Page 9 of The Scald Crow
“Not much happens in this town that’s not talked about.” She laughed. “The O’Donnell clan is well known here.”
I wallowed in guilt—the big Irish clan would soon grieve one of their own.
“Look at ye, poor thing. Are ye all right? Are ye hurt?” She sang with concern, surveying me, searching for signs of damage.
“I desperately need a shower.” I opened my coat, showing the mud stains the rain hadn’t washed away.
“Aye, and likely a spot of tea?” She smiled. “One thing we have is hot water.”
“Both sound great. Thank you. It’s been a long day.” I fell into step behind her.
“Good day, Pádraig. How are you this fine morning?” She gestured toward the burly fellow crossing the intersection.
I stared at his copper hair, the dark frames perched on a strong nose, his square chin. My grin faltered, and I struggled to stand upright.
“Same as yesterday and the day before.” His voice boomed from across the street.
I appreciated his style—the boxy jacket layered over a cable-knit sweater, fitted trousers, and glossy loafers. Not a tree farmer.
“Did Orlaith call in the order? We’re running low on just about everything.” She sang back.
“Four o’clock, luv. No worries.” He headed for the stone bridge, which spanned a flowing river.
I scanned each storefront. The Fat Bastard bakery sat halfway up the big hill. My heart sank watching the bubbly personality stride in the other direction.
“That’s Pádraig. He’s the baker in town. His scones are magic. Once you try them, you’ll be hooked.” She searched the roadway.
“Paa-drig? Is he Colm’s brother?” I rested my palm on my forehead—thinking of him hurt my head.
“Yes, there are many O’Donnells.” Her smile wavered but then returned.
Two—and three-story commercial buildings, roofed in slate and painted in muted shades of pink, blue, and green, lined the busy street of Ardara. Smoke curled from each chimney, emitting an earthy aroma I recognized: bog. The bog served as more than a distraction. It provided a heat source. It was an industry.
A rumbling engine distracted me from my revelation. A red farmer’s tractor pulled an open trailer stacked high with white bags filled with dark lumps of turf. A black and white dog bounced to and fro in the tractor’s cab.
She waved at the dark-haired driver.
My intuition answered my question—the O’Donnells were integral to the community.
“Well, thank goodness you found us. What an adventure. You must be starved.” She bounced along in front of the tractor.
“Thanks. I am.” I stepped sideways, avoiding a puddle.
I followed her beyond the pub’s entrance through the archway in the stone wall. A long breezeway led to an interior courtyard. I hugged my arms around my chest, unprepared for the cold kiss swirling within. The quiet space breathed peace. The sky seemed so distant. Looking up, I followed a catwalk around the perimeter of the stone building.
“Wow. This is amazing.” I motioned to the upper railings fashioned after sprawling tree branches and the narrow staircase climbing upward. I ran my fingers over a perfect leaf, a budding bloom.
“Thanks, I created them.” She shrugged, then rubbed her forehead.
“You made this? Here?” I asked, admiring the intricate craftsmanship.
“I enjoy working with my hands.” She motioned toward a blue door, peeking through the hungry vines. “That’s my workshop. Sculptures are my favorite, but I do all kinds of things. Fancy gates. Candle holders. I do commission work.”
“Ooh, can I see?” I dropped my backpack onto a wrought-iron table in the courtyard’s center. The twisted legs resembled the gnarled roots of an oak tree. “Wow. This is amazing.”
“You want to?” Her eyes danced with flecks of amber light.
I expected a dark space, but to my surprise, white walls glowed with fluorescent light. A tiled floor shone beneath my feet and hosted everything a metal worker could need: a forge, a press, a welder’s mask, a vise, gadgets, and tools for fabricating iron. Sprawled across an oversized desk were sketches of the most intricate designs I had ever seen.
