A Celtic Witch - By Debora Geary Page 0,67

pace with Morgan's steps and her nephew's glacial thinking.

She felt oddly disinclined to push him. "There are some lovely flowers in bloom over by the pool. Some for the inn, and perhaps for a few of the villagers as well."

"Aaron can pick his own damn flowers."

Well. She might not be planning to interfere just yet, but tolerating that kind of manners was quite different. "Don't growl at me just because you're cross with yourself." Her nephew had been visibly, nakedly kind - and that wasn't going to rest easy in his heart.

The man still fancied himself a curmudgeon.

The glare wasn't any friendlier than the growl had been. Moira shook her head, feeling a mite cranky herself.

And then a hand reached for her shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm feeling protective of Morgan today, probably overly so. I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

A faerie could have knocked her over with a wee sprig of Irish moss. Moira stared, garden mission forgotten. He was entirely wrong about what was making him grumpy, but that didn't change her astonishment any.

"What, a man can't apologize?" Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Lizzie says it's good for me and I need to practice."

She tried not to laugh, truly she did. And succeeded not a whit - it was far too easy to imagine their youngest healer saying exactly that.

Marcus shook his head, moderately amused.

Since when did he find Lizzie's antics openly funny? Moira considered him. Really looked. And what she saw pleased her greatly. "There are far too many women in this village trying to mold you, aren't there? And we're not looking at the man you've become."

A man well capable of holding his fate in his own hands.

She turned away from his startled gaze. It wouldn't do for him to see the depth of her pleasure. "Very well, then. Let's find some flowers, shall we?"

"That's all you've got to say?" He sounded skeptical - and a little dazed.

"Were you hoping for more?"

He stomped down the path after her. "Perhaps."

She grinned at her sleeping garden. "I'd be happy to offer an opinion, if you've a question to ask me."

It pained him, she could tell. He kicked and scuffed through her dry leaves like the small boy who'd squashed her prize petunias. But when she reached the patch of flowers by the pool and turned, he had a question in his eyes.

A serious one.

Marcus grabbed for a flower at random. "Do you think I hold Morgan too close?"

Ah. He would put her first - for the last year, he'd done little else. "At this age, I'm not sure there's such a thing as holding them too tightly. And she spends plenty of time playing with Lizzie and visiting with the rest of us."

His exhale was harsh. "It's hard to let her do even that much some times. I'm afraid I'll turn around one day and discover she's gone."

Such love lived in him. And such fear still. Moira picked a pretty tiger lily. "You've had a life where many who love you have left." His brother. His parents, unable to deal with either the child who had gone or the one who remained.

His baby daughter, not tethered tightly enough to this plane. Her, they'd been able to bring back.

"I have to let her grow up unafraid." He stared at Moira, eyes fierce. "I want you to tell me if I'm holding her too tightly. Please."

Her heart broke a little for him. And rejoiced. "You're a very good father, Marcus Buchanan." She looked at his brave face and decided to answer a question he hadn't asked. Just one. "It's not Morgan you hold too tightly."

His face froze - and his fingers mashed one of her favorite violets.

She rescued the bloom and steered him toward the less-tender daisies. "Evan was once the reason you closed yourself off from possibility. Don't let Morgan be that reason now. It's not necessary. She's well-loved and resilient - whatever makes you happy will make her happy."

It was obvious that the idea that he deserved to be happy still fit like a coat three sizes too small. It was also obvious that he was at least considering what she obliquely suggested. The emotions running across his face were a lovely and breathtaking story of a man contemplating a leap off a cliff.

Moira turned to her petunias and snipped. A canny old Irish witch knew when to leave budding miracles well enough alone.

So many things were clearer now. And some important ones far more muddy.

Cass sat in