by Debora Geary
She spied her turn and angled left, straight for Cole Harbour and Jamieson’s. Best food on the mainland—and they always let her play for her supper. Or lunch, in this case. “Gotta go, Tommy.”
He chuckled. “Belly’s empty, huh?”
By rights it should still be full of three days of beef stew. “Yup. No idea if they have Internet where I’m headed next, so you’re on your own.”
He snorted. Tommy didn’t believe in a world without Internet. He’d never been to rural Ireland. “I’ll send a carrier pigeon if I need you.” The smile in his voice widened. “Take care of yourself, okay? I want the bouncy Cassidy Farrell back.”
Damn. She’d even worried her Mafia manager. “I just need some downtime.”
It worried her when he said good-bye. He didn’t sound convinced.
-o0o-
Marcus turned the page of his book—and sighed as small hands tugged at his sleeve. “I only made it two pages, monkey girl.”
Purple eyes twinkled up at him. “G-an.”
Morgan’s baby talk was mangled—and adorable. And apparently far more comprehensible to all the womenfolk of the village than it was to him. This one, however, he’d heard before. “Soon.”
Her eyes darkened. “Soon” was not Morgan’s favorite word. “G-an.” She tugged again.
Reading time was clearly over. Marcus shook his head and got to his feet. “Fine, we’ll go visit Gran.” He’d tried explaining to a drooly Morgan once or twice that Moira was her great-aunt, not her grandmother—to no effect. Neither of them believed him.
Morgan headed for the door, grinning.
He grabbed a handful of pink off the edge of the rug and held it up. “But you have to put your socks on first.”
And mittens. And a hat. And a jacket that made her look like an escapee from the prehistoric exhibit at the museum.
She contemplated his outstretched hand for a minute, a brooding scowl on her face.
And then plunked down on her bottom and held up her toes. “G-an.”
He felt the grin crack his face, working muscles that hadn’t had nearly enough exercise in the last four decades. “How come you couldn’t just leave them on in the first place, hmm?” He dutifully dressed Morgan in socks every morning—and she just as steadfastly removed them.
Marcus slid her wiggly toes into a gaudy striped sock and grinned, oddly proud. Typical Buchanan, always doing things the hard way.
Then again, he wasn’t entirely sure what typical Buchanan was anymore. His life had changed beyond all recognition—and the many hours of the day required to keep Morgan fed, happy, and appropriately clothed for the volatile climate of Fisher’s Cove was only a part of it.
He missed Evan dearly—that hadn’t changed. But the horror of his five-year-old twin disappearing into the mists was no longer the last memory he had of his brother. And every time he saw Morgan, he imagined Evan close by, watching over the two of them.
Their guardian witch.
Grief still hit him at strange moments, but it was the kind of sorrow that time eased—and guilt was no longer its constant companion.
He picked up his daughter and kissed her cheek. Guilt had left his heart—and so much had flooded in to replace it. The cranky old bachelor had almost gotten used to loving someone so much that she undid him simply by sticking a wet Cheerio to her nose. “Come on, sweet pea. Let’s go see who’s out and about this afternoon.”
That, too, was an enormous change in his life. He’d lived the last twenty years in his solitary castle by the sea—a big, rambling place. He’d needed it to hold all of his sadness.
Now he and Morgan squeezed into a tiny, ramshackle cottage on the edge of a village that seemed to think the path to the beach ran through his kitchen. And somehow, he could no longer work up the energy to be the least bit grumpy about it.
Morgan started wiggling in his arms halfway down the road to the inn. He looked down at the rosy cheeks sticking out from her hood of bright blue wool. “It’s still a long ways—how about I carry you a bit farther, hmm?”
She grinned up at him. “Fower.”
Argh. Marcus rolled his eyes. “We left flowers all over the village yesterday.” People were beginning to talk.
“Fower.” This time, he was fairly convinced she even managed to bat her eyelashes.
He nuzzled into a cold cheek and growled. “Your wiles are wasted on me, silly girl.” A lie if there ever was one. She got more adorable every day—and he got less immune.
“Fower.”
Perhaps reason would work. “Forty-eight-year-old witches don’t learn new magic tricks. Maybe Sophie will make you flowers.”
“Fower.”
It was damnably hard to argue with someone who only had a vocabulary of six words. And he suspected an increase in her vocabulary wasn’t something to look forward to.
He plunked her down on the ground and slid off his glove. At this rate, he was going to need to bribe a fire witch for some handwarmer spells, too. With his other still-gloved hand, he pushed twigs and rotting leaves aside, working his way down to bare soil. Morgan babbled happily at his side, anticipating her favorite part.
The power that came when he called to it was disturbingly strong. Annoyed, he shoved a line of it into the soil. And tried not to laugh as a whole clump of something lavender popped up. Definitely not daffodils—and they matched Morgan’s eyes. “Opinionated flowers, are you?”
His daughter leaned over and buried her face in the flowers. He watched carefully—she was still fairly confused about the difference between sniffing a blossom and eating it, and his knowledge of edible plants was far too sparse to let her go about eating the greenery.
She pushed herself to her feet, a fair accomplishment for a child in snow pants, boots, and three layers of woolens. And signed for “more.”
His knees weren’t as limber as hers. Marcus cleared a patch a foot away from the clump of purple and sent another pulse of power into the earth. And then frowned at the flower that rose up under his fingers. Orange this time.
Be darned if he was asking Sophie why the cursed plants were changing.
He wasn’t an earth witch, dammit.
Morgan grinned in approval—and then toddled three steps and plunked down again, looking at the ground expectantly.
Marcus sighed. It was going to take them all of the remaining hours of daylight to go a hundred feet. Again. Apparently they had to carpet the village in flowers first.
And soft-headed old man that he had become, he would probably go along with it.
-o0o-
Cass pulled her car to the side of the road, amused. When Dave said “off the beaten track,” he wasn’t kidding. Fisher’s Cove wasn’t more than three or four miles off the main highway—but she’d venture a guess that very few tourists found it by accident.
Not the most logical place to set up an inn. Hopefully it would be one of those quirky, underappreciated gems that she loved. Dave rarely sent her wrong.
She was still a little way from the huddle of cottages, and slightly uphill. Until she’d come around the bend in the road, she’d been fairly convinced that her scrawled directions had been written by pixies.
But the village was here, tucked behind some small, rocky hills that thoroughly hid it from the rest of planet Earth.
And like the music that flowed in her veins, it was ageless. Houses on the edge of run-down, framed by brambles and browns that were probably lovely gardens in the summer. A couple of nets hanging, and a cove with boats visible just beyond the village.
Not a postcard—but not an eyesore, either. A humble, hardworking sort of place.
Oddly Irish. Home, without all the restrictions.
A small group of children dashed out of a house and made a mad run for the front door of the church. Cass grinned—the church had been their indoor playground when she was a kid, too. The succession of priests had growled at them, issued proclamations about heavenly manners, and left out plates of cookies.
<
br /> Her stomach rumbled at the thought of cookies. She reached over and grabbed the last of the PEI fried potato skins she’d snagged on her way out of Jamieson’s. The rest of the year, she ate like a normal person. Something about Nova Scotia turned her into a hungry bear.
Which seemed backwards—this was supposed to be hibernation, Cassidy Farrell style.
She crunched, her potato-eating genes entirely happy. And wondered why the rocks had brought her here.
Probably not for a game of hide-and-seek in the church pews, and the village wasn’t big enough for a decent pub. But the rocks seemed to think she belonged here, and their tugging had been very consistent with Dave’s scrawled directions.
She grimaced and reached for the gearshift. This was way too much thinking to be doing about a fishing village. She’d found a comfy spot to lay her head in places far smaller and dingier than this. The rocks would make their point clear in time—they always did. Pulling her car back out onto the road, she drove slowly down the hill.
And smiled as she spied the biggest building in town. That must be the inn.
-o0o-
The wind rattled something fierce this afternoon. Moira walked to the window, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders a little more tightly. Nearly enough to shake an old witch’s bones, it was.
It had blown like that back home this time of year.
She lifted a cup of tea to her lips, inhaling her gran’s old recipe.
A lot of nostalgia today—and it wasn’t just the smell of tea and the bite of the weather. The old energies were moving, whispering tales and calling to those with the ability to hear.
So few ever bothered now.
Carefully Moira pulled a light stream of power. And tapping into the wise and unpredictable magics of the crone, asked permission to listen.
The whispers got a little louder—and an old witch of small magics and open heart smiled as she heard their story.
A journey. A song. A choice.
The wind was blowing something in.
Moira set her cup on the counter and reached for her winter cloak. If something was coming, she’d meet it in the way of the Irish.
With warmth in her heart, steel at the ready, and friends at her side.
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, cooki
es 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.”