A Celtic Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 6) (30 page)

She saw Dave standing over on the side of the floor, eyes full of avid curiosity.  In the way of the Scots, he wouldn’t ask—but he would find out.

It occurred to her that she might be seeing the familiar faces of Margaree far more often.  And something deep inside her that had been walking the road for twenty-six years gladdened.

Two and a half decades of dust falling off her boots, she walked over to the man in black, standing there with pastry juice running down his fingers.  “Do you square dance?”

The horrified look on Marcus’s face was answer enough.  It didn’t matter—by the time the ladies of Margaree were finished with him, he would.  A grumpy bachelor was no match for tough Scottish grannies with a need to dance.

He stared at her for the longest time, not moving.  And then he reached into his pocket and held up the fist not occupied by Mildred’s pastry.  “My aunt says that flowers have a language.  Each one has a meaning.”  He surveyed the contents of his hand.  “I’m hoping these do as well.”

She looked.  A mess of random pebbles and pretty colors, some still damp from ocean waters and winter rain.  And nestled in their midst, the three that mattered. 

A large and craggy bit of granite, too big to be a mere pebble.  He probably thought it was ugly. 

A small and sparkly treasure the color of Morgan’s eyes.

And a rock in vivid green.

An offer.  From a man who’d stopped in the middle of a manic drive in the dead of winter to pick stones from a beach.

Muddled joy grabbed Cass’s throat.  “I’ve never been a pebble before.”

“I’ve never been a lot of things before,” he said, so quietly she barely heard him.  “But I’d like to try.”

It was the first time she’d ever seen his gentleness leak all the way to the outside.

She laid her palm over his, the bits of granite and green and sparkle cupped between their hands.  “Okay.”

And then grinned up at him, sunshine bright, as the people of Margaree did a decent approximation of a jubilant human earthquake.

-o0o-

People never applauded for him.

As he felt joy bloom in Cass’s mind and heard the ruckus bust loose around them, that was the single fragment of clarity left in Marcus Buchanan’s brain.

The applause was never for him.

He looked down at their cupped hands, and then back up at her radiant face.

And oblivious to pastry and pebbles hitting the floor, pulled her in close.

He tucked the joyous, vibrant, defiant Cassidy Farrell under his chin, tight against his heart.  And simply swayed.  She fit.  He had no idea how their story ended just yet.  But she fit.

Perhaps he wasn’t a totally incompetent knight errant after all.

Chapter 22

Ah, what a momentous day for so many people.

Moira stood in the middle of the main and only road of Fisher’s Cove, loving the chaotic beauty that flowed around her.

Every villager in town, including Andy on his crutches, had come to send the travelers off.

An enormous bus sat on the road, Cassidy Farrell’s larger-than-life face next to dancing letters proclaiming the great
Swordfights and Lullabies
tour of 2013.

It was going to be a short tour.

And according to her manager, one booked to the gills.  The sharp and funny man with the promising name of Tommy had driven the bus into town the day before.  Here to pick up his girl—and promising to bring her back.

He’d sworn the latter over a cup of tea at Moira’s table.  And behind the swagger and the big-city attitude, she’d seen enough love for their Celtic fiddler to believe him.

Things were moving fast enough to have even the most romantic hearts swooning—and the more practical ones hopping trying to get all the details in order.  You didn’t take a baby on a road trip without a multitude of those.

And Marcus was as marvelously befuddled as Moira had ever seen him.  She linked elbows with the old woman beside her.  It had taken Nan Cassidy two whole cups of tea to recover from her trip through the Internet.

And then they’d set to blessing the bus with a vengeance.  It would travel with all the protection two Irish grannies could muster.

“It’s really happening, isn’t it?”  Sophie joined them on the side of the road, three insulated cups in her hands.  “Morgan’s all excited about her bus ride.”

Sophie and Elorie had quietly taken care of getting a toddler and her daddy ready for an epic journey.  Clothes, blankies, and hand-knit teddy bears, all safely stashed away in their new home on wheels.  Video of swordfights and daffodils and Lizzie singing sweet Irish lullabies to remind Morgan of home.  Moira sniffled.  “I’ll miss them so.”

Sophie smiled.  “They can port back any time they want.  Nell’s got it all set up.  And you can port to the bus for a visit any time you want.”  She nudged Nan.  “That goes for you as well.”

Tears pricked green eyes.  “It will take me a while to work up my nerve again.  But I will.”

Moira knew something about old Irish nerves.  She suspected the bus would have a visitor by dinnertime.

She sighed, a tinge of sad sharpening the happiness, as it should.  She’d still miss her small girl and her nephew and the lovely Irish witch they’d found.  And she’d miss watching Marcus’s face.  Somewhere on that bus ride, he was going to finish the transformation into a man who lived a largely happy life.

Nan turned to the healer beside her.  “And how is your wee boy doing?” 

Just another of the happinesses cradled in Moira’s heart.  The village had been quietly abuzz for days.  Dreams, vivid ones.  Of music.  And rocks.  Her own had been of a planet’s gorgeous lullaby. 

But none had been more touched than their lovely, uncomfortable boy.

“He sleeps.”  Sophie’s quiet words were drenched in gratitude.  “And if he wakes, Mike sings a bit and he goes back to sleep.  And he’s happy.”

The last Moira had seen for herself—and it warmed her to the very cockles.  No one knew yet if it would stick.  But it had lasted some—and his guide would be back soon enough, ready to learn more of her own powers. 

It wasn’t only the woman coming back to Fisher’s Cove.

The witch had also chosen.  She had said little—but the bus also contained half of Moira’s books on healing and the old Irish clans.  Set right next to a motley collection of Nova Scotia beach rocks that Cass guarded far more carefully than her million-dollar violin.

Moira grinned.  They’d learned that little tidbit when Tommy had arrived and discovered Morgan holding Rosie in her lap.  They’d also learned a little something of Cassidy Farrell’s temper.  Morgan would hold Rosie any time she wanted.  It had been decreed.

The bus ride would go just fine.

Marcus moved through the crowd, Morgan in his arms, still looking gobsmacked.  Moira shed a tear—it was only right. 

But oh, how happy she was with what she saw.  A man with surprisingly firm roots, healed enough to fly.  And the woman beside him, finally daring to put down some roots of her own.  Cass would be very good for Marcus—her wings were strong and tested.

And Morgan, sweet, smart girl that she was, would delight in them both.

The trio had been very quiet about the future, talking only of the journey of the next few weeks.  But Marcus, bemused though he was, had given Aaron a set of detailed renovation plans.

And it had escaped no one’s notice that they included a music studio.

“We should go say goodbye,” said Sophie softly.

“A moment, first.”  Moira set her feet in Fisher’s Cove soil and pulled the remaining trickles of power that were hers to call.  And smiled as Sophie’s much more capable magic and Nan’s wise and sturdy offering joined in.

A blessing for the road.  For clear skies.

For joy.

And for the travelers’ safe return home.

-o0o-

Soon, he’d have to let her go.  Marcus sat on the bus and held Cass close, breathing in the shape and smell and vibrant life of her.

In the chaos of the last few days, holding her had become his anchor.

Her fingers laced through his.  Joining.  Belonging.

So many things felt awkward yet.  But this wasn’t one of them.  Gently, he tilted up her chin and kissed first one cheek, then the next.  “It’s time to go.”

Her smile lit up things he hadn’t known were dark.  “Yes.”

He let her go with no small regret and reached out to buckle his very inquisitive daughter into her car seat.

Cass settled into the seat beside Morgan and strapped herself in.  “Ready to go see the world, sweet girl?”

Marcus felt the uncomfortable squirming of a wrong not yet made right. 

“I’m sorry.”  He waited until she looked up, curious.  And then had no idea what to say.  He felt the engine of the bus rumbling to life underneath them.  “The Gaelic you call her…”

“Ah.”  Understanding hit green eyes.  “Moira is right—it’s just an expression.”  She looked back down at Morgan and smiled.  “‘Sweet girl’ works just fine, doesn’t it, love?”

“I heard your grandmother use it.  The Gaelic.”  Marcus swallowed—it was still hell on his equilibrium to be so open.  “And your mind sings when you hear it.”

“Yes.”  A tinge of caution now.

He wanted to banish her wariness to the dark side of the moon.  “I’m old and cranky and set in my ways.  And I don’t love easily.”

Her eyes danced, amused.  She knew.  And she would wait for him to find the damnable words.

He looked down at his lap, cheeks flaming.  “I don’t love easily—but Morgan does.  And I don’t want to get in the way of that.”  He’d ripped them apart once.  He would never do it again.

She touched his face gently.  “You didn’t know then that I would stay.”

He heard her sorrow—and the self-recrimination.  “I do now.”

It was Cass’s turn for red cheeks.  She fussed with Morgan’s straps, adjusting things that didn’t need fixing.  “Your da wants you to learn some Gaelic, little monkey.  How do you feel about that, hmm?”

By all that was holy, he was going to get the last of this out.  “I want her heart to sing when she hears it.  Just like yours does.”

“Well, then.”  Words a bit shaky, but the smile behind them was radiant.  “She should hear it from two people, no?”  She looked down at Morgan.  “You think your da should give it a try,
a leanbh mo chroí?”

Marcus tried once and butchered the Gaelic right properly.  He grinned ruefully.  It still sounded like “alanna” to him.  “That will just bruise her ears.”

“Oh, I think she’s tougher than that.”  Cass’s smile was a little soggy.  “I wrote a song for the two of you.”

He stared at her, brain suddenly overtaxed.  “What?”

She reached for her fiddle, never far from her side.  Morgan watched, eyes wide, as Cass began to play.

Marcus felt it drill right down to the place that loved Morgan beyond measure.

He shook his head, resisting.  It was only a pretty lullaby.

The notes assailed him again, daring him to doubt their power.  And then quieted, no less commanding.  And told the story of his fierce, endless, gentle love for his daughter.

Cass trailed off, last notes fading into the ether.  “I called it
Alanna
.”

Marcus closed his eyes in gratitude.  He already knew that. 

His place that knew how to love beyond measure quivered.  And made room for his green-eyed Irish witch.

-o0o-

The miles flew past the windows, just like always.  On the road again.

And yet, so much had changed, and not only the interior of her bus.  Tommy had moved mountains to get it changed up enough to contain a small child.  It was only temporary—they had a beach house rented in South Carolina.  A tour hub a little more suited to a toddler.

And perhaps to the threesome they were becoming.

Cass looked over at the pebbles, neatly housed in a little hand-hewn, glass-topped box half filled with gray Fisher’s Cove sand.  A gift from Mike and Sophie and Adam—who knew what it was to be a trio.

She put out her hand to soothe Morgan, wiggling in her car seat.  Dreaming, maybe.  Or waking up.  The baby stuff was very new yet.

Marcus was watching her still.  Watching the two of them.  He had been for hours.

Cass tried not to squirm under his gaze.  So much lived in his eyes.  “I’m glad you’re here.”

He smiled.  “You had responsibilities.  I understand that.”

It wasn’t nearly that simple.  Yes, she had three more months of tour booked—and Cassidy Farrell played her gigs.  But it was more than that.  It had been a very long journey, and the final measures deserved to be played.

And then the new song would start.  “I have a standing invitation to play Friday nights in Margaree.”

His eyes met hers, seeking something.  “You could play in Aaron’s inn.”

She had considered that.  And Aaron had made it very clear she’d be welcome any hour of the day or night.  “Fisher’s Cove is meant to be off the beaten track, I think.”  A few would make the journey simply because she was there—but not many, and that felt right.  Protective of the magic and the community that thrived there.  “The world already comes to Margaree.  I can meet them there whenever I want.”