A Celtic Witch - By Debora Geary Page 0,86

only her.

He'd seen her play sitting on a chair in the parlor of Aaron's inn. He'd never seen this.

Mesmerized, he watched his green-eyed Irish witch. She didn't play for her audience - she melded with them. The love of life that had so enthralled him in her mind flew out her fingers now. Enticing. Calling, the notes of her fiddle a thread stitching every person in the hall to the three of them at the front.

He'd wondered, somewhere on the long, lonely drive up, if maybe she preferred a life as the one in the limelight. The trio up on the stage answered at least that much. Whatever else had driven Cass away from Fisher's Cove, it wasn't a need to be the star. Her notes played just underneath Ellie's, pushing the girl. Encouraging. Joined with the old man in intricate harmonies that made the skill in his seasoned fingers shine.

Marcus inched closer, wishing inanely for a violin and some meager ability to play it. A spot, however small, in her circle of magic. You're so very beautiful.

It was clear she heard him. Rosie stuttered a whole measure of notes, to the utter astonishment of the two who played with her.

He saw her urge to run. And then he felt her feet plant, somewhere deep in the ground underneath The Barn.

And turning to face him, Cassidy Farrell played.

Not a dare now. And not a trio.

Something alive and defiant and without a name.

And everything in him rose to meet it.

He was here.

Cass let the fire and angst and confused, shuddering hope blaze into Rosie's strings. Her eyes had yet to find him in the hall - but her heart felt him.

Buddy nodded quietly. Off to their left.

She thanked the eagle-eyed old man. And turned to face her destiny.

He stood about two square-dance circles away from the stage, but nobody was dancing now. Pragmatic Celts had gotten themselves out of the craggy man's way and found a good spot to view the action.

Because action was coming - not a soul in The Barn was in doubt of that. A moment, poised on the brink of happening.

And a choice.

She could see it in his eyes. Marcus Buchanan might have chased her across half of Nova Scotia - but he wasn't coming the last twenty feet. That was hers to do.

Or not.

The rocks had gone silent, just like the people of Margaree. A world, waiting for Cassidy Farrell to decide.

Slowly, Rosie still spitting fire, she turned in a full circle. Looking.

At the young girl who stood on the brink of a journey that had left twenty-six years of dust on Cass's boots.

At the old fiddle master, playing for the people of his village. One of the best in the world - and he rarely left home.

At the faces she looked forward to seeing every year. Continuity. Belonging. A fabric where Cassidy Farrell was a pretty thread - just one, but one that mattered.

At the small girl who looked a little bit like Morgan, dancing gleefully in the middle of the floor, oblivious to the patterns moving around her, but part of them.

And finally at the man with the face that knew sadness and the heart that was unfathomably kind. The man who stood there with one of Mildred's pastries clutched in his fist and called her beautiful.

She looked. And then she closed her eyes and listened. Truly listened.

Not to the rocks. Or to the expectation beating in Margaree.

To her own heart. And to the notes streaming from her violin. Defiant, yes - Rosie would never go easily into the night.

But she would go. It was time for a new journey.

With a last, fierce riff, Cass brought her fiddle's anthem to an end. Handed it, fingers shaking, to a gobsmacked Ellie Brennan to hold.

And slowly, letting the theater and import of the moment sink into her bones, stepped off the low stage.

She saw Dave standing over on the side of the floor, eyes full of avid curiosity. In the way of the Scots, he wouldn't ask - but he would find out.

It occurred to her that she might be seeing the familiar faces of Margaree far more often. And something deep inside her that had been walking the road for twenty-six years gladdened.

Two and a half decades of dust falling off her boots, she walked over to the man in black, standing there with pastry juice running down his fingers. "Do you square dance?"

The horrified look on Marcus's face was answer enough. It didn't matter