A Celtic Witch - By Debora Geary Page 0,2

cleared his throat, studying lines worn into the inn's polished old floor. "And we all find a home here."

Her mind flooded with astonishment - and gratitude.

Marcus backed away, acutely embarrassed. He knew exactly nothing about babies and how they might turn out. Carefully not meeting Sophie's eyes, he retreated to the armchair, his book, and a burning desire for the rest of the morning to be simple.

And found himself entirely unable to block out her quiet thanks.

Cass headed out of The Barn, fingers numb and head stuffed full of laughter, a few too many raucous twirls around the floor, and sublime music.

Outsiders might have said the inhabitants of Margaree had no idea what talent sat in the chairs of their informal music hall. That it was wasted on some tiny little town in the sticks.

They would have been wrong.

It was here, where the cliffs breathed Celtic mystery and the days were often short and fierce, that kitchen tables all across the small island nurtured the music that lived in her heart.

Small children and old, old men, aunts and sisters and awkward teenage cousins all gathering for the ceilidh. Food and dancing, gossip and music - the lifeblood that kept communities thrumming during the long days of a Cape Breton winter.

She'd played for thousands. Tens of thousands. People sitting politely in their seats and throngs on their feet, swept up by the music.

But she'd never played anywhere she loved better than The Barn.

So every year, over the protests of her very savvy marketing team and her long-suffering manager, she made her pilgrimage. It wasn't going home to Ireland, which was a voyage of a different kind and one her marketing team could better appreciate.

This was a homecoming of the heart.

She tugged her wool toque down tighter over her ears. It was damn cold.

Stuffing hands in her pockets, she chuckled at her weak blood. "Just what were you expecting at this hour?"

"Still talking to yourself, I see." Dave had caught up to her on the path that led from The Barn to his inn. "That was some fine fiddling tonight."

Buddy had been in rare form. "He's still a genius."

She felt the smile on the path beside her. "I meant yours."

She never played badly here. The rocks, the audience, and her pride would never permit it. "It's good to be back."

Dave stopped at the turn to the small house behind the inn. "I have you in your usual room. Need any help with your bags?"

"I'll fetch them in the morning." Wouldn't be the first time she'd slept in her jeans and boots, and her other essentials had been dropped off earlier.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brown bag. "Well, this ought to tide you over, then."

She watched him walk up the graveled path lit only by a few brave stars peeking through the sullen night sky. And then took a look in the bag. Two scones, a bar of chocolate, and a toothbrush.

She walked the rest of the way in laughter, adoring the brisk wind stealing down her collar and the marvelous feeling of being thoroughly understood.

Most of which slunk away the moment she let herself into her room and discovered her laptop bag sitting in the middle of the bed, with something that could only be her cell phone vibrating in manic craziness on top of it. Damn. She should have left it sitting in the car along with her underwear.

Sadly, expensive gadgets didn't handle Canadian winter nights quite as well as her woolies. And there were several people on her label's management team who didn't consider 2 a.m. a rude time to text. Especially if she'd been ignoring them for two days.

Sighing, Cass sat down on the bed and reached for the shaking phone. "Hush now, you'll break yourself wiggling about that way." Her Irish had picked up noticeably over the course of the evening. And it wasn't the poor phone's fault people kept abusing it so.

She scanned the texts. All the same. All from Tommy. Check your email.

Email meant he needed a longer answer than yes or no. Her kingdom for a problem that could be solved in three characters or less. She pulled the laptop out of its sleeve and dug the chocolate bar out of Dave's care package. Time to pay the piper.

Leaning back against the bed's mountain of pillows, Cass contemplated the nightmare that was her inbox. Draft tour schedules, six contracts to review, a few carefully screened messages from fans, and twenty-six