Page 29 of The Scald Crow

“Your father wishes to meet you. Would you come with?” His eyes softened as he extended his hand. I gazed into his shimmering orbs, which reflected the majestic spires of a stone castle surrounded by dense woodland and lush green fields.

“Excuse me?” But that revelation was just too much. I clenched the horn of the walking stick, impaling my palm with a protruding thorn. The wind rolled over the meadow, and the blades of grass sang. “Meet my father?” The thorn pierced deeper.

Sunbeams rained down from the sky.

Heavy boots crunching over the gravel walkway intruded on my conversation with the strange little man. I released Séamus from my gaze and turned toward the disruption.

“Good day, Calla.” Colm stood in the garden path, swatting honeybees with both hands. Dark half-moons clung to his eyes, and days’ growth of stubble shadowed his chin. He wore cargo pants and a novelty T-shirt, which seemed out of place. He stepped away from the lilac bush and grinned sheepishly.

“Colm? What are you doing here? How did you find me?” Whirling away, I gazed beyond the cedar fence into the face of a long-eared donkey. His mahogany coat glimmered in the sunlight, his blond mane as wild as the landscape. The donkey lowered his head, pulling up tender shoots of green grass.

“It wasn’t difficult. Only one Dermot Sweet lived in Ardara.” His voice faded in and out.

I heard only half of what he said.

“Is this about the burial tomorrow?” I turned toward him. A deep ache struck my belly, followed closely by the urge to touch the scruff scribed to his angled jaw.

“No. This is about Ciarán.” The air stilled, and the smile left his face. He looked as haunted as I felt.

“Nice shirt.” I lowered my gaze, and a giggle bubbled up in my throat. The pixie twirled her wand, leaving magical dust on the front of the black T-shirt.

What happened at the wake was an anomaly. Jet lag. Delirium. I could taste him—still feel the soft brush of his lips, his corded muscles beneath my fingertips. I conjured up a million scenarios that could never happen. Letting my guard down was one of them.

“A gift from Breda, my cousin? You met her at the wake.” He sliced me in half with a sharp glance.

“What are you doing here?” I curled my fingers over my palm, seeing the crimson line running down my wrist for the first time.

“What happened to your hand?” He drew closer, expecting I would seek comfort. His voice soothed but did nothing to quiet my rampant desires.

What did the therapist say? Something about running and adrenaline. Scratch the itch. Calm the mind.

“It’s just a scratch.” I kept him at bay with the thorny staff. “What do you want?” I spent last night alone, consumed in a haze of lust—visions of Colm O’Donnell dancing from one peaked nipple to the other.

“You said you spoke to Ciarán.” He said each word carefully, slowly enunciating as if he knew how close I stood to the edge.

“And you didn’t believe me.” I should send him on his way. I glanced toward the donkey, happily munching on tufts of grass.

“I have questions.” His commanding voice jolted me into the present.

Ciarán—the only reason Colm was here. He was not interested in me. His agenda was selfish and personal.

I gazed into those baby blues. Quelling my infatuation seemed an impossible task.

“About the man in the photo?” I refused to name him. That would make it real. Seeing ghosts, talking to imaginary little men. But what of the golden-haired woman in the picture frame—her eyes followed me everywhere. I swept my fingers through my hair, dislodging a stray honeybee. The bee hummed and then flew away.

“What did he say to you?” He reached out, taking the walking stick from me and winding his fingers around the blackthorn staff.

The wind shifted, and the mountain cast shadows across the farmyard. The blood in my veins chilled, moving through my body like a melting iceberg. My mind numbed, and all those worries I held onto disappeared as if they had never existed.

“What?” I rested my hand over his and waited for the moment I stayed too long—the moment all hell would break loose, but I saw nothing, felt nothing: no death, no memories. I gazed over the flatland between the mountain and the forest, at the mist folding over the rocky outcrops, engulfing the yellow flowering gorse—no sign of Séamus, no donkey, lots of sheep.

My fingers strayed over his second knuckle and then his first. I licked my lips, waiting for the tsunami to strike. Instead, the sky dropped, becoming one with the mist, enveloping the valley in a ghostly haze.

“Tell me what you want, luv.” Colm traced the bloody seam marking my palm with the pad of his wide thumb.

His nearness filled me with so much heat that my mind shattered.

“I need to know.” My voice became a low moan as I leaned into him and became part of him.

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