SOLSTICE SONG

Colleen Charles

Table of Contents

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Irish Slang Glossary

Foreword

Click Here to Subscribe to my Newsletter

Receive email notices about new book releases,

sales, and special promotions.

New subscribers receive an EXCLUSIVE FREE

NOVEL as a special gift.

Prologue

Ronan

October 31
Wintervale, County Meath, Ireland

Change is coming.

I feel it, making it difficult to play my expected

role to perfection. Tonight, I yearn for my bed and
a warm woman to sink in to. Maybe pounding into
a wet pussy will ease some of the heavy tension I
carry on my shoulders—like the health and
happiness of the entire town of Wintervale. Most
days, this responsibility feels like the weight of the
entire world, even though it’s just a small,
backwoods grove.

“This night, we remember those who ‘av lived

and died afore us, those who ‘av crossed through
the veil, those who are nay longer with us. We will
remember.”

“We will remember,” I echo along with my

friends and my older sister by rote, my breath
escaping in wispy clouds of vapor to the chill
autumn air.

The solemn words of the Cailleach Beare holds

sway over the group of twelve worshipers as we
encircle the spire of flames, enraptured by our

midnight ritual. As their leader, I hold myself rigid,
knowing all eyes are on me, judging my reactions.
My followers look to me for guidance and safety.

“Spirits of the earth, we welcome yer, knowin’

you will envelop us in death. Spirits of air, we call
upon yer, knowin’ yer will be with us as we depart
life. Spirits of fire, we welcome yer, knowin’ yer
will transform us in death. Spirits of water, we
welcome yer, knowin’ yer will carry us through the
ebbs and flows of our life.”

“We welcome yer, oh mighty spirits.”
“And on this most powerful night, we seek to

divine the future of our community in the New Year
ahead, to discern the fortunes of our Order, and for
he who leads us, whether good or ill. Spirits grant
us this sight.”

“Grant us this sight.”
I’m not sure I’m open for anyone peering into

my personal future, but it’s part of the ritual so I
play along. In the midst of all of my pagan rituals,
the visions of the seer lay lowest on the scale of
importance as far as I’m concerned.

A column of sparks fly skyward as I lead the

ritual, casting my pound-weight stone into the fire
and proceeding to a water-filled cauldron that
stands aside in the clearing. For a blissful moment, I
allow the words and actions of the centuries old
ceremony to flow over me, enveloping me in
tradition like an old cloak. This night and in the

future, I pray it will protect me from the dangers of
a rash and forbidden world. One I want no part in
supporting. Here, in Wintervale, I’m safe from the
evils of society. And I’ll protect my lifestyle and
that of my townspeople with everything in me.
Even if that includes the ultimate sacrifice.

Clad in fur and silhouetted by the firelight, I

gather the Cailleach and my brethren around the
vessel. Following my lead, they each pluck a
bobbing red fruit from its frigid depths.

“In the morrow, all will be revealed, and we

will make ready for what is to come. May the
bounty of this harvest impart its knowledge to one
and all. Blessed be the fruit.”

“Blessed be the fruit,” they echo.
After the blessing of the fruit, I draw my knife

and split the ripened symbol of truth and plenty
wide open, carving my large apple into nine
wedges. The forest lies dark, save for the crackling
firelight and the cauldron’s contents as black as a
bottomless well. I lean over its rim, staring into the
inky smoothness, and eat the first wedge with a
resounding crunch of teeth.

It tastes both tart and sweet, reminding me of

this life that contains both joy and sorrow. Pleasure
and pain. But the New Year dawns within the hour,
signifying the rebirth of all things, as it always does,
which gives me hope. I gaze into the pool of
darkness, seeing no reflection as I consume the

second piece of fruit, then the third, and the fourth.
My stomach feels no hunger or fullness, as the
harvest has been plentiful, and the evening’s feast
of roasted lamb has already filled my belly to sated
perfection. The smell of the animal’s burning bones
still belch from the bonfire’s flames with each snap,
crackle, and pop.

What I hunger for doesn’t come from the field,

the stream, or the sky. If food for one’s tortured
soul exists, I am uncertain of what form that might
take. At last, only the ninth wedge remains in my
huge palm, and I scan the water’s infinite depths
with keen interest as I toss it over my left shoulder.

The cauldron’s rim seems to expand as though

inviting me inside, offering to drown me in the
depths of my own thoughts, hopes and desires, all
for a fleeting glimpse of what might await me in my
future. From deep within, a spark of light flares and
spreads into a glowing cloud, floating tantalizingly
below the surface, just out of reach. I can’t stop a
sharp inhale, unable to tear my eyes from the
undulating illumination that coalesces into a
startling vision.

Raven-black hair frames the ivory-skinned face

possessing a pointed chin and high cheekbones. Her
plump lips are the translucent red of pomegranate
seeds, and her round, luminous green eyes stare at
me from beneath a shadowed brow, piercing me as
though accusing me of something nefarious and

dark.

Unbidden, my cock stirs, and I imagine her lush

mouth sucking it into her long throat. I shake my
head, ridding myself of the image, but something
about the vision won’t release me. Won’t let me
return to the pillar of wisdom and strength I am to
these people. My people. This nameless seductress
bewitches me in a way I’ve never known, and all
thoughts of harvest rituals and protecting my
brethren fly out of my mind on the wings of lust
and want.

Her lips move and mouth my name in an

irresistible siren’s song. On impulse, I dip my hand
into the water, yearning to touch her, feel her silken
skin beneath my fingertips. Brand her with my
claim for all eternity. The need to connect with her
overwhelms me, but the motion of reaching deep
within instantly destroys my vision, leaving me with
an emptiness I can’t understand or describe. Before
I can withdraw, the beautiful visage ripples away
and dissolves back into the depths from which it
came.

Unsteady on my feet, I stumble backward as if

drunk, shaken by the intensity of the reflection. Is it
only a reflection? It seems more real than that, but
the veil between the worlds of light and dark, the
living and the dead, stays razor thin this night.

Is that not the true reason we gather here?
I should expect nothing less than magic

unbound, the suspension of the laws of time and
space at this eighth and most spiritual interval of
the year.

“What did you see, Bard?” the Cailleach asks,

her voice harshened by age and wisdom. “Yer
expression indicates yer seen a ghost.”

“I saw…I saw…” I steady my thoughts with a

deep inhalation of autumn air. “’Twas nothin’.”

The Cailleach Beare smiles a toothless grin,

made all the more gruesome in the dancing firelight
of the secluded forest circle.

“Come, let us not wait ‘til mornin’ to chase

away the ghosts of the future,” she cackles, tugging
at the ragged pelt I’m wearing about my tense
shoulders. “Let us examine yer stone now. I will
fetch it from the fire.”

As if hypnotized, I leave the others waiting

their turn at the cauldron and return to the bonfire.
“That one,” I advise, pointing to the stone I’d cast
into the flames. The Cailleach prods it loose with a
poker and crouches low to examine it, waving away
the rising steam with a wizened hand.

“’Tis true,” she confirms after a moment, rising

to lift her arms to the sky. “Love and happiness
shall abound for the Order, bringin’ forward a soul
mate for the Bard, our leader, this Yule.”

She looks down into my eyes, widened with

surprise by this revelation, and brings her clawed
fingers to my shoulders in praise.

“Blessed be.”

Chapter One

Savannah

December 17
Outside Dublin City, Ireland

The satisfying sounds of last night’s cheering crowd
still echo in my ears. My mind’s eye pictures the
adoring faces pressed to the edge of the stage, arms
outstretched in hopes of some passing touch of my
hand. I attempt to oblige them as often as I can,
skimming the reaching palms and fingertips as I
walk the curved perimeter, noting the expansive sea
of faces beyond them that stretch to the far limits
of the concert hall.

I know where my bread’s buttered. Even

though I sometimes feel as if I’m in a tiny closet
with the walls pressing in on me, I’m thankful for
each and every fan. Even those I never touch
except with the melodies and lyrics of my music.

But that’s enough. It has to be.
The heart beating inside the music is what’s

important, not the cursory touch of my flesh or my
sparkly couture clothing or my deluge of
instruments. I didn’t follow this rough and lonely
road to stardom to gain physical admiration, fame,
or even money. Artists are a breed apart, infected

and driven forward by an insatiable and sometimes
unforgiving muse.

We do it for the love of what we create.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

The money and fame that follows is both a

blessing and a curse, a dichotomy I still struggle
with most days. I also struggle with the long hours
of traveling between shows. The fishbowl I live in.
My every look and gesture dissected in tomorrow’s
headlines.

I shake myself from my inner visions and focus

on the bleak landscape outside the window of the
bus. Christ, is that frozen white shit snow? Being a
California girl through and through, I never thought
I’d actually see it in real life. I never tour in winter,
and if my manager demands it, I keep it close to
home. And heat. Although it’s now mid-afternoon,
darkness seems to hug this northern climate like a
gray blanket, regardless of day or night. How I miss
home at times like these, along with my welcome
shot of daily Vitamin D via the scorching sun.
We’ve been in Ireland almost a week, and I haven’t
seen my old friend Sol yet, or many shades of
green.

Emerald Isle, my ass.
The Savannah Starr European tour felt ages

away when my promoter first scheduled it. At the
time, London, Manchester, Lyon, and Munich
sounded like fun. Something different and a golden

opportunity to expand my reach. I’d never been,
and I’m always up for some sightseeing and good
times along the way. But somewhere during the
planning, he’d thrown in Dublin, Waterford and
Glasgow, and changed the dates from November
through December in spite of my violent protests.
The success of the Waterford show last night aside,
it seemed a very bad idea considering the fat flakes
of snow that now whipped diagonally across our
windshield.

“How much farther, Mel?” I ask my driver,

catching his eye through the rearview mirror,
checking his limited reflection for any sign of worry
or nerves. I hate weather. I hate snow.

I hate fucking bleak Ireland.
Mel Tobin spares me a furtive glance over his

shoulder, unwilling to take his eyes off the narrow
road that grows even narrower with the drifting
snow collecting at its rocky edges. Heavy forest
arches over the roadway, creating a tunnel effect. I
half expect Stephen King to pop up and tell me he
thought he’d write his next horror novel while on
his European vacation and ask if he can tag along
for the ride and pen something horrific. A shudder
runs up my spine. This country is as spooky as shit.

“I thought maybe three hours if I took this

alternate route around that bad traffic accident.”
He sighs and gives a shrug. “Sorry Savie, didn’t
count on weather conditions like these. The radar

didn’t pick it up. Hopefully, we can still make the
last ferry out of Belfast.”

“Hopefully?” I repeat, trying to sound sarcastic,

but really feeling like I’m going to puke all over my
new Jimmy Choos. I have no clue where the hell
we are, and the only thing that frightens me more
than long Trans-Atlantic flights is the prospect of
missing my next gig. Singing is like breathing, and
not doing it is like having the oxygen burned from
my lungs. “And what if we don’t?”

“Relax, Savie. You’ve got everything you need

right here on this gypsy caravan that passes for a
bus in this country. Your clothes, your makeup,
your electronic gadgets. Food and booze in the
cooler. So many instruments you could outfit an
entire orchestra. Don’t worry. There’s always
another ferry.”

“Another ferry?” I gape, itching to slap

something, even my own face. “When? Next week?
No way. I’m not spending one more night than I
have to in Leprechaun Land, thank you very much.
There’s no pot ‘o gold at the end of this fucking all-
white rainbow. Can’t you go any faster?”

Mel laughs. “Careful. The wee folk might fly

into an Irishman’s rage for dissing them like that.
And this ain’t the I-5, in case you haven’t noticed.
Speed limit’s somewhere between snail and sheep,
not to mention this vardo topping out at about
sixty.”

“What the hell language are you speaking?” I

scoff, trying to lighten the somber mood that I’ve
created for myself. It’s like Mel’s just stepped out
of a tourist brochure, testing the new lingo. “Maybe
we should have hired out a horse and wagon.”

“You’re catching on. A vardo is a gypsy

covered wagon that’s pulled by horses.”

“Whatever. Thanks for the history lesson, Mel.

Anything as long as it gets us to the ferry terminal
on time.”

Mel chuckles and reaches for the radio handset

on the dash. “We’d better check in with Freddie on
the other bus and let them know we might be late.
They were lucky to be ahead of that twelve-car
pileup. But ole Mel’s never been late yet, and I’m
not about to break the streak now.”

I flop back into my plush leather seat and cross

my arms in frustration. No matter how much money
and fame I procure, I can’t bribe Mother Nature.

I blow out a breath. “Just step on it, will you?”
The small bus isn’t uncomfortable, but I still

can’t get used to the sight of Mel sitting in the right-
hand driver’s seat, or driving on the left side of the
road. My luxury bus is parked at my estate in the
Hollywood Hills, collecting dust. I’d give anything
to have my custom Jacuzzi tub to soak in instead of
a cracker box of a cold shower. Sadly, roads like
this couldn’t accommodate that behemoth of a bus,
even if I could have hauled it over the ocean. A

road this narrow has no room for anything larger
than this. We’re screwed if there’s any oncoming
traffic.

Like other superstars before me, I trust the tour

organizers to procure the best services available for
me while overseas. It isn’t like I can demand the
European tour manager fly my private buses in
from LA. This isn’t even a full tour. I guess I could
have demanded it, but that would put me right up
with Julianna Jax’s crazy dressing room demands of
black flowers and white furniture. I’m not a diva.
Okay, maybe I’m a little bit of a diva, but only
because I like things the way I like them, not
because I’m a total spoiled asshole. So even though
no one would deny a four-time Grammy Award
winner her home away from home on wheels, I
never even considered pitching a fit about coach
transport.

I shift in my seat and draw my coat more tightly

around me as the temperature cools. For now, this
will have to do, and I vow to make the best of it.
With my extensive wardrobe and personal
belongings, I always travel in a separate bus from
my band and equipment, but at the moment, I’d
welcome their company. The forest and flat fading
light seem to close in on me, choking out my
normal positivity. Mel speaks into the transmitter,
trying to reach Freddie, but nothing comes through
except the scratching of annoying and useless

static.

“Repeat, this is Savannah One, come in

Savannah Two. Freddie, you there, man?”

More static, then just an oppressive silence

that’s louder than thunder to my sensitive ears. Mel
slams the handset down, and my heart gallops in
response. Now we’re stuck out in the middle of
bumfuck nowhere without communications. I pull
out my cell phone and check the bars even though I
already know the story.

None. Nada. Zilch.
“Fuck. Radio’s out.”
He slams his hand on the steering wheel for

good measure. Since I’m the boss, I suppose I
should be the calm one when all I really want to do
is start screaming to turn this diesel POS around so
I can catch the first flight back to The Golden State.
Even though there’s nothing I fear more than
flying, I can just pop a tranquilizer and white-
knuckle it. Mel isn’t normally the nervous type,
which is a good thing. I can panic enough for the
both of us. Hell, I can panic enough for my entire
backup band and crew.

“Can you fix it?” I ask, peering out the front

windshield. A rickety road sign passes through our
headlights. I barely make out the white reflective
lettering. Wintervale 8 km.

“I’m a driver, not a dot.com techie. Probably

just the weather interfering with the radio waves.

There’s a town up ahead,” Mel says, pointing at the
sign. “Maybe we can call from there.”

“Can’t you just get him on your cell? We pay

enough for network service,” I say, praying that
some divine entity will bestow the heavenly rays of
a cell signal upon him.

Mel shakes his head. “Where’ve you been? No

cell service the last two hours. Haven’t seen a
tower for miles, either.”

Wracking my brain, I come to the conclusion

that the last time I used my phone for a live call
was at the hotel in Waterford this morning. Jesus,
even the North Pole has cell towers. What kind of
country is this? No sooner did the words leave
Mel’s lips when a shuddering ‘clunk’ jolts the bus
sideways, and me along with it. I shriek as I nearly
slip off the padded seat and into the aisle in a tangle
of petrified limbs.

“What the fuck?” Mel curses a few other

interesting expletives, jerking the wheel to keep us
on the road.

I straighten back up and glare at Mel in abject

terror. “What was that? I feel like I’ve stumbled
into some alternate universe. Kind of like an Irish
version of the Bermuda Triangle.”

“Hang on, pretty girl, we’ll get back on the road

in no time. Never fear, Mel is here.”

A series of gut-wrenching thuds from deep

within the vehicle’s core follow his bright and shiny

message, bringing us to a jittery halt. Mel works the
gears in an attempt to get us moving again.

“Oh my God,” I say on the breath I’d been

holding. “Don’t tell me we hit something. Don’t tell
me we killed something.”

“I don’t think so. Engine’s still running. Could

be just a flat, I’ll check.” Mel dons a coat and ball
cap and opens the doors. A blast of wind and snow
rush in, almost knocking me back on my ass again.

A flat? It feels like more than a flat tire. I make

my way to the back windows, praying I won’t see a
dead animal in our wake. I love all God’s creatures
big and small. In fact, I wanted to bring my
Yorkshire terrier with me on this trip, but my
assistant didn’t procure the appropriate vet
paperwork in time, so Daisy’s with my bestie, Anne
Lawrence. Luckily, Anne loves the little munchkin
like her own. We’ve even Skyped since I left L.A.,
but seeing my sweet girl go a little doggy cray-cray
when she hears my voice breaks my heart, so I’ve
kept the check-ins to a minimum.

The red glow of the tail lights reveal nothing but

rutted road and swirling snow. I feel Mel kicking
the tires as the small bus gives a little shimmy in
response to his booted foot. After several thumps
and muffled curses, he climbs back into the cab.

“Tires look fine but weren’t made for this kind

of weather.” He shakes the snow from the brim of
his hat. “This has gotta have an emergency

frequency,” he says, reaching for the radio handset
again and punching buttons on the dashboard.

I swallow hard. I don’t do emergencies—I have

people to take care of them for me so I can keep
myself off the Xanax and Zoloft I so richly deserve.
People like Mel. But he’s just one man, and I feel
sorry that somehow this is all falling on his
shoulders just like the soft snowflakes from outside.
Still, he’s the calm one. I listen to his systematic,
monotone hails into the radio, attempting to raise
the emergency network.

As minutes drag on without a response, I stem

my growing apprehension by reaching for Helen,
my acoustic guitar. She never strays far from my
sight. Helen is my anchor, my lighthouse in times of
stress, and even more so in times of happiness and
creativity. I hold her lightly against me, stroking her
neck and strings with a nervous energy I can’t
really explain. Even though the situation’s
frightening, I’m sure there aren’t any serial killers
wandering this stretch of isolated road in a blizzard.
But I don’t like it. And I’m not comfortable with
my own discomfort. Drawing calm from the old
guitar, I just hold it but don’t play as Mel works on
the radio.

Finally, a scratchy blip of noise issues from the

speaker. I hug Helen’s curvy body in relief. I named
her after my mother. Since I can’t hug the pillowy
bosom and drown my sorrows against the soft

curves of the real thing when I live so far away
from her, constantly touring or sequestered in a
recording studio, I hug my guitar in her stead,
convinced she’ll feel my love and longing through
her.

Mom, I could really use your comfort right

now.

“Roadside assistance,” crackles the voice over

the radio. “Location, please.”

Mel gives our route, destination, and position to

the dispatcher, and we look at each other with
wrinkled brows as we attempt to decipher the
responder’s thick brogue speech. After several
minutes of muddling through the conversation, I get
the impression there isn’t a rescue vehicle capable
of towing a bus our size readily available, and the
weather conditions are already triggering a large
volume of emergency calls. Just like if you have to
call your credit card company, they answer them in
the order in which they’re received. The
dispatcher’s advice?

“Stay put and keep the frequency open.”
Mel acknowledges her and sits back in his seat.

“Fuck. Lot of fucking help they’ll be. I’m starting
to like your horse and wagon idea.”

“It was a joke,” I say with a sigh, plucking a

random tune softly from Helen’s strings to settle the
mounting tension we both feel. Even though Mel
hasn’t let on to his internal thoughts, there’s a

negative energy crackling between us that isn’t
normal.

“This country is a joke,” Mel scoffs. “How can

a nation with such a thriving internet industry still
have highways the size of one-lane horse trails
within a hundred miles from a major city and no
cell towers where you need them? Un-fucking-
believable.”

I frown and focus on the feel of the guitar

strings against my fingertips. If I allow my mind to
slip elsewhere, I’ll lose it for sure. Mel will know
what to do. He always does. Since I lost my dad to
a heart attack, Mel’s stepped in and stepped up as a
surrogate of sorts. He’s been with me since I played
gigs in dive bars behind chain link. I can trust him.

I feel the air temperature falling even further

but concentrate on keeping my fingers moving and
my mind from wandering down roads featuring
darkness and certain danger. Music always protects
me, keeps me sane. As I free my thoughts, a new
melody floats from my guitar, enveloping me in a
blanket of musical protection. Familiar, yet foreign.
I haven’t composed anything like it that I recall, but
it repeats over and over again in my head and flows
naturally from my instrument as if it’s been placed
there by some sort of divine inspiration.

Without warning, Mel bangs his fist on the

dashboard. I jump, startled out of my creative
trance by his outburst. Oh no. If Mel’s lost his cool,

I won’t have a hope in hell of keeping mine.

“What?” I say, worried that something else,

something even worse has gone wrong.

“The battery won’t last if we keep the systems

running. I have no intention of freezing to death out
here or letting the famous rock and roller Savannah
Starr miss a gig and disappoint her fans.” He stands
and pulls his Rams cap down firmly on his head.
“I’m walking into town.”

“Mel!” I cry, setting Helen aside. “You can’t.

They say to stay put. The snow’s getting worse.”

“Exactly, it’s going to drift us in and make it

impossible to tow us out if we wait for the locals to
come to us. So, I’m going to them.”

“You don’t know where you’re going—don’t

be crazy. There could be wild animals out there.”

Mel laughs, but it sounds tinny and more like a

pathetic cry for help. “On this lump of rock? Any
self-respecting predator would have cleared out
centuries ago. Besides, it’s only a few kilometers to
that next town, Winterston, according to the sign
back there.” He gestures out the back window.

“Wintervale.” My lower lip forms a dubious

pout. “How far is that in miles?” If it’s only a
couple, I’d understand, but kilometers is foreign to
me. I have no idea if that’s more or less than a mile,
and I can’t even look it up on my phone to avoid
looking stupid.

“Oh, seven or eight thousand yards. Less than

five miles, no sweat.”

Mel’s a big enough man, hearty and in his mid-

forties. Experienced. He can do it. Now isn’t the
time to pull the self-absorbed, needy pop star stunt.
I have to let him know how much I trust him.

“If you’re sure,” I relent with a sigh, then wag

my finger at him. “But if you’re not back in two
hours, Tobin, you’re off the payroll.” My threat is
weak, and he knows it. Nothing short of a felony
could make me cut Mel loose.

“If I’m not back in one hour, you can dock my

pay. For now, I’m locking you in, so don’t step
outside or you’re screwed.” Mel salutes and hits the
controls to open the door once more. “I shall
return!” he announces, a la General MacArthur. I
return his salute with more confidence than I truly
feel inside. The door closes, and I watch him march
away from the bus, my heart constricting in fear.

“You damn well better,” I mutter. I’m not about

to lose another father, even if it’s only a quasi one.

Just as he disappears from view, I hear a noise,

like a distant, haunting moan. Adrenaline shoots
through me, spiking in my brain. Fucking hell, is
that a wolf? I’d rather take my chances with the
Leprechauns and Gypsies. Hell, I’ve watched “My
Big Fat Gypsy Wedding.” The worst they can do is
wrap my body in yards of pink tulle embellished
with enough rhinestones and twinkle lights to give
Clark Griswold a seizure. With a shiver, I dive flat

onto the padded bus seat and close my eyes. I
grope for Helen with an outstretched hand and
draw her over me like a shield.

Music always protects me, and in this case, I

hope that run of good luck continues.

Chapter Two

Ronan

I sense the storm but didn’t expect it would
descend so rapidly. Already, the snows obscure my
path through the forest, making my task more
difficult. The plants I need remained hardy through
the autumn, but will certainly freeze if left under
snow cover overnight, rendering them useless to
me. With a holly switch, I brush away the new-
fallen flakes from the undergrowth as I walk along,
scanning for the familiar leaves and roots required
for the upcoming Yule celebrations.

The wind picks up, its high-pitched gusts

whistling in the upper trees to remind me I should
hurry up and get the hell back home before the
weather worsens, and I can’t see my own hand in
front of my face. My woven sling bag is nearly full
of herb sprigs, corms, and cuttings, but I press on,
determined to find an elusive specimen that’s not
native to the island, but somehow found its way
here on some ancient trading vessel. Its berries will
be of ideal ripeness right now.

I’m nearing the road that leads into town,

though it’s not much wider than a single vehicle. I
decide if I don’t find any Skimmia Japonica
between here and the roadway berm, I’ll turn back

and tell Caris we’ll have to skip that ingredient for
her wassail this year. She won’t like it, but I don’t
see her out here making an effort to help. She has
better things to do, like meeting the brewery truck
for the weekly delivery. If I ran the local, I’m sure
that’d be my priority too. Come to think of it, a pint
of Guinness would go down nicely right now.
Perhaps if the snow tapers off, I might ride into
town and pay my lovely sister a visit. Nothing like a
pint to chase away the icy cold fingers of a winter
storm.

But that prospect looks none too promising.

The overcast skies allow even less light than usual
through the forest clearings, and the snowflakes fall
fat and wet on the pine boughs, weighing them
down. They cling to my eyelashes and beard,
blurring my vision and forming icicles around my
lips. Dammit, I knew I should have worn a hat.
What I really should do is get my stupid arse back
to my cottage and hunker down until this shite
blows over. I shield my eyes from the oncoming
sleet, searching for the end of the trail where it
meets the road. I blink away the melting flakes to
make sure I’m not hallucinating. Something big’s
blocking the roadway—something that has no
business being there.

Little enough traffic comes this way at the best

of times and certainly nothing the size of what I see
in front of me now. It’s perched in the middle of the

road at a slight angle, snow caked onto the
windows, wheels, and headlights. As I draw closer,
I can hear a diesel engine running. What in the hell
is a thirty-foot motor coach doing anywhere near
Wintervale? Why isn’t it moving? This multi-
wheeled, exhaust-belching beast belongs on the M-
74 several kilometers to the east, not here, polluting
my staunchly guarded forest home. My anger rises
as the foul fumes assault my nostrils.

I move out of the trees and onto the roadway,

giving the vehicle a wide berth, approaching it from
the rear and stepping in a wide circle until I reach
the front and stand in the beam of the headlights.
The wipers pivot in a weak arc against the
oncoming snow. Just as I look into the pitiful patch
of cleared windshield, the engine stops.

Then a blood-curdling scream pierces my ears.
I step back, glancing left and right into the

woods, but the sound comes from inside the coach.
I stare into the glass again, just in time to see a pale
face recoil from my sight and into the darkened
interior. Shite! Someone is inside. A shrieking
female with a high-pitched voice which can only
mean one thing, and I hate it.

The dramatics.
I step to the driver’s door and give it a solid

knock. Away from the cover of trees, the wind
howls straight-on and turns the snowflakes to hard
pellets that whip against my back. I’d like nothing

better than to retreat the way I’ve come, get back
to the shelter of my cottage before darkness sets in.
But the motor coach looks warm and dry inside,
and its occupant is clearly not from around here. In
Wintervale, there are no strangers, only neighbors.
This one might need help. Or directions. Or a good
lecture for obstructing the roadway and polluting
the virgin forest air. I pound on the hinged door
again, annoyance fueling my grip.

Finally, it opens with a mechanical hiss. I peer

inside, barely making out a figure cowering behind
the driver’s empty seat as the pelting snow crosses
my vision. “What do you want?”

Just as I suspected, a woman’s voice. What the

feck is a female doing in there all alone? Does she
actually drive this thing?

“To get in from the cold, for a start,” I say,

placing one foot on the step. It appears that I can
add rude to her list of faults before I even know her
name. Who lets a man shiver from the cold when
there’s a warm haven a few feet away?

If Cos were here, he’d call her a townie tramp

and spit in her face. But Cos likes to stay in
Wintervale common and never ventures out for a
visit during any type of weather. Cos doesn’t have
much time for strangers.

“Don’t come any closer,” she breathes, her

American accent noticeable. All the pieces are
falling into place. Rude. Check. Inhospitable.

Check check. Go the feck back to your garish
country, woman. “I don’t know you. Who are
you?”

Fecking hell. In the middle of a raging

snowstorm, in a foreign country, and the molly
wants me to produce some kind of physical
identification? She’s the intruder here. “Freezing
me arse off, so I am.” I take another step up.
“Mind?” I say, closing the folding doors behind me
to stop the wind and slush from spoiling the toasty
warm inside.

“Don’t come any closer.”
“There.” I turn to have a closer look, but the

lass shrinks herself down to a wee midge peering
out from behind the seat like a frightened sheep.
Jaysus, you’d think I just asked her to lick Stinker’s
Bridge.

“Don’t hurt me,” she whimpers.
“Hurt yer?” I ask, squinting in her direction. As

I wipe the wet from my eyes, I realize I must look
like Sasquatch in my fur mack and icicles crusting
in my beard. “I won’t be hurtin’ nobody, woman.
But I’ll thank yer to move this beastie along, out of
my forest.”

“I can’t,” she squeaks, sounding on the verge of

a crying jag. I shut my eyes, not wanting to witness
even a single tear. I can’t take it. If women would
stop for one fecking second, they’d realize their
holes are meant to play the flute and not spew their

incessant demands. “It’s not that I don’t want to.
It’s broken, and the engine just died. I’m waiting
for a tow truck.”

“Yer be havin’ a long wait, then,” I say,

assuming she means a lorry with a winch. I look
around the bus and see no one else with her.
What’s she doing here? “Yer all by yer onesie?”
Her green eyes widen, as though my reason for
asking is to do her a nasty. At that moment,
something strikes me as familiar. Those eyes and
the heart-shaped face framed with silky, long hair
black as a raven’s. Have I seen her somewhere
before? Impossible. But she looks a fine ride, for all
of that. The kind of woman who looks best on all
fours with my cock splitting her wide open.

Her pretty forehead spurs a wrinkle. “You mean

alone? No,” she says, shakily rising to her feet. “Of
course not. My driver’s gone to get help.”

“On shanks pony?” I say in disbelief. “Is he

daft? That’s a fool’s journey with weather settin’ in.
There’s nair a town for eight kilos. Yer best come
with me afore the storm gets worse. In good faith, I
can’t leave yer here to die. My sister would ‘av me
hide, just like me long-sufferin’ ma afore her.”

“I’m sorry. I can barely understand you,” she

says with a shake of her dark head. Truth be told, I
have to strain my ears to fathom her speech as well.
But I can’t help the way I talk in my thick brogue,
and I can’t help but notice the tight-fitting threads

she’s wearing underneath her open coat. Almost
indecent, that. The neckline of her blouse plunges
in a deep vee, her ample tits nearly hanging out.
Not that the view isn’t savage, the kind to harden
my tool if it weren’t so damn blistering cold. But
any lass around here would have more kit on.
These American girls give a new bent to the word
indecency. “Please leave, sir. I’m not going
anywhere. I’m staying right here.”

I start to lose patience with this uppity young

wan. “Listen, if this here bombardier’s banjaxed,
there’s nair a mechanic that can fix it in town. And
if yer driver doesn’t make it back soon, yer be
completely buggered by morning. Now, let’s be off.
I won’t take nay for an answer. The only corpses
on me watch are the ones that I kill meself.”

A drop of melted snow drips off my nose and

splats on the floor of the coach, adding to the
puddle I’m already creating around my feet. Her
expression goes from confused to panic-stricken as
she backs away down the aisle between the seats.
Does she not ken the seriousness of this situation?

I said corpse.
“Get out!” She points toward the door. “You

paparazzi will try anything, won’t you? Dressing up
like some kind of Irish Grizzly Adams, trying to lure
me out into the open. Where’s your camera crew?
Hiding in the woods?”

What the feck? Papa-what-sy? I rake back the

wet thatches of hair that flop over my eyes with my
hand. “Lass, I’ve got nay feckin’ idea what yer on
about. There’s nothing hidin’ in the woods. Me
cottage’s only twenty minutes from here. Yer be
safe there. Again, me sister is a feisty one. If I leave
yer here to meet yer maker and Caris gets wind of
it, she’ll nag me ‘til I’m old ‘n gray. Not to mention
the rest of me folks in Wintervale. Yer could be the
reason I don’t get any gee from now ‘til eternity.
Now, listen up and do what a man tells yer.”

Her face transforms from panicked to surprised

to ornery, all in the space of a few seconds.
“Bullshit. I’m safe right here. If you think I’m going
anywhere with a stranger, especially one who looks
like a yeti, you’re out of your fucking mind. Don’t
you know who I am?”

I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. The

drip of melting snow becomes just as annoying as
her prickly attitude. “How would I be knowin’ that?
I’ve never clapped eyes on yer afore.” I take a step
toward her. “But I’ll not be leavin’ a stranded lass
by herself. If yer dead set on stoppin’ here, I’ll
make yer a deal. I’ll set with yer for a ‘alf-hour, and
if yer driver’s not back by then, I’ll take yer into
town meself.”

“How?” she asks doubtfully. “Got a Polaris

parked outside?”

I grit my teeth. No point in arguing right now, or

kenning what the hell a polaris might be. In any

case, I don’t have anything parked outside or she
would have heard it approach. Don’t believe in
motorized vehicles, I don’t. Too toxic for the
environment and too fecking hard on my sensitive
ears. I set down my sling bag and make myself
comfortable on one of the seats.

“’Alf-hour,” I repeat. “What’s yer name,

woman?”

The girl lowers herself cautiously onto a seat

across the aisle from me, her expression somewhere
between astonished and outraged. Shite, her eyes
are hypnotic, glowing green as emeralds. The
arched eyebrows above them almost looked painted
on like a porcelain doll Caris once had as a lass.
Their black color matches the waves of hair that
flows down past her shoulders like two rivers of
raw coal, even longer than my own, which says
something considering I haven’t cut it since I was a
lad. And she has some meat on her with those
delicious fun bags hinting at the continuing
landscape of curves beneath her long coat. I like a
lass with some weight to her, not some skinny
stripling that might blow away in a stiff wind.

“You really don’t know who I am?” she asks

again, intimating I’m either a few bricks short of a
load or I’ve been living under a rock. The latter
isn’t far from the truth. To say Wintervale is back
of beyond is an understatement. Some might call
me a bogger. Right before they get the shite kicked

out of them.

“Ain’t the foggiest. But I’ll spare yer the

guessin’ game yer teasin’ me with for some sadistic
reason. Name’s Ronan O’Farrell,” I say, extending
my hand. When she tentatively reaches out to grasp
it, her milky white skin contrasts drastically with
the dirt-worn grubbiness of my own. Obviously, this
townie hasn’t done a lick of real work in her life.

Lazy. Check.
“Savannah Starr,” she says, her palm meeting

mine in a gentle press. The warmth of it radiates
right past my calluses. Nothing short of my own lit
woodstove normally cuts through the thick skin of
my hands. There’s something distinctly different
about this girl, and it nearly gives me the shivers.
She seems foreign yet familiar, like bits of a fable
my granny told coming back to me. No, not a fable.
A song. One I’ve forgotten the words to but not the
haunting melody. I rarely forget a song. Music’s too
important to me.

“Savannah,” I repeat with a nod. Sounds like a

stripper name to me. I’ll be all in for that show, if
it’s the case. “Where is it yer from, and what yer be
doin’ here in Ireland, Miss Starr?”

She shakes her raven-haired head in disdain and

folds her arms across the magnificent rack that’s
been drawing my attention more than it should.
She’s a traveler and not from my world, so she’s
not for me…even for a quick tumble. “L.A. I’m

here on tour with my band. Or at least I was until
we broke down here in the middle of nowhere. We
played Waterford last night. Hope we can still make
the ferry. We have a show in Glasgow tomorrow
night.”

“Glasgow?” I nearly laugh outright. “Yer a fair

sight from Glasgow, miss. If yer mean the ferry out
of Belfast, yer gonna be a tad late, I’m afraid.” A
band? I don’t see any band, but I take another
glance around and notice a guitar propped up on
one of the seats. She’s a musician? That catches my
interest even more than the mounds of plump flesh
I want to suck and bite.

“What do you mean? We’ll make it. We have to

make it!” Her voice gets louder with each word. “I
can’t disappoint my fans.”

Fans?
“Well, with yer transport gone arseways,

there’s nay way yer makin’ Belfast tonight. ‘Tis
hours away. Even if yer man gets this hulkin’ bus
goin’, the roads will be diabolical in this weather.
Why are yer not on the motorway? The M-74s a
straight shot to Belfast. ‘Ow the feck did yer get on
this backwater boreen?”

“Could you please speak English?” she fairly

shouts. “There was a big wreck, okay? I wanted to
blow this ass-backward country as fast as possible
so we tried going around it. So far, no one’s given
me much of a reason to stick around.” She pierces

me with a deadly glare. It doesn’t faze me. As the
leader of my people, I tolerate a woman’s ire more
and better than most. If anything, it makes me even
more interested, except the part where she slagged
my homeland.

“Oh, so yer been here five minutes, and yer fit

to judge, are yer? Perhaps yer should see a bit of
the countryside afore yer shite all over it.”

“I don’t need to,” she shoots back. “By the

look of you, I’ll bet you’ve ‘shite’ on it plenty of
times. And without the benefit of a roll of
Charmin.”

“Roll of what? And yer ask me to speak

English,” I scoff, hating her prickly personality
while lusting after her generous curves all at the
same time. She’s a conundrum, she is. “But,” I say,
clapping my hands on my knees. “If yer gonna hurl
insults, I’ll just be on me way. Clearly, me help is
nay appreciated.” I stand and reach for my bag.
“Good day to yer, Miss Starr. Enjoy yer evenin’.”

Daylight wanes fast at this time of year, and I

don’t fancy slogging through the snow in the dark. I
also don’t fancy hanging about with a smart-
mouthed shrew that has no sense of gratitude or
manners. I brush past her on my way to the door.

“Wait!” She takes a deep breath, her hand on

my arm. “Ronan, was it? I’m sorry, I just…you
frightened me. You’re gruff and kind of large.”

I stop and turn around against my better

judgment. This is usually the part where the
manipulation comes at me full force. “Yer best be
afraid of what’s outside this bus, not in.”

“Can you blame me? You’re dressed like a

grizzly bear. You came out of nowhere. What was I
supposed to think?” Her pomegranate-red lips rise
into a childish pout. Oh, don’t do the pucker up,
woman. It makes me want to do things to that
bonny mouth. My cock twitches in my underwear
as I imagine her sucking it down the back of her
throat, her hands squeezing my arse until she takes
my load. “Please don’t go, I…I think I heard a wolf
earlier. Can you stay until my driver gets back?”

I promised her a half-hour, and it’s almost up.

No wolves have been seen in this vale in decades,
but she wouldn’t know that. However, there will
very likely be other animals lurking about at
twilight, and full dark will soon be upon us. I can’t
change the Wheel of the Year. As much as I need to
return to the cottage before nightfall, I can’t leave
her alone. That would hardly be civilized, despite
her opinion of my uncivilized appearance. There’s
no way to know what’s become of her driver. I
hope she’s not too attached to the man because
he’s most likely a frosty American popsicle by now.

“No. I can’t stay. It’s almost dark. Yer can

either wait for him on yer own, or yer can come
with me. I’ll get yer to town, but we’ve got to move
now.”

“But what if Mel comes back, and I’m not

here?”

“Leave him a message.”
She sighs, looking desperate, then flops back

against her seat. “I’ll stay here.”

What? Fecking hell! This is the most stubborn

little gee I’ve ever come across, American or Irish.

“Suit yerself,” I say, turning away again.
She’s immediately on her feet. “No! Stay here

with me, please…” I glance over my shoulder. “I’ll
pay you,” she adds, tilting her head to the side, that
full lower lip tucked between her teeth.

Pay me? As if money makes a difference to me.

I have everything I need in my land, my cottage,
and my people. And far more accommodating
bettys than this squawking bird. “Look, yer either
come with me or stay here and accompany the
wolves’ serenade with yer dulcet chords,” I say,
gesturing at the guitar. “Yer decide, but either way,
I’m leavin’ now.”

Chapter Three

Savannah

This is hands down the craziest fucking thing I’ve
ever done. I don’t know this man-beast from the
abominable snowman, and here I am following him
blindly into the white wilderness. I must be nuts…
certifiably bat-shit. If I get out of here alive, it’s
going to be a miracle worthy of my written
memoirs.

With each step, I remind myself that he can do

anything to me, and no one will ever know. No one
will even hear me scream. Still, the thought of being
alone in the bus with no heat or light terrifies me
more than accepting his offer. As odd as it is, there
seems something inherently trustworthy about him.
A clear leader. Leader of what, I don’t know. He
appears to be a salt-of-the-earth type, and he
knows his way around the area which is more than
I can say for myself. Perhaps he’s got a working
telephone.

I leave Mel a note telling him the bus engine

died, a local offered me a lift into town, and that I’d
catch up with him there. I wrap a scarf around my
head, sling my purse strap crossways over my
shoulder, and grab my coat before following the
hulking stranger out of the bus and onto the road.

I look down at my shoes. I’m wearing boots—

well, sort of—but they aren’t anywhere close to
what is required of me right now. After a quick
mental check of my closet, I know I don’t have any
better options on board. It never occurred to me
that I’d have to walk on anything other than
concrete or red carpets, and my selection of
footwear is proof.

“Shit!” I curse as my four-inch Jimmy Choo

ankle boots sink into the snow, burying me up to
mid shin in cold slush. My wool, tight-fitting
leggings aren’t much protection either. Damn,
they’ll be ruined forever. I hate this country
already, even if my Nana Aislan was one hundred
percent Irish and would turn over in her grave if
she heard me say so.

Ronan strides ten feet ahead, oblivious to my

distress. I turn to go back inside to gather many
more layers of clothes or even grab a blanket, but
the bus door hisses closed, and shit…locks all of
my professional and personal goods inside. I pull on
the door, but it doesn’t budge.

I have a choice. I can stand here and hammer

on the door, or I can follow my only hope for
safety. I lurch forward, hopping from one foot to
the other like a rabbit through the miserable white
stuff to catch up to him.

“Wait! Slow down!” I yell, then let out an

embarrassing shriek when I nearly fall on my ass.

A gentleman would wait on me, take me by the

arm, shield me from the wind and lead me at a pace
conducive to my outrageously expensive footwear.
I’m used to all men falling at my feet in service to
me. Catering to my every whim. Call me a diva, but
I’m not digging this scenario one bit.

Who am I kidding? This brute doesn’t look

anything remotely resembling a gentleman? More
like a Neanderthal from one of those movies on the
Discovery channel about prehistoric man.

Hardly. The guy is nearly six and a half feet of

solid, hulking hairiness. One of those back-to-
nature earthy types who denounces society and
believes in living off the land. I can certainly tell
what he doesn’t believe in, namely soap, Gucci
Black, or barber shops. Probably kills his own meat
with his bare hands and grows his own vegetables
too. Something about his voice, though—aside from
a brogue so thick I can barely understand him—is
deep and rich like Irish Crème. Now there’s
something to love about Ireland. It sends vibrations
through my core like one of my bass player’s power
riffs, and I feel strangely lured by it, hence the fact
I’m now following him like he’s some Gaelic pied
piper.

Ronan stops and turns around. “Hurry on,” he

says. “Gotta leg it if we want to get home afore
dark.”

“Home?” I say, finally reaching within a few

feet of him. “You said you’d take me into town.”

“Aye. When the snow lets up, I’ll give yer a

ride into town.”

“Oh, I get it,” I say, realizing his car would, of

course, be parked at his home. “How far away are
we? From your home?” I clutch the ends of my
scarf over my nose and mouth against the driving
wind and snow.

He looks down at me with brooding, dark eyes

that shine in the dusk like two pools of ink in the
dying light. Yet, they aren’t threatening. They’re
quite the opposite. They’re laden with mystery and
intrigue and invitation. I should be terrified at what
those eyes seem to broadcast. Instead, some part of
me that I’ve never met before pleads with my
rational brain to lay down in the snow and spread
my legs. But I’m not afraid, and I don’t give in to
my baser urges either. All my previous panic flees
the scene.

“A few hundred meters. Not far, if yer get a

move on.”

“Could you help me, then? Your legs are a lot

longer than mine,” I say, holding out my hand,
wondering if he’ll take it and what it might feel like
if he does.

Hoping he’ll take it. Touch me. Protect me.
Fuck me.
I shake my head. Christ, where are these erotic

thoughts coming from? Celibacy has been my best

friend for months. When I’m on the road, I can’t
get distracted by men and sex, no matter how many
hunky strangers offer their cocks to me on a silver
platter.

For now, I sure as hell don’t want to get left

behind in the wake of his giant strides. He seems to
hesitate, but then shifts the bag he carries over his
shoulder and grips my freezing hand in his huge,
rough one. He yanks me forward with the force of a
tractor, heading for the edges of the forest. I
honestly make an effort to keep up, but it isn’t long
before I stumble and fall to my knees. Ronan hoists
me to my feet and drags me forward again. I keep
my head down as the snow continues to fall and
swirl in all directions inside the cover of the forest.

Despite my legs going numb from the cold, the

muscles in my calves burn with the relentless effort
of lifting my legs up and down trying to match
Ronan’s impossible pace. As I muster a long lunge
to close the distance between us, my treacherous
high heel snaps and sends me sideways onto the
snow-covered ground yet again.

“Oh! Damn and double damn.” I moan in

misery and frustration. When will this trek end?
Surely, we must be near his place by now? I can’t
see a thing, and now I’m covered in snow, my face
and hair wet and freezing.

I stop only long enough to indulge in a

convulsive shiver.

“Forget it, woman,” Ronan says, scowling. His

gruff nature and rude speech would have frightened
me if I hadn’t been nearly catatonic from the blood
numbing cold and pain instead. He lets go of my
hand and stoops over me. Burly arms snake around
me and lift me bodily out of the snow in a single,
swift motion. “We’ll make better time this way.”

Oh my God, is this guy for real? I know I

shouldn’t question it. I should just enjoy it while it
lasts. Who knows if I’ll ever be rescued like this
again in my life. Hoisted up as if I weighed no more
than a bag of groceries.

Thanks to my trainer’s constant reminders, I

know I’m no lightweight, yet he carries me forward
without so much as a grunt or a wheezing breath. Is
he some kind of superhuman hybrid? Perhaps that’s
why he hides himself out in the woods like this,
away from the prying curiosity of normal people.
That scene from “Encino Man” flitters across my
brain. Did someone dig Ronan O’Farrell up from
the depths of Mother Earth and thaw him into a
living, breathing Cro-Magnon man?

In any case, my tired muscles welcome the

respite, and having no other option, I wrap my arms
around his neck to remain as stable as possible. Out
in the open air, I don’t detect as strong a smell
about him as I had inside the bus. It’s not
unpleasant exactly, just earthy and raw. His long
hair cascades down his back in snow-crusted

strands. Its length rivals my own, and I feel a
strange urge to dry and comb it out when we get
inside, just to feel its texture. Why do men—who
don’t even appreciate it—always possess the
thickest and healthiest hair?

Just as I settle into the rhythm of Ronan’s

powerful strides, he stops short. In the next instant,
I find myself on the ground again, dumped
unceremoniously into the snow.

“Hey!” I yell. Great, now my ass is sore as well

as my arms and legs. “That hurt! I didn’t ask you to
carry me.”

He ignores my outburst and crouches down

near a fallen tree at the edge of the now-
indiscernible path we’re following. He sets down
his shoulder bag and begins pawing at something on
the ground.

Seriously? He’s foraging like a damn deer with

a storm closing in on us? “What are you doing?” I
ask, righteous indignation lacing every syllable.

Ignoring me, he takes a pair of shears from his

pack and begins to cut branches from a small bush
he’s uncovered. “Skimmia. I’ve been lookin’ for it
all day. Don’t know how I missed it afore.”

“S-skimmy?” I repeat, unsure if I’m even close

to the actual word. “What the hell is that?”

He turns on me in annoyance like I’m a moron.

“Do yer ever stop with that gob of yers? Shite, yer
talk the hind leg off a donkey. I need it, is all.

There’s nay reason for yer to know why ‘cause yer
be leaving soon. As soon as feckin’ possible.” His
dark gaze flicks back and forth over me, and I felt
as chastised as a grade school kid with just that
cursory look. “There’s some under yer arse right
there. Clear the snow away will yer, so I can collect
that bit as well.”

What? He expects me to dig in the snow?

Suddenly, this feels less like a rescue and more like
a death march. I shift my internationally adored and
revered arse and follow the trail of his pointing
finger. Dark leaves poke out from beneath the snow
cover.

Fine.
If it gets us moving again, I’ll play hunter-

gatherer. There had better be a top-notch
manicurist in town if I ruin my beautiful gel nails in
the act though.

Like a petulant child, I swat at the brush,

sending snow flying in all directions. By the time I
sufficiently clear the leaves, my fingers throb from
the numbing cold. I cup them to my mouth and
blow across them in an attempt to get the blood
flowing again. Ronan bends down over the exposed
plant and snips more branches off to stuff in his
pack.

“That’s the lot,” he says with a grunt as he

stows the shears and rises to his feet. “Come on
then, only a tad farther. I trust yer can hoof it the

rest of the way.” He extends his giant hand to help
me up.

“My boot is broken,” I cry, lifting one foot from

the snow. I nearly sob at the sight of its spike heel
dangling uselessly from the sole. Without warning,
Ronan grabs the supple leather and snaps the heel
off the rest of the way. I gasp in shock and add a
pathetic moan as he discards it into a pile of snow
as if it’s nothing. As if I’m nothing. “These are
Jimmy Chooos!”

“God be with yer.”
I stare at him, then realize he must have thought

I’d sneezed. Geesh. “No. These are twelve
hundred-dollar shoes.”

“Really? Now they’re shite. Who spends their

hard-earned schnozzlewoppers on fancy shoes,
woman? Yer got fleeced, yer did.” He looks at me
like I’m the most ridiculous person he’s ever met.
And schnozzlewoppers? Did we take a left turn into
Whoville? “Steady on.” With a firm hand under my
armpit, he hoists me to my feet and tows me
forward.

Too dumbfounded to protest, I limp alongside

him in a clumsy, uneven gait. In a few minutes, the
path widens and the trees clear to reveal a…um,
cabin, for lack of a better word. ‘Hovel’ comes to
mind, along with ‘Hobbit.’ The structure hunkers
low amid a thicket of tangled brush. The doorway
barely seems tall enough to accommodate a man of

his height. Its whitewashed walls look made of
cookie dough, and the steep-pitched thatch roof sits
atop it like a sagging, snow-covered straw hat. A
plume of smoke fights its way skyward through the
storm from a stone chimney. I add ‘Hansel and
Gretel’ to my mental word list.

“This is your home?” I ask without thinking.
“Aye, home sweet home.” He gives his abode a

proud nod. “Grand, ain’t she?”

Chapter Four

Ronan

The sour look on her mug says less than impressed.
What does she expect, a bleeding castle? Maybe so
since the woman does carry on like a wee spoiled
princess. Well, she’ll find no pumpkin coaches or
enchanted mice around these parts, even if she is
the prettiest thing to ever set foot near Wintervale.
At least on the outside.

“Best get inside afore the fire’s out,” I say,

reaching for the latch.

I push the door open, suddenly noticing how

badly the paint has peeled over the summer and
harvest. Not many guests come round my cottage
outside Cos, Caris, and Mary, so improving its curb
appeal isn’t high on my to-do list. For some reason,
it bothers me today, as I gesture for her to enter.
She brooks no argument this time, just brushes past
me like I’m some swanky hotel doorman. I grab a
bundle of split wood from the covered box on the
porch, knowing the stove will need stoking after
being ignored all afternoon. The weather’s turning
right fierce. Getting into town tonight won’t be
possible if the snow doesn’t let up.

The exterior aesthetics may have been ignored,

but I’m still right proud of the inside of my humble

abode. Hand-hewn floor planks, scrubbed and
polished, complement the vintage glass windows
scavenged from old country houses. A fireplace
that I consider my masterpiece completes the warm
space. Every stone hand-picked for size, shape, and
color is mortared in place by my own hand.

“Make yerself at home while I feed the stove,”

I say, shrugging off my pack and hanging my mack
on a peg in the mudroom. A grand name for just a
few feet of hallway, but some dedicated space is
necessary for the wet things brought in from
outdoors. Like my coat that’s already dropping
snowballs on the rag carpet that my sister made for
me by hand, weaving each yarn separately. There’s
a lot of craftsmanship in this cottage and every
ounce of it is laced with love.

Savannah stands by the door, rigid as a pole,

her green eyes widening and scanning the place like
she expects the walls to fall in any second. Not
these walls. I built them myself. Rock fecking solid.

“Ah, feed the stove?”
“Come on in,” I say as I shoved two sticks of

wood into the firebox of the stove that sits opposite
the fireplace so she can see for herself. “Yer catch
yer death stoppin’ there in wet clothes.”

“You…live here?” she asks, still hugging her

fancy trench coat around herself. “Year-round?”

I close the burner cover with a bang. The cast-

iron beast was a pure spotty find at an estate

auction that Caris dragged me to. I love it, but even
the handles and covers weigh a ton. It serves as a
furnace and hot water tank as well as cooking
surface, so I always keep it burning.

“Aye. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Uh, it’s…a bit…inconvenient in the winter,

isn’t it?”

“Loads more convenient than outdoors, or a

banjaxed bombardier, wouldn’t yer say?” I
challenge. Snotty wench is starting to get my
hackles up. Apparently, they don’t teach many
social skills at American Princess School. You don’t
criticize someone’s home when being offered
shelter with only dire alternatives.

“Well, yes, but—”
“Ach, let’s get that coat off yer,” I interrupt

before another slag about my lifestyle comes out of
her lovely but overactive mouth. I cross over to
where she stands in a slightly lopsided stance,
owing to shoes of two different heights. Some
remorse over that seeps in, but it’s only a fecking
shoe after all, and a useless one at that. Cobblers
are a dying lot, and none of them have set up shop
within kilos of Wintervale. The shoe’s a lost cause.
I hold out my hands, but she makes no move to
unwrap her belt or pop the buttons.

“Um, aren’t you going to start your car? You

said you’d give me a ride into town,” she says,
undeterred from her spot.

“Never said I had a car. Don’t believe in them

meself, but we’ll get yer to town sure enough. Just
as soon as ‘tis safe.”

“You don’t have a car?” she caws, looking like

a baby crow for all of that, with her gawking beak
open. “But we have to go now! I don’t think you
understand the importance of my arrival in
Glasgow. Tens of thousands of people are
depending on me! At least let me use your
telephone. Maybe Mel found cell service in town.”

I shake my head. “Sorry, nair a phone in the

vicinity. And we best not be temptin’ fate venturin’
out on a night like this. Not good for Mateo’s joints,
and he’ll not see a thing in this blowin’ snow. It’ll
be dark soon. Just ‘av to wait it out, that’s all. Now
give me yer coat so it can be hung to dry.” I don’t
mean to be such a grouch, but I can’t help my
escalating tone. If she insists on behaving like a
child, she’ll get treated like one.

The poor girl visibly shrinks at my outburst, but

her luscious lips form the same recalcitrant ruby
pout of earlier. They either need kissing or slapping,
I can’t decide which. Maybe a cock down the back
of her throat isn’t such a bad idea as a compromise.

“Who is Mateo? An elderly neighbor of yours?

Does he have a car, perchance?” she finally asks,
removing her scarf and reluctantly relinquishing her
coat and doffing her unfortunate footwear.

I give the coat a shake and hang it on a peg

next to mine. “No, but that reminds me, I ain’t seen
to his dinner yet. Thought I’d be back afore now.
Hang on a tick,” I say, crossing the room toward the
half-door on the opposite side. “’Av a seat by the
stove, yer be warm as toast.”

“His dinner? What is he, a house-elf?”
I like a sense of humor, but I like the curvy

form of her, sans trench coat, even better. Purely
savage, that figure, wrapped as it is in a material
I’ve never seen the like of. It shimmers and clings
to her plump tits like a second skin. I look away
before my thoughts stray any further into the realm
of scuttling her. I don’t lure strange women into my
place to ogle their giblets. I don’t have women here
much at all, truth be told. None outside of Caris and
Mary.

I’m a confirmed loner, a hermit really, despite

the efforts of my more sophisticated and worldly
friends and family to change my bachelor status.
It’s the main reason I live out in the middle of
nowhere, isolated from the outside world. Not
many women outside of Wintervale fancy my way
of life, or my beliefs. And the town’s roster of
available partners is short and borderline
incestuous.

“Come and meet him if yer like.” I unlatch the

top half of the door and swing it open. I installed it
especially for Mateo so I can slip in and out of the
side shed without having to go outdoors. It also

provides extra insulation to keep more heat inside
the cottage. “Sorry I’m late, boy.”

Savannah edges nearer, curiosity getting the

better of her, I suspect. She jumps backward as
Mateo sticks his dark head through the opening,
giving a derisive, haughty snort from his flaring
nostrils.

“Oh my God,” Savannah says, disbelief lacing

her tone. “You keep a draft horse in the next
room?”

Mother Nature help me. The girl’s either

frightened or appalled at just about everything. A
right nuisance, to be honest. My good conscience
will get a lashing for even offering to help her out.
“Steady on, ‘tis a horse shed, not part of the
cottage. Just happens to share a wall,” I explain.
“This here’s Mateo. Mateo, meet Savannah.” I
stroke the white diamond on his otherwise black
face, his long forelock partially hiding his eyes. He
snorts again and twitches his ears in greeting.

“That’s Mateo? That’s how you plan on getting

us into town?” Savannah gapes, near to fainting by
the looks of her.

“Aye, he’s a Gypsy Vanner.” I’m unwilling to

rise to her bait. There’s nothing for it, so I just keep
on talking. “These ponies were bred specifically for
pullin’ a caravan—a gypsy caravan—hence the
name of Vanner. I got him at auction a few years
ago. Don’t see many like him round here.”

Savannah folds her arms and backs away,

heaving a shaky sigh of defeat. “Don’t gypsies like,
live in Transylvania or something?”

I snicker and motion Mateo away from the door

so I can open the bottom half and walk in to get his
feed. “Gypsies are all over. Middle Europe
especially, but in Spain, France and in the UK, too.
They originated in the north of India, actually.”

“Great, thanks for the geography lesson.

Between you and Mel, I’m all caught up on my
social studies. What about Leprechauns?” she calls
out as I walk into the shed and fill Mateo’s trough
with the organic oats I trade for with a local farmer.
“They’re from here, right? Ever see one?”

I shake my head. As if the wee folk are

something tangible that you can set and have a
chin-wag with any old time. I haven’t seen one, not
in the sense that she means. But it doesn’t mean
they aren’t part of the universe, existing
somewhere between the worlds of light and dark,
their presence as real as the trees and rocks and
flowers of the meadow. You just have to know how
to look for them. But that isn’t an answer I’m
prepared to give.

“Sure,” I say. “Mostly on nights I’ve had a

good pub crawl and totter to the inn flamin’. Yer
see ‘em and all, after a few tips of Bushmills.”

That gives me an idea. I step back into the main

room and close the doors. “Speakin’ of a wee nip,

would yer fancy a drink? Shot of liquid courage
always warms up a body comin’ in from the cold.”
Not to mention calming nerves and keeping a
cheeky gob occupied.

“Um, no thanks,” she says, glancing around the

room like she’s checking for cobwebs. “I hate to
ask, but…we walked a long way and…do you have
a bathroom I can use?”

“A’course. Right through that door.” Don’t

know why I didn’t think to show her the facilities
right off, since she’s soaking wet and shivering. It’s
so rare there’s a woman present here, I don’t have
any habits around hospitality. “Towels in there and
all.” I point her in the direction of the indoor water
closet, one of the practicalities Caris insisted on
when I built the place.

“Nair a sane person wants to do a runner

outside for the business, lunkhead,” my sister had
scolded. “Yer brills. Pull yer head out of yer own
arse, or I’ll never visit yer.” Against my better
judgement, I’d rigged up a water tank above the
ceiling so the taps and flusher would work on
simple gravity. Problem solved.

It’s more dark than light, so I light the oil lamp

in the kitchen and another that sits on the fireplace
mantel. It could be a chilly one in here tonight with
the snow and raging winds outside and decide to
light the fireplace as well. I’ve barely set the match
to the kindling when I hear a wail of upset coming

from the bathroom. Oops. Forgot to mention there’s
no hot water in that tank. I prepare myself for yet
another round of complaints on the
accommodations as the fire crackles to life and I go
to check on Miss Cold Curds.

“Y’alright in there?” I call out.
The door opens, and I suck in a breath at the

sight. She’s tidied up her hair and added another
layer of shiny red lipstick.

“Ronan…” Her green eyes shoot lasers as her

moving lips shape my name. Déjà vu washes over
me for the briefest second, the disturbing reflection
of a face floating just out of my reach. Then it’s
gone. “Can you play this?” she asks, gesturing to
the dulcimer hanging on the bathroom wall. I blink,
shaking off the momentary trance. Odd place for a
musical instrument, but then I have my gizmos
stashed all around the cottage.

“Aye. Not often, but it passes the time when…

yer know…” I gesture weakly to the water closet
not wanting to offend her sensitive sensibilities
again. My tender ears don’t need another layer of
blisters. She actually smiles at my obvious
discomfort, and it’s truly a thing of beauty to
behold after all her sour-pussing. She doesn’t even
gripe about the cold water in her apparent
excitement over the dulcimer.

“Most people read newspapers while in the

john.” She lifts a brow and bites that plump lower

lip. “May I try it?”

“If yer like.” I shrug. “Seein’ as yer a

professional musician I’m sure it’ll sound grand.”

“Mostly, I’m a singer-songwriter, but I do play

guitar and keyboards,” she says, lifting the
instrument carefully off its hook. “This looks like a
guitar that went on a diet.” She drags a thumb
across its strings, sounding a wispy chord. “Oh,
that’s lovely.” She tries holding it like a guitar, but
the tuner head’s too broad to fit her hand around it.
“What’s it called?”

“’Tis an Appalachian dulcimer. Yer play it on

yer lap.” For some reason, I want to help. Want to
see her happy again. Funny, I can’t recall ever
considering a woman’s emotions before this
moment. My cock twitches in my pants again, and I
will it to stand down. If it’s doing this over a simple
chord, what’s going to happen if she plays an entire
song? “That’s why it works well while in the
dunnie.”

“I see.” There’s a hint of laughter in her voice.

Perhaps the princess-brat can be charmed after all.
“Appalachian? Where’d you get it?”

“Traded for it at a craft market. Here, ‘av a

seat.”

I pull an old spindled wooden armchair from its

place by the stove and move it in front of the
hearth where the kindling now sports a cheery
flame. She sits down and cradles the wooden

instrument across her knees. It has similarities to a
guitar, but the body is much smaller and elongated.
I open my mouth to explain how to finger the frets
when she intuitively begins to strum the strings with
her right hand and ply the fretboard with the
fingertips of her left. I clamp my mouth shut and
stare at her bright red fingernails that match her
lips, long and curved like fecking bear claws. I’ve
never seen the like, but that doesn’t stop me from
wondering what it would feel like if she scratched
them across my back while I’m balls deep inside
her.

Damn, I need to travel into town this week and

knock the hole off Mary.

A distracted glance out the window tells me

there’s no chance of getting anywhere in this storm
tonight. Frost lines its mullioned panes and almost
completely blocks any view with the snow piles
flush against them. Though she doesn’t think much
of my hospitality so far, she’s going to be stuck with
it. I can at least offer a warm supper and a roof
over her head. She’ll probably wish her motor
coach had made it to Wintervale where Caris would
be fussing over her right now and giving her the
attention she craves. Maybe it would have been
better if that had happened. I can almost hear the
gossip over having brought her here spreading like
wildfire amongst the town folk.

I listen to the amateur but still magical sounds

she pulls from the antique dulcimer as I trot into the
kitchen to set the pot of my never-ending stew on
the stove. A raw hunger tugs at my belly. My crotch
is just as ravenous, but that’s one hunger that’s not
going to be slaked tonight. Probably not ever where
Princess is concerned. I’ve never felt this visceral
reaction to a woman, especially not a weak and
whiny one. I stare at the venison in the pot. For all I
know, she might be vegan. The only thing that’s
certain is that she has musical talent, so I pull
another chair next to the fire to watch and listen
with rapt attention.

She looks up at me with those pulsating green

eyes as lush as the forest that surrounds us, and it
happens again. This undeniable magnetic pull as if
I’m made of steel, and I can’t help but be drawn
straight toward her, connecting to her in some deep
way I can’t explain.

“I think I’m murdering this thing. Why don’t

you play me something?” she says, holding up the
instrument.

She plays better than she knows or wants to

admit, but since we have time to kill, it seems like a
good way to pass it. I take the dulcimer from her
and adjust the tuning pegs while thinking of a good
ditty. Ah, yeah. I remember a folk song from the
area where I’d been told the instrument was
originally crafted and start playing.

A jaunty sort of reel, I only recall the main

chorus of it, so just repeat the refrain a few times
and then strike a major chord to end off. I glance at
Savannah to find her gaze flicking from the
instrument to my face and back again, her
glistening lips open in astonishment. I have to avert
my gaze before I start thinking of a good place to
put that mouth. For one indulgent moment, I
imagine fisting my hands in her thick hair and
yanking her head down in my lap.

“That sounds like bluegrass,” she says. “Does it

have a title?”

“Whisky Afore Breakfast, I think it is.” I hand

the dulcimer back to her. “Heard it at a county
ceilidh once.”

“A kay-lee?” she repeats phonetically. “What’s

that?”

“Usually just an excuse to party,” I explain.

“The word itself means a ‘gatherin’, or a get-
together.”

“And you only heard the song once? And then

played it that well from memory?” Her brow
wrinkles in apparent disbelief. “That’s amazing.”

I shrug, uncomfortable under the weight of the

compliment and rise from the chair, the aroma of
the warming stew reaching my nostrils. Most
women only comment on the size of my cock or the
strength of my leadership. This is the first time I’ve
ever received feminine approval of my musical
talent outside of Caris and my ma, God bless her

soul.

“Since yer declined the whiskey, how about a

spot of stew to take the chill off? Not good at
cookin’ much else, but ‘tis hearty and healthy. Yer
must be hungry. Me, I’d eat the arse off a nun
through a church fence right now.”

I immediately regret my choice of phrase at the

transformation of her expression from fascinated to
feck off. “Uh, never mind that last bit. Just a local
sayin’. Do yer fancy a bowl?”

Savannah casts a hopeful gaze toward the

window. She rubs her arms to ward off the chill.
“Doesn’t look good out there, does it?”

“It surely doesn’t,” I say, and set the dulcimer

aside before tossing another log on the fire. “I’m
sorry about yer predicament. ‘Tis a right mess.”

“You can’t apologize for the weather.” She

sighs and turns her eyes back to me. “That stew
smells good.”

I smile for what I think is the first time since we

met. For the first time in my life, I’m glad my teeth
aren’t rotted out of my head like some of our local
folk. Vanity’s never proven an issue for me until I
met the uppity Savannah Starr.

“Comin’ right up.” I reach over to pull the

patterned wool blanket off the back of my chair
and drape it over her lap. “There, that’s the ticket.”
I fill two bowls and bring them back to our place by
the fire. “Here yer go,” I say, handing her a bowl

and spoon.

“What’s in it?” she asks, muddling her spoon

about.

“Venison mostly.” I wisely opt to keep the other

meat ingredients to myself. A townie would sneeze
at rabbit, but they’re downright tasty. “Potatoes,
carrots. The usual.” I watch her dip her spoon for
an experimental taste. She seems to analyze the
composition for a moment, then swallows it down.

“Thank you,” she says with a dainty lick of her

doll-perfect lips. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.
I think I would eat this through a fence too. But
you can keep the part about a nun’s ass. It’s really
good.”

I accept the compliment in silence, my gaze

lingering longer on those red lips than necessary.
Her swanlike throat takes a swallow, and that
makes the lust hit me even worse. To distract
myself, I add some kindling to start a fire in the
stone hearth, and finish my portion before chancing
another look at her. She stares into the flames as
though in a trance. I can tell the poor chit is
exhausted. I take her empty bowl from her lap and
stack it with mine.

“Mel’s probably worried sick about me,” she

says quietly. “I’ve never missed a concert. I hope
he’s safe.”

“We’ll find him in the mornin’,” I assure her,

hoping against hope that we find him alive.

“Morning?” she asks, turning her head slightly.

“I can’t stay here until morning.”

I wave at the window. “Aye, yer can. Yer ‘av

to. Nothin’ for it now.”

She draws in a massive and tired breath. “Could

you play some more?” she asks, drawing the
blanket around herself.

I pick up the dulcimer and pluck out a tune of

my own I’ve been working on. Still needs polishing,
but I try a few variations on the melody as I go. I
play everything by ear, never taking a lesson or
learning to read or score notes. Not that Ma and Da
could have afforded such luxuries as music lessons.
We all just came by our musical talent naturally, my
family. It always seems to me that nature has its
own way of teaching a body whatever it needs to
know, and as the years pass by, I choose to follow a
natural path in every part of my life, not just my
music. Not everyone in these parts agrees with me,
but here in Wintervale, I’m surrounded by an inner
circle of friends and family who support my
decisions and ambitions.

Who don’t ever question my simple way of life.

Well…usually.

I jar from my thoughts to realize I’ve been

playing for quite some time. I look over at my
unusual house guest to find her fast asleep in the
wide armchair, bundled in my old blanket. I regret
not offering her the loft above the bedroom for the

night, but now it looks like I might have to carry
her up there. Better I take the loft and put her in
my own bed on the main floor. Having her in my
arms again is a temptation I don’t need.

For all my good intentions, something tells me

that bringing this stranger here is a big mistake.
Like a fish in a bog, she just doesn’t fit, and it
makes me nervous. She doesn’t belong here, and
the sooner she’s on her way, the better.

Chapter Five

Savannah

A maelstrom of snow and ice swirls around us. All I
can focus on are the pair of piercing eyes that bore
into me, glowing blue jewels that search every
corner of my doomed soul and unlock the secret
feelings that dwell there. I can no more hide from
him than from my own consciousness. I stumble
and fall, hitting the snow on all fours.

The layers of fur that cover my stalker’s body

make him appear larger than life, overpowering me
with his physical presence, condemning me for my
sins and false beliefs. I want to apologize, beg for
his forgiveness and his acceptance. I cower and
hide my face.

“Please don’t hurt me.”
I hear the ripping of my lacy panties as they’re

torn from my body. Peeking over my shoulder, my
eyes widen. He takes his massive cock in his hand
and pumps it once. I shiver with a combination of
fear and anticipation, not understanding how I’m
possibly going to accept that monster inside my
petite body. Looking at it, pointing straight up
toward the sky, an unbidden wetness pools in my
pussy, preparing me as if my body already knows
what my mind refuses to accept.

He bends low, enveloping me in the warmth of

his shaggy coat and pressing me down further into
the cold depths of the white blanket of snow.

“I canna hurt yer,” his soothing voice says.

“For we are one and the same. Two halves of the
same world, light and dark. One can’t exist without
the other.”

A strangled gasp of pleasure escapes from my

mouth as he impales me.

My eyes snap open, banishing the howling wind

and rumbling thunder of that voice back into the
recesses of my dream. My hair feels coiled around
my neck in a sweat-soaked tentacle, and my heart
thuds a rapid staccato as I suck in a desperate
breath.

Just a dream.
It’s not real, so get a hold of yourself, Savie.
I blink and rub my eyes, my brain swimming in

the aftermath of the frightening dream. Where am
I? Pale daylight fills the space, and the scent of
wood smoke teases my nostrils. Above me soar
rough-hewn wooden rafters that support what looks
like thatches of long grass. What the hell?

I sit up in a rush of blankets and panic, a

patchwork quilt falling away as I do. I glance
around, finding myself in an unfamiliar iron bed
frame set beneath a frosty window. A wooden
ladder built into one corner leads upward to a
platform above. Memory kicks in, and I realize I’m

in Ronan’s cottage but have no recollection of how
I came to be in this bed—or whether I’ve slept in it
alone. My clit throbs with lust and frustration after
the strength of my dream. Was it really a dream
after all?

I push away the quilt to reveal the same

sequined tunic and leggings from yesterday,
wrinkled and twisted from having slept in them all
night. I feel grubby, disheveled, and completely
disoriented. I want a bath in the worst way, but I
don’t recall seeing a tub in the dwelling’s small
bathroom. If we’d just have made that damn ferry,
I’d be surrounded in five-star hotel luxury right
now. Instead, I lay tangled up in lumpy, homespun
linens wearing two-day old clothes and rubbed-off
makeup. I would never be seen in public like this.

I shudder at the realization that I’ve already

been seen this way for quite some time, by a shaggy
stranger I had no business following into this
cottage. I cringe in embarrassment at the events of
yesterday. What was I thinking even opening the
bus door to this woolly mammoth of a man? I’d
been so frightened, I’d taken leave of my senses.
And where is my Bigfoot rescuer now? I don’t hear
any movement other than my own as I get up and
cross the polished floorboards of the modest
bedroom, suddenly finding its Spartan tidiness
oddly appealing. For a minute, I feel like I’m back
at summer camp in the Poconos.

The warm memory fades as I glance out the

window. The world has died a white death in this
country, everything covered in a thick blanket of
snow. At least it’s no longer falling, a fact for which
I send up a prayer of gratitude. I can flee the scene
of this sexual fantasy before I go and do something
crazy, like throw myself at a man I’ve known less
than twenty-four hours and beg him to take me.

Rockstar status notwithstanding, I’ve never

been one to sleep around in spite of massive
opportunity. Now, at least I can head into town and
find Mel. My heart rate accelerates wondering what
the poor man must be thinking. Probably that I’ve
been kidnapped or wandered off and died in a
snowbank. But if he read my note…

An eerie scraping sound interrupts my thoughts.

I shiver, grab my ruined boots from the front door
and make my way toward the great black wood
stove and the warmth that emanates from it. The
noise comes again, and again, in a slow, slogging
rhythm. Someone is shoveling, and I don’t need to
guess who it is. An image flitters into my mind of a
hulking beast of a man with cord upon cord of
chiseled muscle, cutting a path through a solid pile
of snow. Another flood of wetness pools between
my legs. Dammit.

Next to the chairs by the fireplace lays the

intriguing instrument we played the night before.
Now that it’s daytime, I notice other things I didn’t

see last night—a guitar propped on a homemade
stand in the corner, and a violin on top of an old
steamer-type trunk. On the mantel are several small
woodwind flutes, and in yet another corner sits the
most stunning instrument of all. An Irish harp with
an exquisite black ebony frame and intricate gold
filigree along the head.

That thing must be worth a fortune.
It’s so beautiful I can’t believe I’ve missed it

until now. Probably because Ronan seems to
infiltrate my head and lungs, stealing my sense and
every last ounce of oxygen from the room. My
fingers itch to touch it, but I wouldn’t do so without
permission. My God, does Ronan play all of these?
The man possesses some serious talent. I discover a
hot pot of tea on the stove and some cups laid out
on the table. I’d murder for a tall caramel
macchiato, but since tea is so readily offered, I pour
myself a cup.

The hot dark liquid warms me, and the

distinctive aroma of bergamot infuses the pleasant
steam rising from the mug. I sit down at the table
and sip as I look around the small kitchen
containing a collection of unfitted period pieces of
differing styles and finishes. A rough-hewn
sideboard and hutch along with a wrought-iron
baker’s rack that holds bundles of what appears to
be yesterday’s forage of flora hung up to dry. Who
is this guy, some kind of Irish medicine man?

That thought makes me uneasy, and I wonder

how long it will take to get to town when the door
opens and Ronan’s shaggy bulk steps in along with
wisps of snow that blow in over the sill. He looks
even larger than I remember, and my eyes travel
the imposing stature of his body, starting at his
booted feet all the way up to the massive shoulders
draped in the long locks of his dark brown hair. I’m
reminded of John Snow.

He turns to face me, and all of a sudden, I’m

struck dumb by the intense cobalt blue of his eyes.
Why hadn’t I noticed their hypnotic allure
yesterday instead of just their unique color? I
suppose I was so worked up and frustrated and
terrified that I’d been oblivious to everything else.
Not anymore. Not after last night’s fantasy has
come to life. Now, I’m hyper-aware of everything
concerning Ronan, and I just want to get the hell
away from him before my long neglected hooha
wakes up anymore from its long winter’s nap.

“Well. Good mornin’ to yer,” he says, matching

my gaze. “Does yer itinerary allow for a spot of
breakfast, or are we shovin’ off straight away?”

I set down my cup, unable to wrest my eyes

from his. There’s something weirdly hypnotic about
that stare. Somehow, I find my voice, and it comes
out gritty and raspy, like I’m moaning his name
right before the ecstasy of orgasm rips through me.

“I’ve put you to enough trouble. I don’t need

any breakfast, thank you, but…I’d really like to
have a bath or shower, if there is one?”

“Aye, there is.”
He shrugs off his furry coat and hangs it on a

peg by the door. Underneath, I’m stunned to see
that he’s dressed in quite normal attire this morning
—a plain navy sweatshirt and jeans. I can’t help
but notice the bulges of muscle beneath the
material. Some impressive pecs fill out the puffy
shirt, and the denim of his pants strain against solid,
powerful thighs. He must get a lot of exercise living
out here in the wilderness. All that wood chopping
and animal hunting.

And fucking.
I shake my head, eradicating the image of

what’s underneath his simple clothing.

“It’ll take time to get the shower ready.”
“Okay,” I say, wondering what that means.
Does he need to gather up the dirty underwear

he left hanging on the shower rod or something? I
wonder if he even wears underwear at all. I watch
in interest as he strides over to the big black stove
and opens a hinged lid on the far end of it. Steam
rises from the opening, and he reaches down to
grasp a spouted bucket from the floor and dips it
inside.

I watch him curiously. “What’s that for?”
He spears me with that cerulean gaze again, as

if I’d ask why the sky today is the same color as his

eyes.

“Yer not fancy a shower with cold water, would

yer now?”

Without waiting for an answer, he lifts the pail

and carries it to the back door. Oh, shit. I’m
beginning to wish I hadn’t asked about a shower. In
a minute, he returns for a second bucket.

Curiosity crawls like ants beneath my skin.

“What are you doing out there?”

“Listen, in case yer not be noticin’, yer not at

the Hilton today, woman.” He lifts the filled bucket
and looks at me, waiting. “If ‘tis a shower yer be
wantin’, grab a towel and follow me.”

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding. The shower is…

outside? And no hot running water? How can that
possibly work?

I return a haughty glare of disbelief, then stalk

—as much as one can stalk with a broken heel—to
the indoor bathroom for a towel. You asked for it,
kiddo. I follow him out the door and around the
side of the cottage, my feet tramping awkwardly
through the fresh snow. Damn, I didn’t put on my
coat, and the frozen air knocks me for a loop. Even
though it’s warmer outside and the snow is starting
to melt, I can still see my damn breath.

There, wedged between the house and the

horse shed is a sort of cabana with wooden sides
and a curtained doorway. I gape in horror as Ronan
empties his steaming bucket into a tank next to the

structure, anchored to the wall of the house at
about shoulder height.

“No running water?” I know my voice is flat

with disappointment and disbelief. Even though I
want to contain my true feelings, I just can’t. He’s
been nothing but hospitable, and I’ve been nothing
but a pain in his ass. But showering outside? In
winter? It’s just not to be born.

He finishes filling the tank and rounds on me,

his electric blue eyes narrowed in an expression of
something between anger and exasperation. “Out
here? Are yer serious? Look ‘round, woman.” With
a snort and shake of his head, he parts the curtain
to show me the inside. “See there, just pull the
chain when yer want the water, but not too much at
a time, mind. There’s only so much in the tank.”

I shiver and venture closer, wondering if there’s

even soap available. “Why do you live like this?”
The words tumble out of my mouth before I can
stop them. I don’t mean to insult his lifestyle, but
aren’t we in the twenty-first century?

Ronan releases the curtain and straightens to

his full height, looming over me. I stare at his lips,
pressed into a thin line. I want them to soften. I
want him to soften. More than anything, I want him
to scoop me up and—

“’Tis up to yer if yer want the shower or not,”

he says calmly. Too calmly. I sense a storm building
up, and not the kind that erupts from the sky. “I

choose the way I live, just as yer choose yers. My
way is real, ‘tis natural. It honors the earth. Yer
don’t ‘av to like it. But as long as yer here, I
demand yer be respectin’ it.”

“But, bathing outdoors?” I wave my hands

around like an idiot. “Don’t tell me you enjoy that?
What if someone saw you?”

He moves toward me, stopping a few feet away

from where I stand clutching the towel to my chest
as if the flimsy fabric could protect me if he decides
to shake me to a bloody pulp. I shrink from the
coldness in his stare as much as from the air
temperature.

“If someone saw me?” He snorts. “I’d invite

her to join me. Who in hades do yer think is goin’ to
wander onto my property? The water comes from
outside, so I bathe outside. It cleanses the soul as
much as it cleanses the body. Then it drains away to
the outside, nay plumbin’ needed. Nay waste. Nay
pipes or drains to clog. We weren’t meant to live
indoors, yer know. We’re still part of the animal
kingdom.”

He holds me prisoner to his heated gaze for a

frozen minute, then turns and walks back to the
cottage, leaving me blinking in bewilderment. I see
rage there but something else lingers there too. A
fierceness that resembles passion. Ronan has some
pretty strong—and pretty weird—beliefs from my
vantage point.

He’s right.
I don’t have to like it, but I do have to respect it

because he’s offered me all the hospitality he
possesses. I regret what I’ve said, both now and
yesterday. I should have been more gracious.

Vowing to do better from now on, I step inside

the shower enclosure, finding pegs on the wall for
my towel and clothes. I pick up a round ball of soap
from a corner ledge and hold it to my nose. The
shape and texture say handmade, and the aroma of
mint and other woodsy herbs make me smile in
spite of the circumstances. It smells like him. That
agonizing throbbing in my lady parts starts up again
as I give the soap another deep inhale, imagining
Ronan standing in this shower with me. It’s crazy,
but I’m actually starting to feel a bit earth-mother-
ish myself in these rustic surroundings.

I undress and give the chain an experimental

pull. Water pours through a reasonably modern-
looking shower head attached to a pipe running
from the tank. Warm enough, considering it’s been
heated on a stove and carried here by hand. What a
fascinating process. It makes me wonder how often
Ronan showers, considering the toil it took just to
have one. But I’m freezing my ass off in spite of
the growing heat between my legs, so I stop
analyzing and jump under the warm torrent of
water.

Unfortunately, I have to stop the flow while I

soap up, and my teeth chatter in the uncomfortable
intervals between rinses. On second thought, fuck
this Earth Mother shit. It’s nice in theory, but it’s
too fucking painful in reality. I pull the chain one
last time and close my eyes against the dump of
water pouring over my head. They snap open again
as I hear the most blood-curdling growl from just a
few feet away. I let go of the chain and scream.

A black snout and a mouthful of pointed teeth

poke through the curtain. The thing snarls and then
barks, almost like a dog. I grab for the towel and
cover myself, as though the thin cloth will offer
some kind of protection against the hideous
creature.

“Get out!” I scream, quivering where I stand.

My wails seem to only encourage it to enter further,
shoving its flat head with a white stripe down the
middle directly inside. My God, it looks as
ferocious and hungry as an angry grizzly bear, the
rest of its hulking body covered in grey-black fur.
Its beady eyes appear full of murderous intent.

“Help!” I cry, backing away from it as far as

possible in a phone-booth sized space.

Its horrific smell assaults my nostrils,

accompanied by dank and rotten breath. It barges
its way in, teeth bared, opening the curtain to the
frosty outdoors.

“Help!” I wail again, terrified and blinded by

the resulting cloud of steam.

Headlines flash before my eyes as I steel myself

for the pain of being shredded from limb to limb.

Pop Princess Savannah Starr dies in remote

Irish backwoods, eaten by bear.

Chapter Six

Ronan

By Mother Nature, the woman is the most vexing
creature I’ve ever come across. All I tried to do is
help her out, and look where it’s gotten me. She
hates everything, slags my home and my country,
and acts as if I should be prostrating at her feet for
some reason.

Don’t you know who I am?
I growl inside as I refill the stove’s water

reservoir, having emptied pretty much all of it so
that Princess Savannah won’t freeze her wee tushie
off. And it isn’t that wee, my aching cock reminds
me. She has a bit of a caboose going on in the back.
Two perfect round globes of flesh for a man to grab
onto when she’s on all fours, but what thanks do I
get for my trouble? Not even a lick and a promise
for all of that.

I decide I should get Mateo ready for the trip to

town, so I don my mack and go to unlatch the
connecting door to his shed when I hear him
whinnying frantically from inside.

“What’s the craic, me boy?” I swing both

sections of the door open to find him pacing and
pawing the ground along the adjacent wall. “Steady
on, lad…what’s the…” My query’s cut short by a

piercing scream from the other side of said wall.

“Get out!” A long pause. “Help! Help!”
What the feck? I run past the frantic horse and

open the shed gate rather than going back through
the cottage. I nearly fall on my arse taking the
slippery corner around the shed. “Oh my God, Help
me!” Savannah shrieks. I regain my footing and
plunge on toward the shower. The curtain flaps
about, issuing puffs of steam from within, and some
movement catches the corner of my eye.

I glance over only in time to see a shuffle of

tree boughs at the edge of the wood, and a trail of
paw prints leading to the spot. “Ach, hold on!” I
yell. “What’s the matter?” I reach the shower just
as Savannah’s dark, wet head peers out, the curtain
clutched up to her chin.

“A bear!” she wails, her eyes wild in terror. “A

goddamn bear attacked me!”

“Calm down, there’s not been a bear on this

Isle since the tenth century. What did yer see?”

“It was big, and black, with pointy teeth,” she

sobs, and I can’t help but lean forward and take her
shivering form into my arms. I can smell her
woman’s heat straight through my Mack but now’s
not the time to explore it. “It came right in and
growled at me, and its claws…” she pauses,
catching her breath and holding up her hands. “It
had long, sharp claws like a grizzly’s. It could have
ripped me apart.”

I can tell she’s scared, but I can’t stifle a laugh

at her overblown description and the look of sheer
terror on her pale face. Her breath turns to vapor in
the cold air and strands of her wet hair coil across
her cheeks. They’ll be frozen in place if I don’t get
her dry in a hair’s breadth.

“Oh, give over now. ‘Twas probably just a

rabbit or the neighbor’s dog. Nay need to get a bee
in yer bonnet.”

She stabs me with a poisonous green-eyed glare

likely meant to slay me where I stand. In a huff, she
pulls away from my warm arms and hides back in
the shower. I immediately feel the loss of her
against me. “I know what I saw!” She pokes me in
the chest with her finger. “Don’t make fun of me,
you…you…”

“What?” I tilt my chin, still chuckling at her

melodramatics. I step nearer to her shivering form
as she hides behind the curtain. The wet material
sticks to her curvy shape, and I catch a glimpse of
bare skin here and there. I want to pull her against
me again, so I do. Right fecking now. “What am I
now, still Grizzly Adamson? Or the abominable
snowman, as it were?”

“Ugh! It’s Grizzly Adams,” she squawks,

stepping back and snapping the curtain closed. “I
don’t know what you are, besides crazy.”

I fold my arms and stand my ground, amused at

seeing her bare feet dance around below the curtain

as she dries and dresses. They’re bonny wee feet,
delicately boned and with toenails painted the same
shade of red as her fingernails.

“This whole place is crazy,” she mumbles

between heaving sobs. My grin turns to a frown as I
realize how truly upset she is and feel an
unwelcome twinge in my heart that she so dislikes
my place, my facilities—and most of all me. Best I
get her out of here post-haste. My twitching dick
takes a stand-down.

“Well, yer be shut of it soon,” I say grimly.

“And don’t worry, I’ll stand guard out here against
any more bears ‘til yer ready. Then we’ll head for
town, yer can get a spot of breakfast there if yer
like. My sister owns the inn in town. Been in my
family for generations. Right good meals there, if
yer ask me.”

I glance around the clearing, wondering what

could have been brash enough to approach the
cottage. Obviously, there is some kind of animal
about, as evidenced by the footprints and Mateo’s
reaction. But certainly not a bear.

As if on cue, Mateo plods toward me having

taken the open shed gate as a hint.

“Yer knew somethin’ was afoot, didn’t yer,

boy?” I pat him on his massive shoulder, admiring
his glossy black coat. His hindquarters measure
nearly a meter across, ample space and strength for
carrying multiple riders. He gives a soft whinny and

nudges my arm, looking for his own breakfast.
“Aye, yer get yer feed in a tick,” I assure him with
another loving pat. Some days, Mateo’s my only
companion. I have a way with animals. Always
have. Knew it since I nursed an orphan squirrel
back to health the summer of my fifth year.

Suddenly, the curtain whips back, and I hear a

frightened gasp. “Oh my God. What is that monster
doing out here?”

I turn to see Savannah standing there, once

again dressed in her form-fitting attire, but this time
with a towel wrapped around her head.

“Huh?”
She points a long fingernail at me. “Is my

showering the entertainment feature for your entire
farm? Because in that case, the show’s over! Buy a
ticket like everyone else!”

“Ach, take it easy, woman.” All of my

sympathy drains away. “Mateo’s just lookin’ out for
yer. He alerted me to yer distress, so don’t be
slagging him. He’s very sensitive, and our lift into
town, so he is.”

She scans Mateo’s imposing bulk from head to

hoof, the whites of her wide green eyes showing.
“I’m not getting on that thing,” she declares, her
lips trembling, whether from fright or the cold, I
can’t be sure. “I’ve had enough of wild animals for
one day.”

“He’s hardly wild,” I answer, stroking his

forehead, puzzled over her reaction since she’d
already met the animal yesterday. But only his
head. I suppose his full profile is a tad more
intimidating. I frown as another thought occurs to
me. “Yer not afraid of horses, are yer?”

Savannah edges sideways as if making ready to

bolt. “I’m afraid of really large horses…like this
one. And airplanes. I’m deathly afraid of
airplanes.”

I shake my head, turn Mateo around, and begin

to lead him back to the shed for his feed.

“Well, yer got two choices,” I call over my

shoulder. “Ride or walk. Or flag a car and
hitchhike. I ‘av to warn yer though. Cars only
putter by about five times a day. I guess that’s a
few options. Me, I’m headin’ into town on me lad,
here. Take yer pick.”

I turn my back on her, expecting some

indignant tirade to issue from her lips, but
surprisingly, hear nothing. I keep on walking, until
the relative safety of the shed shelters both me and
Mateo from any further tongue-lashing.

With the Yule festivities just days away, I really

should be busy with the preparations rather than
playing nursemaid to this high-strung American
woman. Maybe I’m barmy like she says. It’s my
own fault in the end. I could have just turned back
home when I came across her motor coach. Her
safety’s not my concern. But something told me it’s

important. The Cailleach Beare is never wrong. Big
things are about to happen for Wintervale soon, and
finding the bus seemed like an omen and a chance
to do something good.

Savannah Starr is an omen all right. Of how

right I’d been in choosing the life I now lead. Free
of materialistic obsession, of technology and
dependence on others. Trusting in the cycles of
nature to bring meaning to one’s existence. She
isn’t the sort who would ever understand that, and
given our mutual interest in music, that realization
saddens me more than it should.

I shake off my useless musings, and after he’s

fed and readied, I bring Mateo around to the front
of the cottage. To my surprise, wee Miss Pop Starr
waits on the porch, bundled in her coat and scarf,
her bag slung over her shoulder.

“Goin’ somewhere?” I ask, hiding a smirk.
Savannah squares her shoulders in defiance.

Sparks fly from every cell in her body, I’ll give her
that. Part of me wishes the ride to town were
longer. If I had more time, maybe she’d soften
enough that I could have my fill of her before I
send her away.

With her gone, I’m not sure how I’m going to

slake this aching lust without giving Mary the
wrong idea. Every time I fuck the town woman to
assuage my man’s needs, she tries to manipulate the
physical act into something more than an offhand

claiming.

It occurs to me I could pretend to take a

‘shortcut,’ but dismiss the idea just as quickly. The
sooner she’s out of my cottage, my mind, and my
cock’s indiscriminate sights, the better.

“Under the circumstances, and since there are

limited options, I’d like a ride to town, please,” she
says, not quite meeting my eyes. Apparently, crow
isn’t on her personal menu. “Right now.”

I adjust Mateo’s stirrups and pat my hand on

the saddle in invitation. “Since yer said please, by
all means. Climb aboard.”

She hesitates, glancing suspiciously between me

and the horse. I pat the saddle again. She steps
toward us, attempting to retain her haughty air in
spite of her lopsided gait on her damn broken heel,
and comes to a stop a few feet away.

She lifts a regal looking brow. “Well?”
“Oh…” I splay one hand on my stomach,

feigning ignorance. “A pox upon me…did yer
require assistance, milady?”

She fixes her emerald gaze on me, and again, I

feel an unsettling wave of familiarity. Like a name
or a word exists on the tip of my tongue but slips
away before I can utter it. I watch her
pomegranate-red lips move as if in slow motion.

“Yes. Please.”

Chapter Seven

Ronan

“’Tis dead easy, yer see.”

She looks at my extended hand nervously.

“Okay.”

She takes it, somewhat reluctantly, but my

fingers close around her palm as though capturing a
small bird. Something seems different than the last
time I held her hand. Now that I’m not using her
arm as a plough lead, I sense trust in her grip.

“He’s big, but he’s gentle as a lamb, so he is,” I

assure her, drawing her closer. I transfer her hand
to the saddle’s pommel and fit her left foot in the
stirrup. “I’ll give yer a boost if yer need it, but just
hoist yerself up and swing yer right leg over.”

She bites her shiny red lip. “H-he won’t bolt or

rear up, will he?”

I chuckle at the picture of the heavy animal up

on his hinds, front hooves pawing the air like the Hi
Ho Silver I heard about as a boy. Not fecking likely,
woman. I’d trust this horse with my life.

“Nay, he’s steady as a rock, so he is. He’s used

to riders.”

She pulls herself upward, issuing a ‘harrumph’

of exertion, but loses momentum before she gets
her other leg around. I suppose that singer-

songwriters don’t get a lot of physical exercise, and
before her generous rump can fall backward again,
I slap both palms square on her plump cheeks and
push.

“What are you…?”
“Up yer go.” I apply the promised boost, very

aware of the two soft orbs of female flesh I hold in
my hands. I try not to think about it as she squawks
in surprise but finally swings her right leg
successfully over Mateo’s wide back. “See?
Nothin’ to it. Hold on while I be mountin’ up.”

She inhales a startled breath as I slide in behind

her, my crotch landing hard against her ass, my
thighs encasing hers on either side. This is going to
be the longest damn ride of my life. If I can keep
my cock from poking her in the back, I’ll consider
it a miracle.

She wiggles in the seat. “Must you sit so

close?”

“Not much choice about it.” I refrain from

inching closer and take hold of the reins. “Try
relaxin’ a bit, will yer? Nay call to be so uptight.
Just enjoy the ride, if that be a possibility for yer.”

I immediately regret my choice of words.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I turn Mateo toward the trail that leads to the

highway and snap the reins. Savannah jerks
backward and falls against my chest as Mateo
responds to my command.

“Well, yer been on about somethin’ ever since I

found yer in yer clapped-out bombardier, so yer
‘av. Seems there’s nay pleasin’ yer, woman, so I’m
givin’ up. Yer win. Yer be on yer way to town, and
will soon see the backside of me and me rustic
home.”

Her head whips around. “I—”
Damn woman. I growl deep in my lungs. “Will

yer do a man a favor for the next hour and keep
quiet? Then at least I can enjoy the ride even ‘tis
beneath yer tender sensibilities.”

I shift the reins to one hand then slip one arm

around her waist, secretly liking the warmth and
weight of her body trapped against mine. My mind
drifts to her warm pussy just inches from my
fingers, and I wonder if she’s wet.

“You can let go of me,” she says with

annoyance.

“Yer don’t want to be fallin’ off now, do yer?

Me poor ears’d never hear the end of that. This
here’s the only style of seatbelt available. Safety
first, eh?”

I squeeze her midsection even tighter. I hear a

sigh of exasperation, then silence. Thank Brighid.
Mateo’s feathered fetlocks plod fearlessly through
the drifts of melting snow on the trail. A farm
tractor couldn’t have been more steady or sure, and
he seems delighted to be out in the weather by the
way he tosses his head and voluminous mane,

snorting puffs of steam into the chilly air.

Fat flakes of snow that hang on the tree

branches create a sparkling white arbor for us to
pass through as we journey forward. I inhale
deeply, though it freezes the hairs in my nose and
mustache. I revel in the burn of cold air in my
lungs, in my connection to nature, to the elements,
the earth and its creatures. It’s my chosen way and
the way of my family and friends who have all
made Wintervale their home. And I wouldn’t
change it. Not one bit of it. This place is safe for us
to practice our beliefs in peace and mutual support
of each other.

But with the first Yule celebration of Alban

Arthan almost upon us, I feel as if I’ve let my
community down. The prophecies foretold at
Samhuin have not yet come to pass, and as their
Bard and leader, I thought I would have some hand
in bringing them to bear. We’re not suffering, but
prosperity and happiness are subjective. Nothing
has really changed in Wintervale in decades, much
less the last few months. Have I failed?

As for my personal fortunes, they’re of lesser

consequence. The good of the community is far
more important to me and always will be. But still,
the Cailleach’s certainty in her prediction compels
me to consider what I could improve. Aside from
the usual prodding from parents and close friends to
‘settle down,’ everyone in town knows of the

Samhuin prophecies. Every look and word from my
townsfolk contain a not so subtle reference to the
‘soul mate’ that I’m destined to find. None are
more persistent than my own sister. She lives in
perpetual hope for my happy domestic future.

And Mary…well, that spitfire thinks it’s her.
Cheered by the thought I’ll be able to stop in

and see Caris when we get to town, I do have to
admit I’m not averse to the idea of a mate. Indeed,
at the interval of Samhuin, I harbored feelings of
emptiness, an intangible longing for something…
something more than a full belly and a quick tumble
only intended to ease my physical needs.

As Savannah squirms, the bodily presence of

the woman in front of me comes back into focus.
My hand has somehow come to rest at the top of
her ribcage and lodges beneath the shelf of her full
tits. As my mouth waters, thinking of biting a dusky
nipple, my groin tingles to life. The areas where our
bodies connect, namely my legs astride hers and my
cock against her firm bottom, heat up like a lava
flow.

“Ahem, excuse me,” she says, wriggling away

from my grip.

“Sorry,” I mutter on reflex, removing my hand

from her chest and placing it atop her leg. The
smooth material of the bottoms she wears are soft
to the touch and I find myself inadvertently
stroking my fingers up and down the length of her

thigh, petting her.

She slaps my hand. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
She clucks her tongue and turns her head

sideways. “Touching me like that.”

“Oh.” I stop moving my hand but don’t take it

away. She’s just given me two orders in the space
of one minute, and I don’t take direction from
women. I tell them what to do and how they should
do it. With the friction of our bodies rubbing
together courtesy of Mateo’s rhythmic gait, I feel
stuck to her as an electric charge builds between us,
threatening to erupt. My cock twitches, and I’m
sure she can feel it.

She tries to look back at me again. “I have a

question.”

Jaysus. First the demands and now the third

fecking degree? I’m trying to keep from tossin’ yer
on yer back, woman!

“Aye. What’s that?” I ask against my better

judgment.

“Did you carry me to your bed last night?”
I ponder the question. Surely it’s obvious that

she didn’t get there under her own power? And
what did it fecking matter now when all I want to
do is sink my fingers into her slick heat and stroke
her until she screams her release into the frosty air.
The heat’s coming off her in waves, and as much as
she tries to hide it, I can smell the desire on her.

Just like the wild animals of the forest, she’s calling
to me with her siren’s song of lust. “Aye. Yer were
out cold in yer chair. How did yer think yer got
there?”

“Hmm. And where did you sleep?”
I can see where she’s going with this. Why

doesn’t she just ask the question that’s at the heart
of this interrogation? Believe me, if I’d bent her
over, she’d be walking with a limp.

“That’s two questions. But I wasn’t snogged up

next to yer if that’s what yer intimatin’. Believe me,
if I’d taken advantage of yer last night, yer be
feelin’ the residuals.” Since she’s opening the door,
I’m going to take advantage of her right fecking
now. My hand starts caressing her thigh again,
oblivious to her pathetic protests. Ach, I want to
throw her down off Mateo, yank those tight
leggings from her lush body and split her wide
open. She might even deserve it with her attitude.
Briefly, I picture her face down in the snow as I fist
the hair on the back of her head with one hand, pull
those stretchy leggings down over her round arse
with the other, and pound into her while she squeals
my name.

Yer goin’ to say it, woman. Before this is over,

she’s going to come all over my cock while
screaming my name. Yer chose to push me buttons.
Yer, and yer alone.

“Well, good!” she spits back just like an ornery

cat. “Because if you’d tried anything, you’d have
my un-broken stiletto heel up your ass.” My lusty
vision’s quickly dispelled with her sharp tone.
Somebody’s arse is going to have something up it
soon, of that I’m sure.

“I slept in the loft above the bedroom, so I did,

to answer yer question,” I say harshly, continuing to
stroke her leg, delighting in her writhing body. The
more she tries to get away, the tighter she’s pressing
on my straining cock. But I’m not in the mood for
threats, and she’s hardly in a position to deliver
them.

Shut yer gob, afore I do somethin’ only me ball

sack won’t regret.

She pauses and settles down. A single syllable

escapes her mouth on a moan, and it sounds better
than a symphony. “Oh.”

“Do yer dislike me that much? After all we’ve

been through together?” My hand’s strayed to the
elastic waistband of her stretchy pants and it’s
flirting with her silky soft skin.

“I don’t dislike you.”
“Ach, well, there’s a start,” I say, leaning in for

a closer whiff of my handmade mint and barberry
soap still lingering on her skin and hair from the
shower. After she softens even more, my fingers
dip inside and I can feel her heat against my body. I
can almost smell the lust on her, and I’m dying to
know the texture of her pussy. How tight it is.

For all her prickliness, she’s still a fine looking

and fine smelling molly. It might even be
considered part of her charm. As she wiggles and
turns her head toward me to protest, I plant a kiss
on her full lips.

“Ugh!” She pulls away, her face a mask of

horror. “What are you doing?”

“Yer smell good. Yer feel good. I be needin’ to

know if yer taste good too. Don’t feckin’ deny me
the knowledge.”

“You stink, Ronan. Your beard is filthy, and

your clothes are beyond despicable. I don’t even
like sitting this close to you. How dare you think
you can…kiss me?”

“I do not stink. Do I?” The question is asked in

both resentment and curiosity. Since I’m not around
other folks very much, I have no idea what I smell
like, but I shower each and every day unless I’m
deathly ill or it’s a blizzard. I’ve never heard
anyone comment on it, and Caris would tan my
hide if I walked into her place stinking to high
heaven. I showered this morning before she got up.
Even though I’m outdoors all the time, I should still
be fresh as the forest pines. Shirt and jeans fresh
from the laundry Caris happily does for me every
two weeks since she’s succumbed to the allure of
the machines. How bad can I smell?

“Ugh!” she clucks in disgust. It annoys me just

enough that I slide my finger even deeper into her

waistband and stop only inches from the place I
want to touch most of all. She’s in such a snit it
doesn’t even slow her down. “I’m surprised the
horse can even stand you. Maybe you should sleep
in his shed with him. If you at least smelled as good
as Mateo, it would be an improvement.”

“Is that so,” I grumble, but I don’t mean it. Not

anymore. All thoughts of scent have flown my
brain except for the smell of her desire. My fingers
crawl the rest of the way, and I slip it inside her
heat. She jolts, and a tiny sigh escapes her lips.

Wet and hot. For me.
I find the erect nub that’s the center of her

pleasure and circle it with my finger. With a soft
moan, she presses tighter against me and the
pressure of my hand. She starts up again, but her
tone is decidedly less shrewish.

“If my security guards were here, they’d be on

you like a swarm of locusts, wrestling you to the
ground. You’d be handcuffed and thrown in jail in
the space of five minutes.” I smile when she has to
stop and sigh between each sentence.

“Is that so?”
I dip a finger into her core and her muscles

clamp down, nearly taking my finger off. My cock
strains against my pants as it throbs its protest. Her
pussy would choke it, and it wants that more than
anything.

Tight. As. Feck.

“Do you know that Prince Harry himself wasn’t

even allowed backstage to meet me without being
body scanned and with an armed escort?”

The pitch of her voice escalates like a siren, her

words accelerating like a recording on fast forward
as she hovers toward her peak. Prince Harry? I
rapidly lose coherence of anything she’s saying.
When she comes, I hope she squeals. Soon her
foreign words meld together like the drone of
insects. Really big insects.

“And you…you think you can just do whatever

you like…toss me in a snowbank, grope me up and
down…put your hand between my legs. Who do
you think you are? You have no idea who I am. I
know Beyoncé personally! I—”

I press my mouth to her ear, knowing the

vibration of my voice will create a new type of
excitement in her body. “Yer tight pussy is about to
come all over me hand, woman. Shut up for two
seconds and let yerself enjoy it.”

Her body twitches and spasms, and I know

she’s there. It’s beautiful to watch, and I wish I was
able to see her face clearly. Right now, feeling her
tremble through the orgasm is enough, and I caress
her through the aftershocks until she’s a limp rag
doll in my lap. After the explosion passes, she
snuggles her round arse into my erect dick again,
and I about lose it.

But, dammit, Wintervale’s not that far away,

and as much as I’d love to throw her down and take
my pleasure, I won’t.

“You…you…you…”
We’re almost at the junction with the highway,

and it’ll be a few more kilometers from there. At
the animal’s walking footspeed—about five
minutes per kilometer—I’ll have to endure at least
ten more minutes of this verbal torture by my
mind’s calculations.

Bollocks.
That is just not fecking acceptable. I rein Mateo

to a stop, changing my mind in the space of a split
second. This beauty needs to be taught a lesson,
and I’m just the man to do it.

“What’s wrong. Why are we stopping?” she

carps, not knowing when to fecking quit.

I dismount, take hold of her arm, and haul her

off Mateo’s back. She lands clumsily, her feet
stumbling and pitching her forward to fall against
me. A whelp of surprise issues from her red lips.
Lips that need permanent sealing. And I know the
best way, given her opinion of me.

I want to open my fly and push her head down,

but even I’m not that base. Instead, I clamp her
face between both of my hands, the size of my
mitts reaching from her chin to her eyebrows. Her
eyes go round as two moons of green cheese.

The silence is wonderful, and I relish it. But I

can’t revel in it too long, or it will be quickly in my

past. I kiss her full on the mouth, my tongue
sweeping past the barrier of her lips and shrewish
tongue, smothering any possible kind of retort. The
slippery red gloss, tasting of strawberries, coats my
lips as they crush down on hers. After plundering
her mouth for several long moments, I find myself
pausing to lick it off, first from my own lips, then
from hers. Something about the woman makes me
want to taste every last inch of her. She gasps, and I
resume the kiss, twisting my tongue around hers
before she can resume her caterwauling.

Her hands pummel me about my arms and

shoulders, but her lips aren’t as objectionable as her
hands. Whatever parts of her scream no to me, her
mouth says yes, please. The flying barrage of her
fists slow, then stop. When I feel her body finally
acquiesce, I let her go. Her eyes flutter open and
puffs of vapor escape from her swollen lips as she
pants in and out.

“Why did you do that?” She raises the back of

her hand to her mouth as though to wipe away any
evidence of my touch. “Haven’t you assaulted my
body enough for one day?”

“’Cause I like yer better with yer pretty gob

doing somethin’ other than talkin’. Be glad all I did
was kiss it. Believe me, woman. I can think of other
things to do with it that yer wouldn’t like as much.”
My eyes fell to her heaving chest. “Or mayhap yer
would.”

Savannah looks stunned and utterly tongue-tied

—like a pigeon just shite on her head. Her cheeks
flush pink but not another word comes out of that
bonny mouth. Mission accomplished.

“Now, I’m ridin’ into town on this here beast.” I

pat Mateo’s hindquarters. “Yer can do what yer
like. But talkin’ means walkin’, so what’ll it be?”
She stands there with eyes blinking, then quickly
spins and attempts to re-mount, placing the wrong
foot in the stirrup. “Left foot first. Good job yer a
singer, not a dancer.”

She huffs in apparent exasperation and switches

feet, but holds her tongue. She manages to saddle
up without my intervention, and I climb into place
behind her once more, none the worse for wear
other than a serious case of blue balls. I briefly
wonder why I’m not just taking what I want like I
normally would. The implications piss me off so I
stop considering it. We plod ahead in blissful
silence for another minute or so before we reach
the clearing where the trail meets the highway.

Something’s missing. The road lays clear with a

fine layer of new snow covering the lumpy tracks
where a diesel motor coach stood only yesterday.

“Well, things be lookin’ up for yer, Miss Starr,”

I say, deliberately using her formal name in spite of
my newfound intimate knowledge of her body.
“Unless the wee folk ‘av made off with it by magic,
it appears yer bombardier has been towed to safety.

Halle-fecking-lujah.”

Chapter Eight

Savannah

I can’t believe a hairy, smelly giant of a man gave
me the most explosive orgasm of my life. Before he
even could be bothered to kiss me.

And I let him. I wanted him to. Ever since the

moment we met, it’s like some fairy waving a lust-
wand cast a spell over my traitorous body.

My ass feels like it’s about to fall off. I picture

my butt cheeks sliding away from my body in
slices, an avalanche of fleshy slabs plopping on the
frozen ground like a cartoon as soon as my feet hit
the ground. Numbness creeps in, isolating every
muscle. Not just from riding horseback for the last
who knows how long, but mentally cauterizing me
right along with it. Blank. De-sensitized to anything
and everything.

Nothing more can happen to me today that

would faze or surprise me. I’ve been cold, tired,
hungry, dirty, outraged, humiliated.

And so turned on my body has transformed into

a heat-seeking missile, soaring aloft on the wings of
an ecstasy I can’t even articulate. The worst part?
In spite of his surly attitude and gruff ways, I still
want him. Again and again.

And again.

No reaction to the promising news that my bus

is hopefully under repair at this very moment serves
as my reaction to his sarcastic words. The only
thought that prances about in my head and taunts
my dead emotions to life is the memory of Ronan’s
hand between my thighs, strumming my pussy
better than he played his own dulcimer.

How the hell did it happen? How did I let it

happen? I should have hit him harder. Stomped on
his foot or something to get him to let go. But I
didn’t. I just spread my legs as wide as my perch on
Mateo would allow, granting him even greater
access. I bloody well loved it. Probably because
I’ve been sexless for so long, leaning up against a
washing machine would get me off.

It’s not Ronan personally. It can’t be. One

minute I’m insulting him and the next…

Jesus, Savie, what’s wrong with you.
I wanted his wicked fingers. I craved it, and I

haven’t stopped thinking about it for even a solid
minute. Add shame to the dung-heap of emotions I
want to set on fire and burn into oblivion.

No one is privileged enough to just touch

Savannah Starr’s lady bits. No one!

That’s my problem. I’m so insulated, guarded,

treated hands-off like fucking royalty most of the
time, no one can get close to me, even if I wanted
them to. But I don’t want this one, not this hairy,
smelly beast with no manners and even less fashion

sense.

God, he can’t be more opposite to my idea of a

desirable man. But, to be honest, he doesn’t
actually smell bad. I lied about that, hoping an
insult would cause him to back off. His earthy, raw,
and wild scent strikes a weird chord deep in my
being, like when he played that dulcimer.

Maybe I wanted him to back off because the

unfamiliar feelings he invokes inside my body scare
the shit out of me. It’s like he’d conjured them up
by witchcraft.

And what I see just up ahead makes it easy to

believe in witchcraft. Clusters of odd-shaped,
shambling cottages and shops sit nestled alongside a
narrow, snowy street looking like the Christmas
Village figurines my mom arranges on the fireplace
mantel every year. Have I stepped through some
kind of time portal?

“Where are we?” They are the first words I’ve

uttered since that hair-raising experience from a
few miles ago.

His voice rumbles in my ear. “Welcome to

Wintervale.”

“How many people live here?”
“Mmm. ‘Round a hundred, give or take.” He

chuckles. “Yer plannin’ on takin’ a census?”

Did he say one-hundred? As in one plus double

zero? That doesn’t even constitute my wardrobe
and makeup team. How the hell are we going to get

any kind of help or repair service here—or even a
damn taxi? My spirits sink lower, if that’s even
possible.

I have to find Mel. It shouldn’t be hard. The

entire population of the town is probably within
earshot, all I’ll have to do is yell out his name.

“I have to find my driver. Where is the

garage?”

“Well, ‘tis not what yer rightly call a garage,

but old Declan Bleigh’s the mechanic. Fixes stuff
out the back garden of his cottage at the far end of
town, so he does. But I’m hazardin’ a guess yer
man’s at the pub ‘avin’ a spot of breakfast. Let’s try
there first.”

Ronan brings Mateo to a stop outside a quaint,

two-story corner building, a single neon light
promising “Guinness” flashing in the window. I
don’t drink beer but my mouth still waters at the
prospect of some adult refreshment after the
morning I’ve had. With its Tudor exterior and
striped awnings, the place has charm if nothing
else. We step inside, and I lower my chin and tug
my scarf closer around my face out of habit. My
eyes scope the interior, and sure enough, I see
Mel’s broad back seated at a booth in the far
corner. Praise be to God. I lope toward him trying
not to attract attention, but my stupid shoes make
that impossible.

Mel turns to the sound of my footsteps. “Well,

top o’ the mornin’ to yer, lassie,” he says in a mock
Irish accent. I can’t believe he’s in a good mood.
He should be pissed as hell at me, but at least he’s
alive and in one piece. He sets his fork and coffee
mug down and rises from the table, grabbing me by
the shoulders.

“It’s so good to see you!”
“You look like shit.” He leans forward to

whisper close to my ear. “What’s the big idea
taking off on me? I told you to stay on the bus. You
may be the great Savie Starr, but that doesn’t make
you invincible. Thank God you’re all right.”

“I’m fine. My boot is the only fatality.”
He looks me up and down just like a parent

would do, checking for injury. He can’t see the
ones on my heart that Ronan’s already managed to
etch there. “You are all right, aren’t you? Do you
need to go to a hospital?” He sniffs me, and his
nose wrinkles. “Or a spa? Not that there’s either
one around here. Why do you smell like a stable?”

“Never mind.” I sigh a huge exhale that takes a

sliver of my mortification at this situation with it.
“I’m fine, mostly. I should have stayed on the bus.
Sorry about that, but I’m okay. I just want to get
out of here. What happened? Is the bus getting
fixed? When will it be ready?”

Mel motions for me to sit across from him. I

slide onto the vinyl-padded bench and unwrap my
scarf now that we’re partially obscured from view

of all three other customers in the place. In a town
of only a hundred, this must practically be the
breakfast rush. I notice they’re all drinking beer,
despite the morning hour.

“Well, they managed to get a winch truck from

Drogheda, a bigger town a few miles up the road,
dispatched very early this morning. I had to spend
the night here. Cozy room upstairs.” He points a
finger above his head.

“Here? In the pub?”
Mel chuckles. “This place is the pub, the diner,

the bookie’s, and a B&B all rolled into one.”

My mind drifts to Ronan’s offhand comment

about his sister running the only inn in town. I
wonder if she’s over six feet tall and built like a
warrior. Too bad I’ll be out of here before my
curiosity is assuaged. “Never mind all that. When
can we get on the road again?” Mel sips his coffee
as though steeling himself for something
unpleasant. I lean forward until he catches my eye.
“Well?”

“I hate to break it to you, but we’re hooped for

Glasgow. The transmission and drive shaft have to
be replaced. The bus is toast. It’s going to be sent
back to Dublin to the charter company’s repair
depot. You’ll have to get all your wardrobe and
gear off it. There won’t be another coach available
for a few days. They’re booked up with holiday
tours.”

I stare at Mel, heart racing, palms sweating. Not

believing. “In a major city like Dublin? That’s
nonsense.”

Mel shrugs. “I was on the phone with them this

morning. There’s land lines here and some spotty
cell service. I tried your number, but you never
picked up.”

“No service where I was.” I can’t wipe the

scowl I know is wrinkling my entire face. I should
have checked my phone as soon as we got near
town for a signal. I’m a superstar and a millionaire.
What constitutes a no for normal people, doesn’t
fly with me. “What did you tell them? Didn’t you
tell them who it was for? Shit, there should have
been a damn cavalcade of buses here by now, for
Savannah Starr.”

Mel didn’t seem impressed. “Hey, I can’t

change the facts. I called the Preach, he’s working
on alternatives. He’ll call us back. There aren’t
many airborne alternatives that you’d set foot on
without tossing your cookies. There’s not enough
Valium in the world for Savie Starr to stomach a
prop plane or a helicopter.”

The thought of a small aircraft does turn my

stomach. No fucking way. I’ve never been on one,
and I’ll never get on one. Aliyah, Buddy Holly,
John Denver. My mind reels with all of the singers
that have died in small plane crashes. It’s almost
like tiny aircraft have it out for anyone who makes

their living in the music industry.

I slump on the bench and rub my eyes. This

can’t be happening. The last twenty-four hours has
been like a nightmare. Jerry “The Preacher”
Cassidy, my manager extraordinaire, is a miracle
worker. Hence his nickname. Surely, he’ll get us out
of this. “What about the Glasgow show? What’s he
doing about that, and what about Freddie and the
others?”

“I got hold of Freddie. They stayed on the M-

74 and got through on the ferry all right. They’ll
stay for a couple nights at the hotel in Glasgow then
meet us in Manchester on schedule.” Mel’s phone
buzzes from inside his pocket. At last, some
semblance of civilization. “That’s probably Preach
now.”

“Let me talk to him.” I reach out, and Mel

hands me his device. “Preach? It’s Savie. I don’t
care what it takes, just get us to Scotland, like,
yesterday. In spite of my Irish roots, I hate it here.
Did I mention I hate it here?”

“Savie, thank Christ Mel found you. Gave me a

fucking heart attack, girl. Now, calm down. I’ve got
good news and bad news. Which do you want
first?”

“Which do you think? And make it better than

good.”

“All right. I can try to fly you to your next gig

in Manchester, but I’m postponing Glasgow. We’ll

re-book it for the last stop after the rest of the
European dates.”

I hate flying at the best of times, but sacrifices

have to be made. I’ll just get so drunk I can barely
stand, and I’ll never remember any of it. “Why
can’t you just fly us there today?”

Jerry blows out a breath so hard it crackles in

the phone. “Savie, I’ve checked into every
alternative. Firstly, there’s no airstrip even close to
where you are and there’s another storm front in
the area that looks bad. You’d still have to get to a
bigger center to catch anything, even a twin prop,
which I know you’d refuse to board. Even if you
did, you’d be sicker than a dog when you landed.
Plus, you’ve got all your gear, which means a
bigger plane. Unless…”

I wait for all of five seconds. “Unless what?”
“Unless you’re willing to leave your stuff

behind, even Helen. Just take what you need, and I
can get you out by helicopter right now.”

I shudder, and feel what’s left of my still

circulating blood drop into my toes. Oh hell, no.
I’m not leaving without Helen and not on some
crash prone whirly bird. There has to be a Hummer
or something similar that can get me the hell out of
here. Fuck, if I have to, I’ll call Gary Busey and see
if he can commandeer a military tank.

“Helicopter?” I repeat, my voice barely above a

squeak. Mel’s eyes widen as he eavesdrops on the

conversation. He knows me too well. It’s a no-go.

“Are you okay, Savie?”
“Oh, Jerry.” I collapse back in my seat, pushing

my hand through my hair, feeling my voice crack
under the strain. “Tell me there’s another way. I
can’t do that, you know I can’t.”

“I didn’t think so. Just wanted you to realize

the difficulty of your situation. There’s no other
airborne alternative from your current location. You
shouldn’t have gotten off the motorway, but no
point harassing Mel over it now. It’s history, and
you’re stuck until I can get another bus out to you.”

“This place is shit, Jerry. I can’t stay here. Can

you at least get me to a bigger center? I can wait for
the bus to pick us up there.” I clutch onto the
phone, trying to keep my voice low so I’m not
overheard by anyone outside of Mel. Even though I
don’t care for these people’s way of life, I don’t
want to deliberately insult them. To my horror, I
start to cry.

“That I can do. I can arrange for a limo, maybe

a Land Rover or something big and sturdy to pick
you guys up and get you to a proper hotel. It’s
gonna be okay, honey. I’ll get you and Helen safely
away. Please don’t cry.”

I inhale a deep breath, trying to pull my shit

together. “Okay, Jerry. I trust you.” I can tell by the
tone of his voice that he’s worried about my mental
state. I can’t remember the last time I cried and it

sure as shit wasn’t in front of Preach.

“Hey, it’s worked out pretty well for us so far,

kiddo. Chin up. Lemme talk to Mel.”

I hand the phone back to Mel. Jerry’s got a

point. I wouldn’t be where I am today without my
brilliant manager. He’s never let me down, and he’s
made both of us millionaires many times over. This
fiasco is just a minor blip on the grand stellar
scheme of my career. I should have faith, and be
more gracious.

Huh.
That’s twice today I’ve questioned the

workings of my moral compass. What have I turned
into on the road to fame and stardom? Surely, not
some entitled bitch they make fun of on daytime
TV? Perhaps it’s time to re-think a few things.

Starting now.
Mel disconnects the call and pockets his phone.

“Should be a car coming to get us by this evening.
Where’d you stay last night? You said you made it
into town with some Good Samaritan? But this
place has the only accommodations, and I was
lucky to snag a room.”

Ugh. I don’t want to think about last night,

much less talk about it. “Someone happened by. I
know you told me to stay put, but…the engine quit,
and I was afraid to be alone in the dark and the
cold. Animals were making noises, so I stayed at a
nearby cottage.”

Mel leans back, a slight frown on his face. “As

long as you’re all right. But didn’t your mother ever
tell you never to go off with strangers? Jesus, Savie.
No security personnel, no background checks?
Anything could have happened. You’re lucky it’s
not already plastered all over TMZ’s website.”

Yeah. It sure could of, and it isn’t going to

happen again. Mel’s mentioning of my mom
reminds me what I’ve left behind.

“Helen!” I’m glad to hear that my voice is

calmer now. “I have to get Helen and my
performance wardrobe from the bus.” I shuffle my
feet under the table, wincing at the blisters that
have formed with clomping all over hell’s half acre
in heels—heel—that were never meant to see the
outdoors. “And another pair of damn shoes!”

Chapter Nine

Ronan

“Mornin’ to yer, Sal. What’s the craic?” I nod to
Sally Reardon as she shuffles about behind the bar.
The lady’s nearing seventy but can always be found
lending a hand to someone. She’s the kind of lady I
respect and admire above all else. A lady like my
ma. Occasionally, her good deeds occur at any local
business in need. Today, it’s behind the taps of
O’Farrell’s pub. She nods her graying head, still
thick with wavy curls. Like me, she’s never cut it
since she was a wee lassie.

“Aye, and mornin’ to yer, Ronan.” She slaps a

hand on the wood. “What brings yer here so early?
I expect the roads were a right fright after that
storm. Why, Mateo must ‘av clear sunk to his
knobby knees.”

“Oh, just a few errands. Nothin’ like a

snowstorm to remind yer to stock up on things.”

“Aye. Yer fancy some breakfast, then?”
“So I do, Sal. And a pint. One for yerself too, if

yer in the mood to share some conversation with a
youngster such as meself.”

Sal cackles and flaps a wizened hand at me as

she moves to the taps. “Go on, yer lippy laddie. A
tad early for me. Yer wouldn’t be tryin’ to get a gal

tipsy and take advantage, now would yer?” She
gives me a saucy wink.

“Aw, Sal, hardly need to get yer tipsy now,

would I? Yer know yer the only lassie for me.” I
play along, enjoying the way her eyes dance like a
schoolgirl’s.

She laughs again. “Caris will be pleased to see

yer. I’ll pull yer that pint right quick ‘afore I go
back to the kitchen, so I will.”

I nod and slide the weekly paper over from the

corner of the bar to look it over. From the corner of
my eye I watch Savannah talking with someone in
the far corner booth. Not that it’s that far away. The
pub has only three of them. The rest of the room
contains just a few freestanding tables with chairs
and stools at the bar. Must be this Mel fellow she’s
been speaking about since I found her.

She’d quickly ducked inside as I held the door

for her upon our entrance. It wasn’t obvious we
were together, but the few of my folk who’d
noticed intermittently hoked a knowing eye toward
me. Nothing escaped notice—or gossip—in
Wintervale. The bane of being the Bard of a small
town.

Before I can tear my eyes away from

Savannah, a major pain in my arse appears in the
doorway. He’s a friend, so he is. Most days, I
wonder why.

“What’s the craic, me boy,” Cosgrove Magee

stomps into the pub, and slaps me on the back so
hard I almost spit my Guinness on the mahogany
bar top. “Yer usually not about this early in the
morn. Yer must be here due to the townie I been
hearin’ about. Heard she’s a right feckin’ rosspot, so
I did. Puts me in mind to doin’ a line.”

His beady eyes scan the perimeter and when

they land on Savannah, they light up like an oil
lantern.

I shake my head at him. “Yer long-sufferin’

wife would serve yer arse on a platter, so she
would, thicko.”

I watch Cos scan Savannah’s body up and

down. Something deep inside me roars to life from
a long-neglected spot that I haven’t shone a light on
in years. My fingers itch to grab my lippy friend by
the back of his scraggly neck and shake him until
his teeth rattle.

“Best yer get yerself gone afore Caris catches

yer in here.” My sister doesn’t give Cos the time of
day, and right now, neither do I.

At the sound of the swinging doors to the

kitchen popping open, Cos flees the scene. Caris
would blister his ears and he knows it.

“Ach, yer look some touch, yer hulkin’ oaf,” a

familiar lilting voice says. “Give us a kiss, now.”
Caris leans over the bar and tugs on my beard to
draw me close enough to plant one on me. “Yer
made it back to the cottage all right? I know yer set

out for gatherin’ yesterday.”

“Fine, yeah. Snug as a bug, sis. I found yer

Skimmia by and by. Woulda brought it but left in a
bit of a hurry this mornin’, so I did. I’ll dry it for
yer and bring it over next time.”

“Brilliant,” Caris says. “Alban Arthan is less

than a week away. I hope we don’t get another
storm the likes of this afore then.” She touches me
on the arm. “Some excitement here last night, don’t
yer know.”

“Oh? Do tell.”
Then I’ll tell yer mine.
“A fellow, an American so he was, came

strollin’ in out of the snow last night, lookin’ for a…
um, tow truck, he called it. For a motor coach stuck
on the highway, not far from yer place. Did yer
hear anythin’?”

“Another pint, please if yer not too busy.” It

isn’t a lie, more of an avoidance tactic. I hadn’t
really heard the motor coach until I’d stumbled
across it.

“A’course, love.” She takes my mug from the

bar top and turns to the taps. “I rung Declan
straight away, and he made arrangements from the
garage in Drogheda. The beastie’s here now, dead
as a doornail in front of his place, it is. There’s
nothin’ for it, he says, and the coach company’s
goin’ to be around to collect it. Lucky for Mel I ‘av
a vacant room upstairs.”

“Yer spy any badgers causin’ trouble of late? In

yer rubbish bins, or somethin’?” I ask, steering the
topic askew for a moment.

“Badgers?” Her excitement is immediately

dashed. “No. Why do yer ask? I hate those foul
creatures. Scary as feck, so they are.”

“Well, somethin’ was pokin’ ‘round my cottage

early this mornin’. Snarlin’ and scratchin’. Upset
Mateo. Didn’t get a good look at it, but it has dark
fur and big curved claws. Like a bear, apparently. I
saw the tracks leadin’ into the woods.”

“Sounds a lot like a badger,” Caris agrees,

setting another foaming pint on the bar in front of
me. “But they’re not about this time of year.
They’re in winter sleep.”

“Well, this one must ‘av woken up.” I hoist the

mug and take a grateful sip of the bitter but tasty
house ale. After everything that’s already
transpired this morn, day drinking seems the most
sensible way to calm my overwrought nerves and
numb my throbbing cock. After Savannah’s
screaming orgasm, my wee head hasn’t stopped to
consider much else.

“Perhaps so. Mayhap he’s lonely like yer,

lunkhead, and yer startled him out of hibernation
with yer horny moans in the night as yer be
pleasurin’ yerself.” She gives me a saucy smile and
a wink.

That’s my Caris, never missing an opportunity

to get a rise out of me, metaphorically speaking. If
she only knew what I’d been about today. I shoot
her my best side-eye, warning her away from the
subject with the strength of my gaze. “Oh, yer a
bag of laughs.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be long now, brother, for yer

to find that wife of yers. The Cailleach Baere said
she’d be along durin’ Yuletide, remember?”

I force myself not to look in Savannah’s

direction. “Ach, and the old crony said Wintervale
would prosper too. Seems she’s a might touched, so
she is.” I take another sullen sip from my glass. I
still feel I should be doing something about it. But
what?

“Ach, she’s never wrong with her prophecies.”

Caris shot me another wink. “There’s still time.”

“Nay, not usually. But things can’t be too

prosperous if she’s helpin’ yer pull pints and cook
hotpot in yer kitchen, now can they?”

“Sally just likes to be of use, aside from her

official duties. ‘Tis good for her. And I can always
use an extra pair of hands.”

“I suppose. This American fellow, Mel. That

him over there?” I nod toward the corner booth.

Caris glances over in that direction, her auburn

hair bobbing about her shoulders. “Aye. Who’s that
with him? He was alone just this mornin’.”

“’Twas my houseguest last night.” I swill more

of my ale. “The most vexin’ creature on Earth, I do

swear.”

Her eyebrow shot up. “Houseguest?”
“I was out gatherin’, like yer say. Went as far as

the ditch on the highway, and there ‘twas,
banjaxed. Didn’t see what ‘twas ‘til I was almost on
top of it. Engine idlin’, stinkin’ up the forest. The
most arse ugly hunk of metal beast I ever saw.”

“The motor coach? Yer saw it?”
“Aye. Went up to see if someone was about so I

could tell ‘em to get their feckin’ toxic fumes out of
me forest. Just then the motor died, and she,” I jut a
thumb in her direction, “was inside, frettin’ her
knickers off. Said her driver had gone off on foot to
get help. I sat with her for a bit, but ‘twas getting’
dark.” I shrug like it’s the most natural thing in the
world. “I offered to get her to town but couldn’t
manage ‘til this mornin’ with the snow.”

“Yer took her to yer cottage? Overnight?” Caris

eyes grow like an owl’s in her face. “Yer shag her?
Please tell me yer aren’t up to yer old tricks?”

I scoff. Of course, I’m not going to admit to

making Savannah scream out her pleasure into the
cold, frosty air. No cock in pussy, sister dear. No
midnight confessions to one’s overbearing family.

“Comfortin’ to know yer ‘av such a low opinion

of me, sis. No, I did not. Not that I could get within
a cat swing of her. She’s a right pill, that one. Not
enough ale in the land to swallow her.” I ignore my
pulsing cock and brandish my near-empty glass. “In

fact, I might need another.”

Caris takes another long gander across the

room, then straightens as though I’ve poked her
with a stick. She looks down at the newspaper I’ve
laid on the bar and twists it toward her.

She gasps, her fingers pressing against her lips.

“Feckin’ ‘ell. Yer great lunkhead. Don’t yer know
who that is?” Her voice comes out in a hiss as she
points at the paper’s headline and photo. “That’s
Savannah Starr. She did a concert in Waterford day
afore last. See here. Sold out within minutes, it
did.”

I glance at the paper. Starr Quality, reads the

headline, and beneath it is a photo of a woman at
the microphone with her bonny mouth wide open.
Yeah, that part’s certainly a coincidental similarity.
Those pleasantly rounded tits also look familiar,
clad in a revealing, halter type shirt molded to them
like a second skin. So does the dark hair and green
eyes. No getting around the name, however. It’s her
all right, gracing the daily edition in living color.

“Could be. Said she was a singer-songwriter, so

she did. Yer heard of her?”

“Heard of…?” Caris sputters, her azure blue

eyes flashing fire. “She’s as famous as Taylor Swift,
yer eejit. And she stayed at yer cottage? Jaysus,
lunkhead, yer had a brush with fame and yer didn’t
even know it!”

“Careful, sis, yer don’t hit the floor with yer

jaw,” I say, bemused at the gaping round ‘O’ her
lips have formed. Slowly, they transform into a
gleeful smile. That gleam that I’ve come to know
means ‘head for the hills’ light up in her piercing
orbs. It’s never bad, exactly, just always
foreshadows some deep, inextricable involvement
on my part. It makes me nervous more than
anything else.

“Blessed be,” she says, her hair flopping

forward as she bows her head, then turns the full
force of her machinating gaze on me. “She’s the
one, Rone. The one yer saw at Samhuin. The one
the Cailleach saw in yer stone. Feckin’ ‘ell.
Savannah Starr is yer soul mate! ‘Tis come to pass.
I knew it would, I did.”

“Shite the bed, yer off yer nut, yer nilly. I’d nay

touch that one with a barge pole. Clean mad, she is.
And so are yer, if yer fancy me and her in the same
sentence.” A part of my brain recognizes that I’m
protesting too much, but I can’t seem to stop.
“Egads, I thought yer loved me like a brother. Yer
only brother.”

Caris looks insulted. “Why not? Yer both

musicians. Yer both smashin’-lookin’, though who
would know that about yer with all that fur, yer
muck savage. Why, I’m surprised Cos hasn’t
already sauntered in here just to call yer a
muckshite. Are yer sayin’ yer doubt the Cailleach
Beare’s word?”

He has sauntered in here. Taking shite about

Savannah.

“No,” I say, measuring my response. “But I’m

certain she meant some fair, agreeable lass from the
next county, who already knows our ways and her
place in both the rituals and in the house. How to
plough and sow, know thistle from yarrow, and to
bend over whenever the wind blows my flute to
attention.”

My sister jams her hands on her hips. “Ronan

O’Farrell, I’m surprised at yer. Is that the kind of
role yer wish on me if I were married?”

“Ah, but yer not married, are yer? Except to

this fine establishment.” I say gesturing with my
pint mug. “Which is a fortuitous circumstance,
being my sister and all. Keeps me in cups, so it
does.”

“Ach, think what yer like, yer lunkhead.” In

annoyance, she waves a dismissive hand. “But it
can’t be coincidence that Savannah Starr broke
down here. What are the odds someone so famous
would come to be in Wintervale durin’ the Yule
interval? And that yer be the one findin’ her? ‘Tis
fate, Ronan. ‘Tis what’s meant to be and don’t yer
even bother denyin’ it.”

I hold up a hand as if the gesture can stop her

words from hitting my ears. “If ‘tis fate yer be
wantin’, then don’t be temptin’ it. Let it be. I know
yer when yer get fixated on an idea, yer like a dog

on a bone. Yer give me head nay peace.”

“I’d not be dissin’ the Samhuin prophecy if I

were yer,” Caris practically hisses at me, her eyes
narrowed in a combination of disbelief and disgust.
“Think of yer community, Rone. They’re countin’
on yer, our Bard, to lead and protect Wintervale. To
keep our circle, our very way of life goin’.”

“I—”
She isn’t to be interrupted. “Yer need to

believe, ‘av faith in the prophecies, or else nay one
will. Because that would mean the end of us, the
end of the old, true ways we’ve guarded for
centuries. Is that what yer want? To ‘av the seeds
of the soulless, greedy, and materialistic world take
root here? Crack Wintervale apart as it grows its
fruitless, barren tree?”

I’m tempted to argue, to point out all the ways

the materialistic world has already infiltrated our
wee area of the world. My own sister being one of
the most material in the bunch.

But I want this conversation over. “By Jaysus,

sis,” I tease. “Perhaps yer should take over. Yer
make a terrific Bard, waxin’ philosophic like that.”
Humor is my only way of winning any argument
with my hard-headed sister.

She yanks my empty mug away. “Yer know that

can’t be. ‘Til I am Cailleach, a man has to lead the
flock and teach his children how to do the same. So
be a man. Heed the prophecy, and mayhap yer ‘av

a chance at startin’ a family of yer own. Yer not
gettin’ any younger, brother.” She snorts. “Besides,
there’s nothin’ wrong with blendin’ two worlds, so
it be.”

I thump my fist on the bar, irritation like insects

on my skin. “I’m growin’ older by the minute
listenin’ to this muck. Pull me another afore yer talk
me into me grave while dyin’ of thirst.”

Chapter Ten

Savannah

“I’ll go over and tell Mr. Bleigh what we need off
the bus and figure out a way to get it over here,”
Mel says, polishing off his coffee and breakfast.
“You go up to my room and relax. Here’s my key.”

He produces a real metal key from his pocket

and sets it on the table between us.

“I don’t want to kick you out of your room,

Mel, and we’ll need extra rooms to hold all our
stuff anyway. I’ll get one of my own.”

“Good luck with that. I think I may have gotten

the last one. There’s only four to begin with.”

“That’s crazy. This isn’t exactly a tourist

destination. You were probably told that just so
they could jack up the rate.”

“Well, there’s the owner right there.” He points

to the bar and rises to his feet. “Try your luck.”

I lean over to see past him. A tall woman with

gorgeous auburn hair stands behind the bar chatting
with…guess who. She and Ronan look to be in a
heated discussion judging by the way she’s flapping
her hands about. His girlfriend? The idea makes me
stiffen, thinking about the way he fingered me to an
explosion on the ride over here. And I’m still not
sure if my sudden bout of nervous energy is

because he had the gall to put his hands down my
pants or because of the idea that he’s got another
woman on the string. I dread walking over there to
talk to either one of them and have the revelation
thrown in my face.

I follow Mel across the room as he exits,

stopping at the bar to speak to the owner.

“Hello. I understand you have rooms to rent

here?” I lift my chin in what I hope is a gesture of
confidence.

The woman turns to me with a broad smile and

extends her hand. “Aye, Caris O’Farrell. Welcome
to Wintervale, Miss Starr. Forgive me, but ‘tis
impossible not to know who yer are. For some of
us, that is.” She casts a disdainful glance at Ronan.
“Such a pleasure to meet yer, miss. I’m a huge fan
of yer music. So soulful and from the heart, ‘tis.”

I grasp her offered hand, my practiced public

smile wavering the tiniest bit. O’Farrell. I vaguely
remember Ronan talking about a sister with a
business in town. What I didn’t expect was a sister
who looks modern, with shoulder length hair, a bit
of makeup, and…holy shit, a radio and television
sitting around.

“Likewise,” I reply on reflex, eyeing Ronan’s

reaction to our exchange. He swills his beer with
indifference. I want to reach over and mess up his
already wild hair or yank his mountain man beard
just to see if I can evoke any normal emotion from

him.

“I do hope yer forgive me brother. He’s a

brilliant musician, but a bit of a curmudgeon when
it comes to current events. Doesn’t get out much,
yer know.”

It’s obvious Caris adores her surly brother. I

suppress a shiver in spite of the heat warming my
face. He really does have exceptional raw musical
talent.

“I can see that. I had the pleasure of hearing

him play a bit. But I still owe him for his
hospitality.”

I dig for my wallet inside my purse. Money

always talks. I pull out ten hundred-dollar bills and
place them on the bar in front of Ronan. I don’t
have any UK currency on me but hope these big fat
Benjamins speak a universal language and relay
two major points. First, that I refuse to be beholden
to anyone, least of all him, and secondly, there’s
plenty more where these came from.

“It was kind of him to offer me shelter from

that horrible storm, but I trust you have some more
appropriate accommodations here? I don’t want to
put him out any further than I already have. I’d like
to rent an additional room, please. I’d be happy to
pay more than your usual rate.”

Caris glances between me, the stack of bills,

and Ronan, a pleasant smile still illuminating her
lightly freckled face.

When her brother says nothing, she forces an

even brighter smile and waves her hand. “Oh, my
word, do put yer money away, Miss Starr.
Obviously, ‘twas Ronan’s pleasure to ‘av yer as a
guest, wasn’t it, Rone?”

She turns her bright smile on her brother, who

only grunts in return.

Apparently not one to be discouraged, she goes

on, “Not every day a famous singer-songwriter
lands in our midst, yer know.” She clucks her
tongue and shakes her head, but her expression
remains almost gleeful. “And it would be an honor
to ‘av yer as me guest, it would. Such an
unfortunate bit of luck that I’ve rented the last
available room to yer colleague, Mr. Tobin.”

My spirits sag even further, if that’s possible.

The last twenty-four hours has presented one
disaster after another, and I’m rapidly moving from
exasperated to downright pissed. People don’t
argue with Savie Starr! They don’t say no, or refuse
my money, nor do they scowl at me during the
process.

“Yes,” I take a deep breath and muster the most

patient tone I can. “But you see, all my personal
effects and instruments are on the bus. We’ll need
some place to store everything until our new
transportation arrives.”

“Oh, well then. I do ‘av a storage room in the

cellar that might suit,” Caris says, touching a finger

to her chin in thought. “A bit cob-webby, but I can
clear that out in two ticks, don’t yer worry.”

The thought of my couture costumes heaped in

a dirty, dusty cellar causes my vision to dim for a
second.

“Oh…no, I… that’s…not necessary,” I jabber,

my mind racing for alternatives. “Perhaps one of
your other guests would be so kind as to vacate…
for a price?” I move the bills on the bar closer to
Caris.

Ronan finishes his pint and sets the mug down

with an annoying smack. “Aw, now stop there.
Money can’t buy everythin’, yer know. My sister
runs an honest business, and I’ll thank yer not to be
bribin’ the good people of Wintervale. Folks like us
‘av somethin’ called integrity.”

My nostrils flare at his condescending tone. “I

—”

He bulldozes right over me. “A couple of family

members who live farther afield ‘av come in for the
Yule festival and are stayin’ here. Would yer ‘av
her throw ‘em out on their arses into a snowbank?”

Bribery? How dare he? My breath is heavy in

my lungs, and my fingers itch to grab his scraggly
beard and yank it off his smug face.

“And you’re saying I don’t have integrity, Mr.

O’Farrell? I’m simply offering payment for a
service. Whether you accept it or not is up to you.”
I cast him a poisonous glare before switching my

focus back to Caris. “Do you think you can help
me out? I’ll only need the room for a few hours.”

Caris seems a little paler than she had been a

few minutes ago, her brow wrinkling as though
working through a math problem. Maybe the fact
that I’m exchanging passive aggressive words with
her brother makes her uncomfortable.

“Really? Yer be expectin’ to be leavin’ us so

soon?”

“Well, yes. My agent has arranged for a car and

driver to pick us up by this evening.”

Caris frowns, but I can practically see the light

bulb switching on above her head as her expression
brightens.

“I can’t promise any of my guests will be willin’

to move out, but I’ve an idea. Since yer already
know each other, why don’t yer be stayin’ with
Ronan here for a few extra days…uh, I mean, ‘til
yer transportation arrives, of course. Plenty of
room at his cottage as yer know, him just by his
onesie.”

Ronan gazes at me over the rim of his mug as

he empties it down his throat, his electric blue eyes
sparking, taunting me. Daring me. Not a chance in
hell, buster. I force a canny smile. The only thing
that would come of me staying another day with
him is…coming. As wonderful as it is, there can’t
be a sequel.

“Like I say, I wouldn’t want to put your brother

out any more than I already have. And how would
we get there with all my things? I’ll be gone by this
evening. You won’t mind if I just wait here?
Perhaps someone will check out early.”

“I doubt it seein’ as they’re all distant family.”

Caris gives a slight nod of her head, her smile
returning. “And a’course, yer may stay here in the
pub as long as yer like, love. Let me get yer a pint
and somethin’ to fill yer belly, on the house. We
make everythin’ right here on the premises from
scratch, even our Guinness.” She reaches for
another clean mug and puts it to the taps.

“Oh no, I couldn’t drink this early in the day.

Not much of a beer drinker anyway.”

“Scaldy, then?”
“Yes, tea is fine. Thank you. Is there

somewhere I can charge my phone? I’m behind on
my Instagram posts.”

“Just under here, love,” Caris says, gesturing

behind the bar. “I’ll plug it in for yer if yer like.”

Let me guess. Only one electrical outlet in the

whole place. I’m stuck in a time warp. I dig for the
charger in my purse and hand it to Caris along with
the phone.

Ronan grunts and shifts his seating position as

Caris turns away. “What the feck is this Instagram,
woman? Besides, yer should ‘av somethin’ to eat
afore yer waste away. Finest meals in town does
our Caris serve up.”

“Right-o, I’ve some fresh barmbrack in the

kitchen, made special for Yule,” Caris pipes up as
she serves my tea in a vintage china cup and
saucer. The country roses and gilded rim reminded
me of my Nana Aislan’s tea set. It’s a thing of
beauty, and I tamp down a sudden rush of
homesickness. What I wouldn’t give to be in my
own house right now. “I’ll fetch yer a slice.”

She spins away into the back before I can

accept or reject the offering. “Barmbrack?” I ask,
chewing my bottom lip. I rarely eat local food while
on tour. I can’t risk getting sick and missing a
performance, but I’ve already eaten Ronan’s stew
without incident. “What’s that?”

He gives me a stupid woman look. “’Tis a cake.

We call just about any cake barmbrack, but the
Yule one is special. The Yule is special.”

I’ve almost forgotten it’s nearly Christmas. I

glance around the quaint establishment as I sip my
tea. A number of evergreen swags hang above the
windows and along shelves, but there’s something
missing. I give a humorous snort.

“It’s not every day I hear someone refer to

Christmas as ‘Yule.’ It’s a rather nostalgic term.
Kinda medieval, actually.” I chance a look at
Ronan, trying to sound aloof and casual. As though
the X-rated interlude on the road never happened.
“Where’s the Christmas tree?”

Ronan pushes his beer mug aside and leans

forward with both arms on the bar. He looks
askance for a moment, then turns the full force of
his clear azure gaze on me once again. I feel
strangely hypnotized, a flash of unsettling
recognition rippling through me, like echoes from a
dream. I awoke from such a dream this morning,
although it already feels light years in my past. I
feel like it meant something, but the sensation slips
away just as suddenly as it comes.

“Here we are,” Caris’ cheerful voice interrupts

as she returns from the kitchen with two plates in
hand, setting one in front of each of us. “Holiday
barmbrack, still warm from the oven.”

Sweet-smelling steam rises from the golden-

topped cake studded through with dried fruit and
nuts baked right in. I smile in delight. Of course. It’s
a Christmas cake. Not quite as heavy as the dark-
fleshed kind I recall from home, and without any
marzipan frosting. It doesn’t need it. It looks
perfect all by itself. I’m not a fan of frosting
anyway. Too much sticky sweetness when the moist
cake can stand on its own.

“Oh, my, that looks scrumptious. Did you bake

this yourself?”

“A’course, love. Everythin’ here is homemade.

Wouldn’t ‘av it any other way, would we, Rone?”
She tosses her brother a wink as she dusts her
hands on a kitchen towel. “But if yer both be
pardonin’ me, I just ‘av to nip across the road.

Won’t be two ticks.”

“Where are yer off to?” Ronan asks, sounding

indignant at the prospect of being left alone with
me. Hmm…he didn’t mind being alone with me an
hour ago.

“Just errands. Nothin’ to worry yer lunkhead

about. Yer just sit here and keep our illustrious
guest company, then won’t yer?” Caris doesn’t wait
for an answer before swinging a heavy woolen
pashmina about her shoulders and exiting out the
front door.

“I expect yer had enough of my company,”

Ronan mutters as he turns his attention to his piece
of cake.

I look at the stack of bills still sitting on the bar.

I’d put it in his sister’s till myself if I could find it.

“I’m sure the feeling’s mutual,” I say with a

sigh. “But we can call it even if you’d take this
money.” I slide the bills toward him. “Seems like
you and your sister could use it.”

His eyes turn to ice. “What’s that supposed to

mean?” He spears a fork into his cake. He’s
probably imagining it’s my head. I don’t understand
why I seem to piss him off so much. “For yer
information, the whole world doesn’t dance to yer
tune, Miss Savie Starr. We do just fine without yer
famous patronage.”

“Fine. Don’t take it. Excuse me for caring.”
Ignoring his use of the nickname I reserve only

for those I love, I pick up my plate and teacup
before heading back to the corner booth to wait for
Mel. There’s no point in arguing a futile point with
an exasperating man. In a few hours, I’ll never
have to set eyes on Ronan O’Farrell or this
godforsaken little hamlet ever again. He’ll just be
up there on my list of pleasant mistakes that have
turned sour like milk in the back of the fridge. I
watch from the corner of my eye as he rises from
his barstool a few moments later and strides to the
door.

Before he can grasp the handle, Caris bursts in

from the street, and to my relief, Mel follows in her
wake.

“And just where do yer think yer off to?” she

asks, stabbing an index finger into Ronan’s chest as
Mel bypasses her and walks toward my booth.

“To see to Mateo,” he grumbles and brushes

past her to make his exit.

Good riddance, magic fingers. I’ll never

become hypnotized by your tricks ever again.

“Ach,” Caris says, followed by a string of

muttered expletives that aren’t in any vocabulary
I’m familiar with. She throws up her hands in
defeat. Despite their semi-hostile banter, the
brother and sister seem awfully close. She sure
wants him to stay inside the pub for some reason.

“Hey, that looks delicious,” Mel says as he

slides into the seat across from me. “Good news.

Bleigh’s going to drive our stuff over here in his
truck. Don’t worry. Everything’s wrapped up like a
Christmas present.”

I eat my cake, slamming the fork into the rich

treat as if I’m stabbing a certain man in his black
heart, not at all cheered by Mel’s announcement.

“Christmas,” I say between bites. “You notice

there’s no Christmas trees anywhere? Not in here,
in the other shop windows, or the town square,
such as it is. I thought Ireland was a Catholic
country, at least most parts of it. Can’t I have just
one fucking Christmas tree since I have to celebrate
away from hearth and home?”

Mel shrugs. “So, they don’t have the resources

for glitz and glitter and strings of moving LED light
shows. This isn’t L.A., Savie. They like things
simple here. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Ouch!” I cry as my tooth bites down on

something hard. What the hell? I drop my fork to
pick out the offending object from my mouth just as
Caris appears with another serving of cake for Mel.

“Oh dear, are yer all right, Miss Starr?”
I don’t answer as I fish it from my mouth and

twirl it around my pointer finger. A shiny gold ring,
like a wedding band, has somehow made its way
into the cake.

“What in blazes…?” Mel starts, his jaw

dropping open.

“Oh, my.” Caris laughs. “I should ‘av warned

yer. ‘Tis a bit of a tradition, to bake wee trinkets
into the Yule barmbrack. What yer get in yer piece
tells of yer fortune, so it does. ‘Tis just for fun, for
the kiddies mostly, but look at yer, Miss Starr.” Are
there dots of glee sparkling through her piercing
blue eyes? “Yer got the ring. That means there’s a
weddin’ in yer future!”

I choke down the remains of the cake in my

mouth as Mel lets out a guffaw. “That’ll be the day
Savie Starr slows down long enough to get hitched.
Who’s the lucky man, Savie?”

“If I need my fortune read, I’ll go find a gypsy.

They’re supposed to be hanging around here
somewhere,” I say, losing my appetite. I hand my
half-finished plate to Caris. “Thank you, but I’ve
had all I care for.”

“All right, let me know if the pair of yer need

anythin’ else,” she says, still smiling as she walks
away from our table.

Mel pokes at his cake with his fork. “Hmm,

wonder what’s in my future? I hope it’s a big, fat
raise from my surly employer.”

“Hopefully there’s a matchbox car in there,

portending our imminent escape from this place,” I
say, leaning back in my seat. I feel tired to the
bone. Waiting is going to be torture. I grab the key
Mel gave me earlier. “I think I’ll take your advice
and have a rest, if you don’t mind?”

With his mouth full of cake, he just smiles and

points. “Top of the stairs, first door on the left.” I
turn in the direction he indicates when he calls me
back. “Wait, don’t forget your wedding ring, bride-
to-be.” The beloved asshole holds out the little
gold-colored plastic band.

I flip him the middle finger salute. “Just call me

the second that damn escape route gets here,” I
reply, not even recognizing myself and my new
rude and entitled attitude. Sick of myself and
everything else, I proceed to trudge up a set of
narrow and worn wooden stairs that look ready to
give way at any second.

Definitely not up to US building code standards,

but I’m beyond caring. All I want is to close my
eyes and shut off my racing mind for a few hours.
Maybe I can forget about this place, this shitty
situation, and the nagging memory of a man’s huge
and talented hands that keep swirling through my
mind.

Later, I wake up to the cozy trappings of Mel’s

little room. It has only one twin bed, so bunking
with Mel wouldn’t be an option even if I walked
into town with him last night unless he slept on the
floor. With a start, I wonder about the time. There’s
darkness outside the only window. Why hasn’t Mel
come to wake me? I sit up and put on my
hopelessly fucked-up shoes, remembering I left my
phone on charge down at the bar.

I walk downstairs to see Mel sitting at one of

the central tables with an older gentleman, both of
them watching some kind of sports game on a tiny
TV screen mounted high in a corner of the room.

“Mel! What are you doing?”
He turns to the sound of my voice, one hand

resting on his stomach. He looks pale. “Just resting
a bit.”

“I’m calling Preach.” I spin on my one good

heel toward the bar, only to see Caris and Ronan
engaged in a secretive looking conversation at the
far end of it. “Excuse me,” I say, moving closer.
“My phone?”

Caris looks up and springs to attention. “Ah,

there yer are, Miss Starr. Trust yer had a nice rest?
Yer mobile’s right here, love.” She hands the device
and its cable to me.

“Thank you.”
A barrage of emails, posts, and tweets fill the

screen, and the clock has switched to the new time
zone of six p.m. Damn! I slept all afternoon. I
punch my manager’s number, hoping the two
network bars will be enough to get through. After a
long pause, a ring tone finally sounds, and then
Preach’s voice.

“Savie. Everything all right?”
“We’re fine, Preach. How long until our ride’s

here?”

Another pause. “Aren’t you on your way? The

service says it was dispatched hours ago. Should

have been there by now to fetch you and Mel.”

It takes all my willpower to stop from

screaming. “Would I be calling you if I were on the
road to my own salvation?”

Jerry swears up a blue streak, blistering my

ears. “Sorry, kiddo. I’ll check on it and send
another if I have to. Sit tight, okay? It’ll probably
roll up any minute. Probably just delayed since it’s
snowing again.”

“Okay,” I say on a lingering sigh, hoping he’ll

get the message without me losing my shit. “I’ll call
you when it does.”

I hang up and join Mel at his table. His gray-

haired companion smiles and nods in greeting.
“Preach says he sent a car hours ago. What gives?”

Mel winces, and a spiral of worry passes

through me. “I don’t know, but worrying won’t
help. Why don’t you have a drink with Mr. Bleigh
here?”

“Hello.” I use my nice voice before lowering

myself into one of the chairs. “You’re the
mechanic, right?”

Bleigh nods. “Sure, that I am. Declan Bleigh at

yer service, miss. Dreadfully sorry I couldn’t fix yer
motor coach. But I’ve brought yer things just as I
promised, so I did.”

He gestures to a corner of the room where my

wardrobe cases stand in a row, taking up almost a
quarter of the room. Helen lays propped next to

them in her own case. Seeing her brings a
momentary smile to my face.

I turn to Mel. “What if the car can’t make it

through this snow? What if we don’t get out of here
tonight?”

Did he just roll his eyes? “Relax, Savie. It’ll be

here.”

Caris appears at our table. “Pardon me, Miss

Starr, but the roads are still quite a fright, so they
are. Wouldn’t surprise me at all if yer transport’s
been turned back by the local authorities. When the
weather gets right frightful, the highway closes. But
yer needn’t fret about stoppin’ here a bit longer. Me
brother’s agreed to ‘av yer stay at his cottage for as
long as yer need, and Declan can give yer a lift
there with yer gear.”

The mechanic flashes a toothy smile. “Be

pleased to see Miss Starr to Ronan’s place, so I
would.”

This gets Mel’s attention, and he leans forward

with another wince. “Hold on a minute. Whose
cottage? The owner would have to have security
clearance. With her regular security detail already
in Scotland, I’m responsible for this young lady, so I
can’t leave her in the custody of strangers without a
background check. I need to know she’s safe at all
times. She can have my room. I’ll stay with the
locals.” Mel is beginning to sweat by the time he’s
finished.

I lay a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Caris steps in. “Aye. Yer not be lookin’ too spry,

if yer don’t mind me sayin’.”

Mel clutches his stomach again. “I’ll be fine.

Just need—”

“Yer just be needin’ a wee bit more rest, is what

yer be needin’,” Caris says, and as I look at my
driver and friend, I can’t disagree.

Mel lifts a hand. “But—”
“I can see Miss Starr needs quite a lot of space

for her pretty things.” With fluttering hands, Caris
waves toward Ronan. “My brother is the rock of
our community, Mr. Tobin, I assure yer. He’s our
Bard, yer know. Yer needn’t worry about her
safety. Look at him. Strappin’ fellow.” The pride
rings clear in her voice. “He could qualify for
security any day of the week.”

Mel looks back and forth between me, Caris,

Declan, and Ronan, whose hulking form still
lounges at the end of the bar. He shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t allow—”

He’s so pale, and he’s clearly in pain. “It’s all

right, Mel,” I hear myself say. “You should stay
here and rest. I need my best man to be healthy for
the next leg of our journey.”

As worried as I am about Mel, my words are

accompanied by a racing heart that wants nothing
more than to jump on Ronan’s lap and beg him to
take me back to his prehistoric ways. What the

fuck is wrong with me? I hate his guts and his
provincial life. My tongue seems to have a mind of
its own. “Mr. O’Farrell and I are already
acquainted. It’s where I stayed last night. He’s…
very capable. Of protecting me, that is.”

Mel glowers at me like a disapproving parent.

“I don’t like it, Savie. But I can’t tell you what to
do. One hour…” He lifts a lone index finger. “If the
car’s not here by then, I guess it’s up to you where
you want to lay your head.”

Chapter Eleven

Ronan

Caris has seriously flipped her lid this time, but I
have to admit that my elder sibling is a master
manipulator and resourceful to no end. In the space
of a few minutes, she alerted the entire town to be
on the lookout for any kind of unknown vehicle
approaching Wintervale, and to stop it by any
means necessary. Fallen logs, rocks on the road,
whatever it took to turn it around. She even has the
local law enforcement in her back pocket. The only
thing necessary is one of her winsome smiles and
some of her homemade food and Guinness, and
men fall at her feet in puddles of rapt appreciation.

Would she go so far as to feed bad food to

Savie’s driver? At least a wee bit?

Her duplicity doesn’t please me, but I also

know there’s no stopping her once she’s set her
mind to something.

And all because she thinks that vexing woman

is my soul mate. Bollocks!

Her manipulations don’t end there. She

wheedles it out of me, the one thing I’ve been
stubbornly denying since yesterday, to myself as
well as to her. I can’t take my eyes off Savie Starr.
With all Caris’ blathering about the prophecy,

images coalesce in my mind. The face I saw in the
cauldron at Samhuin is Savie’s. The more I look,
the more I’m convinced it’s true.

But that doesn’t fecking mean I accept it.
Her coal black hair, flashing green eyes, and

voluptuous curves have pulled me in from the start.
I honestly only meant to help her out—she’d
seemed so terrified and alone on that bus. But deep
down I know there are other forces at work. Forces
of nature. And I’ve lived my whole life respecting
those forces, along with generations of O’Farrells
before me.

The ancient druids of County Meath never truly

left. They live on in their descendants. My parents,
Caris, and me. The entire village of Wintervale, in
fact. We’ve chosen to live in isolation, and to carry
on the traditional practices of druidry, away from
prying eyes and the intrusion of technology and
commercialism.

Well, for the most part. I glare at my sister

again.

But with isolation comes loneliness, and a

shrinking gene pool. Our beliefs might shield us
from materialism and the politics of organized
religion but can’t protect us from biological fact. As
the leader of our grove, I have a double
responsibility. What’s the point of practicing the old
ways if there are no new people left to carry it on?
I’m a practical man, and certainly not uninitiated in

human sexuality, as many of our rituals involved
symbolic sexual acts. But I want to choose for
myself who will share my bed, my home, and my
way of life. Who will bear my children if I am to be
so blessed. I want to feel more than the natural
urges of my body. I do really want a soul mate, as
the Cailleach predicts.

But could my world ever mix with the blatantly

crass and money-driven one of someone like Savie
Starr? It’s not even possible. It has to be wrong,
somehow.

“She said aye,” Caris whispers excitedly as she

returns to the bar. “They’re goin’ to wait one more
hour for their transport to show up—which it won’t
—and Declan can take yer both back to the cottage
along with her things.”

I glance over at the row of wardrobe cases

stacked against one wall. “All of ‘em?”

Caris nods. “He can fit it all in the back of his

truck, and yer lot can ride in the front.”

“What about Mateo?”
“I’ll ride him out tomorrow, see how yer

getting’ along. He’s fine where he is. Yer put him
out back, didn’t yer?” I nod. Since he’s my only
mode of transportation, Caris keeps a sheltered stall
for him behind the pub. “Right. ‘Tis settled then,”
she says with a wink and a clap of her work-worn
hands. “This is all comin’ together, just as the
prophecy foretold. Isn’t Yule magical?”

I watch Savannah’s arse walk up the stairs and

grunt. “Magical.”

* * *

Savie sits sandwiched between Declan and me on
the lumpy bench seat, not saying a word on the
drive out to my cottage and round two of our
budding relationship as host and guest.

Caris treated us to a fine supper at the pub, so

at least I didn’t have to cook anything until
morning. She’d actually seen to that as well,
loading me up with food enough to last through a
military siege. Milk, eggs, butter and biscuits,
porridge and fruit along with hefty portions of ham
and sausages. Vegetables I already have since I like
to put them up for the winter after the harvest.

Declan and I move Savie’s cases into the main

room just outside the bedroom and loft. I can’t
imagine what’s contained inside them or why
anybody, even an entertainer, would need so much
gear at their fingertips. With a smile and tip of his
tweed cap, Declan leaves us alone. The old bugger
is in on Caris’ scheme, I’m certain.

I stoke up the fire good and hot. The night

promises to be a cold one. If not from the weather,
then from the frosty countenance of my new
roommate. I might even have to admit that I liked
her blathering better than this silent treatment.

“I expect yer be more comfortable this go

‘round, ‘avin’ all yer things at hand,” I say, avoiding

her cold glare. “If yer just give me fair warnin’
when yer be wantin’ to take a shower, I’ll make
sure there’s hot water in the tank and nay beasties
in the vicinity.”

“I’m sorry about all the fuss I made.” She

settles herself regally in the wide armchair I left in
place by the hearth. “I appreciate it’s not easy
living here without conveniences and…creature
comforts.”

“Creature comforts?” I ask, poking the logs. “I

know ‘tis different here than what yer used to, but I
don’t find it difficult in the least. In fact, I’m the
most comfortable I can be when I’m here. In the
woods, away from lights and noise and the…
complexity of the rest of the world. Just me and me
music.”

The fire crackles to life, and I stare into the

flames, keenly aware of Savie’s eyes on me. Under
all her haughty rage and name calling, I wonder
what she really thinks of me. Of Ronan O’Farrell,
the man. Of my appearance, my lifestyle, of
shattering her into shivering pieces of feminine
release like I did on a simple whim. There’s more
where that came from, woman.

After Caris told me what she knows of the

famous Savie Starr, I realize I had no idea who I
was dealing with at the time. Is there any hope of
salvaging even a friendship, much less a
relationship with this famous lass?

“I know how you feel about music,” she says,

wrapping her arms around her legs. “We have that
in common.”

“Aye, we do.” I rise from the hearth and sit in

the other chair that also hasn’t moved since last
night. “I see yer brought yer guitar. Mayhaps ‘tis
yer turn to play somethin’ for me?”

“Would you like me to?” A smile plays on her

lush lips. She seems almost shy about it, despite my
being told she performs before crowds of tens of
thousands on practically a nightly basis. That
thought makes me feel foolish for asking.

“I would. But since yer make a livin’ at it, I

suppose I’m being out of line askin’ yer to go to
work. Without pay.”

Before I’m finished, she smiles full on, her

lovely red mouth curving into a white crescent of
delight. It makes me smile in return. She’s truly a
beauty, even more so without all the heavy makeup
she wore in the newspaper photo. The room
suddenly lacks oxygen, and I feel the need to gasp
for air at the sight of her happiness. “Well, since
you won’t take my money, perhaps singing for you
is the only way I can repay you, Mr. O’Farrell.”

“I’d like to hear yer call me Ronan.”
She blinks her green eyes, then licks her lips as

if tasting the sound before she speaks it. “Ronan.”

The sound of my name on her lips is almost

music enough. A shiver crawls up my spine and I

clamp my mouth shut so I don’t invite her to my
bed to finish what we started earlier in the day.

“My friends call me Savie. You’re welcome to,

if you’d like.”

I nod, feeling this honor isn’t bestowed on

many. “Savie, right.” The name echoes in my
sparse abode, bouncing off the stones of the
fireplace and the wooden beams above, rebounding
into my ears like an incantation. “I like that.”

“Good,” she nods, moving to rise from her

chair.

“I’ll fetch it,” I say in a rush, wanting to please

her. “Yer me guest, after all.” I bring the guitar case
over to her. I fall entranced as she strums a few
experimental chords and adjusts the tuning pegs. I
watch her bright painted nails and suddenly imagine
them raking the skin of my back as I fuck her. I’m
getting way ahead of myself. “Did yer always want
to be a musician? What’s it like to perform in front
of so many people?”

She considers her answer as she strums her

fingers over the strings. “Whether one person or
ten thousand, or no one at all. The size of the crowd
doesn’t make any difference. I sing because I was
born to. I can’t imagine doing anything else.” She
cradles the guitar in her arms like a lover. Jaysus, I
want to be in her arms instead. “What about you?
Did you always want to be a hermit?”

“A what?”

“A hermit.” Those lovely eyes land on me

again. “Someone who lives in solitude, hidden
away from others, by choice. Don’t you get
lonely?”

Her question catches me off-guard and guts me

like a spear to the chest. Thoughts of loneliness
have only been a recent phenomenon for me, but
one that grows stronger with each passing season
lately. “Aye, sometimes.”

Her green gaze locks with mine for a glorious

second as I wonder what it would feel like to claim
this independent and fiery woman as my wife. “I
wrote a song about that,” she says. “It goes like
this.”

She plays me a slow ballad with haunting

chords, yet with an uplifting melody and words of
love and loss and hopefulness. Her voice rings true,
unlike any I’d ever heard before. Sweet and clear,
like it comes from the elements themselves, of air
and water and earth.

I can’t even describe the sensations it evokes

deep within my soul, because I’ve never
experienced anything like them before. I’ve felt a
mix of rapture in communing with nature, and unity
with my grove at our rituals, but nothing like this.
Like the universe itself is moving within me. I feel
paralyzed in my chair.

All too soon, the song’s over. She looks at me

expectantly, but my tongue feels thick and twisted

in my mouth. I can’t answer.

Her shoulders fall. “Didn’t you like it?”
“Very much, I did,” I finally manage to say. It’s

the most lilting, honest thing I’ve ever heard. “Yer
‘av an incredible voice. Yer must bring yer
audiences to tears.”

She smiles, and I easily could become addicted

to the expression on her face. “Sometimes. But
that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Making your
audience feel something?”

I nod in understanding. “Aye. Too true.”
“So, tell me about Wintervale. Your sister

seems excited about the Yule. Why aren’t there any
Christmas trees around?”

I take a deep breath, knowing this will be a

turning point. She’s either going to accept me for
who I am, or she won’t. And if she doesn’t, it could
turn bleak…just like my past experiences with
townies.

“We don’t celebrate Christmas in Wintervale.

We celebrate the Yule, the eighth and most
important interval of the Wheel of the Year. It’s far
older than Christmas, so it is. Christmas is just a
convenient Christian appellation for an already
sacred celebration that’s very, very ancient.”

Savie hugs her guitar like a long-lost child as

she listens. For once, I see no judgment in her
verdant eyes. “Wheel of the Year? So, Yule doesn’t
mean Christmas at all? No presents, or carols, or

Santa in his sleigh?”

I shake my head. “Father Christmas definitely

makes nay stops here.”

Her brow wrinkles in thought. “So how do you

celebrate Yule then, exactly?”

Here we go…
“We hold a Solstice Festival. Singin’, dancin’,

lots of food. On December twenty-first, we light the
Yule log, and celebrate Alban Arthan, the Light of
Arthur. Bringin’ a new year and new life to the
world at its darkest time.”

“You mean the longest night of the year? And

Arthur, as in King Arthur?” she asks, her pretty
mouth falling slightly open. “And Guinevere?”

I nod. “Right on both counts. The Winter

Solstice. The time of death and rebirth. The sun
journeys steadily away from us after midsummer.
The ancients had nay certainty that it would return
each year, to bring crops back to life and animals
back to the land. They made offerin’s to the Earth
on the darkest day, to speed its renewal. They also
built special structures that captured the first light
of dawn on the new day, provin’ it has returned to
connect with the Earth once again.”

“Stonehenge,” she says, her emerald eyes

widening with awe and wonder. “Like in
Outlander?”

Outlander? What is that?
“Stonehenge is one place, but ‘tis not the first.

The oldest solstice site is not far from here, called
Newgrange.”

“Newgrange? Is that where you hold your

festival? Does it have giant stones in a circle too?”

“I wish we could hold our festival there, but ‘tis

full of tourists nowadays. And there’s no stones.
Newgrange is an underground chamber, datin’ back
almost five thousand years.”

“A five-thousand-year-old cave? Why would

you go underground in order to see the sun? That
doesn’t make sense.”

I chuckle, wishing I had a photograph to show

her. “It has a special aperture. Nay one knows how
‘twas erected in exactly the right spot, but when the
sun rises on the next day, it shines directly through
it and illuminates the whole chamber, signifyin’ the
‘matin’’ of the sun and the Earth, so to speak.”

“So, you’re not Catholics…not even

Christians?” She appears to search for the word.
“You’re…pagans?”

I sense panic and confusion rising in her.

Revealing my druid ways usually does have that
effect, not that I’ve told many outsiders in my life. I
don’t have to. I’ve lived in Wintervale since my
birth. Paganism is as old and earthy as Mother
Nature herself, but for some, it seems to bring to
mind the evil of the black arts and all that entails.
Nothing could be further from the truth.

“Some call it that, tis true. All ‘pagan’ really

means is beliefs that pre-date Christianity. If yer
think about it, we’re the first religion, if religion
means a code of ethics, and personal spiritualism.
Worshipin’ nature, the earth, the elements, the light
and the dark. All the others are just recent
inventions meant to generate profit for their
leaders.”

She frowns, still holding tight to her guitar.

“That’s not true. Religious groups do humanitarian
work. Raise funds for worthy causes. What does
yours do? Who’s your leader? What are you
called?”

I’m glad I’m being more acquainted with her

way of speaking or all of her questions would have
fallen on uncertain ears.

“Well, our community is called a grove. Of the

Wintervale grove, I am the leader. I am part of the
order of the Bard. We practice druidry.”

She looks stunned but fascinated at the same

time. “Druids,” she repeats as if testing the word.
“It’s interesting and unique for sure.”

“Does that thought frighten yer?”
Savie’s lips rise into a thoughtful pout. “No,”

she says in a voice just above a whisper. I’ve never
felt more accepted by an outsider. “As long as you
don’t sacrifice baby goats wearing pajamas. Or
vestal virgins. But I want to know more. My Nana
Aislan was born in Ireland. I remember her telling
stories, but my mother always discouraged her. Told

me not to listen to her nonsense. It was all very
mysterious to me. But I heard her say that word.
Druid. And I know that Bard means someone of
artistic talent.”

“It does. Aislan is a very Irish name. So, you’re

part Irish, then.” I press my palms together. “Fáilte
abhaile. Welcome home.”

She gives me a strange look, then laughs, a

beautiful lilting sound that seems to touch my very
soul in a dark recess that’s never seen the light. “I
never thought of myself as an Irishwoman. Is that
Gaelic? It sounds like a beautiful language.”

I nod. “We don’t speak it regularly. Sometimes

at rituals, but all things lose their shine with age.”

“Druid rituals?” Apprehension returns to her

voice, and my heart sinks to my toes. Not now
when everything is going so well. “You really have
those? What are they like? Remember, if goats are
involved, leave that part out.”

I turn away to tend the fire, adding another

piece of wood. Goats wearing pajamas? I can’t
even fathom it. Americans are a strange lot, so they
are. I’m not sure she’s ready to hear everything.
Outsiders are quick to judge what they don’t
understand. It will take time if I want to do it right.

“There are different ones for different times of

the year. As I say, there are eight intervals, each
about six weeks long, which complete the cycle of
the Wheel. Now we are at Yule, celebratin’ Alban

Arthur, the return of the light. One such ritual of
Alban Arthan is the wassail.”

“I’ve heard that word too. What does it mean?”
“A wassail is a…sort of punch, or potion if

you’d like to think of it that way. ‘Tis brewed with
herbs and seeds and fruit, sometimes milk. All
things that the land and animals give us throughout
the year, mixed in a bowl. One of the members of
our grove will cast the mixture at the edge of a
field, or the base of a tree. ‘Tis an offerin’ of
nourishment to the land, to make it become fertile
and begin to grow again. It doesn’t actually ‘av any
effect as the ancients thought. The rituals are
symbolic.” I glance over my shoulder to judge her
reaction. The flickering flames reflect back within
the depths of her eyes. An overwhelming urge to
touch her satiny skin forces me to fist my hand to
keep from reaching out.

“The land gives you so much, doesn’t it?” she

says after a thoughtful moment. “So, you give back
to the land. That’s very poetic. It’s a beautiful
sentiment, really.”

“Aye,” I say, stirring the fire. My beliefs fill me

with pride.

“And you really believe in it, don’t you? It’s

important to you.”

“’Tis our way.” I set down the poker and return

to sit beside her. “But ‘tis getting’ on. I should let
yer be getting’ some kip. Yer can ‘av the bedroom.

I’ll take the loft.”

“You do tell some interesting bedtime stories,

Ronan. And I’m beginning to understand your way
of speaking better in such a short time.”

“Ach.” I laugh, wishing she’d beg me to stay

with her. Beg me to carry her to the bed and make
love to her by the light of the silvery moon. She
doesn’t. “Better than Nana Aislan’s, I trust?”

“Much.”

Chapter Twelve

Savannah

I rise early to make sure I’m ready if Mel comes for
me. Other than the usual pot of tea and some
muffins Caris baked that he’d left on the table,
Ronan is nowhere to be seen. It’s still dark out, and
my heart pumps with a little unwelcome worry for
him. Where could he go at such an early hour? I’d
left him sitting by the fire when I went to bed.

But since I have nowhere to go myself or any

way to get there if I did, I nibble on a muffin and
sip my tea, thinking about the turn of the seasons.
It’s amazing how we take it for granted that spring
will come, crops will always grow again, and there
will never be a shortage of animals in the fields or
water to drink.

One look at the news proves that those ideals

aren’t always true. The powers that be claim global
warming is shifting the weather patterns, places
receiving snow for the first time in recorded history.
More animal species become extinct every day, and
there are severe water crises all over the world,
even in the US. What if a return to ancient ways
and having reverence for Mother Nature like these
people do, could reverse all of that?

I struggle to take it all in, Ronan’s confessions

about paganism and sacrificial rituals. I begin to
wonder if I’m dreaming some of it, conjuring it up
because I want it to be true and have meaning. But
wispy, vague memories of things my Nana Aislan
said all those years ago ring true as Ronan
explained his druidic rituals.

I get the impression from my mom that she

thinks Nana’s ancestors were some kind of naked,
fire-dancing heathens who practiced witchcraft,
though she never said it to my face. She seemed to
just want to pretend it didn’t exist, and therefore
never talked about it. But I know differently now.
And not only does Ronan practice this non-
Christian religion, but the whole town of
Wintervale does as well.

I called it a ‘godforsaken hamlet,’ not knowing

how close to the bullseye that statement hits. It
dawns on me that this culture—this religion—is
part of my own heritage. Good heavens, these
people could even be my distant relatives.

I haven’t been much for celebrating Christmas

myself. I’m always touring, or doing some kind of
benefit concert at this time of year. Church wasn’t
a big influence on my family growing up back in
Northern California either. The concepts of
druidism fascinate me. If I could actually get a Wi-
Fi signal I’d research it a bit more. I’ve always
thought of myself as a fleeting Christian. But what
if I believed something else entirely?

I rise from the table and fetch Helen from her

case. The idea strikes me like a cannonball to the
chest, so words and music began to swirl in my
brain. I have to get them down while they’re clear.
The sun peeks above the horizon and into a
cloudless sky, and as I look out the front window, it
appears the weather has improved, melting the
majority of the snow. Birds flit about, and their calls
add inspiration for the song that already brews
inside me.

A solstice song.
I put on my coat and scarf and head out to the

small porch that Ronan cleared of snow yesterday.
My breath turns to vapor in the air despite the
milder temperature, and I sit down on the hand-
hewn wooden bench against the wall cradling
Helen in my lap. Soft pinks and blues streak
upward from the horizon.

I breathe deeply and catch the scent of wood

smoke and forest pine, and of damp earth and
leaves imprisoned under the sudden snowfall
awakening underneath the rising sun. All of it mixes
together to form an invigorating wild fragrance, one
that could never be contained in a bottle or
duplicated anywhere else but in this place. So, I’ll
capture it with music instead.

My fingers dance across Helen’s strings, the

notes meshing together in a tune that bespeaks all
these new thoughts and feelings. They’ve also

woven a message to my mom, telling her what I’ve
learned of Nana’s ways, and that they’re not
something to be hidden, but to be accepted and
appreciated. Lauded even. A chorus and refrain
flow effortlessly from my instrument, and after a
few minutes, I realize I’ve already created parts of
the melody before, on the bus as we waited
nervously for help to arrive. It appears the muses
were already at work in my subconscious even
then.

The lyrics tumble about along with the music,

but I don’t have a pen or paper. I reach in my coat
pocket for my phone, which still has nearly a full
charge. I perch it atop a pile of split logs and set it
to video record. I start the chord progression over
from the beginning, speaking the melody in words.

By the Light of Arthur here I stand
The long night as cold as my heart
Winter lifts the veil, giving way to the spring
Tearing the truth of my past apart
My fingers began to tingle with numbness as I

play the chords over and over, fitting in the lyrics as
they spill from my lips. Rarely has a composition
come together so quickly for me. This tiny,
mysterious vale seems to inspire me at the same
time it holds me a virtual captive. I’m so swept up
in my creative process that I barely notice when
Ronan appears from inside the cottage and comes
to sit on the bench next to me.

Suddenly, the chords come alive with a dual

sound, the timbre of two disparate instruments
blending in perfect harmony. I stop singing to
glance sideways at Ronan. He’s rolled the beautiful
Irish harp I’ve been admiring out with him and
follows my lead in perfect time, matching every
chord without a mistake. Our eyes lock, but he
simply smiles and nods, encouraging me to
continue.

I’m awestruck at the extraordinary ear he

displays. I’ve worked with nearly every session
musician in the US, and this unknown, untrained
man from the middle of bumfuck nowhere has them
all beat. I run through the chorus again, and to my
amazement, on the next repeat, Ronan adds his rich
baritone voice to mine, singing a countermelody in
perfect pitch, improvising on the fly. He’s
incredible, and I’m truly floored. I’ve never heard
so much natural talent.

When I’m satisfied with four verses of the song,

he seems to know instinctively how to modulate to
the ending, slowing the tempo and arriving on a
last, heart-rending chord. My heart thumps in my
chest as it fades into the chilly air. I shiver with the
excitement that comes with knowing I have
something very special on my hands. Possibly a
new hit record. And all because the damn rental
bus broke down in the middle of nowhere.

Karma’s a bitch, and she’s having a heyday

with me. Or perhaps it is the leprechauns. Either
way, it’s something from beyond the physical plane.

Maybe, it’s my nana.
I realize the recording is still on, so I lay Helen

aside and reached for my phone with trembling
hands. I’ll be able to score the song from the
playback.

“You’ve got to hear this,” I say, stopping the

recording and switching to the replay. I hold the
phone between us for him to see. “You have a
magnificent voice.”

I start the recording and watch for his reaction.

He leans in to look at the tiny screen, staring at it as
if it’s sprouted a head.

Even with the limited sound quality of a cell

phone video, the recording is clear, the rich and
ethereal tones of our two diverse instruments and
vocals together sounding nothing less than angelic.
Goosebumps rise on my arms and legs, and not
because of the cold. We sit shoulder to shoulder,
the contact of our bodies echoing the harmonic
connection that resonates throughout our
impromptu performance. As it nears the end,
Ronan stiffens, a dark and unreadable expression
on his bearded face.

“You don’t like the song?” I ask. “The words

can be changed, you know. They just came to my
mind, and I went with them. I’m sorry if they say
anything negative or inaccurate about your

traditions.”

“’Tis a fine song,” he says, looking away from

the screen. “I’m just not fit to be singin’ it with
yer.”

I blink at him. “What? What do you mean? You

were fantastic. We sounded great together. My
producer is going to go ape-shit over this.”

Ronan tucks the harp under his arm. “Ape-

shite?”

I laugh, wishing I could have the musical genius

Ronan back. After that tempting glimpse, he’s
disappeared again behind the mask of surly
mountain man. “Just an expression. Means he’s
going to love it.”

He shakes his head. “No, lass. I was just the

accompaniment. Yer the performer. A damn good
one at that.”

My hands drop to my lap, noting he’s at least

dropped his chauvinistic use of the word woman. I
almost drop to my knees and beg for domineering
Ronan to return. With him, at least I knew what to
expect. Why is he selling himself short?

“Without you, it was just the framework of a

song idea. You made it come alive. I don’t think
you’re aware of your mad skills. I’m going to send
this recording to Jake as soon as I have internet
access.”

Ronan glances up at the brightening sky and

falls silent for a long minute. “Nay one has heard

my music outside of Wintervale,” he says quietly.
“I only play for family or the Wintervale grove.
They won’t judge me. I wish yer wouldn’t send it to
someone who will.”

My heart squeezes in my chest. “No one will

judge you.” I reach for his hand, placing mine on
top of his. “Except to tell you what an exceptional
talent you have. Trust me, the world deserves to
hear you.”

He fixes his blue eyes on me, and I see a

curtain of sadness fall across them. “Please don’t
share that recordin’ with anyone, Savie. Please.”

Holy shit. The man is shy. Six feet five and

looking as fierce as a grizzly bear, and then he
suffers from stage fright. I remember him asking me
what it was like to perform before tens of
thousands. Now I know why.

“Are you afraid to play in front of others?” I

prod gently. “You shouldn’t be. You played for
me.”

He bows his head. At his silence, another

possibility occurs to me. And I don’t like this new
thought at all. “Are you afraid to be seen singing…
with me? You’re embarrassed by the flighty
American girl, aren’t you?”

He raises his face to mine again, and shakes his

head. “No.” A wistful smile forms under his brushy
moustache. “But I think yer should be afraid to be
seen singin’ with me, yer should. Think of yer…

what does my sister call it? Avenue cred?
Reputation and all that.”

I chuckle. “Street cred, you mean.”
My brow wrinkles under the strain of trying to

understand the implications of this conversation,
but a curious sound interrupts my thought process.
We both look toward the path, the jolly tinkle of
harness bells issuing from within. As it approaches
the clearing, Mateo’s great head emerges from the
foggy depths, snorting clouds of hot breath. On his
back rides Caris, bundled in her shawl and scarf,
looking straight out of an episode of Outlander. She
leads a second horse on a tether who plods
obediently behind.

“Ach, top o’ the mornin’ to yer, kids. What’s

the craic?”

“What’s the what?” I whisper to Ronan.
“Means ‘how are yer, how yer doin’,’” he

replies, setting aside the harp and rising to greet her.
“Mornin’, sis. What brings yer out here with the
larks?”

“I promised to bring Mateo out to yer, didn’t I?

Brought Sully here along for the return.” Caris juts
her chin at the second pinto-coated pony. “And a
wee bit ‘o somethin’ to warm yer both up.” She
unhooks a thermos from the saddle and hands it to
Ronan.

“Yer hot glogg. Thanks, sis. Couldn’t come at a

better time. Savie and I were just enjoyin’ some

music out here in the elements.”

Claris rolls her eyes. “’Tis my special honey-

apple mead, so ‘tis. Only yer call it glogg.”

“If it’s as good as your barmbrack, I’m sure it’s

delicious.” I walk toward her and the horses. “Will
I find another treasure inside?”

Caris laughs, and her whole face brightens

under the strength of her warm smile. “Only the
treasure of a warm belly and a good feelin’. And I
also ‘av a message from yer man, Mr. Tobin. He’s
been in touch with yer manager, and he says to sit
tight. It appears another of yer transports has gone
astray into a snowbank.”

I stare at her. “Seriously? And how is Mel?”
“Curse the luck of this weather,” she says with

a cluck of her tongue. “Stomach still painin’ him,
but he was good enough to ask Declan to run him
up the road to Drogheda, to see about a rental car
for himself. I don’t fancy his luck in light of the
Yule, but if he can find somethin’, he said to tell yer
he’ll pick yer up right here. Nay need to worry. Yer
two just relax and enjoy yerselves ‘til then. But it
looks like yer may be here another night.”

As excited as I am about the solstice song I’ve

just written, my shoulders sag in disappointment. I
don’t want the tour to fall apart completely because
of our being stuck here indefinitely. More than that,
I really don’t want the physical temptation that is
Ronan O’Farrell leading me and my woman’s body

astray.

Ronan takes Mateo’s reins and helps Caris

down from the saddle. “I know ‘tis not what yer
planned,” he says, turning to me. “But if it’ll lift yer
spirits, how about I make yer a special supper
tonight? To celebrate yer new composition.”

“Ach, a grand idea,” Caris concurs with a clap

of her hands. “With all the provisions I sent along
yesterday, yer enough to feed an army on
pilgrimage.”

Ronan sends me a wink. I smile, rapidly getting

the idea that fighting my situation is a waste of
energy. Otherworldly forces have taken over. “Only
if you’ll celebrate it with me,” I say. “With the
harmony line you sang, it’s as much yours as mine.”

Ronan smiles in return and starts to lead the

horses around the back. “All right. Would yer mind
taking the gadgets, uh, instruments inside while I
take care of this pair?”

I nod. “Sure.”
“And Caris? A word in private, if yer please.”
She looks at him funny, but doesn’t argue.

“Aye, I need to talk to yer about somethin’ as well,
so I do. In the barn.”

Finally, one female who does as he bids.
For the moment.

Chapter Thirteen

Ronan

I stomp to the kitchen hours and one fecking fateful
trip to my own animal shed later.

Even though I know it’s a train headed down

the wrong track, I’m still planning on cooking
Savie’s supper this eve. As I walk, I notice the
rustic décor of my home, and look at it through the
narrowed eyes of judgment. Caris helped make it a
wee bit homier, procuring antiques and other bric-
a-brac, hoping that I’d eventually settle down and
start a family. At thirty, I’m not getting any
younger. I don’t want to be grey and rocking on my
front porch when my children are tots at my feet.

I don’t really understand the repercussions

behind my desire to do something nice for Savie.
Ever since I first clapped eyes on her inside that
obnoxious metal beast, she’s stolen every bit of
pleasure from me outside of the physical. The worst
part is how she’s caused me to question my own
beliefs and way of life. I admit, her long,
judgmental looks and heavy sighs have become few
and far between. But consequences reside behind
that truth, and I don’t want to examine them.

As I run a hand over my scalp, I feel like a

sheep at sheering time. Literally, my head feels ten

pounds lighter. When Caris asked if I would do it
for her, I did balk. Then, her yapping got on my last
nerve and I agreed to let her shear me. In the end,
we both agreed that the time to look like a right
savage had passed. Now, I’m not so sure.

The first time I stepped outside of the shed, the

cold air hit me like an ice block to the head and
face. I can’t remember the last time I cut my hair,
and the last time I shaved was the morning that my
cousin Paddy told me I had a baby face.

The long hair I love or loved, so it was, vacated

my head on a few swipes of my own shears and
blade. The same ones I use if Mateo’s mane and
forelock go awry. But the beard that I’d grown
purely out of spite, well, I’d come to love that too.
It kept me warm from the wintery chill, or so it did.
As the Bard of this grove, I can’t even give an
appearance of weakness. If my people lose respect
for me, they won’t follow me and chaos could
ensue.

Worse than the thought of stepping down from

my position, at the soul level, I know why I really
cleaned myself up, looking like a right townie.
Because of her. I don’t want to admit, even to
myself, that the woman makes my cock harder than
steel. Admitting it would mean even more painful
arguments with myself over a woman whose
lifestyle I don’t respect. In fact, most of her ways
disgust me. Her musical talent can’t be denied, but

she’s all American glitz and glamour. She’s got
more personal possessions along for a six-week
tour, than I’ve ever seen one person own in my
lifetime. She may now understand my personal
values because she stopped to listen, but she’d
never dream of adopting them.

I busy myself at the pantry, looking through jars

labeled with every possible vegetable and fruit from
my own garden and my sister’s. When I finally find
what I’m looking for, I load my arms up with the
various ingredients and get to work preparing a pot
roast with garden vegetables, along with homemade
biscuits. Caris sent an apple pie so we’ll have that
for dessert.

Savie’s out on the porch again with her guitar in

hand and the haunting sounds of her chords reach
my ears as I cook. She hasn’t seen my new look yet
—she was napping when I got home from the inn
this afternoon—and I can’t help but let my mind
drift to her reaction. Will she look at me as if I’ve
lost my mind or will she be attracted to the new less
hairy version of me? Lord knows her body wants
mine, but I know that she’s just as opposed as I am
to a true meeting of the minds. We’re not only from
two different countries, we’re from two different
worlds.

The family stories go back centuries, of how my

grandfather once owned this land and his
grandfather before him, for generation after

generation. My chest swells with pride every time I
think about our legacy. As I glance out the window,
admiring the rolling hills and towering trees, I
realize even though I’ve never spent any time of
consequence anywhere else, I don’t ever want to.

In the harsh light of day, my beliefs seem

strange and rigid. But Savie seems to understand
them. I see the light of curiosity in her eyes when,
in most stranger’s eyes, I see censure. That part
touches my heart in a place I never knew existed.
She has to leave. She will leave. But until the sweet
sorrow of parting comes, I’ll enjoy her in my way.

The sunshine glares off the snow that remains

spattered about. Even the barren foliage looks
bright today, or maybe it’s just my mood. I’m
predisposed to be pleasant, but only for her. Other
than a brief interlude with Mary Murphy during the
last ritual I performed, I haven’t had a woman
come apart in my hands for a very long time. They
want me because I’m the alpha in this grove, the
leader. But I’ve never really stopped long enough
to consider their pleasure. I take what I want when
I want it. It’s always been that way, and it’s not
ever going to change.

Without conscious thought, I move around my

kitchen, finalizing the supper preparations, wanting
everything to be perfect. For a moment, I feel as if
I’ve stepped forward into my future. It feels like
something I’ve lived before, this idyllic life with my

woman a mere few yards away from me and my
home full of vitality. I sit down at the table,
suddenly overcome with déjà vu and allow the
images to overtake me. Is the vision right? Is Savie
here for a reason?

I close my eyes, imagining Savie standing

underneath a huge oak tree in a white dress. Savie’s
belly round with my first son. Savie splayed out for
my pleasure, screaming my name as her release
pulses around my straining cock. She tastes like
heaven and she tastes like home.

My home.
I jump up from the chair and shake my arms at

the elbows, chasing away the demons of a life not
fully lived. It’s a mistake, allowing her to stay here.
But how can I ask her to leave now in her hour of
need? I can’t and I won’t. Aside from my own guilt,
Caris would have my arse on a plate and serve it to
the townsfolk.

“Ronan?”
My head snaps up in time to see Savie float into

the room, her guitar still in her hand. She stops and
stares at me, her mouth sagging open. Her eyes
explore my face, and a ghost of a smile tugs at her
lips, but she says nothing.

“Are yer ready for a wee spot of supper?” I

ask, hoping that calm and gentle Savie is going to
appear tonight as my supper companion, aloft on a
cloud of positivity after her composing session. “I

feel like I’m about to gnaw me own arm off, I do.”

“Famished,” she says, walking over to the stove

and inhaling the aroma of the bubbling roast.
“Mmm…smells heavenly.”

I jerk my gaze away from her as my crotch

roars to life again. I’m appalled at my body’s base
response to this woman and my mind’s constant
lapses of sanity and control. Seems all she does is
get me horned up.

“It’ll be ready soon,” I say, staring at her plump

arse and imagining my hands kneading the flesh.

She bounces back toward the table and takes a

seat across from me. “Your haircut looks fantastic.
Very stylish. After so many days with the mountain
man, I’m surprised to find a really handsome guy
underneath all that hair.”

I can feel my face heating up as I blush.
I’m feckin’ blushin’ over some cosmopolitan

American townie. Ach…

Reality and space fall away as I feel myself

being transported back in time. Mary’s down on all
fours, begging me to horse it in. I’ve used that
particular fantasy to pleasure myself for years,
except this time, it’s trite and unpleasant. I don’t
want to think about mindless sex ever again.
Savie’s done something to me, and I don’t want
Mary or anyone else’s mental intrusion to dull the
light of my fantasies about the woman who stands
now within my reach.

With the tip of one finger, I reach out and

lightly trace the swell of her bottom lip. She flicks
her tongue out to moisten it, and I feel the wetness,
the heat. I wonder if her pussy’s just as wet. I’m no
longer hungry for roast. The only thing that’s going
to assuage my appetite is this woman, naked and
bending to my every whim. Taking my cock inside
her as she begs for more.

Savie moans, and I’m caught in a place

between rationality and pure sensation. Lust rages
through my body and there’s no longer room for
any rational thought, or any strategy to keep from
getting too attached to her. She’s leaving soon and
that will be that. There’s nothing I can do to make
her stay even if I wanted to. But that’s not going to
stop me from taking what I want right now.

Consequences be damned.
She captures my finger in the recesses of her

mouth, and I feel the answering twitch in my
overactive groin. A soft moan escapes her lips, and
the sound spreads like a salve over my soul. She
touches a place so deep inside me that I never even
knew it existed. Like my future’s come home to
roost within my present. Since Savie’s tour bus
broke down on the country road, my whole life’s
been imploded and what I thought I knew has been
replaced only with a riot of sensations.

I continue to explore her with just a light touch,

tracing first her upper lip, then her lower, delighting

in the feather soft skin as I go. Leaning my head
forward, I touch my lips to hers, feeling her melt
into me. Surrendering. I tame the beast that wants
to burst into a gallop, to claim her in a way she
can’t deny. My racing heart begs me to seek out the
finish line, but my rational mind tells me to savor
every moment, since it probably won’t be repeated.

Every cell in my body screams at me to stop

being gentle. To take what I want as hard and fast
as I want. But this isn’t Mary, a cocktrough. This
isn’t even some sensitive and fragile American lass
who probably can’t understand or accept the beast
inside of me. This is Savie. My destiny. For this one
night at least.

Savie opens her mouth to me, surrendering and

allowing me greater access to plunder the farthest
recesses of her mouth. My tongue seeks and
demands, and she answers with a fervor that
surprises me, adding fuel to the fire of my already
raging lust.

An overwhelming urge to taste every inch of

her overtakes me, and I move my mouth to the
hollow of her elegant throat, licking her pulse. She
moans, and it hits me in the middle of my chest, my
heart surging to keep up with the rush of my blood.
My arousal turns base and feral, and we don’t even
have our clothes off yet.

As my tongue moves to find the sensitive flesh

behind her ear, she gasps and writhes on the

kitchen chair, her hands clutching the edges until
her knuckles turn white. A fireball of need grows
within me until I’m unable to contain my baser
urges another second. It flares brighter and hotter,
soaring toward the point of no return.

The sunlight peeking through the panes of the

kitchen window hits Savie’s raven hair,
transforming it into a fiery auburn color. I grasp the
back of her head like she’s mine. Like I’ve always
wanted to do to her. Instead of slapping my face,
she moans and leans into me. I search her face and
don’t see fear. I see passion and wild abandon.

“I want to feck yer, Savie.”
There’s no hesitation. “Yes.”

Chapter Fourteen

Savannah

I’m vaguely aware that I should stop this…stop
him. But I can’t control the rays of heat that pulse
through my body at his feather soft touches to my
lips and neck. I want this. I want Ronan. Nobody’s
ever been able to make me feel so much like a
woman.

Claimed.
Besides, I’m not a young girl anymore. I’m a

flesh and blood woman, nearly thirty. I’m never in
the tabloids for anything outside of my slightly
outrageous shopping habits. I’ll be able to handle a
one-night stand with my burly mountain man,
surely.

If I want something, nothing’s going to stop me

from taking it. Ronan sweeps everything off the
kitchen table with one swat of his massive arm. The
clanging of silverware and the crash of the metal
bowls reach my ears, but I barely acknowledge
them over the rush of blood that pounds through
them.

He lifts me by the waist as if I weigh nothing

and places me on the edge of the plank table, never
breaking contact with my lips. I’m wearing a cotton
t-shirt, and he takes a hold of the V-neck and rips it

from my torso. I shiver at the barely restrained
power coursing through his body. He could break
me in half and that fact isn’t lost on me. But it’s
raw and exciting. And so not what I’m used to from
men who normally capitulate to my every desire.

“Yer wearin’ too many clothes,” he rasps,

putting his fingers in the cups of my bra and
yanking them down to free my breasts for his
hungry gaze.

I don’t reply, just lean back on my elbows to

grant him greater access. He growls and reaches for
my nipples, capturing the erect peaks in between
his fingers. His nostrils flair as he pinches and rolls
them between his thumb and forefinger and a rush
of wetness floods my panties. It’s a fine line that
dances between pleasure and pain, and I want them
off before my core overheats.

A puff of breath escapes my mouth and fans

across my shoulder as I stare at him, wondering
what he’ll do next. What he’s really capable of. A
shiver travels up my spine, and my nipples become
impossibly hard nubs aching with a newfound
pleasure at his manhandling.

“Sit up and turn ‘round,” he demands.
That isn’t what I want. “No.”
He reaches down and jerks me up against his

rock-solid chest. “Don’t ever say nay to me again. I
know what yer need, Savannah Starr. Don’t deny
me the lesson I’m about to teach yer.”

He grips the back of my neck but doesn’t pull

me in for a kiss like I thought he would. Instead,
Ronan flips me around and places me back on my
feet, knees wobbling as my back becomes flush
with his front. He unbuttons the fly of my jeans,
and since he’s unable to tear them off due to the
thickness of the denim, he heaves them down my
legs until I can step out of them. But the panties…
they’re gone in one rip of antique lace.

“Better,” he growls into my ear. “Yer want me

to lead. And as much as yer goin’ to deny it, I can
smell yer surrender on yer.”

My heart gallops as he gives me a slight push to

the small of my back, and I’m bent over the table
before I even realize what’s happening. I’ve never
been taken from behind like this before, and the
suspense makes me crazy, ratcheting up my arousal
to an uncomfortable level. I want to see his eyes,
and he’s denying me the thing I want most in order
to do things his way. It’s annoying and crazy hot all
at the same time. Ronan O’Farrell is a conundrum
of a man.

He continues pushing me forward until my

flushed cheek meets the cool smoothness of the
plank table, and I can feel the head of his cock
searching for my throbbing pussy.

Dammit, just fuck me already. Make me yours.
“Do yer remember the time on Mateo when we

were ridin’ in to town?” he asks, teasing me with his

massive cock along with his words. “The day yer
squealed yer pleasure so only the birds and the
bears could hear yer?”

I squirm, wiggling my ass against him so I can

tease him as much as he’s teasing me. “I thought
you said there weren’t any bears in Ireland.”

He doesn’t answer my smart aleck comment,

instead, he takes his huge hand and places it
between my legs but doesn’t move it. I try to grind
against it, but he tugs my hair again, an unspoken
command to remain still and obey. I instinctually
know that he’s just going to continue denying me
what I want most. But I won’t beg.

Yet.
“It turned yer on, didn’t it? My hand right

where ‘tis now, touchin’ yer wet heat.”

My dry mouth can’t seem to function enough

that I can answer him. Another yank produces only
a nod of my head.

“But that wasn’t enough, was it, Savie? That

didn’t satisfy yer at all.”

He’s killing me with these damn questions. My

pussy clenches and tries to draw him deep inside
me. Ronan clucks his tongue and gives my rear a
stinging little pinch.

“No,” I finally manage to spit out between

ragged breaths. There isn’t enough oxygen in the
room to keep my inhales from making me
lightheaded. Or is that just Ronan and his dirty

mouth, thick with brogue and demands that make
me want to cater to his every whim?

“Tell me what else yer want,” he says, sliding

one finger into my wet folds and holding it there.
My clit throbs and aches. The only thing that’s
going to take the exquisite pain away is the strength
of my release, the one he’s not letting me have.
Well, two can play at this sexy game.

Using all my strength, I push back against him.

“I want you to slide your cock inside me and fuck
me hard and fast. The harder the better.”

My heart seems to leap from my chest as I wait

to see what he’ll do in response to my request.
“Soaking wet, yer are. I like it, ‘cause I know I
caused it.”

I moan and shove my hips backward again, and

yet, Ronan remains still. He must have the patience
of Job or the body control of a combat veteran. A
rustle of fabric moves behind me and I hear him
divest himself of his pants. He reaches around and
fondles my breasts, pulling and rolling my nipples
until I struggle against him. When is he going to put
out the raging fire that can only be extinguished by
his dick?

He grabs the head and pulls it through my wet

folds. As my muscles clench with pleasure, he leans
his hips forward and pushes into me less than an
inch. He’s bare, and I know I should insist on a
condom. But I trust him. Stupidly, I trust him, and

God, it feels so good.

He’s trying to kill me with pleasure.
It’s been so long that I can feel my own

tightness as I pulse around him, my pussy trying to
suck him inside me all the way. My fingernails
scratch down the wood until I slap my palms flat,
welcoming the sting of the pain. Anything to
distract my raging blood from how badly I want
him to split me wide open and thrust hard.

After several moments where I imagine hurting

him for denying me, he pulls back on my hips and
slams forward, lodging his cock in so deep I can
feel it in my torso, his hips remaining flush against
my ass. I wiggle against him and delight in the
answering moan of pleasure that tumbles from his
lips.

I deliberately contract around him, squeezing

and drawing him in even further. His next thrust is
faster and sloppier. I’m making him lose control. I
smile. Now, who’s the teacher and who’s the
student? He’d do well to remember that I’m not
one of his Wintervale tarts, set to jump to his
bidding in bed and out of it. I can give as good as I
get.

I give a strangled moan of my own as he picks

up the right rhythm, hitting me in a place I didn’t
even know I had. Taking a deep breath, I shut my
eyes and simply feel.

Feel him.

Feel everything.
He may have started out trying to dominate me.

Let’s see how he feels when the roles are reversed.

Chapter Fifteen

Ronan

I feel her surrender.

Feel her ease down on the table, offering her

body for me to take as I want.

And do I take, plowing into her, leaning down

to press my lips to her ear. “Yer—”

Whack.
Stars explode in front of my eyes as she rears

back and connects her head with my nose. Stunned
for a second, I let go of her hair, and the minx
twists away. But not for long.

Grabbing her by the waist, I push her against

the wall, then press my front into her back. “Yer
like playin’ rough, do yer?”

Her breath pants in and out of her lungs. “I like

playing by my own rules.”

That’s funny, and I chuckle into her ear before

taking the lobe between my teeth. Her hands clench
into fists on the wall. Taking her wrists in my hand,
I hold them over her head. With my free hand, I
reach down and begin to touch her again. My
fingers sink into her wetness, her body clamping
down as I stroke. She tries to fight back but I stroke
her harder, deeper. Faster.

“What are yer rules, Savie? What is this savage

game yer play?”

She moans, and I feel the sound vibrate into my

fingers. “I want you to kiss me. My breasts. My
stomach. There.”

I freeze for a second. There? There where?
Unable to comprehend her words, I pull her

from the wall, turning her until I can look into her
eyes. “Yer are a strange woman, Savie Starr.”

She lifts her chin. “Are you going to talk all

day, or are you going to make me come?”

The challenge in her eyes is interesting,

exciting. “Mayhap I’ll do both.” She squeals as I
take her back to the table. Bending her over it, I pin
her upper torso down with my hand. “Here, there
are nay rules but me own. Do yer understand?”

With a growl, I kick her feet farther apart, then

wipe some of her hot wetness onto my cock. I wait
for her to answer, and smile when she doesn’t. I’m
a patient man, but from the sound of her breathing,
patience isn’t one of her virtues.

I close my eyes when she finally submits again.

“Please.”

Twist my hand in her hair again, I demand,

“Please what?”

“Fuck me.” The words are low, raw. They make

me smile.

“By whose rules?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Yours. Only yours.”
Savie Starr wails as I slam into her, and I watch

her pussy devour me as I enter her again in one
smooth motion, my hips smacking her smooth arse
cheeks.

Her gasp echoes through the room, and my

heart hammers in my skull, pounding in my
temples. God, she feels good, those tight muscles
tightening around me like a fist.

I began to move in earnest, watching my cock

slide in and out of her. I surge forward, my core and
arse clenching and releasing with each profound
stroke. Pulling her head back, my mouth finds hers.

This is strange. Kissing comes before fucking

but not during the act. Never during. But I seem to
be pulled to her lips, twisting her body until our
mouths meet more fully.

Disconnecting our bodies, I flip her over until

we’re face to face. Then we re-connect. Our
mouths re-connect, our tongues dancing together.
And I realize the rules have fallen away.

A loud groan fills the room, and I realize it

came from me. Or maybe her. I don’t care, and it
doesn’t matter. All that matters are her lips and
eyes, and the way she’s looking at me as I pleasure
us both.

“Ronan…” My name on her lips nearly pushes

me to the edge, but I hang on with the tightest
control of my will. Her legs begin to tremble, her
core pulsing all around me…and she comes. Funny,
seems I’ve never really noticed a woman’s

clenching before this moment.

As she leaps into the depth of pleasure, she

drags me with her, my body slamming then fusing
to hers as my legs, balls, and gut are seized by my
own climax.

Through my own release, I feel her coming.

Hear her coming. Watch her coming.

Nothing has ever been so explosive in my life.
Finally, still panting, I ease down on top of her,

supporting my weight with my elbows. Our lips
touch, but we don’t kiss. Not exactly. We just stay
together as close as two people are able.

“I like yer rules,” I whisper against her lips.
She smiles. “Oh Ronan, I haven’t even begun

to bend you to my rules.”

I laugh and pull her up off the table to carry her

to the bed. “Tis good ‘tis early yet. Yer can show
me some of yers while I show yer some of mine.”

* * *

I’d rather have my fingernails pulled out with a
pliers than do fecking laundry.

So, she better damn well appreciate it.
I rummage through my bedroom collecting

items for a load when a flash of something sparkly
peeks out from the opened zipper of Savie’s
suitcase. Damn thing is made of leather and has
some kind of symbol etched into it over and over
again. Never seen the like. A warped curiosity
drives me forward. After our night together, my

mind lies in shambles and it’s like I can’t know
enough about her and her strange ways.

What kind of man licks a woman’s pussy

because he wants to? I’ve never even heard the
like. Around here, my cock is worshiped as if it’s a
statue of the virgin mother. I’m confused by her
view of sexual relationships, and it’s not that I’m
completely opposed. I just don’t understand it and
want to know more. At least I think I do.

I lean against my bedroom wall and take a deep

inhale. What I’m about to do is probably frowned
upon, because I’m invading her privacy. But she’s a
woman who walks around with sparkled knickers in
her suitcase. That bears investigation. And
furthermore, why does she have case upon case of
them laying on my bedroom floor?

I nudge the suitcase with my foot, hoping that

the top will dislodge more than an inch, and I can
assuage my warped curiosity without moving
anything and being accused of acting like a thief.
Acting like a fecking chancer, I reach down and flip
the leather over, exposing the colorful wardrobe of
Savie Starr to my fascinated view. I’ve heard of
sunglasses from my much more modern sister, and
if I believed in them, I’d slap a pair over my aching
eyes. There isn’t one thing in the fecking suitcase
that isn’t bedazzled in some way. I’ve heard of that
word from my worldly sister too.

“Savie!” I roar.

After a few tortured moments, I hear her

booted feet trotting toward me.

“What is it, Ronan?” she asks, out of breath.

“Is that damn bear in the house?”

The moment her gorgeous and flushed face

pokes itself into the room, I point at the offending
luggage. “What is that?”

She looks at me as if I’ve gone mad. “That’s my

suitcase.”

I shake my head. “Nay. Not the suitcase.

What’s inside it? What the feck is inside that
thing?”

She rears back and purses those damn lips. I

almost demand that she sink to her knees but first, I
want to find out why clothes could possibly require
shiny stones sewn in to every available surface.

“Those are my performance costumes,” she

says, putting her hands on her hips. “I’m a
singer/songwriter, Ronan. I perform for a living.
You know that.”

“What is wrong with more conservative kit,

woman?”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I

regret them. Her eyes flash fire, but before her
feisty side rips free, I see a single moment of pain. I
don’t own her. And yet…I feel like I own her. I
want to own her. Body and soul.

But I’ll never admit it, even to myself. Doing so

would show weakness.

Savie bends down and tenderly opens the

suitcase, withdrawing one of the blinding items. It’s
so full of flash, I can’t even tell what it is. She
clutches the clothing to her ample chest and says
something so muffled, her answer is lost within the
blinding folds of fabric.

“This is my favorite costume,” she says, eyes

welling up with tears as she lifts her chin to face
me. “I wore it two years ago when I won a
Grammy for Best New Artist. My mom helped me
pick it out. We don’t see each other enough since I
moved to L.A. It’s why I named my guitar after her.
Helen.”

I stand there, a complete fool, clutching my

load of laundry to my own chest. I want to kneel
down next to her and push that wayward strand of
silky hair away from her face. I want to capture her
lips in a searing kiss. This soft and vulnerable
version of Savie is my favorite, compelling every
cell in my body to protect her and keep her safe.
Even if the threat to her health and happiness is me.

“What’s a Grammy?” I ask, never having heard

of it before now. I’ve never owned a television, and
try not to partake in the one at the inn. I’m
assuming it’s some kind of award since she
indicated that she won it.

“Only the most prestigious award in the entire

music industry. Even people from your country
covet them and want to win one. It will go down in

history as the most epic moment of my life.”

I sigh and crinkle my brow in consternation.

Her best moments have not yet come to pass. Of
that, I’m certain.

“But yer ‘av not wed yet, Savie. Yer ‘av not

birthed yer first child. Only then will yer truly know
what epic moments really mean. Life is not about
what a person obtains, ‘tis about experiences.
Special moments where the passage of time seems
to stand still.”

She places each hand on a saucy hip and gives

me a stink eye that could rival Caris when she’s
about to go all bleedin’ weapon on my arse.
“You’re not married or a father, either.”

I puff out my chest because that ridiculous

statement requires no further defense, and I’m not
going to argue with her. “I’m nay woman.”

She huffs a breath from her mouth that causes

her bangs to point toward the ceiling, mumbling
something that sounds like “Chauvinist pig,” but
I’m not sure. She goes back to re-arranging her
outfits inside the case. I look around my bedroom,
currently serving as Savie’s room, and realize she’s
not the tidiest of house guests.

Her head snaps up, and she tailgates my gaze

with her own. “I know it’s a mess, Ronan. I’m used
to having my people look after me.”

That part, I can understand. Although I do for

myself most days and can be independent, I don’t

deny it’s comforting to have Caris or Mary do some
of the women’s work. Once I do take a wife, I
won’t be cooking or doing laundry and cleaning
ever again.

But the ease of not having to perform menial

tasks comes with its own set of troubles. Women
and their damn emotions and moods that change
with the shift of the wind. If truth be told, I’ve
avoided the leg-shackling because I just don’t want
the trouble. I like my simple and provincial life and
a wife is going to mess with my hard-won peace.
My way is law here.

“Just how many people do yer ‘av?”
She frowns in concentration. “I guess if you

count Stevo, it’s ten total.”

“Ten?” I stare at her, wondering if I heard her

right. I also wonder if I should be worried since
Stevo sounds like a gyppo name. “And just who is
this Stevo?” The question comes out harsher than I
intend, but the very thought of a man being in her
life stokes a fire deep inside me.

“He’s my gardener. I have two personal

assistants, and—’

I interrupt before she can explain. “Stall the

ball, woman! Two helpers, did yer say? What do
they do all day?”

A muscle pops in her jaw, and I know I’ve

vexed her. “As I was saying, I have two personal
assistants, a trainer, a chef, a makeup artist, a hair

stylist, a publicist, a manager, a housekeeper, and
Stevo is my gardener.”

I snort out a laugh even though there’s nothing

comical about this conversation. I imagine Stevo as
a shitehawk pikey, and that helps but only for the
moment it takes me to inhale. “Well, yer couldn’t
possibly be expected to go without Stevo, now
could yer, lass?”

She holds up her hands and flashes them at me.

“Do these look like the hands that engage in
physical labor? Besides, I’m on tour nine months
out of the year. Am I supposed to just let my house
turn into an overgrown hovel while I’m gone? I’m
not supposed to take any pride in my residence?”

I tap a finger to my temple and pretend to

consider it. Of course, I can’t even imagine having
a bevy of staff to cater to my every whim. Well,
maybe a staff of one.

“I guess not.”
I step over her to put the load of laundry into

the wicker hamper Caris insisted upon when
Savanah stays my leg with her tapered fingers. I
tingle everywhere she touches.

“Stay here. I want to show you something.”
Just as Savie pulls another costume out of her

bag, a loud knock sounds at the door. Shite the bed,
Caris would just walk on in. Who’s the fecking
swamp donkey interrupting my alone time with my
woman?

Dread travels up my spine because I think I

know his identity before I get visual verification.
It’s a man with a death wish and a huge pair of
plums.

I swing the door open, and, sure enough, Cos

rushes past me, stopping to stand in the middle of
my living room. “Where is she? Where’s the
famous molly yer ‘av holed up in here, thicko?”

I look him up and down from his heaving chest

to his red face. “Are yer shitefaced?”

“Nay, the way yer talk, Rone, folks would think

I’m a piss artist just like my feckin’ da. Don’t yer
know any better than that? Yer been hangin’ ‘round
this townie and her fun bags too long?” He narrows
his eyes and gives me a look most men don’t have
the stones to give me. “Gone over to the dark side,
eh?”

Chapter Sixteen

Savannah

A knock at the door snaps my head up from Helen.
I’ve perched my ass in the living room and
snuggling into Ronan’s sofa seems the ideal thing to
do since none of my promised transportation out of
Wintervale have made it into town. It’s almost like
God wants me stuck here for all eternity. Like the
big man—or woman—is conspiring against me.

Even though I don’t want to admit it to myself,

staying here a little longer and continuing to
partake in the rough and sexy buffet that’s Ronan
O’Farrell appeals to my baser emotions. I haven’t
really even missed playing in front of a live crowd
since I’ve been in Wintervale. I’m completely
content with my crowd of one. For some reason, his
lone approval means more than thousands of raving
fans singing along with me to every word by rote.

I almost wish he was married already. If there

was another woman around here, one he’d already
claimed, I wouldn’t get this rush of lust-laced
adrenaline every single time he inserts himself into
my personal space like an insidious yearning of
toxic temptation causing me to scratch and claw for
a relationship that can never come to pass.

“She’s in the livin’ room,” that deep voice

rumbles from the front door. A shiver travels up my
spine just from the memory of it growling into my
ear.

Caris walks through the front door and moves

toward me, her trademark smile lighting her eyes.
“Good mornin’, Savannah. Doin’ some
songwritin’?”

I hug Helen to me. “Just playing around a bit. I

don’t want to get rusty while I enjoy my forced
vacation.”

It’s hard not to sound a little bitter. Caris just

shrugs it off and sits down beside me, an eager
expression on her face.

“Actually, that’s exactly why I’m here.”
I wonder at her cryptic words. Caris leans back

against the worn sofa, crossing her arms over her
chest. The fabric used to be a brilliant shade of
blue, much the color of Ronan’s eyes. Now, it’s just
the faded hue of a noncommittal sky.

“It is?” I’m anxious to find out what playing my

guitar could have to do with my being forced to
remain in Wintervale. I hope she doesn’t ask me to
teach lessons to the local kids. I’m okay with
children, but I’ve never had the patience needed to
teach music to anyone. I’m mostly self-taught.

Caris can’t hide another small smile, and it tugs

the corners of her lips upward. I admire her beauty
and youthful spirit. It seems a shame to have her
languishing away in this remote part of Ireland

while she runs the local inn. She’s such a talented
cook, I can see her really making a name for herself
in a more populated area of Ireland.

“We’d be honored if yer sing in the Solstice

Festival,” she says, blue eyes twinkling with
excitement. “What do yer think?”

I stare at her. “Sing? In the festival?”
My mind races. I won’t be here for the festival

so I’m not sure why she’s asking me this. I’ve
already missed two important dates that had to be
cancelled, and since I don’t live in Europe, I’m not
re-scheduling anything that can’t be squeezed in
before I jet back home in a couple months. I don’t
even want to go into how much money my
promoters lost over this bus break down. Since it
wasn’t our fault, insurance will cover it. But still…
I’m not the flighty or irresponsible type.

“We’d be so honored.” She’s so animated, and I

like the woman so much, I hate to tell her that I
can’t.

“I won’t be here, Caris,” I remind her as gently

as I can but still feel guilty when her face falls into
a mask of sadness. “My publicist sent another car
today. I’ll be leaving tonight at the latest.”

She worries her lip with her teeth, and my

stomach drops to the vicinity of my feet.

No, no, no. This can’t be happening.
I know what she’s going to say before the

words even leave her mouth. If I didn’t know

better, I’d swear that a deranged fan had it in for
me, and their favorite punishment is sending their
victim to Ireland to languish for all eternity.

“About that. I—”
“Would yer ladies care for a cup of scaldy?”

Ronan’s deep voice stops me from hearing the
news that I know will keep me in Wintervale at
least one more day. “I picked the herbs meself. ‘Tis
me latest concoction. Good for soothin’ the nerves,
‘tis.”

He hands me a steaming cup of something that

smells like heaven. It’s so aromatic and lush, my
mouth waters in anticipation. If I had more time,
I’d contemplate how he’s the first man in my life
who hasn’t panted at my feet like a lap dog,
wanting nothing more than to please me until I pat
his head in response. Still, he seems to know what I
need right when I need it. Then, he provides it, no
pats on the head necessary.

“Thank you,” I say, my hand trembling a bit as

I accept the tea. I hope he doesn’t notice. “You
were going to say something about my car, Caris.”

She sips her tea and stares at me over the brim.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she had something
to do with the car sabotage because there’s a
twinkle in her eye that can’t be denied. But that
can’t be the case. There’s no reason for her to keep
me here outside of her being a lukewarm fan. When
we’d talked at the pub, she hadn’t even known all

of my number one songs. Caris O’Farrell is not a
superfan stalker.

“Well, last I heard ‘tis over at Declan Breigh’s

place with a broken windshield.”

I set my tea down on the coffee table with a

resounding smack of china against wood. My eyes
sweep the room, and I notice that Ronan has
already fled the scene. Does he know something
about this? My temper threatens to explode, so that
probably isn’t a bad idea on his part.

“What on earth happened to it?”
“Do yer remember that giant tree on the edge

of the town square?”

I think back, imagining its snow-covered limbs

from a few days ago. The massive Douglas fir
towered over the entire width of the main street
into town. “Who could forget it? I remember
thinking it looked haunted. Like I wanted to write a
song about it.”

“Well, the heavy, wet snow caused a branch

high above to snap off, and would yer believe it
happened just as that fancy black car drove
underneath it. The driver’s lucky to be alive, since
he almost got creamed in the process. Branch went
right through the glass and landed in his lap. Had
quite a fright, he did.”

“That’s horrible,” I say, meaning every word.

“Damn storms. The moody weather has wreaked
more havoc than any other time I can ever

remember. I knew I hated snow.”

Caris smiles and sips her tea again. “In spite of

the calamities, we’re glad yer here. The whole
town’s buzzin’ about how the great Savannah Starr
has graced Wintervale with her presence. Yer
breathed new life into our ancient grove.”

I chuckle and take another sip of the delicious

homemade tea, wondering what’s in it and vowing
to ask Ronan about it later. Maybe he’ll even pack
me a care package to take with me. And if that care
package included him, that wouldn’t be too bad
either.

“I’m not sure whether I’ve breathed new life

into the grove or sucked the last breath of life out
of it. Seems I’ve been nothing but trouble ever
since I arrived.”

She laughs outright and reaches over to clasp

my hand in her warm one. I inhale and allow the
gift of friendship to flow over me. Part of me
wishes I had more time for all female relationships.
True friendships. But with the amount of notoriety
and money I have at my fingertips, I never know if
I’m wanted for myself or because of the trappings
that come along as partners to my fame.

“Ach, that’s ballsch, and yer know it.”
I’m not so sure.
“I’m glad you feel that way.” I clutch Caris’

palm as if it’s a lifeline that I don’t want to let go of
yet. Her feminine touch soothes me and makes me

feel like everything’s going to turn out alright. “I’m
sure there are others who feel my coming is a
curse.”

“I doubt it. Yer not like the rest of those spoiled

celebrities. Not that I know any of ‘em, mind yer.
Yer speak from yer heart. Yer may ‘av more money
than most, but yer ain’t let it completely go to yer
head.”

I let the compliment wash over me, drinking it

in. It’s heartfelt and genuine, something I’m just not
used to. All of the citizens of Wintervale that I’ve
had the pleasure to meet are exactly the same, with
no improper pride or ruses of superiority. Except
maybe Cosgrove Magee. That moron accosted me
outside the pub the day Ronan and I rode into
Wintervale on Mateo. And he’s only an idiot who
thinks he’s a player when he’s actually an ignorant
dipshit. Same douche, different country.

I smile as I think of most of the people I’ve met

here. Most are just a welcoming, honest bunch. I
imagine them walking down Hollywood Boulevard.
It would be the Irish version of the Beverly
Hillbillies. Just like the Clampetts, they’d never
last a second in a fast-paced society. And part of
me yearns for that same kind of anonymity and
naivety.

It might do you some good to slow down, Sarah

Strauss.

I see stars in front of my eyes as I struggle to

draw a breath. It’s been so long since I called
myself by my real name, I forgot the way it feels to
plummet into reality and out of the persona I’ve
held close to my heart for so many years. For a
fleeting moment, I drift back to my idyllic
childhood in Arcata and ground myself back into
my body as my true self.

“Are yer feelin’ a bit touched, Savannah?”
Sarah, I want to shout. My name’s Sarah!
But I don’t.
From her vantage point on the sofa, Caris

regards me with concern. I wonder what I’d see if I
looked at myself through the eyes of this woman, a
few days ago merely a stranger and now a friend. A
real friend who I think sees me as a person and not
a walking wallet.

What I need is someone who cares about me,

not what I can do for them. It hits me like a
thunderbolt that I might have actually found it here
in this sleepy little town.

Does Ronan care about me too? I just don’t

know. He keeps his emotions locked so deeply
within himself that I wonder if he could even
identify them if they flew up from his heart and
slapped him in the face. I imagine myself
underneath his hulking body, on all fours as he
pounds his massive cock in and out of me. But in
my recurrent fantasy, I can never see his eyes. And
I want to.

I want to see all of him. I want to see into his

soul.

“Sure. Except for the fact that I’m stuck here

and disappointing my fans night after night,
everything’s just peachy keen. Thank God, I can’t
look at my Instagram. I probably have hate
messages all over my social media.” I wonder if
Caris even knows what I’m talking about. “The
kind of hate we creative, sensitive types can never
recover from.”

I tamp my emotions back down into the depths

of my body, knowing I’ll pull them all out again
tonight, ruminating over each and every one.
Analyzing and reviewing. And judging.

“If ‘tis any consolation, the folks of Wintervale

want yer here. And we want yer to sing at our
festival if yer can. We’ve embraced yer and I hope
we’ve made yer feel welcome and safe. In turn, yer
captivated all of us with yer style, grace, and
music.”

I’m not sure if I ever received such a beautiful

compliment.

“I don’t think I’ll still be here. But if I am, of

course I’ll play for your festival. Anything in
particular you want to hear?”

The prickles on the back of my neck let me

know that Ronan’s come back into the room. He
pours hot water over my tea bag, freshening my
drink.

“Yer should play that new song yer wrote,

Savie. ‘Tis a bag ‘o swhag, lass.”

A bag of what? I have no idea, but I’m guessing

it’s a good thing.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, smiling up at him. He

doesn’t smile back. He just stares and everywhere
his eyes touch, I burn.

I try to drop my gaze, but it’s melted onto his.
Thank the pagan God you pray to, Ronan

O’Farrell, that I won’t be here. Because if I stay
even one more day, I might never, ever want to
leave.

Chapter Seventeen

Ronan

“I’m comin’!”

Another knock sounds even after I shout out

my displeasure. Whoever’s on the other side of that
door is going to get a dressing down. I can only
move so fast. If it’s Cos again, dumping his ballsch
on my doorstep and offending Savie, I’m going to
smack that neddy.

I swing the door open only to find a

bespectacled and flustered Declan Bleigh on the
other side.

“Sorry to bother yer, Ronan. Is Ms. Starr here?”
I step back and make a sweeping gesture with

my arm so the man isn’t left standing out on the
front porch in the cold. “Nay, she’s in town with
Caris. My sister hoodwinked her into helpin’ with
the festival. Since Savie…Savannah is bored out
here, she agreed to go into town for dinner at the
pub and some female chit chat. Why?”

The man glances around the room as if my

words are nothing but lies. What the feck?

“’Tis of a sensitive nature.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Declan, yer a

mechanic. Exactly what do yer ‘av to tell Savannah
that’s of a sensitive nature? Did yer use the wrong

wrench to tighten her lug nuts?”

He tries to smile but it comes across as a

grimace of agony. “’Tis not a message for her, ‘tis a
message about her. For yer. Somethin’ yer need to
know.”

In the space of a second, my heart begins to

race. I can’t even imagine what Declan thinks I
would need to know about my current house guest.
Is she some kind of criminal? I imagine her lush
body moving underneath mine, taking every single
thing I give her…and more. The memory is a
strange kind of thing, given to exaggeration and
glorification. What if mine is all wrong? Nay, that
can’t be true. I’ve had my cock balls deep in many
women since I lost my virginity at thirteen, but I’ve
never had the feeling of completeness that I enjoy
with Savie.

Not once.
“What about her?” I ask. Declan blows right by

me to land in the middle of my kitchen. He paces
back and forth, practically wearing a path into my
hardwood floors. I stand there, confused and with
rising ire.

He reaches inside the waistband of his pants

like he’s going to show me his langer, and I get the
impression something is about to go horribly wrong.
I wave a hand through the air, staying him. All of a
sudden, I don’t want to know. Whatever it is, it’s
bringing up lingering emotions from my past, when

women have betrayed me and blown my world into
the depths of hell. Even if Savie’s about to do the
same, I still want her with a passion that’s mindless,
careless, and devoid of all sanity.

“Yer ‘av to know this, Ronan.”
I feckin’ give up.
“Well, what is it? And don’t tell me yer need to

pull yer manky scunders down to do it!”

Before I can protest again, Declan produces a

worn magazine with the picture of a smiling Savie
on the front cover. I barely recognize her. Layers of
makeup cover every fragile feature of her face.
She’s wearing another one of those star-spangled
getups she wears on the stage that look like
glorified knickers. Costumes, she calls them. I like
her without all the trappings of fame that shout in
my face that she’s not the lass for me.

I stare at the magazine, wanting to fall into the

shadows of her eyes, wanting to replay the past and
create a different ending for myself. One where a
woman’s betrayal doesn’t slice into my soul. One
where I get the family I’ve always wanted.

After a few tortured moments, I read the

headline:

Pop superstar, Savannah Starr, pregnant with

guitarist Jet Master’s love child.

Declan takes a few steps backward after I lurch

forward and grab the offensive pages. After staring
a few more seconds, my anger snakes up my spine,

threatening to choke me. Like storm clouds in an
early spring sky, shrouds of grey steal the blue from
the winter horizon. They roll and thunder, but
beneath their darkness, I see one ray of light. Now
that I know Savie’s carrying another man’s baby
while she’s fecking me like some kind of slapper, it
takes any tortured decision I might have had about
sending her away from me.

With the strength of one midnight confessional,

I’m free. So why do I feel like I’m trapped in a cage
of my own making?

She’s not the one. She’s not the one from the

ritual. This magazine is proof.

“I don’t think ‘tis a good idea for yer to get too

close to this molly,” Declan says, backing up in the
face of the heat radiating off me in waves. I
probably look like I’m going to throttle him when in
fact, the only person worthy of my raging anger is
myself.

Savie is so alien to me, so exotic compared to

the other women I’ve known throughout the years.
When I stumbled across her during the blizzard,
stranded in her monstrosity of a bombardier, she’d
seemed to need saving. Now, I’m the one who
needs saving.

From her.
“Don’t go gettin’ yer knickers in a wad, Declan.

I’m not gettin’ close to her. In any way. Where did
yer get this publication?” I ask the question as if

knowing its origin is going to make the information
any more palatable. My stomach flips over, and I
struggle to keep breathing so I can fire more
questions at him.

“Yesterday, I be walkin’ from the garage to the

pub to get a pint and one of those delicious roast
beef sandwiches that Caris makes, so I was. Right
in the middle of the street, Mary Murphy flags me
down, using this here magazine. Yer know how she
gets. She be wantin’ us to throw Miss Starr out of
Wintervale on her arse. Like I’d ever do that to a
pregnant lass.”

“Where did Mary get it?”
This isn’t the type of material anyone reads

around here. Most days, Caris doesn’t even want
anyone reading the local paper. Wants everyone
communicating face to face. Personal contact and
all that other female stuff that no man ever needs or
wants.

Declan makes a face. “I’ve nair an idea. She

probably picked it up at the library. She’s always
there with a stack of books and her nose right in
‘em. Sometimes, I think that woman does too much
learnin’. And yer encourage her, Ronan, including
her in all the important rituals. Especially, the
rituals that only require one other besides yerself.”

I look at the magazine again. “Well, if ‘tis from

the library, it must be true.”

Declan reaches out and touches my arm in

silent male solidarity and consolation. My sister
must have been shooting her yap off again about
the ritual and the calling in of the one. Except…
Savie’s not the one. I no longer fecking believe in
the Cailleach Beare, either. I’ll always love Sal, but
I’ll never believe her again.

I walk away from Declan and peer out the

window, focusing on the sunshine dancing across
the remaining dots of sparkling white snow instead
of the way my heart feels as if it’s been ripped from
my chest cavity.

The feeling is ridiculous, I know. But it’s there.
“When a musician pulls a note out of thin air,

some people see the travel of fingers across the
instrument. Others see only the magic. I used to see
it, but I’ve had years of female betrayal leadin’ to
skepticism and disbelief. And the written proof is
right in front of my still denyin’ eyes.”

Declan nods in sympathy. “If ‘tis any

consolation, the part to the bus arrives tomorrow.
She won’t be here much longer. I know the big star
is itchin’ to flee our town and get back to her big
city roots. And to the father of her unborn child, so
I would say.”

“I wish Caris was here right now,” I say,

continuing to stare outside. My face grows hot
under the weight of my negative emotions and it
would feel good to step out into the fresh air and
clear my head. But that would be rude, and I’m not

going to shove Declan out of my cottage for my
own comfort when he came here with good
intentions.

“Why?”
“’Cause a man could use a Guinness right about

now.”

He sighs. “’Tis true.”
The sound of a car’s tires scrunching down the

gravel drive yanks me back to the present. Caris
must be bringing Savie back home from the festival
preparations.

No, not home. This is my home. Never will it be

hers.

“Shove that feckin’ thing back down yer

cacks!” I snap, not wanting any evidence of my
new knowledge to come into the light of day until I
have a chance to digest it alone.

Declan jumps to attention and complies just as

the front door swings open and the girls breeze
through it, all giggles and feminine energy. For a
tortured second, I wish for more than what I have
after my newfound knowledge. I want it all. I want
to be the da of Savie’s baby.

She moves to stand near me, and I can feel the

magnetic pull coming off her in pulses that are hard
to ignore. She tosses her hair away from her face
and looks at me, her eyes glittering with something
I can’t articulate.

“Did yer ladies ‘av a good time?” I want to

break the crackling silence with a subject that can’t
be misconstrued as controversial.

“Aye, that we did,” Caris says, sliding into a

dining chair and looking at me with expectant eyes
that demand an invitation. If she thinks I’m going to
just brew her a cup of scaldy as easy as you please,
she needs to reconsider.

“We did,” Savie adds. Unconsciously, I take a

step toward her, overcome with the need to touch
her, feel her body pressed against mine just one last
time.

But I don’t.
I watch her sit down and feel her loss instead.

Even though she’s still here in my home, the
moment I found out about her deception, she
drifted so far away that she might as well be back
in America. I wonder what she had been thinking,
wonder why she gave herself to me when someone
else clearly stood between us. Is that how women
outside of my small circle live?

Running my hands over my newly barbered

face, I know in an instant that it’s going to be
difficult to move forward until I resolve this issue
within myself. I need to ask her about this situation.
Once I have closure, maybe I’ll be able to let her go
without malice and only hope for her happiness.

“Yer part is scheduled to arrive on the morrow,”

Declan says, and I pretend not to notice how
Savie’s eyes light up with pleasure. The expression

is similar to the pure and honest pleasure I’ve seen
when she’s strumming her guitar.

Caris reaches across the table and grabs Savie’s

hand. “I’m really goin’ to miss yer, Savie.”

“Me too.” There’s actually a touch of emotion

behind her flippant words. Mayhaps she is a good
actress in addition to having the voice of a bird.

The thought strengthens my resolve.
Come tomorrow, Savie Starr will reside only as

a ghost of a memory from my past. Holding on to
my anger like a badge of honor will stiffen my
backbone and prevent me from reaching out to her,
as I refuse to give in to the desperate needs of my
body. I fear giving in might destroy me.

Somehow, I’d placed the weight of saving her

squarely on my own shoulders just like I’d placed
the health and happiness of my community on that
broad width. As their Bard, I hold part of their very
souls in the palm of my hand, and I won’t let them
down. I will rise up to meet any and all challenges
head on.

Declan lifts a brow. “I’ll see yer tomorrow

then?”

Savie nods in agreement, the relief clear on her

face. “Yes, tomorrow.”

Caris looks from me to Savannah. “Well, at

least yer get to sing in the festival, so yer do.”

Savie’s eyes flash on Declan. “Won’t the bus be

fixed tomorrow?”

He shakes his head. “Nay. ‘Tis a detailed and

time-consumin’ repair. The parts don’t come in ‘til
the afternoon, and I don’t work weekends.
Especially not the weekend of the festival.
Otherwise, I might ‘av been talked into it. If I don’t
play my part to her approval, the missus might cut
off me knackers.”

I expect the spoiled songstress to begin to wail

at the inconvenience. Instead, she looks at Caris
and shrugs. “Okay. I guess Wintervale, Ireland is an
extra special stop on my world tour.” Then she
turns to me. “On one condition.”

All eyes turn on me, and I swallow. “What’s

that?”

Savie grins. “You have to play with me.”
Shite.

Chapter Eighteen

Savannah

By the Light of Arthur here I stand
The long night as cold as my heart
Winter lifts the veil, giving way to the spring
Tearing the truth of my past apart

As the last chords of the melody fade into the

crisp air, I glance over at Ronan. I still can’t believe
I talked him into singing and playing with me. The
sun shines warm on my face. My lips yearn to pull
into a smile of contentment. For the creativity. For
the simple beauty of the venue.

For the man sitting beside me.
But my lips falter, unable to complete the

upward swing. It’s as if they’re frozen in place by
Ronan’s icy demeanor. He’s been so frosty, I’m
surprised his fingers were thawed out enough to
work the strings the past few minutes.

A tenuous burst of panic sweeps through me

even as my ears digest the roar of the small crowd.
Their love and support don’t move me when the
man beside me looks like he hates my guts. Of
course, his anger is better than the total avoidance
I’d been treated to last night and this morning.
Without a word, he’d climbed into the loft, leaving
me to look at the space in which he’d disappeared,

completely puzzled.

This morning was much of the same, with

Ronan barely looking in my direction. He was
polite but very distant, and the more I tried to
interact with him, the more he pulled away. On the
ride into town, he placed a bag between us,
ensuring that our bodies were unable to touch in the
saddle as they had our first trip into town. He didn’t
touch me, not even to help me onto his horse.

And I have no idea why.
When we played our song…everything else

melted away for those few magical moments. Our
voices merged as if two lost souls had found their
home.

The music had moved me, but now it’s over.

The connection is over. Everything is over.

I close my eyes for a moment, fighting away the

deep grief that accompanies my thoughts of Ronan
and my impending departure.

Tomorrow, I’ll be gone. And I hate it. Hate to

leave things so cold between us. I know me and
how my mind works. For all of my life, I’ll wonder
and worry about what happened. There are loose
ends between us. Loose ends that need to be tied
tonight.

If he’ll even talk to me.
Emptiness settles in bone deep. I acknowledge

the crowd with what I hope appears to be a genuine
smile and wave, and then rise, leaving Ronan

behind to deal with later. After placing Helen in her
velvet-lined case, I pivot my head, searching for
Caris. At least she’ll be nice to me. I still want to
walk around the festival and learn more about the
traditions of this ancient Yule celebration.

“Don’t walk away from me, woman,” Ronan’s

deep baritone stops me dead in my tracks.

So, we’re back to woman again, are we? I can

feel his electric heat before I even turn around. I
don’t want to move as every cell in my body
screams to defy him. He doesn’t own me, and his
surly behavior doesn’t inspire me to capitulate to
his moody whims.

As I imagine walking away, for one final second

I stay rigid and remember what it felt like to fall
into the arms of a man who can hold space for me
instead of simpering and falling at my feet. Even
now, he takes me to a place I’ve never been before.
His entire body radiates a raw masculinity that I
can’t describe. I can only feel it.

And dammit, do I feel it now.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I say, and I might

not even mean it. The words are a knee-jerk
reaction to his control over my body. Over my
reactions. The sudden thudding of my heart irritates
me along with the crackling magnetic pull
suspended in the air between us.

I jump when I feel the heat and pressure of his

large hand touch my shoulder. I hate my body for

reminding me how much I’m affected by this man.

“I want to talk to yer about somethin’ afore yer

go, if yer please.”

I don’t please.
“I need to go find your sister,” I say, not giving

him a chance to make any more demands I can’t
honor.

Besides, the sooner I can get away from him,

the sooner I can exhale.

His hand tightens when I try to jerk away. “I

won’t be denied.” The same grit dripped from his
tone the first time we had sex. I’m sure he’s used it
during every single encounter with a woman since
he reached puberty. He’s not going to get away
with his leash and collar bullshit with me. I’m
fucking Savannah Starr. No man disrespects me
more than once and gets away with it.

“You may find it easy to convince the people

here in Wintervale that you’re some kind of demi-
God, Ronan. I’m not so easily swayed.” I poke him
in the chest. “If you don’t shut the fuck up and stop
trying to control me, I’m going to slap your
impertinent face. What do you think of that?”

The fingers on my shoulder become my answer,

digging into my flesh so deeply the line between
pleasure and pain blurs into a tornado of sensation.
He yanks me until I fall into his solid chest with a
resounding thump of aching flesh.

His warm breath hovers around my ear. All I

feel is his steely body flush with mine, and all I can
hear is the thudding of my own heartbeat in my
ears. Tense moments crawl by until he finally
breaks the silence. “I’d like to see yer try it,
woman.”

“Don’t tempt me, man. You’re pushing me, and

one day, you’ll push me too far.”

I tense even further, my body a ball of anxiety

and seething emotion. He smells like man and lust
and something else that I never knew I wanted. A
wave of answering heat sweeps through me,
wetting my panties. Every single time I try to will it
away, it flitters off for a second but then comes
back twice as strong as before.

I raise my hand to hit him just to prove that I

can, but he anticipates me and encircles my wrist in
a vice-like grip. We’re standing in the wings of a
makeshift stage. Hundreds of people socialize and
dance around us, taking in the sights, sounds, and
tastes of the Yule celebration. But Ronan and I are
alone in spite of the boisterous company. No one
else exists in this moment and time.

He wrests me away from the crowd, and I

struggle in earnest, flailing my arms and legs. With
each awkward movement, his commitment to
contain me grows until I can’t even flex a muscle
without an answering squeeze from his hand or his
body. He traps me as he bends me to his desires,
and it’s not a feeling I’m used to.

My heart begs to explode out of my chest as I

anticipate a thousand ways I can make him pay for
manhandling me. I’ve never wanted to call my
lawyer so much in my entire life. And after that
phone call, I want to make a date with my vibrator.
In spite of what he’s doing to me, I still want him
with a fervor that can’t be denied.

Then why am I not screaming for Mel?
You know why.
“You’re hurting me!” It’s a futile hope that my

raw words can play on his mercy. Not that he has
any. How could I forget that very important fact?
What he hasn’t anticipated is that I never back
away or down from anyone. He may have every
single part of my body wrapped up in a maelstrom
of turbulent emotion. Except one.

I lift my foot and bring it down on the top of

his, delighting in the crunch of my heel on his
leather boot. That’s going to leave a bruise.

Ronan jerks me even harder against him, and

before I can even inhale, he captures my lips in a
kiss so searing, I fear flames might erupt around us
right on this first day of winter. His mouth covers
mine, taking everything that I’ve been unwilling to
give. More like demanding. And damn me and my
traitorous body, I surrender with only a pathetic
final protest, melting into him.

I’m letting him devour me at the same time my

mind’s screaming at me to pull away so I can retain

a shred of dignity. In a burst of rational thought, I
twist away from him and look up into his face.
Those damn blue eyes dance with mirth, and fire,
and…triumph. I reach out my hand again, wanting
more than anything to connect my flesh to his in a
way where I can gain control. He grabs my wrist,
but this time he brings my hand between his legs.
His cock throbs and pulses underneath my palm,
and all my self-righteous anger fades away.

“I think ‘tis time yer use yer hands for

somethin’ more productive, woman,” he rasps, and
I feel him grow harder under my palm. “Don’t defy
me again.”

As if I’m in some kind of hypnotic trance, I sink

to my knees. If I’d had a drink before going on
stage, I’d swear he slipped something in it. I
imagine him standing in front of a sacrificial altar,
casting a spell on me that makes me want to jump
to perform his warped bidding.

Even knowing how foolish I am, I slowly unzip

his jeans, never losing eye contact with those
piercing blue orbs. He holds my stare, demanding I
give him exactly what he wants. All of me. The
price is too high but that doesn’t stop me from
capitulating. Every nerve in my body fires on all
cylinders, my blood rushing through my veins. I
want to be possessed in a way I’ve never been
before.

When Ronan makes his incessant and

unreasonable demands, something comes over me,
stealing my senses. Like he’s giving me the space to
forget the parts of my life where I’m forced to
become a caricature of myself. With him, I can let
all of that pretending fall away, and I come into
myself as a woman in a way I’ve never been
before.

As Sarah.
He’s so big, so powerful. And yet…there’s a

gentleness about him too. Not everyone can see it.
But I can. I can see all of Ronan O’Farrell, even the
parts he keeps hidden and locked away so tightly.

“Yer laggin’, Savie. Put yer mouth on me. I

want yer to suck me ‘til I come straight down yer
throat.”

I don’t want to fight with him anymore, I just

want to wrap my lips around him. I want it even
more than he does. My mouth waters and another
flood of wetness pools between my legs. I don’t
even care that someone could barge into this flimsy
tent and see me going down on a man I barely
know.

I take his straining cock in my hand and work it

into my open mouth. I have to stretch my lips wide,
but I delight in the strength and power there. The
throbbing heat takes over as I close my lips around
him and my eyes flutter shut. Ronan’s hands slide
into my hair to pull me close. I know if I don’t do
what he likes, he’ll give me a little pull to correct

me.

I move my head back and forth, his steely shaft

popping in and out of my mouth. Using my tongue
to stroke his length, I enjoy the sound of a strangled
moan as it leaves his lips. I’m getting to him, and it
gives me a power unlike any I’ve ever experienced.
I’m no blushing virgin, but I’m not loose either.
Ever since I became Savannah Starr, the men I’ve
been with have worshipped me in a way that
becomes a turn off within months.

Not Ronan O’Farrell.
I’m on my knees worshipping at the altar of his

monster cock and loving every second of it. He’s
too big for me to take the whole length inside my
mouth, and I move my hands to cover the inches I
can’t take. After trying to close my fingers around
the base, I finally give up and work him over as
best I can, sucking in my cheeks and using my
tongue underneath.

I feel Ronan moving against me, and I glance

up, wanting to see his face. His eyes are closed.
Seems he’s unable to stick to his own rules in this
twisted game. I reach down to touch myself as I
suck, feeling dirty and raw as I do. Swirling my
tongue around the tip of Ronan’s cock, I lick up the
salty essence of his unique taste.

“Don’t stop, Savie.”
My pussy clenches at his words, and I know

he’s close. I moan against his skin and he pulls me

even closer, becoming frantic in his breathing and
movements. I love the feeling of his fingers tangled
in my hair, guiding me to his greatest pleasure. This
is the first time I’ve ever tasted a man in this way,
but I’m not worried. It’s like I want to take a part of
Ronan with me when I go, take his DNA into my
body.

I rub myself faster as I pleasure him, and my

own breathing becomes haggard. I’m going to come
with a cock in my mouth and underneath the
pressure of my own hand. Thank God TMZ can’t
see me now, vulnerable and surrendering to a man
that more closely resembles a Neanderthal than any
metrosexual on the streets of L.A.

I’m about to explode, I’m so close. I moan

again, and this time Ronan lifts his hips, thrusting
himself so deep inside my mouth it almost trips my
gag reflex. Looking up at him, our eyes meet as we
slip over the edge together. Sucking down every
drop, I realize I’m never, ever going to be the same
once I leave Wintervale.

Because…just as I’m taking a part of him with

me, I’m also leaving a part of me behind.

Chapter Nineteen

Ronan

“We thank ‘em for their gifts.”

Mary stands beside me, naked as the day she

was born. In the past, I’d have shoved her to the
ground and fucked her hard and fast, coming deep
inside her fertile womb. Now, Savie’s ruined me for
all other women. I’ve had mouths on my cock
before, but I’ve never felt anything like the heat
and wetness of hers. One glance down at her ruby-
red lips wrapped around me, and I came so hard
that I saw stars and had to steady myself to keep
from blacking out and falling down. The worst part
about my self-betrayal?

I want more.
I want so fecking much more, I can’t even

speak of it. Even to Caris. She’ll only start spouting
her drivel about Savie being the one…and she’s not
the one. Not even close.

Baaaa.
The bleat of a sheep snaps me out of my

revelry, and I chastise myself with a severe shake
of my head. Woolston McOvine looks up at me
with her liquid brown eyes, almost as if she’s telling
me to hurry it up. She lives in the shed with Mateo,
and her only job on the farm is to give of her wool

each Yule. I’ve performed this sacrificial ritual the
night of the solstice festival every year since I came
of age at thirteen. I lost my virginity that first night
to a woman twenty years my senior. I can still
remember the pride that puffed my da’s chest at my
success in demanding her submission.

It’s a ritual that only involves two people. The

Bard and his woman. Every year since my twenty-
first, that woman has been Mary. Sadly, this eve, I
see someone else’s face every single time I close
my eyes. A wave of sadness flows over me, and I
struggle to retain my focus. The ritual’s important
to me, even if the woman no longer is.

I raise the sharp knife high in the air and bless

it, the familiar words flowing over me. Bringing it
down, I shear a swath of wool to offer as a gift to
the pagan gods we worship, in hopes that we’ll
have a bountiful year full of robust crops, health,
and happiness for our people.

Mary moves forward and presents her naked

body to the altar. “We thank ‘em for their gifts,”
she whispers.

I drag the knife across her full breast, careful

not to leave a mark. Once I reach her thick head of
auburn hair, I twirl a tress around my finger and
snip it off with my blade. Presenting it to the gods
along with the wool, both Mary and I bless
Wintervale and all of her creatures great and small
using the ancient Gaelic language.

Once the ritual has ended, I wrap my fur mack

around Mary’s slender shoulders. She doesn’t start
shivering in spite of the low temperatures until it’s
all over. When we’re in the midst of our worship, it
seems as if all worldly sensations remain at bay,
almost as if they understand the importance of
retaining the integrity of the sacrifice.

“Why are yer covering me, Ronan?”
Ach, I’m not in the mood for female drama

right now. How am I supposed to explain that I no
longer want what she’s offering? That she’ll never
be my wife in spite of her continued machinations.
That I pine for another that I can never have.

I miss yer already, Savie, and yer not even

gone yet.

I lose the empathy I feel within the blustering

grit that I offer instead. “’Tis time for yer to go
home, Mary. The ritual is over. We’ve offered our
gratitude to the Gods and now the rest is up to
‘em.”

“But my woman’s core aches for yer. When yer

look at me, Ronan, my flange tingles. Every year
for the past nine, we’ve sealed our ritual with
another more personal one of our own. Don’t yer
want me anymore? What ‘av I done to displease
yer?”

I imagine her standing in the middle of the pub,

making fun of Savie and being rude and aggressive
toward her. Then I imagine her flagging Declan

down in the street with a magazine in order to hurt
Savie again, and it sickens me. She sickens me. I’m
going to have to find a new partner to perform this
ceremony with me prior to the next Yule.

Unbidden, Savie’s beautiful face comes to

mind. I imagine her lush curves bare to my eyes as
well as Mother Nature’s as she offers herself in
gratitude to the Gods. I offer a lock of her lustrous
hair as well as sheep’s wool, holding the offerings
high in the air. After we sing the blessing in perfect
unison, I cover her body with my own and claim
her as mine by connecting our bodies in a ritual as
old as time itself.

And all is right with the world.
My disappointed member twitches underneath

the folds of my robe. The moment escapes my
sanity again and I glance up in time to see Mary
staring at me, waiting for a response. And I have
none outside of what I’ve already offered.

“Yer done naught wrong, Mary. I’m just not in

the frame of mind to perform anythin’ further
tonight. I’m exhausted after my musical
performance this eve.”

She thrusts her lower lip out, and I want to not

notice as it quivers with emotion. Those amber eyes
pool with unshed tears. It should tug at my
heartstrings, and yet…it doesn’t. I just want the
moody and deceitful woman out of my sight. Prior
to Savie, women always tugged and pulled at me,

striving to take things that I wasn’t willing to give.
Savie’s the first woman who’s offered herself
completely with no questions asked while wanting
nothing in return. Much like the gratitude gifts I just
offered in ritual, Mary’s pussy only comes with a
price. And I’m fresh out of the currency to pay it.

“But—”
“Enough,” I snap with a wave of my hand.

Immediately, I regret my harsh tone, but she’s
making it impossible to deal with her manipulations.
“I trust yer can find yer own way home? Yer did
drive here, didn’t yer?”

A single tear escapes her eyelid and blazes a

trail down her cheek. In a fit of emotion, she turns,
drops the coat, and presents me her rounded arse,
no doubt hoping I’ll get chubbed up. It’s a futile
attempt to get me to cave in and flatten her. I’m not
taking the bait. Irritated and frustrated, I turn and
walk away, Woolston trailing behind me, her
hooves crunching on the ground below us.

“Yer did well, me wee lassie, so yer did,” I

croon to the sheep as I lock her inside the warm
shed where Mateo stands munching on a flake of
hay.

I sheath the sharp blade in a leather holster at

my waist. Quietly, I slip inside the cottage, careful
not to wake Savie. The last thing I need is more
questions that I can’t answer fired at me by an
overemotional woman. All I want is a cup of herbal

scaldy and then a warm bed. Savie will be gone
tomorrow, and I’ll be left here alone to contemplate
a future without her. Maybe the sun won’t rise in
the morn, cloaking my world in darkness.

After I have a cup of chamomile in my hand, I

break down and allow myself the opportunity to
look in on her. The performance tonight was well
received, and the applause of my people lingered
long after the last note floated away into the Irish
mist.

I crack the door to my bedroom open and peek

inside. A ray of moonlight carries from the window
and illuminates her delicate features. Her hands are
tucked up underneath her chin and her long, raven
hair streams out across the pillow. I want to awaken
her by twining my fingers into the thick locks and
lead her lips to mine for another claiming.

Chasing away the yearning that floods my body,

I walk toward the bed, every muscle tense. Once I
reach the edge, I extend my hand and touch the
silken strands laying against the white of the pillow
case. I inhale, wanting to imprint her scent on my
soul just as I remember the way she feels against
me, skin to skin.

I’m going to miss yer, Savie. There will nay be

another like yer.

A part of me longs for the simplicity of my life

before I realized I might want something I’d never
known was possible. Long ignored recesses in my

body will ache for this woman for many Solstices
after she leaves Wintervale.

Is the magic between us simply my body

overcome with a lust I’ve never felt before, or is it
really something deeper? More profound? The
words of the Cailleach Beare float back across my
brain.

Love and happiness shall abound for the

Order, and bring forward a soul mate for the Bard,
our leader, this Yule.

This Yule. Today.
With the rough edges wrapped around that

obvious lie, I’m starting to question my own beliefs.
This will be the very first time a prediction by the
seer doesn’t come to pass as she portends. It’s hard
not to wallow in self-pity when I realize the only
anomaly regards me. But who else should take the
weight of broken promises and emotional pain on
their broad shoulders if not the Bard of Wintervale
himself?

I jump when Savie turns her face toward me,

and I fear her eyes will flutter open, spearing me in
place. A soft snore escapes her lips, and I grin. If
she were awake, she would get all huffy and insist
she doesn’t snore. Of course, I wouldn’t be able to
provide one of those obscene electronic devices
complete with video to prove her wrong. I will
never possess one of those soul-sucking cellular
phones.

The streaming moonlight draws my attention,

and I glance out the window. My ma would love
Savie and her musical talents. I inherited my own
from her side of the family. Before she passed, we
used to sit on the front porch of the inn and play a
lively tune or two to the delight of my da and
patrons of the inn. I still can’t believe that illness
claimed them both together, but my folks didn’t
believe in traditional medical care. Caris and I
know taking them to the hospital could have saved
them, but they wouldn’t allow it. Now, we both
have to live with that knowledge and the feelings of
frustration that helplessness births.

A fleeting disappointment over what might have

been pinches my heart into a twisted mass of regret.
Seems I can’t do anything right in my life where
people are concerned. I wonder if I should even be
the leader of Wintervale. If I even possess the
strength to continue. I study Savie’s smooth skin,
wondering how I can keep track of her to know
she’s healthy without possession of any electronics.
I already think of her as mine to protect.

I last another few moments and then escape to

the confines of the loft. With any luck, she’ll be
gone before I even get up in the morning, and I’ll
be able to skip the trite goodbyes. Declan is coming
for her in his car, and she’s going to stay at the inn
so she can get a head start as soon as the bus is
finished. I wonder how much money she had to pay

him to work on a Sunday when he said nothing
could entice him to work on the Yule. Probably
used her considerable charm to work her magic on
the man.

Once in the attic, almost unconsciously, I doff

my ceremonial robe and slide in to the spare bed
naked, only to spend the next several minutes
staring at the ceiling. I wonder if the mystic quality
of the past few days is even real or just some
figment of my overactive imagination brought on
by one of my favorite times of year. If when I wake
up in the morn, the only person with any
recollection of these days will be me, a glossy
mirage painted by the mist that lies between the gap
of fantasy and reality.

I rub my temples where a headache is starting

to form. I have to stop ruminating over Savie and
her leaving. It’s done. It’s my current reality. No
amount of worrying over it or wishing it were
different is going to help ease the pain. Her life is in
the US and my life is in a small grove in Ireland. We
shared a poignant moment in time, no more, no
less. I’ll give it the respect it deserves, but I don’t
have the powers to make it into more.

With the thought of Savie’s lush body wrapped

around my own, I drift into a fitful sleep, my mind
adrift on hopes that will never be realized.

Chapter Twenty

Savie

Mel: Declan’s car won’t start. It’ll be several hours
before Caris can get away. Do you think Ronan
will see you safely into town?

No. Fucking. Way.
Savie: Your paycheck signer no longer rides

gigantic equines down the road at the expense of
her own safety and sanity.

This sitcom version of Murphy’s Law is going

to snake up and bite me in the ass. I stare at my
suitcases, the thought of leaving them behind
tugging at my heart. It aches. For Ronan and what
will never be but also for what I’ve been through
over the past few days. I’ve squeezed more life into
the time I’ve spent in Wintervale than I have in
L.A. since I moved there.

Nudging the expensive case with my foot, I

think through my options. I’m sure Caris will have
them shipped. For some reason, I know I can trust
the older woman. She’s a true friend with a heart of
gold, and I’ll make sure she’s compensated for her
time and trouble.

After what I saw last night prior to retiring for

the evening, I’m not willing to spend another hour
in this cottage with him. I’m so pissed that I

allowed him to pull the wool over my eyes.

I groan, immediately regretting my choice of

euphemism because my mind drifts to the poor,
gentle sheep that lost its life at the hands of Ronan
O’Farrell and his evil actions based on some
paganism that should have died around the time of
Christ’s birth.

The liquid black eyes and soft bleats of the

gentle animal are going to haunt me for the rest of
my days. I struggled to fall asleep last night because
of what I witnessed. I don’t even want to consider
the curvaceous naked body of the flame-haired
woman that offered herself to Ronan right
alongside whatever fake idol they were both
worshiping with their animal sacrifices.

It sickens me. I can’t believe I was so bowled

over by a poser, thinking his beliefs were natural
and beautiful.

He’s really no different than a yellow robe

wearing, shaved head sporting Hare Krishna
handing out flyers at the airport.

A flash of heat creeps into my face at my own

expense, and I walk over to the window so I can
slide it open a crack. A woman’s voice reaches my
ears, and I stop in my tracks, straining them so I
can make out her words. Rage quickly replaces the
mild irritation I’d whipped up inside myself because
I can’t believe the woman he fucked out in the
woods last night slept here and now stands right

outside my window.

“I still don’t understand why we can’t be

together,” she whines, throwing her arms around
Ronan’s neck and pressing her full breasts to his
chest. “’Tis what everyone expects, Ronan. ‘Tis
what yer ma and da would ‘av wanted.”

I stare in rapt fascination as he twists away

from her.

“Nay.” His voice turns uneven and gritty. I

can’t tell if it’s because of anger or desire. “’Tis
dead, Mary. The past is dead and buried and nothin’
is goin’ to be served by talkin’ it to death. ‘Tis
already been talked into the ground. Our interludes
were born of youth and blossomed into a twin ritual
practice that worked for us both. ‘Tis over now.”

For a long moment, the gorgeous woman

searches his face, as if weighing her options. If I
tiptoed down there, I’d advise her not to engage
him any further. He’s wearing a look that I’ve
never seen on his face before. It’s as if he’s had
enough and one more comment is going to cause
him to snap and turn into a towering inferno of
annoyance.

Finally, she nods. “Then I’ll see yer when next

yer come to visit Caris at the inn. We’ll ‘av a pint
together, we will.”

She turns and walks away, out of my line of

sight. I fist my hands at my sides because they itch
to run outside and slap him. But what’s the purpose

in that? He’s already proven he doesn’t listen and
doesn’t care about anyone’s feelings but his own.
I’m so over it. All I want is to get the hell out of this
godforsaken place.

And the only way out of here is on horseback.

But not with him.

I groan and slip out the side door of Ronan’s

cottage before he can notice me. Hoping I
remember how to get the bridle on Mateo, I grab it
from its wooden peg on the side of the interior shed
door. He nickers and snorts a huge puff of white
steam from his massive nostrils. Fear threatens to
overcome me, and I double over to reclaim my
breath. I’ve never ridden a horse unsupervised
before, and this one’s so damn tall.

“Dammit, I wish you were a pony,” I croon,

staring deep into his glassy eyes. “A Shetland pony.
Please, Mateo. Please give me some kind of a sign
that you won’t kill me. At least not intentionally.”

He throws his head and stamps a huge hoof,

and I guess that’s the only positive affirmation I’ll
receive from this giant stallion. When I walk over,
he puts his head in my hands, and I’m able to slip
the bridle over his ears and the bit between his
teeth. Thank God Ronan has the bridle set for him
and there’s nothing else I have to do except deal
with the saddle. I pick it up and nearly fall
backward from the weight. No way can I lift it on
top of the horse. Because I have no choice, I opt to

go without and pray that my hours of yoga and
Pilates won’t fail me now. My core needs to be as
strong as steel to make it the hour into town riding
on the back of this horse without the stirrups and
support of a leather saddle.

Baaa
My heart squeezes as I look into the face of a

sheep, wondering if the one sacrificed was his or
her sibling. “Sorry, little one,” I whisper before
fleeing the horrid place.

I open the stall door and lead him outside. The

other day, I spotted a split rail fence alongside the
cottage that served as a paddock for the animals on
Ronan’s property. Although rickety, I think it will
be able to support the body weight of one woman
needing to launch herself over Mateo’s back.

I stand on the top rail and Mateo shifts on my

first attempt, and I about end up on my face in a
dirt pile. At least I hope it’s dirt. After soothing him
with my voice and hands, he stands still enough for
me to swing my leg over him. I urge him into a walk
and smile when I can stay on. Gripping my legs
tightly to his flanks causes him to walk faster, so I
try to be as loose as possible. Even though walking
into town is going to take longer than trotting or
cantering, I’m not sure I’m a talented enough
equestrian to do either of the faster gaits.

Proud of myself, I clutch the reins in one hand

and the strap to my purse in the other. I never

should have doubted myself. I’m going to make it
into town, no problem. After about a half hour, my
butt starts to ache, and I shift as much as I can
without falling off. The heat coming from Mateo’s
huge body keeps me warm and toasty. Now, if I can
just eradicate the image of his impossible owner
from my mind, this ride into Wintervale might be
pleasant in spite of my usual fear of riding.

Grrrrr
A growling noise from the tree line snaps my

head up, and my heart pounds to a staccato rhythm
at the flash of black and white. It’s back. The
fucking thing is stalking me. The mini-bear bolts out
of a copse of fir trees and launches himself straight
at Mateo. The horse snorts and jumps up in the air,
throwing me off balance.

I scream as I sail backwards, clutching

desperately for something to hold on to. Grasping
nothing but air, I’m falling…falling. I wince,
waiting for the excruciating pain when I hit the
gravel. The impact chases the wind from my lungs.
I lay there, humiliated and hurting for several
minutes until I can struggle to draw another breath.
I wait for the death blow, imagining the animal’s
razor-sharp teeth ripping through my flesh to sever
my jugular.

I’m going to be a gruesome corpse found on the

gravel in small town Ireland. Human Helen will cry.

Instead of claws or incisors, the brave horse

stomps on the beast trying to get to me. I hear a
crunch of bone and squeal of pain before the
monster runs away.

Then, a velvety nose nudges me on the

stomach. It’s the beautiful boy, checking to make
sure I’m alive.

“I’m okay…I’m okay,” I assure him in between

pants, then look around, searching desperately for
any sign of the animal. “Thank you for saving me.”

I ignore my pain and struggle to sit up, checking

my body for broken bones or other major injuries.
Tomorrow, I know it will end up being worse, but
for now, I think I made it out of this incident
relatively unscathed.

I glance around, looking for another way to get

back on Mateo, my mom’s words of getting back
up on the horse after you fall off ringing in my ears.
Or is that just my throbbing headache? Seeing
nothing, I pull on Mateo’s reins and start to walk,
thankful I’m in my Skechers and not stilettos for
once.

Several blisters and a boatload of wounded

pride later, I stumble into town and head toward the
inn. Caris meets me at the door, staring at Mateo,
then back at me.

“Savannah! What the feck happened?”
I hold out the reins for her to take. “Can you

put Mateo away first? I’m sure he’s had enough of
me, and I need to make sure he’s okay before we

chat. Because, well…I kind of stole him.”

Her eyes bulge. “Yer stole Mateo?”
“Well, maybe I didn’t steal him, but I did take

him without permission. Declan never showed up to
drive me into town, and I couldn’t stay there
another minute.”

“Ach. Mateo, me fine laddie, let’s get yer some

fresh water and a wee spot of grain.” Caris walks
the horse toward the stable, and I head inside the
inn to wait for her to return to her usual post behind
the bar.

Mel gets up and sweeps me into a bear hug the

moment he claps eyes on me. “Savie, I’m so glad
you’re here.” He leans in and kisses my cheek as he
whispers, “I don’t know about you, but I’m about
ready to blow this pop stand. Caris’ stellar cooking
and hospitality notwithstanding. And by the way,
you smell like a stable again.”

I nod and hug him back. He’s a connection to

home. To something that’s familiar and makes me
feel more like myself. Only getting back across the
ocean to L.A. is going to make me feel like Sarah
again. And yoga. And Anne. And especially Daisy.

And a whole liter of fucking top shelf vodka.
“Miss Starr, did yer get her on shanks pony?”

Cos asks from his perch at the worn bar.
Immediately, his smart-ass tone gets my hackles up.

“I was riding Mateo, but a bear sprang out of

the woods and scared him, making me fall off. He’s

too tall for me to get back on, so I had to walk the
last half mile.”

“A bear?” The annoying man’s guffaws roar

through the expanse of the inn and a bunch of
locals join in. Before long, it’s a symphony of
laughter at my expense. And I don’t like it. “Oh,
Miss Starr, there aren’t any bears in Ireland. ‘Twas
probably the vicious and dangerous raccoon.”

I bristle and throw my hands on my hips. “It

had sharp teeth and it growled like a bear. I know
what a raccoon looks like. I sometimes get them
rummaging through my trash back in L.A. It was
not a raccoon.”

Another guy slaps a hand on his thick tree-

trunk of a leg and then pinches his bulbous nose
shut with his fingers. “Mayhap ‘twas a skunk! Did
it stink?”

Mel puts his hand on the small of my back and

leads me toward a booth in the back. He probably
knows I’m about to lose it on these backwoods
yokels. I fucking know the difference between a
skunk and a bear. I’m not a complete pampered
Hollywood idiot.

“Want to at least have one last pint before we

get out of here?” he asks, holding my hand in his.
“The beer is the only thing I’m going to miss about
this damn place.”

I glanced at my friend. “And Caris. I’m going to

miss her.”

“And her food.”
“No doubt.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Ronan

“Look what yer done, woman! Savie’s gone off to
town on Mateo, and she’s not a competent rider!
Are yer some kind of geebag!”

Mary rears back, and her eyes flash fire at me.

“Oh, so ‘tis Savie now, is it? Well, I hope Savie falls
on her fat arse!”

Fury boils from my every pore. “How dare yer

say that about a guest in me home? Who do yer
think yer are? Yer not me wifey or me lack. Yer not
even the woman I’m ridin’. Yer nothin’ to me, and
yer need to get out while I’m still inclined to let
yer.”

If my ma were here, she wouldn’t be proud of

the harsh words I’m firing at a woman I’ve known
since the day she entered this world. But the
loosebit’s pushed me too far. If Savie gets hurt, I’ll
never forgive Mary for her part in it.

Worse yet, I have to walk to town on foot.

Even if I run, I’ll be unable to close the gap
between Savie and myself. Mateo’s stride is three
times as long as mine.

While I’m trotting along the gravel road as fast

as my leather boots will take me, I think about
Mary sleeping inside her car last night, just so she

could ambush me again before breakfast. I guess I
should be happy she didn’t decide to break in and
crawl into bed with me last night.

The long journey gives my mind plenty of time

to concoct horror stories of what could have
happened to Savie on her solo ride to Wintervale. I
half expect Mateo to come trotting toward me sans
his impudent and stubborn female rider. When he
doesn’t, I breathe a slight sigh of relief. The
pampered princess would never stray from the
beaten path, and unless Mateo became seriously
spooked by something, he’d never deliberately
burst into the trees. Horses like a routine and tend
to stay on the road, heading in a familiar direction.

Once I reach the courtyard, I head straight

toward the inn. If she’s in town, she’ll be there,
bickering with Caris, their two beautiful heads
stuck together like old friends. Stepping inside, I
glance around. The only people in the pub are
regulars, drinking a pint and tucking in to Caris’
beef stew. And Cos, wearing a shite-eating grin.
He’s deep in his cups, he is. The aroma of the
succulent stew assails my senses, and I realize I
haven’t had any food yet. My stomach rumbles in
protest, but I can’t eat until I know Savie made it
here in one piece.

My sister bustles out from the kitchen carrying

a steaming plate of homemade cornbread. She slaps
it down in front of the customers and then spears

me with a glare unlike any I’ve ever seen from her
—and she’s been mighty irked with me plenty of
times. I’m the one who used to pull her pigtails and
make fun of her boyfriends. But this is different. It
looks more like disappointment.

I scrub a hand down my face, pissed that I

shaved off my beard. It’ll grow back, I tell myself.
Not soon enough. It’s like a mask I once hid
behind, but now I’ve been laid bare to a cruel
world.

“Is she all right?” I ask, not specifying who I’m

talking about because she already knows.

“Yeah, nay thanks to yer. And feckin’ Mary.

Why on earth was that slapper beddin’ down at yer
cottage last night, Ronan? The last night yer had
with Savie. ‘av yer gone daft?”

“Mayhap,” I admit, sliding onto a bar stool and

hanging my head. If my beloved sister is about to
give me a severe dressing down, it’s nothing worse
than the one I’ve already given myself on the way
over here.

“Oh, so we’re turnin’ into a man of few words

again, eh?” She slaps me with a dish rag and I stare
at it as I welcome the sting.

“Where is she? I need to talk to her, so I do.”
Caris huffs out a long-suffering breath and juts

a hip out. “She’s gone, Ronan. Yer blew it. She was
the one, and yer just let her go.”

I narrow my eyes at her, wishing I could grab

one of the bottles of whiskey from behind the bar
and chug it. Only the blessed relief of being fecking
steamboats is going to make a dent in the agony-
guilt-regret I feel right now.

“I didn’t let her go,” I argue, but it sounds more

pathetic than confident. “She climbed on Mateo
when I wasn’t lookin’ and rode into town on
horseback like some American Lady Godiva.”

Caris gives a fake laugh and a snort. “She had

clothes on, lunkhead. Yer should ‘av seen her,
Ronan. Mel was already inside, and they couldn’t
get out of here fast enough. Didn’t even finish their
pints. As usual, Cos couldn’t keep his big yap shut.
Once Declan popped his head in and said the bus
was runnin’, they left. The only thing Savie said
was goodbye and good riddance.”

Caris slaps her hand down on the worn

mahogany in front of me.

“What’s that?” I ask of the white paper under

her palm.

She looks at me as if I’m addled. “That’s her

card. She asked me to ship her things at her
expense, a’course. She left me a thousand dollars
cash for my trouble. A thousand American dollars,
eejit!”

My heart drops to my knees. The only reason

Savie would have left money like that for shipping
is because she felt as if she’d been used and she
had to pay us for our troubles. I feel like a first-

class shitehawk.

If my sister were a plant, she’d be a prickly

pear. And her bristling at me is nothing less than
what I deserve. For a long moment, I search her
face for any sign that she’ll ever forgive me,
weighing the option of pushing the issue with her to
my own detriment.

“I’ll ship her things, and damn well pay for it

meself,” I say, offering an olive branch. “We won’t
be acceptin’ any of her coin here.”

I know that Caris could really use the money.

The inn runs at a profit but not by much. It’s far
more expensive to get supplies way out in the rural
area like this and her patrons are few and far
between outside of feeding our friends and family.

“Yer be doing nay such thing. Savie has

entrusted me with her beautiful things and as a
fellow woman, I will make sure that they get to Los
Angeles safe and sound. Yer be a big oaf who
canna be trusted with anythin’ that is fragile and
valuable. Including her.”

“I—”
Caris sighs again and I take it, because I

deserve her annoyance and anything else she
decides to throw at me today. “How about yer just
keep yer trap shut and try to mount nair a defense.
Just so yer know, there isn’t one I’ll accept as
feasible.”

Even through her ire, she slides a piece of

chocolate cake in front of me and I tuck in,
swallowing the melt in your mouth goodness. After
slopping down the concoctions that Caris bakes, I
feel almost normal. Almost.

After a few minutes, Caris and I sit in the pub

alone, all the customers having eaten and left for
their cottages. Some nights, she gets a customer
depressed or down in their cups, drinking their pain
away. Not tonight. I can’t say I’m unhappy about it.
Better to get this uncomfortable conversation with
my only sibling over or she’ll just think about it all
day, gaining steam with every passing minute. If
that happens, I’ll be dead meat like a skunk ground
into the gravel after she’s done with the upbraiding.

This is one lass that I overindulge, and I don’t

regret doing it. I think my sister hung the moon and
stars. I wish she thought the same about me.

“Yer could do it, yer know.”
Apparently, she’s going to turn this into a

guessing game, so she is. I’ll play. “Do what?”

“Go after her.”
I scoff and tip back my Guinness, taking a long

draught. The liquor slides down the back of my
throat, but it doesn’t ease my anxiety. Nothing short
of a horse tranquilizer could do that. I’m standing in
the eye of the sisterly storm and all I can do is strap
myself to the nearest pole and ride it out.

“Nay, Caris. ‘Tis not possible. I’m young and

fit, but not even I would travel to Dublin on

horseback. ‘Tis nearly three hundred kilos. Yer do
the math. It would take over a week.”

She makes a clucking noise with her tongue and

something’s on the way that I’m not going to like.
Something logical. Because when it comes to Savie
and my strange feelings toward her, nothing makes
sense.

“’Tis,” she presses. “Anything is possible if yer

put yer mind to it.”

“Yer tell me exactly how a man without any

mode of transport outside an old horse and his own
legs can get himself to a modern metropolis?” I ask
the question mainly because I want to keep her
occupied before she starts making even more sense.
I can’t go after Savie. Well, I could go after her, but
not without losing my pride in the process. What’s
she going to say when I get there? Gee, Ronan. ‘Tis
great to see yer. Where’s yer horse? And guess
what, I’m with child.

Someone else’s.
It would look ridiculous. It would be ridiculous.

And I’m not a man who plays himself for a fool
under any circumstances.

“If yer care about her like I think yer do, yer

find a way. I kept her here far past the day when
she wanted to leave. ‘Cause she’s the one from the
prophecy. Yer know it and I know it. Yer the only
stubborn mule who’s still tryin’ to deny it.”

“Deny what?”

The door to the kitchen swings open and Mary

pokes her head through. I stare at Caris and narrow
my eyes. Haven’t I gone through enough for one
day? Why my meddling and over-bearing sister
ever hired her as the inn’s lone server escapes me.
She knows that we have a connection that’s now
been relegated to the past. She knows Mary wants
more than I’m willing to give. And yet, Caris took
pity on the younger woman and offered her one of
the only paying jobs in Wintervale.

And now, here Mary is sticking her nose in

where it doesn’t belong for the third time in the
sun’s cycle.

“Deny he needs someone to come by his

cottage at least once a week and clean it, he does.
Why, ‘tis a manky hovel. I don’t know how he can
stand to live there.”

Mary smiles, bright and easy, like we’ve not

exchanged words already today, and I can almost
see the wheels turning in side her head. A day
exists not so long ago when I would have welcomed
that twinkle in her eye. Not anymore.

“I know a perfect solution for that problem.”
“Yer do?” Caris asks the loaded question in an

offhand way as she wipes down the bar top in front
of me. I clear my throat, trying to tell her not to
give Mary any further ammunition in her war
against my physical defenses, but Caris has already
focused her mind elsewhere. Probably plotting in

her head how she can get me to Dublin.

“A’course,” Mary says, nodding her head. “I’ll

clean it. I could come by every Monday after work.
I could even take yer laundry with me and then
bring it back. What do yer think, Ronan?”

I put up a hand, a physical barrier between her

and me. It’s futile because her expression doesn’t
change. “Nay. I can take care of meself. Caris takes
gross liberties with the state of me household.”

Mary stomps her foot and returns to the

kitchen, her lower lip protruding in another pout.

“I’ll thank yer to keep yerself from meddlin’ in

me affairs,” I say to my sister, blistering her ears.
“Especially, the ones of the female persuasion.”

She puts her palm over mine, and in a moment

of weakness, I let her comfort flow through me. But
instead of comfort, she returns my verbal punch.
“As long as I’m yer sister, ‘tis my prerogative.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Savannah

My heart sinks into the depths of my soul as I
watch the verdant green landscape of Ireland fade
into the distance. I’m closer to Scotland now, and I
don’t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or
stomp my foot in frustration over what I’ve lost.

Sarah, you never really had it. You only had

his body. His soul’s not fit for duty.

This is going to go down in infamy as the most

fucked up tour of my life. I know that it can’t
possibly get any worse. Unless I died. And right
now, I feel like I’m going to.

The ferry sways underneath my feet as it chugs

slowly through the ocean. Mel stands beside me.
He hasn’t really left my side except to drive the
bus. He probably thinks another disaster is going to
befall us since Mother Nature’s usually not such a
bitch. Today, the skies have dawned a brilliant blue,
and it looks like it’s going to be smooth sailing until
we arrive in the land of plaid kilts and golf.

And I’m not going to partake in either. I don’t

even want to see or sample any of the local flavors.
All I want is to hole up in my five-star hotel and
vegetate. Turn on every single electronic in my
room, charge my phone, iPad and laptop and drown

myself in room service and technology until I want
to throw up from the electromagnetic field.

I left without saying goodbye. That’s right,

Sarah. You’re a coward of epic proportions. I
slinked away like a love thief in the night. Except I
left in broad daylight. The worst part is that he
didn’t even try to come after me. I sat in that tiny
booth in the back of the Wintervale Inn watching
Mel savor his last pint while waiting for Ronan
O’Farrell to come after me and tell me he cares
about me. That he wants me to stay.

I’m a complete and total idiot.
Now I know how all those dipshits feel that run

after me every hour of the day and night, begging
for a scrap of my attention. How pathetic and out
of control. Not admitting to myself that I wanted
him to come after me seems to cause more pain
than if I just slipped down to the steel floor of this
ferry into a human puddle and cried. Tears prick my
eyes right now, but I won’t cry over a man who
obviously doesn’t want me. Besides, Mel’s already
gone through enough. I don’t want him worrying
about my emotional state on top of everything else.

Savannah Starr will pick herself up by her

Jimmy Choo bootstraps and move forward. And
when this tour’s over, Sarah Strauss will go home
and get emotional, drinking vodka and eating Urban
Bourbon until I puke.

Ireland shrinks in the background, shifting back

to its tiny size from the depths of the ferry. I know
that even the memory of Ronan O’Farrell is going
to make my knees weak and my panties damp
every time I indulge. It won’t feel fair that
memories are all I’ll ever have of him and what we
shared for a fleeting moment. What’s been
destroyed in the blink of an eye.

Maybe he wants to talk about what happened.

Maybe he wants to rail at me for not saying
goodbye. At the time, the thought of doing that
caused so much agony I ran away from it, doing the
cowardly thing. Running is what I’m good at. I’m
fleet of foot and lack depth of emotion due to the
trappings of fame that give the illusion of
happiness. But fame isn’t reality. The only part of
my life that gets every part of the real Sarah is my
songwriting. No one can accuse me of being
emotionally unavailable there.

For the next few years, all of my songs are

going to pour my heartache out on the page, just
like Taylor Swift does whenever she’s going
through a public break-up. If you could even call
my departure a break. What do you label it when
you have a hot fling and you part ways?

The aftermath.
I grip the steel railing until my knuckles turn

white. My stomach roils a bit with the motion of the
waves, and I try to move with them instead of
fighting against them. Kind of a metaphor about

how I could be living my life. Rolling with the
punches is never a bad strategy.

“A penny for your thoughts, young lady,” Mel’s

voice snaps me back to the present as I turn my
face toward the sun and the mist of the ocean spray
hits my cheeks. I inhale the salty fragrance.

“Just glad to be on the move again with Ireland

turning into a dot of land on the horizon,” I say,
glad he’s not that observant. “I know we have to go
back to Dublin for our final date. After that, if it’s a
few years before I hit Europe again, I won’t be sad
about it. I think this is the Universe’s way of telling
me to keep my feet on US soil.”

Mel chuckles and checks his phone for

messages. “You’re not kidding. I think you’ll really
like Dublin, though. It’s just like being in any other
major city.”

“In and out of there with no fuss is all I’m

looking for,” I say, and swipe my hands together as
if I can take Ireland and everything that happened
there and toss it in the trash.

Along with my broken heart.
And aching body.
The only cure for the latter would be to throw

myself overboard. I contemplate it for a minute but
then Mel gives me a wink, and I realize that my
own joke’s in poor taste. I need to start being
kinder to myself. And stop being so damn dramatic.
I’m even making myself gag.

If it’s better that Ronan’s in the not so distant

past, why then does my body yearn for the man?
The urge is so overwhelming I want to swim to
shore, hunt him down, and melt into his strong arms
again.

A small part of me holds tight to the beautiful

memory of sharing our song with the people of
Wintervale at the Yule festival. It’s one of my
favorite memories of all of my concerts, even gala
benefits.

Too bad we’ll never sing our song again.

* * *

I wind my way through the backstage area toward
my manager, fitting my Shure ear monitors on so
I’ll be able to hear myself over the roar of the
crowd and the house noise from my own band. As I
glance out into the frenzied crowd, I notice the
fingers of overhead lights dancing across their
features. It still gets to me that perfect strangers
living in another country have shelled out over a
hundred dollars apiece to come and see me perform
live.

Part of me still feels like that scared little girl

from Arcata who shivers at night thinking about
how every fan will finally find out that I’m a total
fraud. I’m really not that talented of a singer but
my heartfelt lyrics and melodies touch people. It’s
that special sauce that some musicians have to
connect with others on a personal level. I never

take it for granted, and tonight’s no different.

“I heard you debuted a new number while you

were stuck in that Irish hellhole,” Preach says,
putting his hand on the small of my back. “I asked
them to change the set list to include it for your
encore.”

I stop short, and he practically topples us both

over when he runs into me. I whirl on him. “No.
I’m not singing that song. Not tonight…not ever.”

In spite of his obvious confusion, I’m not going

to tell him why. That if I sing the song that I wrote
with Ronan it will gut me, pushing me past the
point of no return. I haven’t even begun to grieve
the man. I will not rub my own wounds raw with
musical Ronan just like I did with physical Ronan.
I’m not a masochist.

“Why not? The fans here in Scotland would

love it. There’s a lot of those damn heathens here
just like there were in Ireland. Fucking pagan
worship. I blame that damn Outlander. So many
housewives and young girls watching that drivel
every week and romanticizing it.”

“Well…let’s not contribute to that then,” I say,

holding Helen’s neck to keep from reaching out and
slapping him across the face. How dare he trivialize
and judge Ronan’s beliefs. It’s the same as saying
that Nana Aislan was a crackpot. Pagan rituals may
not be traditional but at least he has beliefs and
values. Which is more than I can say for many of

us on this damn tour.

With a glance behind me, I enter the stage and

let the crowd’s adulation drown out Preach’s
careless words.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Ronan

“What the feck is that?”

A man stands on the corner of O’Connell Street

holding some contraption with a light on the end of
it. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was trying
to titmickey the famous labor leader’s bronze junk.

“’Tis a video camera, yer Bombay Shitehawk.

Ain’t yer ever seen one of these afore? They were
invented afore yer were even born. Yer a right
bogger, yer are.”

I mumble something obscene and walk away,

trailing behind Caris. She’s been stopping in front
of every damn window and gazing inside like a sick
fool in love with modern fashion. The get ups inside
the shop windows look like something I don’t ever
want to see again. The last time I was in Dublin, I
was a ten-year-old kid who didn’t understand the
filth of modern society. Each time my da would
offer to take me again, I refused, content to stay in
Wintervale where I felt safe from the perils of the
city.

A car whizzes by me so fast, I feel it’s

backwind clip my shoulders. I turn and pump my
fist at it. The driver honks the horn and tells me to
go feck myself.

Ah, the joys of city life. I can see why Caris

told me to come here and everything would be all
right. Damn her and Dublin all to the mighty fires
of hell.

A man brushes past me, and he’s talking to

himself like a lunatic. I turn to Caris and fling my
hands in the air. “Why are we here again with these
manky townies? Who runs through the streets of
Dublin talking to nay one but ‘emselves?”

Caris takes my hand in hers. “’Tis called a blue

tooth, Ronan. He’s actually talkin’ to someone on
the other end of his cell phone. I know yer not one
for modern technology, but the rest of the world has
passed yer by. Yer don’t ‘av to own any electronics,
but it might not be a bad idea if yer at least knew
what they were when yer do see ‘em. The last thing
I want is yer gettin’ into it with citizens on the street
over what they’d consider the mundane.”

I growl under my breath and tag along after her

as she moves along the sidewalk again, her
packages shifting in her hands. I’ll never
understand why women enjoy shopping so much.

“I guess yer right. I’ll try to figure it out, but I

don’t ‘av to like it, I don’t.”

She laughs and rolls her eyes at me. “Nay one

would ever expect yer to like anythin’ yer were
dead set against. Not even me.”

The crisp spring air embraces me as I walk

along the boulevard with my sister. We’re even

staying in a hotel tonight, the first time in my life
sleeping away from home. I probably won’t like it.
Hell, I know I won’t like it. Caris found some
ancient castle, saying it has good energy and would
be more like my simple cottage back home. She
knows just how to play to my weaknesses, but it
does have indoor plumbing so there had to be a
compromise.

She begged me to help her shop and buy things

for the inn, but I hadn’t anticipated all of this.
Mannequins wearing knickers for all to see. If I had
known it would involve a car ride into Dublin and
an afternoon of buying a bunch of things we don’t
need like a right fuck face, I’d have told my own
sister to stick shopping up her arse.

Now, I’m regretting this entire day.
The lush greenery of the boulevard can’t

compete with the verdant meadows of Wintervale,
which flickers with every shade of green on the
color wheel. I should have come years ago with my
da when he’d asked me. Caris is right. I’m a bogger,
and I’m not sure I should continue wearing my
beliefs around my neck like a badge of honor. What
makes what I believe any more important or right
than anyone else? It’s not right or wrong, it’s just…
different.

Savie taught yer that.
I tell the nagging voice inside my head to shut

the feck up and let me get on being fumed at life in

general. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go
home and lick my wounds in peace.

I miss her.
Sometimes the pain of it overwhelms me to a

point where I double over and have to take a
moment to regulate my breathing, in and out. I
never knew what it was like to be overcome with
emotion over a lass. Is that love? I’m not sure. I’d
ask Caris, but she’d start spouting shite about the
prophecy and rub my face into a steaming pile of I
told you so. I still have some shreds of pride
hanging off my mangled ego.

“Shall we head to the castle?” Caris asks.
I nod, and she starts to head back toward the

parking lot where we left her old vehicle. It’s about
a thirty-minute drive out of Dublin to the hotel,
according to my sister. After a strained drive where
not much is said outside of basic pleasantries, we
stop at a wrought iron security gate. Caris gives the
man a ticket of some sort, and we’re allowed
inside. The pile of stones only holds a hundred
people, and I find I’m actually looking forward to
it. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m enjoying my
time outside of Wintervale.

Caris shoots me a look. “Shall we explore afore

freshenin’ up?”

“Nay. I think I’d like to lay down a spell.” I

look around, trying to remember the directions the
front desk clerk gave to reach our room.

“Here, take this map,” Caris says, producing a

piece of paper from her purse. “It’ll help yer find
yer way.”

I meander through the various hallways, trying

to read the signs so I don’t get lost and end up in
the dungeon. Thank the heavens I didn’t see an
alligator infested moat on my way in, or I’d surely
have fallen into it. I’m a fish out of water, even
inside this old pile of rocks. I wonder if it’s in my
best interests to stay so tied to my beliefs that I
forsake all else, even my own personal growth.

At last, I glance up and see a brass plaque that

says, “Blarney Room.” I found it. Rubbing my
eyes, I turn the door handle, anxious to lay down
and catch a quick nap before I have to head back
downstairs to meet Caris.

Once my eyes adjust to the darkened room, I

walk over toward the heavy velvet draperies,
intending to open them a sliver so I can at least see
my own limbs. A lump in the bed stops me dead in
my tracks as I steel my body for combat. Who
thought it would be a good idea to invade my
privacy in this way?

As I walk closer, intending to strategize my next

move, a light snore assails my ears. I’d know that
soft sound anywhere because it haunts my dreams
every night and my waking fantasies every day.

“Savie?”
At my whisper, her eyes flutter open. “Ronan?”

“Tis me.”
She blinks, her face morphing into the very

definition of surprise. “My God, what are you
doing in my room?”

I rear back in delighted surprise. She’s staring at

me like she wants me to say something that makes
sense, but all I want to do is crawl into bed and
cover her body with my own.

“Me? What are yer doing in me room?”
“This is my room, Ronan. The Blarney Suite is

always reserved for the artist who’s performing in
the concert. Me.”

I don’t have the pleasure of understanding her.

All I know is with her eyes droopy with sleep and
her raven hair tousled about her shoulders, she’s
the most gorgeous sight that’s ever met my hungry
eyes.

I reach down and capture a silky strand in my

fingers, bringing it to my lips so I can kiss it and
inhale her citrusy scent. I’ve missed yer so much,
Savie. But I won’t tell yer ‘cause yer left without
even sayin’ goodbye.

And whose fault is that?
She needs to stay laying down, because if she

stands up, I don’t think I can take the visual
confirmation that she’s pregnant with another
man’s baby. Enough time has passed that a babe
would be curving her belly with its presence.

I might never forgive myself that I took

advantage of her in that delicate condition, but then
again, I didn’t have that knowledge at the time.
Had I known, I would have never lain one hand on
her. I don’t play that way. There’s a modicum of
respect between men, even rivals, which creates a
line you don’t cross.

My mind races as I consider the part Caris has

played in this fiasco. She gave me the map to
Savie’s room. On purpose. But what I really want
to know is why. We haven’t seen each other in
weeks. She didn’t communicate in any way which
means she moved right on after she left. That I
meant nothing to her. Even though I don’t have a
phone, I still receive mail and she knows how to
write a note. Hell, she could have even given her
message to Caris to relay.

But she didn’t. And there’s nothing that

screams louder than the words that remain unsaid.

“What time is it?” she asks, rising up in the bed

but clutching the sheet to her bare chest. I get it.
Even though I want to, I don’t look anywhere
below her eyes.

“How would I know? Yer know I don’t carry

one of those contraptions around with me
everywhere I go. I imagine ‘tis still early afternoon
judgin’ by the position of the sun.”

She’s the only thing in my life that’s ever

remained a mystery, an enigma. There’s no closure,
no tying the loose ends into a wee bow. That

thought opens up the floodgates to another torrent
of deep, rich pain rushing through me. Maybe when
the words of the Cailleach Beare flowed over me,
part of my subconscious had actually believed her
because I want it to come to pass. I want a family
of my own.

Around me, electricity crackles in the dim air,

vibrating my cells and sending every sensation
straight south. Savie watches me, and I stare into
her fiery eyes, finding emotion contained within
them that I can’t decipher. I wish she’d say
something. Anything. Tell me to get the feck out of
her room. Tell me to go meet my maker or sink to
the flaming depths of hell. Anything but this stilted
silence that feels more foreign to me than she is.

A burst of abandoned laughter tumbles from her

pouty lips, surprising me. This isn’t funny. Not by a
long shot.

“I almost feel like I’m being punked,” she says,

still smiling. “I expect some paps to crawl out from
underneath the bed and snap some photos.”

“Paps? Punked?”
She reaches for a robe, and I finally break her

gaze so she can slip it on. “Yeah, paparazzi. They
follow celebrities around with cameras and take
unauthorized pictures of them in their most ugly
and awkward moments. Then, they turn around and
sell said photos for a shit ton of money to the gossip
rags.”

I scratch a hand down my fresh beard. It’s not

nearly as long as it was, but it’s been growing in
nicely since she left Wintervale.

“I’m unaware of these paper rags of which yer

speak. What are they, exactly?”

“Magazines and newspapers. Mostly online. I

mean the internet. I know you don’t have a
computer but surely you’re familiar with the World
Wide Web?”

I nod. I may be a bogger, but I’m observant of

others in my clan. Some in Wintervale do choose to
have the internet and computers to stay in contact
with the normal world outside our belief system.
Most have televisions and phones. I’m a lone wolf
in my complete repudiation of electronics. I choose
to lead by example.

“Do you have tickets for tonight’s show?” she

asks, moving to stand in front of me.

“No…but I ‘av a feelin’ that me sister does.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Savannah

I still can’t believe that Ronan is standing right in
front of me like some kind of figment of my
overactive imagination. Hormones have been
raging ever since I left Wintervale, and it’s hard to
keep the tears at bay. The only thing that
overcomes my sadness is my yearning to be with
him again. And here he is, in the flesh. Except now,
even though I’ve played this moment over and over
again in my head, I’m not saying the things I
rehearsed that end with me swept up in his strong
arms. It seems I’ve been struck into a dumb mute
who can only speak in generalizations about
mundane subjects.

“I’m playing the castle tonight,” I say, a flush of

emotion heating my face. When Caris called me to
tell me that Ronan had agreed to come tonight to
see the last stop on my European tour and possibly
sing our duet again, I’d thought he knew what he
was signing up for, which gave me newfound hope.
Knowing Caris and her meddling ways, I shouldn’t
have been so sure.

He looks so confused. “Oh.”
I sigh. “But I see that you thought otherwise.

I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intent to pull the wool over

your eyes when I extended the invitation to Caris.”

Understanding dawns and he groans. “I think I

need to be protected from me meddlin’ sibling,” he
says, moving to stand over by the glazed window. I
feel the loss of his electric presence before he gets
even a few feet away from my body. “I should find
her right now. We should go.”

I bite down the instant protest that works its

way up to my lips.

No, please don’t go.
I just wanted to see him one more time, to bring

our two worlds together under the soft blanket of
song. A middle ground where no one could get hurt.
Except all I feel right now is pain. An ache so deep
I might not survive its raging storm. My knees start
to wobble as I realize how my best of intentions
have gone completely off the rails. Even as my
heart cries at my own stupidity, the truth is that I’d
been a willing participant in shattering it.

“It would make me so happy if you would stay

and sing with me tonight.”

It kills me to swallow my pride and make the

request. Ronan’s back stays rigid, and I yearn to lay
my hands on his shoulders to soften him. Either to
me or to my request, I don’t care which. I only
want to close the gap of distance between us. Only
a few long weeks have passed. They were the
longest of my life, but it’s not an insurmountable
separation. So why does it seem like we haven’t

seen each other in years?

He turns and spears me with a gaze that doesn’t

say yes or no. It’s bland, and calm, and everything I
don’t want or accept when all I want is to feel his
passion.

“I’ll stay. But nay singin’.”
“I—”
He puts up a hand, and I realize I’ve pushed

him too far. We’re both lost in the ghosts of the
past, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to
engage in more memories. I stay quiet, holding my
breath and watch as he walks toward me. His eyes
sweep my body and his eyes widen as if he’s
surprised.

“Savie, yer look exactly the same as yer did the

day yer left.”

I wrinkle my forehead in consternation. Did he

expect me to shave my head or get a tattoo since
I’m the cray-cray city-dweller from L.A.? He’s
going to be disappointed if he’s expecting me to
lead some extravagant rock star lifestyle. At my
core, I’m just a small-town girl from Northern
California, and I’d never embarrass my mom by
public drunkenness and promiscuity. For a Grammy
winner, I’m tame. But I’m proud of my lack of a
paparazzi driven reputation.

“Of course I look the same, Ronan. What were

you expecting, pink hair and a nose piercing?”

He presses his lips and all I want to do is throw

myself in his arms and kiss him. “People pierce
their noses where yer from?”

I’ll leave out the part about lips and nipples and

cocks and clits. I don’t think he can ingest that
knowledge.

“Yeah, I guess a lot of them do. Especially, in

the music industry.”

He reaches out to place his palm on my slightly

rounded stomach, and I stop breathing as the room
spins. There’s no way. I’ve kept the symptoms
hidden so well I have it down to a science. He’s not
a mind reader, and he’s not well-versed in picking
up a woman’s subtle cues unless those signals
scream ‘fuck me.’

But somehow, someway, he knows.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Ronan

Savie looks as if she’s seen a ghost.

The heat of the passion that runs between us

warms my cheeks, and I’d love nothing more than
to strip myself bare to relish the feel of cool air
against my skin. This woman’s taken me so many
places in a short time, I’ve gotten a slight case of
whiplash. Mostly, she’s made me question myself
and what I know. What I value.

Here I stand in a hotel, on the outskirts of a city

filled with steel, concrete, and too many people for
my comfort. Everything I hate. It’s noisy…not like
the song of a bird or the neigh of a horse or the
bleat of sheep, but screeching tires and rude
townies. The sound blisters my ears until I want to
put my hands over them to drown out the sounds.

Even though I want this woman more than I’ve

ever wanted anything in my life prior to this day,
I’m not sure I can afford the price I would have to
pay to have her. I can’t imagine myself shopping in
stores and eating out at restaurants. Being seen.
Savie’s used to being on public display, but that’s
everything I’ve tried to avoid my entire life. After
some serious self-reflection, I’m not sure if it’s
because that’s what I really want or because I’m

avoiding stepping in to a bigger, better version of
myself.

“Yer not with child,” I say, rubbing her

stomach.

She inhales a ragged breath, and I can smell the

arousal on her. My cock throbs and pulses,
yearning and reaching for Savie. But I can’t do that
until things are settled between us, because if I do,
I’ll be wrecked beyond repair. I know the second I
surrender to my feelings for her, I’ll never have the
answers I need.

She gasps and brings her hands to her belly.

“Why would you ask me that?”

“’Cause the night afore the festival

performance, Declan brought a publication to my
cottage and yer picture was on the cover, so ‘twas.
The headline indicated that yer were ‘avin’ another
man’s child. I was angry that yer deceived me.”

Her mouth falls open, then works up and down

for a few soundless moments. “Ronan, that was a
tabloid. The stories inside aren’t true. They’re
sensationalized to sell magazines. If you thought I
would deceive you in that way, why didn’t you ask
me about it?” As I watch, her face grows hard as
she pushes her hair from her forehead. “So that’s
why you made my last days there so horrible?
Because of a stupid magazine?

“I—”
She pokes me in the chest. “Do you know what

you put me through?” She pokes me again. Harder.
“Hell, it would have been better if you had yelled
at me. Anything. Getting mad, closing me out and
walking away wasn’t right for either of us.”

“So, yer are not with child?” I demand,

grabbing her wrist and holding it tightly.

This is the last point at which I want her to

escape me. This conversation is too important.
Something’s been banging around in my head ever
since she left. Savie doesn’t need a man. She’s
strong and independent. Money means nothing to
her because she prints her own. The fact that I’m
not in a position to protect her or provide for her
isn’t lost on me.

But maybe, just maybe…she wants me.
“I am.”
My grip tightens. She is pregnant? I feel like

I’ve been punched in the gut. What game is this
that she plays? “I don’t understand.”

She brings my hand down to her stomach. “I’m

not pregnant with another man’s baby, Ronan,
because I’m pregnant with your baby.”

A wave of confusion rolls over me and my ears

buzz as my vision blurs. I need to sit down but no
chair is handy. Instead, I just stare at her until I find
my voice. “’Tis impossible?”

Savie doesn’t say anything, just lifts her

eyebrows.

“And yer left me? Yer just left me behind

without knowin’ I was becomin’ a da?”

She snaps her hand away from me, and I reach

out to grab it again. She’s not running away from
this conversation. She’s not running away from me.

“I didn’t know back then. I would have told

you, Ronan.”

Her words ring flat and lifeless. Like lies.
“When? When would yer ‘av told me? When

yer were safely back in the US, and I couldn’t do
anythin’ about it? That’s cowardly.”

Savie hisses in a breath, every muscle in her

body tense and rigid. “Are you calling me a
coward?”

I loom over her, using the full force of my

height to push her backwards until she’s doing a
backbend over the bed. Anger pulses through my
body, radiating out my limbs until I’m shaking.
She’s not going to do this to me. She will not keep
my child from me.

Most of all, she will not keep herself from me.

Not one fecking second longer.

“I don’t know what I’m sayin’,” I tell her

honestly. “I don’t understand my emotions. I feel
happiness and sadness at the same time.” I grip her
even tighter. “I fear I could lose myself within yer,
Savie. Who I am, ‘tis important to me.”

“I’d never let that happen,” she says in a rush,

rubbing the inside of my wrist with her thumb. It’s
just like we’ve never been apart and everywhere

Savie touches, I burn. “Who you are. That’s what I
love most about you.”

“Love?” I say, worried about the strength of

that one word.

I know how much I missed Savie while we were

apart. I know how much I want to protect her and
make her happy. Then it hits me. The way I feel
about the baby already growing in her womb is the
way I feel about her. It’s love. It has to be. The
prophecy has come to pass.

It’s real.
“I love yer, so I do.”
The moment the words leave my lips, I know

they’re true. They feel so right. I’m silent another
moment as I look at our hands intertwined,
becoming one. Her touch is pure support and it
gives me a measure of calm, knowing I could never
lose my identity.

Without ever breaking eye contact, I press

Savie into the mattress until my body covers hers.
Wrapping my arms around her waist, I tighten my
hold, making sure she’s settled gently into the
middle of the bed. She’s not only my lover, she’s
the mother of my child. I don’t take that
information lightly, and her health is going to be my
top priority from now until we take our last breath.

I crawl onto the bed after her, straight up the

middle of her body. Savie lays flat, parting her legs
to allow me more room. I groan and settle in

between them. Her smell overwhelms me, and I
have to taste her. I haven’t yet, and it’s kept me
awake nights because I’ve never done it before. In
the past, women have clawed their way to me to
take care of every single one of my needs and I’ve
never been very concerned about theirs.

Until now.
Slipping a hand down in between our bodies, I

cup her hot sex. “I want yer, Savie. I want to know
how yer taste.”

“Oh,” she moans, grinding against me. “Yes.”
My fingers slide under the waistband of her

lacy panties, flirting with her wet heat before I run
a finger up her center. The wetness flows over me,
and I go straight for her throbbing clit. I delight in
her moans and twisting body, as if she can’t get
close enough to me. And I want nothing less than
her complete surrender to my hands and mouth,
because freedom lives inside the release of control.
Someday, Savie might learn that lesson.

Fisting her hands in the down comforter, Savie

finally stills. I lick her once and she jolts at that first
contact. The more she moans and writhes, the more
I love tasting her. I’m in complete control of her
body.

“Ronan, I…” She drops off as she swivels her

hips.

I lift my arms up from my place between her

legs and open her further for my probing tongue.

After finding the hard nub of her pleasure, I take it
between my lips and suck. In response to the
chorus of moans coming from Savie, I increase or
decrease my pace, letting her lead me.

Rotating one hand, I push a finger inside her

slick channel, and she lifts her hips in response. I
press her back down and concentrate on circling
her clit with my tongue, holding her as still as I can
for the onslaught.

I can feel the force of her release when her

thighs clamp down hard around my head, and she
pushes her backside into the bed. I hold my tongue
still, letting the pulses of her orgasm sweep her
away. After she stills, I plant one final kiss on the
inside of her thigh and snake up her body so I can
hold her tight.

I’m never, ever letting her go.

Epilogue

Savie

The pain overtakes my body in a sweep of
cramping agony that I can’t even describe. They
told me it would hurt. Shit, every woman since the
dawn of time has a horror story about childbirth
involving epidurals, pooping on themselves, and
screaming at their doctor to fuck off.

I try in vain to focus on the love I’m going to

feel once my baby greets this earth, but I fail as a
moan of torment overtakes my body. I squeeze the
strong fingers that hold my hand. He whispers
encouragement into my ear, but I’m not hearing the
words. The only communication piercing my
consciousness is my body’s, and it’s clearly saying
‘kiss my ass’ as it contracts into a squirming
tornado of pain.

“Yer doin’ great, Savie,” the midwife says,

poking and prodding at me. I never thought I’d be
okay with a posse of strangers staring at my hooha
but Ronan insisted that if we had a birth ceremony,
our baby would be blessed beyond measure. Right
now, all I want to do is smack him in his handsome
face. His gigantic cock is never coming near me
again. As I resign myself to a life of only giving him
blow jobs, another scream rips through me.

I’m worried about the state of my vocal chords

after this. They’re my bread and butter and they
might be wrecked beyond measure. What if I pop a
blood vessel?

“Yer never looked more beautiful,” he says, his

lips pressed against my temple.

Really?
My sweat-soaked hair twines around my neck

and face. This might be the first time in my adult
life I’ve ever been in public without mascara.
Looking like a hot mess is new to me, and I don’t
like it. I growl and dig my fingernails into the tender
flesh of his palm. He doesn’t waver.

“Are you kidding me right now?”
“I would never joke durin’ somethin’ as serious

as the birth of our first son.”

First?
That he’s remaining rational makes me hate him

even more. Even though I know as soon as it’s
over, I’ll love him again, right now I want to let the
negative emotion course through my body right
along with the pain, bringing him right down into
the physical torture with me.

“Yer an inspiration, love,” Caris says from my

other side. Truth be told, she’s been more of a
comfort to me than my own husband. There’s
something about the softness of another woman
and a friend during a shit storm of uncomfortable
new sensations that I can’t even begin to describe.

“Tell me again why I married him!” Another

sound tears from deep within my core. I don’t even
recognize my own voice.

Caris places a cold cloth on my forehead and

clucks her tongue. “Now, now. He’s not so bad
once yer get past his ugly mug. And he loves yer.
More than anythin’. And he’s goin’ to love this wee
one just as much. Right, lunkhead?”

Ronan gives my hand a tiny squeeze for

confirmation. I stare deep into Caris’ eyes and see
nothing but love and support shining back at me. I
don’t know what I ever did to deserve being
welcomed into the fold as if I’ve always belonged,
but I’ll take it. The only thing missing from this
picture is my mom. No matter how much I begged
and pleaded, she wouldn’t brave the almost eleven-
hour flight across the ocean. Like me, she’s a poor
flyer.

I promised I’d bring baby O’Farrell home for a

visit as soon as the doctor clears us to fly. I may
have agreed to this midwife crap to please Ronan,
but my baby will be a patient of the top pediatrician
in the United States. Besides, our home base is our
house in L.A., and we’re only going to keep
Ronan’s place for vacations and important religious
holidays. He’ll never give it up as long as it’s near
and dear to his heart. He built it with his own two
hands, and is home to so many important rituals
and ceremonies, it’s got sentimental value.

He’ll have to compromise on the modern

amenities, though. Even if he chooses never to
embrace technology, that doesn’t mean I have to
blindly follow along. I’m going to have Wi-Fi in his
cottage if it’s the last thing I do. I can live without a
TV, but I’m not giving up my cell phone or internet.
Even for him.

It was a hard sell, talking Ronan into living

part-time in the US. But in the end his love for me
swayed him. As much as I do, he longs to create a
true family from our love for one another. That
dream’s about to come to fruition. If the agony
burning my loins is any indication, it can’t come
soon enough.

“Ahhhhh!”
The midwife glances up at me. “Just one more

push, Savie. Yer can do it!”

I bear down, putting every single cell in my

body behind my efforts. It burns, the blazing agony
of a million fires, and Ronan says words I’ve been
desperate to hear. “I can see his head.”

Ignoring his wishful thinking about the sex of

our unborn child, I focus on the serious face
between my legs. Sobbing now, I look down and
watch the midwife turn our baby before she says,
“Now ‘tis time to push out the shoulders. Yer
almost there, yer are.”

Inhaling deeply, I bear down, and the baby

slides out in a rush of amniotic fluid and wonder.

As if a flip has switched, the intense pain abates,
and I leave the memory of it behind as if it’s been
nothing but a bad dream.

My heart thunders in my chest until I hear a

wail. Breathing a huge sigh of relief, I open my
arms and the midwife puts the bright red baby on
my naked chest.

“’Tis a girl.”
Ronan laughs and cries, so many emotions on

his face. “Seems our daughter has yer lungs. She’s
caterwaulin’ just like yer did when first we met.”

I no longer want to strike him, but that doesn’t

mean I’ve forgiven him yet for getting me in this
predicament. “And she has your inability to remain
still,” I say, watching the squirming infant try to
settle herself into a comfortable position.

“’Tis the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen,”

Caris says, running a fingertip across the baby’s
thick shock of dark hair. Blue eyes peer up at me.
Her father’s eyes. “What are yer going to call her?”

“Her name’s Delaney. Delaney Helen,” I add,

allowing my daughter to grip my finger. A burst of
love so deep and strong overtakes my body, and I
feel I’m going to explode if I don’t express it. I lean
down and kiss her forehead, overcome with
emotion. My tears fall until she finally stops crying
and settles.

“Ach, that’s a pretty name. It fits her, it does,”

Caris says. “I think ‘tis time we give yer both some

time alone. As a family.”

A family. My family.
I never thought it would happen, but I’m so

glad it did. When my bus broke down on the side of
a gravel, Irish roadside, fate stepped in and took
over, sending the love of my life to rescue me. It’s
like a song.

A solstice song.
And it’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever

written.

Click Here to Subscribe to my Newsletter

Receive email notices about new book releases,

sales, and special promotions.

New subscribers receive an EXCLUSIVE FREE

NOVEL as a special gift.

Meet more of my characters and prepare to be

swept away!

Titles by Colleen Charles

Connect with me on

Facebook

and see special

announcements.

Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

places and incidents are the products of the

author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual

events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely

coincidental. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form

or by any means, including photocopying,

recording, or other electronic or mechanical

methods, without the prior written permission of

the publisher.

Colleen Charles loves reading and writing stories

that entertain and sweep the reader away from their

everyday life.

Irish Slang Glossary

Bag o’ swhag – Very good
Ballsch – Rubbish
Banjaxed – State of disrepair
Bogger – Person from the countryside
Bombay Shitehawk – General colorful insult
Boreen – A rural Irish road
Cacks – Underwear
Chancer – A person who pushes their luck
Chubbed Up – An erection
Cocktrough – A woman with a sloppy vagina
Doing A Line – Having an affair
Eejit – Someone of reduced intellectual capacity
Flaming – Intoxicated
Flange – Vagina
Fleecing – The act of stealing
Flute – Penis
Fuck Face – A person who behaves in an
unfavorable manner
Gee – Vagina
Geebag – Unpopular female
Giblets – Female genitals
Gyppo – A dirty itinerant
Horned Up – Being aroused
Horse It In – To be sexually ravaged
Knock The Hole Off – To have intercourse with
Lack – Girlfriend

Langer – Penis
Loosebit – A woman
Manky – Unclean or dirty
Mucksavage – Someone from outside Dublin
Muckshites – Country folk
Neddy – Fool
Pikey – Member of the travelling community
Piss Artist – Alcoholic
Relax The Cacks – Calm down
Rosspot – Good looking young lady
Savage – An expression of satisfaction
Scaldy – Tea
Schnozzlewoppers – Cash
Scunders – Male underwear
Shanks Pony – On foot
Shite The Bed – Expression of surprise
Shitehawk – Anyone unpleasant or untrustworthy
Slapper – An easy lay
Stall The Ball – Wait a moment
Steamboats – Seriously inebriated
Stinker’s Bridge – The skin joining the anus and the
ball sack
Thicko – Intellectually challenged as well as lazy
Throw It In – Have sexual intercourse
Titmickey – Secretly touching someone with your
penis in public
Townie – City dweller

Document Outline

Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue

Wyszukiwarka

Podobne podstrony:
Pagan Passions Randall Garrett(1)
Charles Fox Killing Me Softly With His Song
Charles Fox Killing Me Softly With His Song
choroby wirus i bakter ukł odd Bo
1 bo
BO WYKLAD 03 2
BO W 4
chlamydiofiloza bo i ov
BO I WYKLAD 01 3 2011 02 21
Pirates of the Spanish Main Smuggler's Song
bo mój skrypt zajebiaszczy
BO WYK2 Program liniowe optymalizacja
2 BO 2 1 PP Przykłady Segregator [v1]
PB BO W1
Odp z BO
POLITECHNIKA BIAŁOSTOCKA, NAUKA, Politechnika Bialostocka - budownictwo, Semestr III od Karola, Budo
51 - BO Z DZIEWCZYNAMI, Teksty piosenek

więcej podobnych podstron

Solstice Song (Pagan Passion Bo Colleen Charles

Document Outline