“Impressive outfit. “
“Thank ye, Haven my dear.”
“I just spoke with Iona. She said you were in Clan Village. I planned to visit you.” With a shy smile, she sat on the rough bench next to the weathered picnic table where he’d set her plate. She spooned another bite of meat and pastry into her watering mouth. Iona’s father sat beside her, his attention locked on the athletic fields.
“I did all I could without her help. Truth be told, I dinna’ want to miss the caber toss. How do ye like yer first Highland games?”
“I’d hoped to learn by watching Iona, but she flits here and there. I feel like a fish out of water, Mr. Mackenzie.”
He nodded and gave her a hug. “I told ye to call me Ross. Logistics for an event this big are always a nightmare. The grounds crew here is fantastic, but volunteers are the real miracle workers. Just enjoy yer weekend. ‘Tis the closest ye can get to yer Scottish roots without visiting Scotland.”
“A storm ‘tis brewing to the west.”
Haven’s attention swung toward the voice coming from behind her left shoulder. A crooked smile, inside the hood of a brown woolen cloak, drew Haven to her feet.
“Were you speaking to me?”
The woman nodded then whispered something to Mr. Mackenzie. He chortled, nodding back. Haven guessed her age around seventy. Could be eighty. A few strands of silver hair and two wrinkled hands peeked from under her cloak. Around her neck hung a gold medallion that sported a large yellow stone. It twinkled until long fingers tucked it inside the cloak’s folds.
“A dose of lightning could prove life changing.”
Her words hung on the breeze. Just idle talk, or prophetic?
“Especially if it strikes ye dead,” Ross added.
Haven coughed. Swallowing a gulp of water from her bottle, she kept quiet. Until curiosity won out.
“Are you serious? Can you predict the weather? Are you psychic?” The idea of meeting someone with an ability she had only begun to explore, motivated her to question the odd woman. Too late. The woman had already melted into the crowd.
“I hope Dorcas dinna talk about tonight. Keeps the visitors away, rain does.” Mr. Mackenzie lifted his attention to the blue sky above.
“Dorcas? Is that her name?” Haven asked, then sat.
“Aye. Dorcas Swann. Comes every year. Sells herbs and potions or some such.”
Haven arched her neck and searched the sky as she thought about the odd old woman. “I love thunderstorms, but not while I’m out in the open or sleeping alone in a tiny tent.”
“Too bad yer not sharing yer tent. Heard ye and yer fella’ had a fallin’ out.”
“I threw him out on his ass.” Feeling feisty, she strained to hide how Cal’s treachery had wrenched her heart. The pain deep inside had tempered to a dull ache the moment she’d spied her mysterious Highlander in the mist.
Haven sighed. She’d been naïve the day she’d stopped at the newspaper office to ask a question about her column and Cal flattered her and treated her to lunch. He’d pushed her into a sexual relationship because she forgot to listen to her intuition. Haven believed she loved the man and had given in to his advances. She wrongly assumed they’d get married and start a family.
Is it my fault I believe in happily ever after?
She refused to let the memory of such a spineless piece of trash ruin her weekend. She’d severed ties with the bastard months ago. From that moment on, she swore to protect her heart from unscrupulous, lying, hypocrites.
“Will ye be attending the ceilidh tonight? Lots of handsome lads will dance with ye.”
“Stop match-making.” She wiped her hands on her napkin and stood, then brushed a crumb from her bodice. A sudden jolt of heat swept across her nipples at the thought of dancing in the arms of a man not like Cal Murchie. Calm washed over her when she recalled an image of her mystery man. “I promised Iona I’d attend, but…” She turned away to hide the blush heating her neck and cheeks.
“Ye know I wouldn’t think to—”
“I know you’re trying to help. I’ve got to get going.” Heartbreak swept across her chest. Tears threatened to dampen her face. The heat that bloomed beneath her cheeks would expose her recent feelings for the man. She turned away to stare at the athletes.
Don’t let anyone see your pain.
“Are ye alright, Lass? I am sorry ye and Murchie did not last together. I would have liked to meet another member of my clan.”
“Who?”
“Cal. Cal Murchie, lass,” Ross said.
“But, he never mentioned he was Scottish. Cal Murchie doesn’t sound—”
“Murchie is a sept of Clan Mackenzie.”
How could she forget most clans included dozens of surnames? Haven lowered her gaze and twirled a stray curl. Cal said he hated to see her play with her hair. “An annoying habit,” he always said.
The memory of Cal’s condescending tone and scornful smile incited her to continue twirling her hair. What she did, or who she kissed, was no longer any of Cal Murchie’s business. Turning to Iona’s father, she planted a chaste peck on his bristly cheek then picked up her water bottle. As she made her escape, a clammy palm gripped her upper arm.
“Beware the storm.”
Haven looked into the face of the woman Ross Mackenzie called Dorcas Swann. She pushed back her hood and her long, gray hair shimmered like newly hammered pewter. Straggly ends floated on an invisible current. A crooked nose protruded over thin lips and a mouthful of small teeth. Her curvy smile evoked an image of a nurturing soul, drawing in Haven’s lonely heart. Her skin prickled as the woman’s heavy, silver brows arched, pushing wrinkles up her pale brow. Intense dark eyes glowed, their centers nearly as black as her painted fingernails.
“Yonder storm approaches.”
The words slid across Haven’s consciousness. Without making eye contact with the strangers who filled the lane, she listened. Haven blinked and before she could utter a word to question the old woman, she vanished. She glanced behind her and looked throughout the huge crowd.
Intent on finding her, Haven’s long skirt caught the corner of a vendor’s table. A display of delicate sewing thimbles quivered then tumbled to the ground.
“Hey! Take care with me goods, lass,” the rotund vendor cried. He threw half a dozen clothing-filled hangers on another table. When the collection of expensive kilts tumbled to the dirt, he growled as he bent to grab them up. Haven leaned over and picked up the thimbles. A crack snaked up the side of one gold-trimmed piece of expensive porcelain.
“Humph. Ye best buy that, lass.”
After she placed the unbroken trinkets in the man’s outstretched hands, she forked over five dollars for the cracked thimble. The damaged porcelain prickled inside her palm and she shoved it into her pocket. She exhaled and beat a hasty retreat.
She leaned against a tent pole and sucked in a deep breath. The old woman’s crazy words, spoken only to her, gave her the creeps. Fragrant mountain air, mixed with the aromas of fried onions, wet wool, and sweat, settled over her as she inhaled. She headed toward the food vendors, again, already digging into her hand-sewn, drawstring purse for some more folded bills.
Maybe I should hit the ATM?
She slid them across the counter with eager anticipation. She licked her lips while the vendor filled a bag with chocolate-chip shortbread. A few extra calories couldn’t hurt. She nibbled on the buttery confection while she walked past tables laden with swords, spears, and daggers of every shape and size. When she spied two little boys parrying with wooden swords, a small laugh escaped
“Blood lust prevails.”
“Who said that?” When Haven twirled around to locate who spoke, she tripped over a tent stake. She caught herself by catching the sleeve of a middle-aged gentleman dressed in a high-waist, Prince Charlie jacket. She mumbled an apology.
“I’ve always been a klutz. Now I’m hearing things,” she muttered.
“The storm brewin’ comes to ye,
lass. Use yer strengths. Use yer power. Blessed be.” Definitely female, the voice floated from the direction of a dingy tent parked in an alley between the ski lodge and a chair lift. Parting the ragged tent’s flap, she entered. Her eyes slowly grew accustomed to the dim light, but a smoky haze made her hesitate.
“Is someone there?” She padded toward the center pole where fat, stubby candles burned inside hanging lanterns of rusty iron. Dozens of glass apothecary jars lined shelves along both sides of the dark tent. Packets of powders filled display tables. Handmade labels looked written with old world flair.
Odd aromas wafted up from burning incense. Crushed herbs lingered inside a huge wooden mortar and pestle, their pungent aroma hovering about the enclosed space. Tiny potion bottles, filled with an array of colored liquid, stood like silent soldiers on a high shelf near the back.
“Want to change yer life?” A woman sat in a corner among the shadows.
“Oh! I didn’t see you there.” Haven strolled around the tent. Her gaze flickered over the wares with a practiced eye.
“I do not mean to hide, but ‘tis cool in the shade. Aye?”
“I agree. It is pretty warm today. September is usually cold and rainy hereabouts.”
“Ye did not answer me question.” Her words floated over Haven’s cheeks, their caress a tangle of restrained power and ancient witchcraft.
“I have changed my life. Things are good.” Why did Dorcas Swann care about her life?
“Every witch seeks the best. ‘Tis why I offer only the finest potions, powders, and herbs.
“I’m no witch.”
“A healer, perhaps. With a good heart, albeit a lonely one.” The crone smiled then grabbed for the crutch that leaned against her stool. Unfolding her demure form, she stood. With a stilted gait, she approached. She had removed her hooded cloak and her faded blue sundress twinkled with a silver swirl of crescent moons and pentagram-shaped stars. Wrinkles crept down the woman’s neck and plunged inside the low-cut bodice of her dress. Between her tiny breasts lay an ornate gold chain and a teardrop-shaped medallion Haven had noticed earlier.
The crude yellow stone in its center looked like a glob of amber. The medallion’s attractiveness made Haven’s fingers reach out to stroke the jewel’s surface. Caught off-guard by the slight electric charge emanating from the ornament, she backed away.
“Like what ye see? ‘Tis centuries old. Ye might say ‘tis a family heirloom.”
Inside the enclosed space, the crone’s laugh grated on Haven’s nerves. When she realized she stared at the vendor, Haven bit her lower lip. Embarrassment heated her cheeks, but she couldn’t draw her gaze away. The woman leaned heavily on her intricately carved crutch. Faeries and otherworldly creatures covered its crooked length as if burned into the wood.
The odd little woman chomped on the tip of a corncob pipe and waited. Stepping out of the jewel’s powerful sphere, Haven studied the assortment of powdered or crushed medicinal herbs, roots, and grasses. Crude pots overflowed with stalks of lush, fresh herbs and flowering plants.
Haven recognized a few widely used as medicinal aids; mistletoe infusion, blackberry bramble, and water mint. She made use of them herself. Other oddities mingled among the more familiar items and grabbed her attention. Squinting, she read the plant names scratched on planted ice cream sticks.
“What is milk thistle and why is it used?” She might as well expand her knowledge before she filled her supplies then headed back to camp.
“’Tis the basis for a potion to fortify and cleanse the liver.” The old crone pointed the tip of her cane at a small bottle of a greenish fluid. “Are ye familiar with the use of mint and apple buds?”
“Not besides sweetening drinks.”
“When mixed with yarrow root?”
“Yarrow staunches blood flow. Why would you mix them?” The idea of drinking such a combination soured her stomach.
“The three are powerful magic when used to create a love potion.”
A nervous laugh escaped Haven’s lips. A love potion? The woman had no idea Haven had spent the last few days mixing up love potions.
Without success since I am out of my element.
“I suppose one so bonny needs no such aids.” The woman caressed the tiny glass bottle between her gnarled fingers.
“I prefer to find love the old fashioned way,” Haven lied through her teeth. After her disastrous affair with Cal, she wanted all the help she could get, especially since her first two tries ended in a whimper of smoke, fog, and hot kisses. If she only knew what went wrong.
“Not a bad idea to ask for help, child.”
“I’m interested in healing herbs. To help soothe minor burns, small injuries and the like.”
“Clumsy, are ye?”
“Not me. My friends.”
Slow and deliberate, the woman’s all-knowing nod made Haven frown.
“It’s true.” Well, partially true. Neighbors and friends turned to her when they encountered small medical problems. Wishing for a man suddenly seemed silly. Or, sad.
Desperate, even.
“Ye seem a trifle sad, lass. Ye talk of making potions for yer friends yet ye never mention family. Are ye alone in this world as am I?” The old crone tapped her medallion with a mesmerizing tempo.
The concern in her voice brought Haven back to her senses. The woman meant no harm. A sense of peace emanated from her, inciting Haven to rethink her ridiculous plans to force a man to love her.
Haven met the woman’s caring gaze and said, “I’ve lived on my own so long I can’t recall my parents’ faces. But, my aunt is still around.”
“Ye need a man.”
Haven coughed then wiped away a wayward tear. “Easy for you to say.”
“Romance brings joy to the entire world. A tussle among the sheets will bring color back to yer bonny face. And yer figure could use some rounding. Perhaps a bairn or two?”
“A baby? Are you crazy?” At the same time she thought the woman’s comments out of line, a hollow tug, deep inside, reminded her of the family she craved. Her womb ached for a child. Without a decent prospect for the father, how did the woman expect her to pull-off happy ever after? As if hearing her sad thoughts, a bagpiper tuned his instrument outside the tent. Its mournful sounds drifted around her. Haven squeezed her eyes shut.
“I’ll take these,” she said, regaining her composure. She placed several small sacks of herbs on the rough-sawn, wooden counter. After a pause, she slid one bottle of the pale green love potion amid her acquisitions.
The old woman held the bottle aloft. A wink and a nod later she said, “Remember. Use the storm. It be the missing part to send ye on yer way” She shoved Haven’s purchases inside a cloth sack smelling of onions.
With the odd little woman’s cryptic words echoing in her head, Haven mumbled her thanks, paid, and placed her small roll of bills back inside her purse. “Well, my break is almost over. Good-bye.”
Moisture beaded between her breasts the moment she moved from the shade of the tent into the afternoon sun. Her gown might be a lovely rendition of Highland female attire, but proved uncomfortable in this unseasonable heat. She snaked through the massive crowd and headed back up the mountain.
She quickened her steps when she felt someone’s eyes bore into her back. Glancing toward the woods beside the trail, she saw a man in a flowing black robe turn and disappear into the trees. Haven shrugged. The games were swarming with oddities.
At the historical village, which swarmed with visitors, Iona caught her attention. Her silent plea for help made Haven take a deep breath, then wave. “Give me a minute.”
Haven slipped inside her tent and hid her purchases under her cot. She brushed her tangled hair then rushed to Iona’s side where her friend was demonstrating the art of spinning amid baskets filled with skeins of wool. Minutes later, when she concluded her presentation to the visitors, Haven suggested other displays. Finally alone, Iona turned to her friend with eyebrows raised.
“How was your walk-about?” Iona asked.
“I’ve been enlightened in so many ways.”
“Meet any yummy men?”
“Does your father count?”
“No! Come on, Haven, you walked by hundreds of men in sexy kilts. Certainly one or two caught your eye.”
“Do you want the truth?” Haven whispered. A few visitors to the village shuffled by on their way toward the blacksmith.
“Of course. What happened?”
“Your dad asked about Cal. Seems he’s a Mackenzie.”
“You’re joking. Yuck.”
“I felt like it was my fault Cal isn’t here enjoying the games with your clan.”
Iona’s face paled as well. She dropped the yarn she’d been spinning. “Why did my father bring him up? I told him you two split.”
“He’s concerned for my love life, or lack of one.”
“That’s my job.”
“Very funny. I suppose he thought a Mackenzie would do me good.”
“You’re better off without him. Since you two parted, you’ve blossomed.”
“I can never forgive his demeaning attitude concerning my column at the paper. He laughed and called it fluff.”
“What an idiot. Herbs and ancient potions have healed the sick and injured long before he was born. Forget him.”
Haven hugged her friend then helped her dust off her wool so she could continue her demonstration.
“You’re a talented healer.”
“And you’re a wonderful friend,” Haven replied, “and I’m trying to understand why you’re not married. I know why I’m not, but you’re so—”
“Selective? Finicky? Both. I haven’t met a man worth the trouble. Don’t worry. We both have plenty of time.” They strolled toward Jake and his forge.
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