A Celtic Witch - By Debora Geary Page 0,70

like hell he couldn't hear the tears starting.

They ran down her nose onto the pillow, hot wet streaks disappearing into the soft white cloud. Not everything in life had such a soft landing. She loved the music, and her crew, and the chance to see the world on her own terms. And whatever tiredness might occasionally land between her shoulder blades, she loved the road and touring and the strange life she and Rosie had built.

If walking away was easy, she'd have done it long ago.

Cass picked up her violin, confused, sad, and out of sorts. And let Rosie find the words she couldn't.

He'd never heard her play like this.

Marcus stood in the kitchen, frozen, his fingers whitening around the borrowed eggs. Wailing notes assaulted his soul, scrambling what little balance he'd begun to regain.

The music sang of tears. Of the empty spaces in a heart and the impossible task of filling them. Of flailing against a world that asked too much and gave too little.

He knew the words. He'd spent forty-three years of his life feeling that way. And not once had he been able to tell his story with any kind of eloquence. Hearing it out loud twisted his insides like storm-wracked seaweed. And it broke his heart.

Cassidy was full of life and light - she shouldn't know this story.

The notes slowed now, gulping tears making way for melancholy. The light, opening to the dark. He reached for magic, knowing, even as he did, that nothing healed what came from the shadows.

And froze, power swirling, as the story shifted yet again. Cass fought back now, sneaky, quick notes of dancing light poking at the things in the dark. Daring them.

His throat clenched. Only fools made that kind of dare.

And then, just like Morgan's silly daffodils, the notes, so bright and pure and defiant, abruptly died. Swamped by the heavy tides of a sad heart.

He felt his own defiance beating against the will holding it in.

The world needed Cassidy Farrell bright.

Marcus listened to the somber march - and felt something cracking inside. He'd spent his whole life wishing for the impossible. To do it again was unthinkable. No matter what was trying to flutter to life deep in his heart.

Her journey was hers to walk. And no damn female, right down to his tiny daughter, gave any thanks for being carried. He clutched the eggs and headed for his boots at the inn's front door. Morgan. And an omelet for Lizzie with "nothing gross" in it. He had his own road to walk.

One last time, he tipped his head to the sounds coming from above.

The music had shifted again - and this time, there were only tears.

Marcus paused, a lifetime of invaded privacy weighing down his feet. And then, very carefully, he set two brown eggs down on the side table in the foyer and started up the stairs.

It wasn't Aaron.

Cass had that long to think when she opened her door - and then her brain switched off altogether.

His eyes were so gentle.

Marcus Buchanan stood outside her room, every hulking, cranky inch of him - and looked at her with a kindness that took her breath away.

"Hello." It pained her to speak, knowing it would shutter his eyes.

"I came for some eggs." His face held confusion now - a small boy who had woken up from a dream and found himself on a strange planet.

She was no more immune to the boy. "Those would be downstairs in the kitchen."

He nodded slowly. "I heard you playing."

"Ah." Cass stopped, unsure what to say. Rosie's song had been deeply personal today - but most people would hear only the talent. The well-played notes.

The answer hit his eyes long before he spoke. He wasn't most people. "You sounded sad."

She swallowed, unable to lie to his kindness. "I was. I am." He saw so much.

"I'm sorry." Simple words, meant deeply by someone who clearly knew what it was to be in such a place. He stared at her for the longest time. "Does playing like that help?"

"Sometimes." Usually. "It's like a good cry. Takes some of the energy away from my bad mood, at least."

He'd turned, looking at random things down the hallway. "It was beautiful, you know."

He meant it. "People on this side of the ocean always want to chase away the sadness. The Irish are a bit different. We tell the stories of our sorrow. Wallow in it a bit, I guess."

He nodded, silent now. But she could read his face -