Table of Contents
Excerpt
The Wild Mountain Thyme
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
All Jim had to do was take one look
at Megan’s stricken face to know that the guy had done plenty of damage. Richard was a type; the sort of man who was too slick for his own good. He had charm oozing from every pore. Jim hoped he could soothe Megan out of her hurt, maybe he could give her a hug and—
Those thoughts came to a screeching halt when, over Megan’s shoulder he glimpsed Seamus scowling at him. This time the elf/angel stood, with hands on hips and his toe tapping, in front of a teeny, tiny gothic church. The leprechaun looked steamed, and for good measure shook his head. Jim raised his hand and with as unobtrusive a movement as possible, backhanded Seamus off his little tuft of magical grass, mimicking a fly-shooing movement. Jim turned his attention to Megan. She stared down at the top of the desk, idly picking up a file and then letting it drop. Finally, she sat and took a deep cleansing breath.
“He’s scum,” she hissed under her breath.
The Wild Mountain Thyme
by
Kathryn Scarborough
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Wild Mountain Thyme
COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Kathryn Scarborough
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Diana Carlile
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2018
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1917-9
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1918-6
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For my brother Bill
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Gaydrie Browne
for her inestimable help.
Prologue
“Seamus? Seamus!”
The voice was insistent, intruding, and annoying. Seamus sighed and stopped polishing the star he’d been rubbing to a fine luster, straightened his shoulders, and turned to look at the pudgy angel. The little soul had a handlebar mustache and the long ends of it curled and swirled around into infinity.
“Ah, Ignatius, is it? Aye, what is it you be wantin’?” answered Seamus.
Ignatius leaned in and whispered into Seamus’s ear, although Seamus hadn’t the slightest idea why he bothered, for they were quite alone in this puffy, wispy corner of Heaven.
“It’s time.”
“Surely not.” Anxiety pulsed though Seamus’s heavenly veins. What would they ask of him? He’d heard rumors—maybe there was a chance, but he’d have to play it close to the vest. He looked at Ignatius and carefully tried to judge the little angel’s demeanor. He looked quite sincere. “I’ve been here but a little while.” He would test the waters to get Ignatius to say more.
“Time to speak to the head clerk himself. If you get this right, you’ll be on to the next angel level with St. Patrick’s choir.”
“Oh, indeed?” Seamus stood and stretched and then combed his fingers through his long, rather unruly red-gold hair. He straightened his robe and wiggled his back, imagining what it would be like if he had those angelic wings.
“Come, he grows impatient,” said Ignatius, grabbing Seamus’s arm and pulling him along.
The two heavenly figures passed through one cloudbank after another with bits of fluff wrapping about them and becoming part of their radiant garments. They arrived at a section of Heaven bustling and buzzing with great activity. There was a large table filled with files, an old-fashioned pull arm adding machine, a fax, and a telephone with thousands of flashing lines buzzing and blinking furiously.
The harried celestial clerk shouting orders to harried celestial workers was sitting behind the crowded desk. He had a long flowing white beard covering the front of his long flowing white gown. His fingers and gown and even places on his beard were smudged with ink, and several pencils and a goose quill were stuck behind each ear.
Ignatius held his hands behind his back and solemnly bowed, his little wire rim glasses slipping past the end of his nose.
“Your Honor. We’ve come. This is Seamus.”
The clerk behind the desk looked up, his assessing eyes riveted on Seamus. The fax was faxing noisily, the telephone lines were buzzing irritatingly, the adding machine buttons were clicking resoundingly, and the celestial workers were whispering and nodding anxiously. The heavenly clerk raised his hand and snapped his fingers; the sounds immediately stopped. He looked at Seamus over the top of his reading glasses as he smiled rather grimly.
“I see by your file”—he consulted one of the folders on the top of his desk—“that you’ve been here quite a while. Hmm,” he said under a glowering brow. “I’d say it’s time to earn those wings, old bloke.” The celestial clerk put down the file and walked around the desk with a frown at Seamus. He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked to and fro while he stared at the little angel, before speaking in a most grumbly voice.
“These are the rules,” he said, ticking them off with his fingers. “You can choose to appear as anything you want, or do anything you need to do to get the job done—however, you must stay within the parameters of morality. There will be no lying, no cheating, no stealing…you know, that sort of thing,” he said, flipping his hand about idly.
“We have a specific case. Poor fellow is losing his faith. He’s disgusted with life, had a terrible time with it.” He sighed. “You’ll need to find him a wife, and perhaps a child or two. From past experience, we find that should bring him back ’round.”
Seamus gaped. “A wife, you say? A nagging woman? A whining child with wet nappies? Now how
, by Saint Colum, will that restore the man’s faith?”
“Oh dear, dear, dear,” said the celestial clerk, shaking his head. “I see your problem.” He consulted the file on the table. “Never met your soul mate, did you? Never had the joy of seeing a son grow into manhood? My, my, old bloke, this assignment will help the both of you. Now, Iggy here will give you all the information. I don’t know if he has told you, but attached to this assignment is a time constraint,” he said, raising his bushy eyebrows. “You have six months’ time in which to successfully alter James O’Flannery’s faithless attitude. We can only give you six months to finish your task. Sadly, there’s no guarantee what might happen with his mortal soul, if you don’t succeed, then it’s back here to level one for a few hundred more years,” he said, scowling. “And if he’s lost, then you know where he’ll end up, don’t you?”
“Ah, Sweet Jesu,” muttered Seamus. A shiver of fear coursed down his backside. He…well, aye he knew where the bloke would end up.
“Good luck, old mate,” said the celestial clerk. “May the blessings of God go with you,” said the angel as he waved his hand in a sing-songy, Gregorian chant voice.
In the blink of an eye, Ignatius and Seamus were atop a fluffy white cloud looking down on the Earth.
“And where is this place?” Seamus wondered aloud. He stared aghast at the sleek trains racing through tunnels, the tall glass-faced buildings, and the swarm of people rushing about like ants at feeding time.
“Boston, in the United States of America. It’s a grand place. Full of Irishmen and a huge cathedral to boot. Why I think I’d quite like it here; that is if I had to go somewheres, well to be sure, anywhere but where I am.” Iggy sounded a little nervous and glanced over his shoulder a time or two.
“And when is it?” Seamus asked.
“Ah.” Iggy consulted a large calendar made of curlicue letters and numbers that he drew from his sleeve. “Early it is in the twenty-first century. Quite past your time, eh? And that is your assignment.”
The angel looked through the end of a long, ebony telescope. Iggy pointed to a man who came into view. “The young, good-looking fellow sleeping on that train. See him, the one with black hair and fair face? Fine strapping lad. Your great-grandnephew six times removed on your sister Maggie’s side; your very own grandnephew, ya see. His name is James O’Flannery. He’s the fellow who has lost all his faith in the world. Had a fickle woman knock it clear out of him.”
“And what did I tell you and His Honor back there about women?” Seamus gave Iggy an “I told you so” smirk.
“Ah, never you mind. There are plenty of good ones about. Now, here is what must be done. You must restore the love in his heart and that will mend it enough to restore his faith. I’ve done a bit of research. There is a fine pretty Kennedy girl living in Dublin. I believe she is the one for him. You must get the two of them together.”
The handlebar mustache flopped in the way of the telescope and Iggy impatiently pushed it aside to watch James O’Flannery sleep on the speeding train. He looked at Seamus and continued in an ominous, much-practiced lecture. “Remember the rules—you can transform yourself into anything or anyone to accomplish this. But you must play fair, no cheating, and no short cuts. I’ll be up here watching out for you. And if you need anything along the way, any questions, I’m here to help. Before ya know it, you’ll be having those beauteous wings and singing in the choir. I hear you’ve quite the voice.”
Seamus smiled, thinking of the wings, his much missed sister, and singing in the choir, until Iggy’s words hit home. “I can be anything? Even the bleedin’ King of England?”
“There’s a queen now, and I don’t know how that would help you.” The ends of the little angel’s giant mustache flopped and waved in time with the bobbing of his head. “Now be reasonable, Seamus, get on with the assignment.”
Chapter 1
James O’Flannery shifted in his seat trying to find a comfortable spot on the Redline, the subway train, speeding into Boston. He yawned, covering up the unmanly lurch from his stomach, and slouched some more. His forehead touched the handrail of the seat in front of him. He pushed the air from his lungs as he tried to clear his mind.
He was…heartsick.
Gad what a word! It was the fiction writer in him coming out in spades. Heartsick. No, how about disgusted, angry—really, really pissed off. No, how about plain miserable, not only miserable, but mad as hell. He slumped farther in his seat and his forehead banged slightly on the handrail in time with the train going over the tracks. Bump, bump, bump: heartsick, heartsick, heartsick. The mantra washed over and over and over him yet again. He groaned as he sat up, forcing himself to look out the window of the speeding train. How could it have happened? The anger came and went, and then the other feelings, like wanting to kick himself in the rear, overshadowed even the anger he felt toward Angela.
He was damn mad about everything, everything; his job, his apartment, his significant other, yeah right! His grandmother had told him not to get mixed up with Angela. She’d told him in no uncertain terms that Angela was not right for him—and different. Gran said she didn’t know Angela’s parents, where she went to church, and she was—different. That was ridiculous, bull hockey. She was smart, gorgeous, had a knock-out body that she worked on all the time, and she could cook. But she, it turned out, was totally and completely fickle.
Jim’s mother and father had grown up on the south side of Boston with their Irish immigrant mothers and fathers. The close Irish ties were strong. But Jim seriously doubted the fact that Angela turned out to be a shallow, bitchy, nagging woman who made it with every guy on the street, and in the next block, and on their new couch in the living room of their apartment, had anything to do with her non-Irish heritage.
She’d broken his heart, but he wouldn’t—didn’t—have time to think about that right now.
Jim twisted and turned and pushed his shoulder into the unyielding seat. He tried to find a more comfortable position and send his mind back into nothingness. In the middle of the next push, his ear twitched and tingled. It felt like a bug was doing a jig inside it.
“Oh, James, me boy-o.”
Jim sat up like a shot. He glanced furtively at the other passengers as he felt the blood run from his head to his feet. His heart hammered in his chest. Had someone actually whispered to him in that singsong lilting voice? He stuck his finger in his ear and wiggled it.
“What?” Jim grasped the seat in front him, stood halfway, and turned completely around trying to find the source of the voice.
There was no one there.
He slumped again in the seat, giving a wry shake of his head. If the voice was inside his head, he really must be losing it.
“Sit down and be quiet. You can’t see me unless I want you to.” a crisp no-nonsense, but decidedly Irish voice said stridently.
Sweat broke out on Jim’s face as a terrific surge of adrenalin rushed through his middle. “Who are you? Where are you?” A whisper pushed through his lips.
It was a ghost. He knew it. He was haunted like those old bedtime stories his grandmother had told him when he was a child. Those stories had totally freaked him out for months on end.
His hands trembled. His knuckles turned white clutching the seat in front of him, but they still trembled. His gaze darted about the train. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
He sat down willing himself to relax. Be normal, he told himself. Act normal. Everything else is normal. The rain still poured down and sheeted the windows, the wind still whistled in through the cracks, and all the Bostonians were still oblivious to everything around them.
It must be his imagination running away with him. He had been staying up much too late reading that new Stephen King novel.
“Relax boy-o. I’m your guardian angel. And I’ve come to help ya.”
“My guardian ang—” Jim laughed sharply. The image of a guardian angel sitting on his shoulder whispering to him was too funny and wa
y too weird. “Give me a break, will ya? There’s no such thing as guardian ang—” Jim’s frenzied voice and whisper stopped abruptly.
Jim had been raised Catholic in a Catholic neighborhood, had gone to Catholic school, and all his friends were Catholic. But his religious training had diminished into a foggy memory long, long ago.
Guardian angel? Jim ran his shaking fingers through his hair and took a calming breath before he closed his eyes. He just didn’t believe in angels.
“All right, all right.” the voice inside Jim’s head said hurriedly. “You’ve found me out. I’m really your…your…your…. Oh…bol…well then, I’m your leprechaun.”
Jim uttered a short bark of a laugh. Whatever the voice was must think he was a complete idiot. He tried desperately to keep his head from trying to fall off his shoulders. Jim grabbed his things and got off three stations before his usual stop, Morrissey Boulevard and the offices of the Boston Globe.
Jim climbed the stairs quickly to the street, looking over his shoulder; sure the pressure of twenty-first century life had started to get to him. Once on Morrissey, he turned down DeLancey. He walked rapidly but as nonchalantly as possible and glanced every once in a while over his shoulder. He probably looked like a complete idiot. If he could get to the Globe, he’d get a cup of coffee. Maybe then his life would get back to normal.
“Jimmy boy-o, you can’t be thinkin’ that you’ll run away from me, will ya? It’s impossible, me boy. I’ve no corporeal body to slow me down.”
Jim stopped abruptly and flattened himself against the wall of the nearest building. Corporeal, the voice had said corporeal. Now he was completely creeped out. The rain poured over the brim of his hat, sloshing into his eyes as he jerked his head right and then left, ready to manhandle the owner of the pesky voice inside his head. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
“Go get a cup of joe and everything will get back on track. It is a figment of my imagination. I am hearing things, but really and truly there is not a disembodied voice speaking to me,” he said slowly, enunciating each word clearly, and he hoped, although he hadn’t done it in a long time, prayerfully.
The Wild Mountain Thyme Page 1