Dark Witch (7 page)

She reached the upended tree, the wall of vines. Though the pull returned, she pushed it back. Not now, not today when the emotion of the dreams swam so close to the surface.

Answers first.

The dog waited at the edge of the woods as if he’d been expecting her. He swished his tail by way of greeting, accepted the stroke on his head.

“Good morning. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one out and about early. I hope Branna’s not pissed when I come knocking, but I really need to talk to her.”

Kathel led the way to the pretty blue cottage, straight to the bright red door. “Here goes.” She used the knocker shaped like a trinity knot, considered how best to approach her cousin.

But the one she hadn’t yet met answered the door.

He looked like some rumpled, sleepy warrior prince with his mass of waving hair, a burnished brown that spilled around a face as elegantly boned as his sister’s. Eyes green as the hills blinked at her.

He stood tall and lean in gray flannel pants and a white pullover unraveling at the hem.

“I’m sorry,” she began, and thought those words appeared to be her default when she came to this house.

“Good morning to you. You must be cousin Iona from the States.”

“Yes, I—”

“Welcome home.”

She found herself enfolded in a big, hard hug that lifted her up to the toes of her boots. The cheerful gesture made her eyes sting, and her nerves vanish.

“I’d be Connor, if you’re wondering. Did Kathel find you and bring you ’round?”

“No, that is, yes. I was already coming here, but he found me.”

“Well then, come in out of the cold. Winter’s still got its teeth in us.”

“Thanks. I know it’s early.”

“That it is. The day will insist on starting that way.” In a gesture she found both casual and miraculous, he flicked a hand at the living room hearth. Flames leaped up to curl around the stacked peat. “We’ll have some breakfast,” he continued, “and you can tell me everything there is to know about Iona Sheehan.”

“That won’t take long.”

“Oh, I’ll wager there’s plenty to tell.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the house.

She had a quick impression of color and jumble and light, the scents of vanilla and smoke. And space, more of it than she’d expected.

Then they were in the kitchen with a pretty stone hearth, long counters the color of slate, walls of lake blue. Pots of herbs thrived on wide windowsills, copper pots hung over a center island. Cabinets of dark gray showed colorful glassware, dishes behind their glass fronts. In a jut ringed with windows stood a beautiful old table and charmingly mismatched chairs.

The combination of farmhouse casual and the modern efficiency of glossy white appliances worked like magick.

“This is really beautiful. Like something out of a really smart magazine.”

“Is it? Well, it’s Branna who has very definite ideas, and this is one of them.” Tilting his head in study, he gave her another quick, charming smile. “Can you cook?”

“Ah . . . sort of. I mean, I can, I just suck at it.”

“Well now, that’s a real pity. I’m on duty then. Will it be coffee or tea for you?”

“Oh, coffee, thanks. You don’t have to cook.”

“I do if I want to eat, and I do. In general, around here Branna’s the cook and I’m the bottle washer, but I can manage breakfast well enough.”

He punched controls on a very intimidating-looking coffeemaker as he spoke, pulled a basket of eggs, a hunk of butter, a pack of bacon from the fridge.

“Take off your coat and be at home,” he told her. “Branna says you’re living the life at Ashford for a few days before you’re coming here. How are you finding Ashford?”

“Like a dream. I slept too much of the day away yesterday. Obviously, I’m making up for it. You don’t mind me moving in?”

“Why would I? We’ll be taking turns as bottle washers, so that’s one for me.”

He got down a skillet, set it on the stove top. “Cups up there, and fresh cream if you’re wanting it, and sugar as well.” He gestured here and there before he tossed bacon into the skillet.

All of it, and all of him, she thought, seemed as casual and miraculous as his wrist-flick fire-starting.

“I hear you’re after working at the stables.”

“I’m hoping.”

“Branna had a word with Boyle. He’ll be talking to you about that today.”

“Really?” Her heart actually leapt at the prospect. “That’s great. That’s fantastic. A lot of people thought I’d lost my mind, just packing up, coming here without a serious plan, without a ready job or a place to stay.”

“What’s an adventure if you know all the steps before you take them?”

“I know!” She grinned at him. “Now I’ve got a job interview, and family to live with. And this morning—certainly it wasn’t my plan last night to walk over at six
A.M
.—I saw a hawk in the woods. It flew right down, sat on a branch and watched me. I took pictures.”

She dug out her phone to show him. “I guess you’d know what kind of hawk—falcon—he is.”

As he lifted the bacon out of the skillet, Connor angled his head to study the image. “A Harris’s hawk—the same we use for our hawk walks. That’s Fin’s Merlin, and a fine bird he is. Finbar Burke,” he added. “He owns the stables with Boyle, and he started the falconry school here at Ashford. He owns quite a bit of this and that, does Fin.”

“Will I interview with him, too?”

“Oh, he’d likely leave that to Boyle. Plenty of cream and two sugars in my coffee, if you will.”

“Same as me.”

“Branna, she’s one for just a dollop of the cream. Go ahead and fix her up. She’s on her way down, and she’ll need it.”

“She is? How do you . . . Oh.”

He only smiled. “She sends out fierce vibrations of a morning before her coffee, and it’s a bit on the early side for her so she may bite.”

Iona grabbed another cup, hurriedly poured the coffee. She was stirring in that dollop of cream when Branna walked in, dark hair tumbled nearly to her waist, eyes blurry and annoyed.

She took the cup Iona held out, took two deep swallows as she watched Iona over the rim. “All right then, what happened?”

“Ah now, don’t poke at her,” Connor said. “She’s had a rough go. Give her a chance to get some food into her.”

“I doubt she’s come here at dawn for breakfast. You’re going to overcook those eggs, Connor, as always.”

“I’m not. Slice up some bread for toasting why don’t you, and she’ll tell us once she’s settled.”

“She’s standing right here,” Iona reminded them.

“At half-six in the bloody morning,” Branna finished, but she picked up a bread knife, took a cloth off a loaf on a cutting board on the counter.

“I’m sorry, but—”

“Every second sentence she utters starts with those two words.” Branna sliced bread, tossed it into the toaster.

“Jesus, finish your coffee before your black mood ruins my appetite. Let’s have some plates, Iona, there’s a girl.” His tone shifted from sharp to gentle as his sister leaned back against the counter and sulkily drank her coffee.

Saying nothing, Iona got down plates and, at his direction, located the flatware, set the table.

She sat with her cousins, looked at the platter heaped with bacon and eggs, the plate of toasted bread, listened to the two of them bicker about how the eggs were cooked, whose turn it was to go to the market and why the laundry hadn’t been folded.

“My coming here like this put you at odds, so you’re fighting, but I—”

“We’re not fighting.” Connor scooped up a forkful of eggs. “Are we fighting, Branna?”

“We’re not. We’re communicating.” Then she laughed, tossed her magnificent hair, and bit into her toast. “If we were fighting, more than these eggs would be scorched.”

“They’re not scorched,” Connor insisted. “They’re . . . firm.”

“They’re good.”

Branna rolled her eyes at Iona. “You’d have eaten better at the hotel, be sure of it. The chef there is brilliant.”

“I wasn’t thinking about food this morning. I can’t just read books, and stumble around trying to . . . I don’t know what to do unless I
know
.”

“She’s a bit of food in her now,” Branna said to Connor. “So, what happened?”

“I had a dream, that wasn’t a dream.”

She told all of it, every detail she could remember as carefully as she could manage.

“Let me see your hand,” Branna interrupted. “The one that bled.”

She took it, held it fast while she traced fingertips over the back. The skin split, filled with blood. “Be still!” Branna snapped when Iona gasped and tried to pull free. “It’s but a memory now. There’s no pain. This is just the mirror of what was.”

“It was real. It hurt, burned. And there was blood on the sheet.”

“Then, yes, it was real. This is only a reflection.” She traced her fingertips over it again, and the wound vanished.

“I was pregnant. I mean, she was pregnant. In the vision, or dream. He didn’t know. He couldn’t see it, or feel it? I don’t know which.” Agitated, Iona shoved at her hair with both hands. “I have to know, Branna. You said I needed to think carefully, but how can I when I don’t have all the information?”

“It’s twined close,” Branna said, and got Connor’s nod. “And you’re more open than I understood. I’ll give you something to filter the visions; it may help you keep yourself a step back we’ll say. We’ll guide you, Connor and I, best that we can. But we can’t tell you what we don’t know. If Teagan went alone back to the cabin, back to the woods, was confronted, you’re the one telling us.”

“We know pieces, Branna and I, and now you’ll know more. We’ve both gone back, had glimpses, felt as you feel now.”

“But we were only two,” Branna added. “There must be three.”

“He was bolder with you, as you’re more vulnerable. You won’t stay that way,” Connor assured her.

It sounded ridiculous, but she had to say aloud what churned through her mind. “Can he kill me? If I go back, when I sleep, could he kill me?”

“He could try and likely will try.” Branna answered the ridiculous with bald simplicity. “You’ll stop him.”

“How?”

“With your will, with your power. With the amulet you wear, and must always wear, and with what I’ll give you.”

Branna stopped pushing her eggs around her plate, picked up her coffee. And once again watched Iona over the rim.

“But understand, if you stay, if you mean to be with us, and be what you are, he will come for you. You must stay freely, and knowing that, or go and live your life.”

It was all too fantastic. And yet. She’d lived that dream. She’d felt the pain.

And she knew the draw and pull of what lived inside her.

Bridges burned, Iona reminded herself, for the chance to build new ones. Wherever they led—and they’d already brought her closer to what and who she was than any of the ones before.

“I’m not leaving.”

“You’ve had little time to think or understand,” Branna began, but Iona only shook her head.

“I
know
I’ve never belonged anywhere before. And I think I understand this is why. Because I belong here. I come from her, from Teagan. I understand, too, she wanted me to see she hurt him that night, and he was afraid. Doesn’t that— Couldn’t that mean I can hurt him?”

“If it’s here you belong, and I believe it is, then here you are. But don’t rush your fences,” Connor warned her, and patted her hand. “You’ve only begun.”

“I’m an excellent rider with a damn good seat. And I’ll learn. Teach me.” She leaned closer as the urgency rose in her. “Show me.”

Branna sat back. “You haven’t much patience.”

“It depends. No,” Iona admitted. “Not a lot.”

“You’ll need to find some, but we’ll take some steps. Small ones.”

“Tell me about the cabin. They lived there, Sorcha died there. Is it still there? There’s a big tree, uprooted, and these thick vines, and—”

“Don’t go there,” Branna said quickly. “Not yet and not alone.”

“She’s right. You have to wait for that. You have to promise not to go through on your own.” Connor gripped her hand, and she felt the heat pump against her palm. “Your word on it, and I’ll know if you mean to keep it.”

“All right. I promise. But you’ll take me.”

“Not today,” Branna told her. “I have things I have to do, and Connor needs to go to work. And you need to go see Boyle.”

“Now?”

“After breakfast’s soon enough, and after you’ve washed up as payment for getting me out of my bed at this ungodly hour. Come back later. I should be done and ready by about three.”

“I’ll be here.” Settled, confident again, Iona helped herself to another piece of toast.

5

A
S SHE FOLLOWED THE PATH, IONA TRIED WORKING ON HER INTERVIEW SKILLS
. What to say, how to say it. She hoped she’d dressed appropriately, as she hadn’t expected an immediate job interview when she’d left her hotel room that morning in jeans and her favorite red sweater. Still, she was aiming for a stable job, so she’d hardly need a business suit and a briefcase.

Neither of which she had anyway, she mused, or had ever wanted.

What she did have was the resume she’d put together, the recommendation by her previous employers, all the references from her students or their parents.

She didn’t care what they paid her, not to start. She just needed a riding boot in the door. Then she could, and would, prove herself. And while she proved herself she’d not only have work, she’d have the work she loved.

Her stomach knotted, as it did when she wanted something too much, so she ordered herself not to babble when she met the man who could hire her or just send her on her way.

The minute she turned into the clearing, saw the building, the nerves dropped away. Here was the familiar, a kind of home. The shape of the stables and its weather-faded red paint, the two horses with their heads poking out of the half doors, the trucks, the trailers scattered around the graveled lot.

The scents of hay, horses, manure, leather, oil, grain caught at her heart. It all flooded over her as her boots crunched on the gravel.

She couldn’t help herself. She went straight to the horses.

The chestnut held her gaze steadily, watching her approach. He snorted at her, shifted his weight. He bent his head when she stroked his cheek, then gave her an easy push with his nose.

“It’s nice to meet you, too. Look how handsome you are.”

Clear eyes, clean, glossy coat, well-brushed mane, and a look of the easygoer about him, she noted. Healthy, well-tended horses boosted the as-yet-unmet Boyle McGrath and Finbar Burke in her estimation.

“I’m hoping we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. And who’s your friend?” She turned to the second horse, a sturdy-looking bay who rubbed his neck on the window frame as if he wasn’t the least bit interested in her.

When she stepped toward him, he laid his ears back. Iona just angled her head, sent him soothing thoughts until they perked up again. “That’s better. No need to be nervous. I’m just here to say hello.”

She gave him a quick rub.

“That’s Caesar taking your measure there.”

Iona turned, saw the Amazon in riding boots behind her. The woman’s curvy body filled out snug riding pants and a rough plaid jacket. Her hair, worn in a long, messy braid, reminded Iona of her grandmother’s prized mink coat—rich and luxurious brown. Though Ireland sang in her voice, her golden skin and deep brown eyes spoke of sunny climes and gypsy campfires.

“He generally likes to act fierce on first acquaintance. And can be shy about being touched—usually,” she added when Iona continued to stroke him.

“He’s just careful around strangers. Are they both trail horses?”

“We save Caesar for experienced riders, but they both have a job here, yes.”

“I’m hoping I will, too. I’m Iona Sheehan. I’ve come to talk to Boyle McGrath.”

“Ah, you’d be the Yank, a cousin of Connor’s and Branna’s. I’m Meara Quinn.” She stepped forward, shook Iona’s hand firmly, gave her a quick, no-nonsense appraisal. “You’ve come early today.”

“I’m still adjusting to the time change. I can come back if it’s not a good time.”

“Oh, one time’s as good as another. Boyle’s not here, but will be soon enough. I can show you about if you’d like.”

“I would, thanks.” Like Caesar’s, Iona’s nerves dropped away. “Have you worked here long?”

“Oh, about eight years. Closer to nine, I’m thinking. Well, who’s counting, yeah?”

She led the way in, long strides on long legs that had Iona quickening her pace to keep up. Iona saw a room off to the side, jumbled and crowded with riding hats, leg protectors, some boots. A lean tabby sidled out, gave Iona a look as measuring as Meara’s had been, then strolled outside.

“That was Darby, who graces us with his presence. A fierce mouser is Darby, so we put up with his sullen moods. He earns his kibble, and comes and goes as he pleases.”

“Nice work if you can get it.”

Meara grinned. “That’s the truth. And so, we take bookings for rides, guide the customers between the Lough Corrib and Mask. Usually an hour, but we’ll do longer if they ask and pay for it. And we have the training ring here.”

Iona walked in to watch a woman in her thirties on the back of a compact chestnut, and the fireplug of a man in work jeans putting horse and rider through the paces.

“That’s our Mick. A jockey he was in his youth, and has unlimited stories to tell about those days.”

“I’d like to hear them.”

“Be sure you will if you’re here above five minutes.” Meara set her hands on her hips, watched Mick a moment, letting Iona do the same. “Took a bad fall, Mick did, in a race at Roscommon, and so ended that portion of his career. Now he teaches and trains, and his students collect blue ribbons.”

“Sounds like you’re lucky to have him.”

“That we are. We’ve another area at the big stables, not far from here, for jumping practice and instruction. We cater to locals as well for lessons, and the occasional guided ride. We tend to run a bit slow this time of year, but there’s plenty needs doing. We’ve twenty-two horses between what we keep here and what’s at the other stable. The tack room’s this way.”

She glanced over at Iona. “We ride English, so if you’re used to a Western saddle, you’d have to adjust.”

“I ride both.”

“That’s handy for you. Boyle’s fierce about keeping the tack in good order,” she continued as she gestured Iona into the room. “Those of us who work here do whatever comes to hand. Deal with the tack, take bookings, muck out, groom, feed—there’s a board with each horse’s feed schedule and diet hung outside their stalls. Have you done any guided rides?”

“Back home, sure.”

“Then you know it’s more than plodding along with the clients. You need to judge how they handle the ride, the mount, and most who book here want some color, if you understand me, some talk of the area, the history, even flora and fauna.”

“I’ll study up. Actually, I’ve already done some. I like knowing where I am.”

“Hard to know where you’re going unless you do.”

“I’m open to surprises there.”

Familiar scents surrounded her—leather and saddle soap. To most eyes, she imagined, the tack room would strike as cluttered and disorganized, but she saw the basic pattern, the day-to-day use, repair, maintain.

Bridles hung on one wall, the saddles on their racks on another. Harness racks on the third, with hooks and racks for bits and saddle pads, shelves for this and that, rags and brushes and saddle soaps and oils. And a kind of alcove for brooms, pitchforks, the curry combs, hoof picks, hooks again for buckets. She spotted an old refrigerator.

“Medicine’s in there,” Meara told her. “Close and handy when there’s need. We do what we can to keep it all reasonably tidy, and a time or two a year when we’re slow, we put some elbow grease into it. Would you have your own gear?”

“I sold it.” That had been painful. “Except for my riding boots, my muck boots, riding helmet. I didn’t know if I’d have any place to keep it, or even if I’d be able to use it, at least for a while. Do I need my own?”

“You don’t, no. Well then, you’ll want to see the horses we have here. We board as well, but at the big stable. Here we keep the riding hacks, and switch them out between here and there as needed.”

Meara walked and talked, more long strides in battered boots as she led Iona through to the stalls.

“We’ve a booking for four later this morning, and two more this afternoon, a party of two and another of six. Lessons booked through the day so we’ve a full house here.”

She stopped to rub the head of a sturdy chestnut with a white blaze. “This is Maggie, as sweet as they come. She’s good with children or the skittish. She’s patient, is Maggie, and likes the quiet life. Don’t you, darling?”

The mare nuzzled at Meara’s shoulder, then dipped her head at Iona.

“Such a pretty face.” After a rub and a scratch, Maggie bumped at Iona’s pocket, made her laugh. “I don’t have any with me today. I’ll be sure to bring along an apple next time. She’s . . .” Iona trailed off as she caught Meara’s questioning look. “What?”

“Odd, is all. Maggie has a particular fondness for apples.” Leaving it at that, Meara gestured. “And that’s our Jack. He’s a big boy, and likes his naps, and will try to graze his way through the ride if he’s able. Needs a firm hand.”

“Like to eat and sleep, do you? Who doesn’t? I bet a big, strong boy like you can carry three hundred without blinking an eye.”

“He will that. And here we have Spud. He’s young and feisty but goes well.”

“A dark horse.” Iona moved over to run a hand down his black mane. “With a weakness for potatoes.” She caught the look again, used a smile. “His name. Spud.”

“We’ll use that one if you like. And here’s Queen Bee, as she thinks she is. She bosses the others every opportunity, but she likes a good ride.”

“I wouldn’t mind one myself. She’s had some trouble with her right foreleg?”

“A bit of a strain a week or so back. Healed up nicely. If she told you different, she’s just looking for sympathy.”

Unsure, Iona took a step back, slid her hands into her pockets.

“I’m not likely to get the jitters if someone shares a communion with horses,” Meara commented. “Especially someone blood kin to the O’Dwyers.”

“I’m good with them. Horses,” Iona qualified as she stroked the regal-eyed Queen Bee. “I’m hoping to work on getting good with the O’Dwyers.”

“Connor’s an easygoer, with a weakness for a pretty face. You’ve got one. Branna’s fair, and that’s enough.”

“You’re friends.”

“We are, and have been since we were in nappies, so I know Branna, being fair, wouldn’t have sent you to us if you weren’t suited.”

“I’m good at this. It’s what I’m good at.” All, she thought, she was certain she was good at.

“You’ll need to be. All my life,” Meara said at Iona’s questioning look. “So I know it’s the one who communes with horses who makes the three.”

Iona thought of the looks from the waitstaff over dinner the night before. “Does everyone know?”

“What people know, what they believe, what they accept? Those are all different matters, aren’t they? Well then, since Boyle’s running behind, we can—” She broke off, pulled out her phone when it jingled in her pocket, checked the text. “Ah, good, he’s on his way. We’ll just go out, if that’s good for you, and meet him.”

Her potential new boss, Iona thought. “Any tips?”

“You could remember Boyle’s fair as well, though he’s often short on words and temper.”

Meara gestured Iona along as she shoved her phone away again. “He’s riding Fin’s latest acquisition over. Fin’s Boyle’s partner, and travels about when he’s a mind to buying horses and hawks or whatever strikes his fancy.”

“But Boyle—Mr. McGrath—runs the stables.”

“He does—or they both do, but it’s Boyle who deals more with the day-to-day. Fin found this stallion in Donegal, and had him sent, as Fin himself’s still rambling. He plans to stud him out later in the year, and Boyle’s just as determined to teach him manners.”

“Fin or the stallion?”

Meara let out a big, brassy laugh as they stepped back outside. “That’s a question, and it may be both, though I’d wager he’ll have better luck with the horse than Finbar Burke.”

She nodded toward the end of the road. “He’s a fine-looking bastard for all that, with a devil’s temper.”

Iona turned. She couldn’t say if Meara spoke of the horse or the man astride him. Her first impression was of magnificence and hotheads on both counts.

The horse, big and beautiful at easily sixteen hands, tested his rider with the occasional buck and dance, and even with the distance, she could see the fierce gleam in his eyes. His smoke gray coat showed some sweat, though the morning stayed cool—and his ears stayed stubbornly back.

But the man, big and beautiful as well, had his measure. Iona heard his voice, the challenge in it if not the words, as he kept the horse at a trot.

And something in her, just at the sound of his voice, stirred. Nerves, excitement, she told herself, because the man held her happiness in his hands.

But as they drew closer, the stir grew to a flutter. Attraction struck her double blows—heart and belly as, oh, he really was as magnificent as the horse. And every single bit as appealing to her.

His hair, a kind of rich caramel that wasn’t altogether brown, wasn’t quite red, blew everywhere in the breeze. He wore a rough jacket, faded jeans, scarred boots, all suiting the tough, rawboned face. The strong jaw and a mouth that struck her as stubborn as the horse he rode just echoed the hard lines of temper barely leashed when the horse bucked again.

A thin scar, like a lightning bolt, cut through his left eyebrow. For reasons she couldn’t quite comprehend, it stirred up a delicious little storm of lust inside her.

Cowboy, pirate, wild tribal horseman. How could he be three of her biggest fantasy weaknesses all rolled into one big, bold package?