Page 5 of The Scald Crow
“Do you go to the pub? The gym. The squash courts? Do they play squash in Nova Scotia, Colm?” He had no intention of sharing the truth with me. And why would I care? I couldn’t be with him, even if I wanted to.
“Have you heard of Hurling? Ireland’s national sport?” He pressed the brake pedal, nosing into traffic—backed up in all directions.
“Oh my, God. Look at that.” My breath hitched.
Plumed in ostrich feathers and draped in purple, two jet-black Friesians pulled a funeral hearse. The two powerfully muscled horses drew the death carriage along the cobblestoned street, carrying a flag-covered coffin on its last journey. The horses took my breath away, and the driver gave me pause—attired in black livery, his expression sober beneath his black top hat. The spoked wheels turned, marking the passage of time—for all of us.
I stared through the glass windows at the faces shrouded in sorrow. One carriage after another, followed by those walking. They sang hymns and recited prayers.
A woman turned away, hiding her child’s face from the funeral procession. Shopkeepers closed their doors and pulled down the shades.
My heart tightened, and my mouth dried as I comprehended the sight before me.
“Welcome to Ireland. We celebrate life, death, and everything in between.” Colm inched the vehicle forward, keeping a sympathetic distance.
Keening cries chased the stately cortege. I looked overhead, discerning nothing. That soughing breath belonged to me.
“Calla?” Colm threw me a sidelong glance.
“I’m fine,” I murmured. I closed my eyes, fighting the impending fog and the encompassing warmth threatening my sanity.
“You seemed far away. Is everything all right?” His voice lingered, filling the gaps in my mind with rough edges.
“Hurling, huh? Is that like cricket?” My voice caught in my throat. I focused my thoughts and drilled down on one thing only—shutting down the murmuring voice.
“Similar, but a faster game.” He turned north at the castle keep, leaving Donegal town behind. The road tunneled through hedges of glorious blooms, lacy caps of purple, mop heads of pink. We passed white cottages roofed in thatch, each with tidy front yards.
“Do you play?” I knew a thing or two about the game. My favorite movie in all the world—The Grand Seduction. Is that what this was?
* * *
Colm
She tilted her head toward me, her gaze thoughtful.
Without a doubt, she was out of my league. How often had I turned the television to channel 549, hoping to glimpse Calla Sweet’s newscast, and then clicked the remote, selecting a high-definition channel where I could appreciate her every nuance? The shimmer in her eyes. The curve of her lips.
How long had I been obsessed with her? I dismissed that thought. Obsession was for the crazed. I settled on star-struck, a more apt description of my infatuation.
Admiring her from behind the television screen was one thing, but meeting the captivating woman face-to-face proved another story. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, dousing the flames of desire with hard denial.
I snuck a sideways glance.
Willowy, tall for a woman. Her skin glowed, almost ethereal. She sat straight-backed, a shining black mane flowing over her shoulders. Even bathed in mud, she was more than beautiful. My heart coiled in my chest, yearning for her smile, for her gaze to reach mine. Beneath those wild locks lay a woman teeming with intelligence, a formidable adversary, more than a prize worth winning.
The car’s front end dipped, hitting a pothole. She didn’t notice.
I ran through the scenarios and found none worth considering. The sooner I rid myself of this pretty package, the better. Beautiful women spelled trouble. Nothing but trouble.
“Not much anymore. There’s a big match every festival day. Ardara versus Glenties. It’s a big event for Ardara.” I tried to deny her hold on my heart and failed.
“Festival day?” She lifted her eyelashes, gazing through those famous dove-grey eyes.
“Aye, the Irish Calendar: quarter days, cross-quarter days. Bealtaine is the next one.” I considered the days remaining and my flight schedule.
“Hmm, maybe.” She stared me down but didn’t commit. There was a definite reluctance in her gaze. Reading people was a way of life, but trusting my instincts kept me alive.
“What brings you across the pond? To Ireland?” I shifted gears and glanced her way. She looked down whenever she smiled. If someone caused the rare beauty pain, we should string them up and flay their skin from their bones. Rage ate away at my gut, every bone in my body ready to defend her from harm.
