as an answer. “Especially if you want to help babysit the dye pots.”

That sounded like just about the perfect lazy afternoon.

“A knitter, are you?” Moira was digging into the basket at her feet. “Here, these should work.” She held up two pointy needles attached to a skinny cable. “I only need one skein of this for wee Morgan’s hat. I’ve two more if you’ve a mind to make yourself a wooly hat or some nice warm mittens.”

Two minutes later, Cass was curled up in a large and very cozy chair, knitting needles in her hands, cookies at the ready, and surrounded by new friends.

She leaned her head back into the lumpy cushions, feeling her soul exhale.

Fisher’s Cove—a little piece of home and heaven.

She closed her eyes a moment, fingers stroking the yarn under her fingers, and gave thanks to the rocks that had tugged her to such a place. She’d make Nan a hat, soaked in the quiet magic of this little, secluded village.

The rocks thrummed back, well pleased.

Cass searched for the end of the skein of yarn and handed it to Lizzie sitting at her feet. “Would you help me make it into a ball?”

The bright-eyed child set down her cookie and grinned, obviously well acquainted with such tasks. Moira’s smile twinkled across the way, and Sophie hummed gently as she studied the pages of her dusty books. No words, just the easy communion   of kindred souls in a warm space on a cold day.

Perfection.

And then a man walked into the parlor. A craggy snowman in black, with eyes that shattered her peace.

Cass didn’t need a sign this time. Unless the rocks had suddenly decided to take up fiddling, their meaning was very clear.

It wasn’t for soft purple yarn and easy friendship that she’d been brought here.

He was why she had come.

She stood, needing to meet her fate on her feet.

And nearly fell over again as a tiny girl with lavender eyes followed him into the room, and fate landed a second punch.

-o0o-

Hecate’s hells.

He’d walked into the parlor of the inn every day this winter. Not once had it kicked him in the balls.

Until now.

He barely saw the shape of her—dark curls and an even darker sweater working as shadowy backdrop for a face that registered as pretty. Interesting, even.

Those would only have made him grumpy. It was her mind that slammed into his nether regions and wouldn’t let go.

Soft joy. A soul breathing out. Easy kinship with the world.

Three things Marcus Buchanan had never really had.

And then it all vanished. The stranger slumped back into her chair, oddly limp. Green eyes stared at him, wary, and then darted to Morgan. “Hello, sweetheart.”

His daughter grinned and beelined the newcomer’s direction, still dressed in her winter woolies. Marcus would have grabbed her—except he could barely breathe.

The new arrival wasn’t quite as shell-shocked. “I’ve taken your chair, have I? Come on up, then.” With competent hands, the woman began peeling Morgan out of her jacket and heavy sweater.

The ease was leaking back into her mind.

Morgan reached out for the curls framing her new friend’s face. “Pwetty.”

“As are yours, little one.” A gentle hand touched Morgan’s frizz of red, and then green eyes looked up at Marcus. “She’s lovely.”

He dug his voice out of eternity’s trashcan. “Her name is Morgan.”

“Ah, that’s a big name to live up to.” The stranger smiled down at his girl and then glanced up again. “I’m Cassidy Farrell. Most people call me Cass.”

His ears listened through a thick fog.

Moira chuckled quietly from the couch. “The big oaf there who’s lost his voice is my nephew Marcus.”

Even embarrassment leaked only slowly through the fog.

Small fingers slid into his. “Come sit down, Uncle Marcus. As soon as Aaron gets back, we get to have some scones. Is Morgan big enough to try one yet? Pretty please?”

Fog vanished as parental responsibility crash-landed. Rescued by a seven-year-old. Marcus clutched Lizzie’s hand, holding tight to his portal back to reality. “She can have a little nibble of yours. Just a small one.” A boon for his savior.

Morgan would survive a small dose of sugar. Probably.

Lizzie’s eyes opened wide. “Yay! C’mon, Morgan. Let’s go find Uncle Aaron!”

His daughter agreeably hopped down from the stranger’s lap and followed her surrogate sister down the hall. Marcus watched them leave, bereft.

Nothing to shield him from green eyes now.

“Come have some tea.” Sophie spoke from the old writing desk, mind full of quiet sympathy. “I have chamomile or one of Aunt Moira’s special blends.”

He always had chamomile. Simple tea for a simple man. “I’ll have the blend.” Today didn’t feel simple.

Sophie poured from a bright green teapot and glanced over at her books. “I’m tracing the lineage of mugwort healing, if you want a research project.”

Not a trace of the laughter in her mind appeared in her voice. He reached for the mug she offered. “I’m sure Kevin would be delighted to help.” His tone wasn’t quite as dry as he’d meant it to be. He was pretty sure she sought clues to help her boy. And if she truly wanted his help, he’d make the time.

There were rules to belonging.

A soft Irish lilt shaded the conversation coming from over by the fire. Moira, entertaining their guest. Something akin to gratitude tickled at Marcus’s ribs. In their easy, competent way, they’d slid him out of the limelight and into a corner where he could watch.

They understood him very well.

Marcus sank into a chair, feeling comforted. And vulnerable. And a whole host of other things that hadn’t been part of his life until very recently.

He glanced over at their visitor, echoes of her mental signature still reverberating in his head. He’d never felt someone so… alive.

It called to him. And it terrified.

He took a shaky breath and lifted the mug to his lips, hoping it was one of his aunt’s calming blends. And then set it down again. The patter of feet in the hallway signaled the return of two small girls.

The precipice that was Cassidy Farrell would have to wait—he had a daughter to tend to first.

-o0o-

She was getting her feet back under her. Literally. Cass sat cross-legged, tucking bare toes under her balls of yarn, and tried to fight the universal Irish fondness for a good bout with destiny.

She was here to relax, not to dance with a difficult man the rocks thought she should fancy.

And most certainly not to topple head-over-heels in love with his child.

She glanced his direction, her fingers working their way into the soft yarn. Seeking comfort.

He’d taken off his enormous winter coat and left an impressive pile of black wool in the corner behind him. The sweater underneath was positively cheerful by comparison—a lovely teal blue that looked knit by very talented hands. Moira’s work, perhaps. Celtic knots, a beautiful tangle of them.

Somehow, the black had suited him more.

Morgan toddled over and held out her hands, offering up some unseen treasure. The big man leaned over, his smile cracking a face clearly not used to happiness.

If she’d had her fiddle in her hands, Cass would have played the melancholy dark sounds that told of the unsmiling man in black. And Rosie would have insisted on adding the odd, jarring notes of teal wool and smiles at small-girl treasures.

And the way all of them tugged on Cassidy Farrell’s soul.

She turned her back on Marcus and his daughter. Ignored the steady, insistent singing of the rocks and her own traitorous Irish heart. Men with babies weren’t casual stops on the road. And anything more wasn’t possible.

Cass leaned over to the plate beside Lizzie and picked up a scone. She was here for rest and relaxation, nothing more. Three weeks of doing exactly what she wanted. A little music, simple pleasures, and wandering where she willed.

A refueling before she gave her life back to the music.

She bit into the flaky goodness in her hand and closed her eyes in worshipful silence.

A very good start.