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  No. Belinda Carr was not the woman Maeve would have chosen for her son.

  Maeve gazed over the porch railing at the evening fog and tried to dispel her troubling thoughts. The damp, grey mass hung heavy along the rolling hills edging the back pasture, roiling like a living thing seeking an equally wraithlike meal. She reached out and made a passing motion with her hand as if she was wiping a chalkboard clean. Dark thoughts as night was falling was a sure way to bring disaster on them all. It was better to keep such things locked away until they were needed.

  The sun had set now, making the tree line soften and fade like an old pastel. Edged in crimson and gold, the night waited to transform the brilliant colors into the cobalt and amethyst of dusk. A few impatient frogs already called out to each other hesitantly, looking for assurance that their time to sing was coming soon. Without having to look, she knew that the full moon was rising farther into the eastern sky. She had waited for the sun to vanish below the horizon before taking her ascendance in the darkening sky.

  “You look just like your mother when she was a little girl, Ro. It is like looking into the past and seeing her again.” Maeve smiled down at her granddaughter. It was true, down to the unruly blonde hair and the light sprinkling of freckles across her nose, she was her mother’s daughter. Rohanna was the spitting image of her mother, with very little of her father in her except for the eyes. Her eyes carried the coloring of the MacLeod line, reflecting the fertile glens and golden sunlight of the old country. They were the same eyes that stared back at her in the mirror every morning.

  Erin had grown up on a farm just down the road. A regular tomboy in her early years, she was always coming by and sneaking carrots to Maeve’s horses. When she first met John, they were in immediate competition with each other. It wasn’t until later that fierce competition turned into studied indifference as they grew into adolescence, then transformed again into something else altogether. It was no surprise to her when John came home one day, asking her husband how to approach Erin’s father so that they could get married.

  Maeve stood up and stretched, noting every creak and groan as her muscles and bones woke up. She enjoyed shuffling through the pleasant memories of her past but it was time to bring the horses in for the night.

  “Come on, little one. Let’s get the horses to bed and then I’ll tell you a story.”

  That was all it took for Rohanna to launch into a full run towards the barn. Maeve shook her head and followed at a more sedate pace. Even though her soul begged to join the young child in skipping and dancing through the grass, she was past the time in her life when it was seemly to do so.

  Maeve knew that her time of teaching would soon be coming to an end. Before long, John and Belinda would be back from their honeymoon, and she doubted if his new wife would allow an old woman to continue filling Rohanna’s head with “nonsense” once she settled in to her newly minted status. A wife could demand what a fiancé could not.

  ***

  “Your mother is alive through you, little one, with all her gifts passed to you as well, as is your father’s.”

  “What gifts, Grandma?”

  “Ah. To explain that, I need to tell you a story about our family, the MacLeod’s.” Maeve cleared her throat before beginning. “Your story starts a long time ago, back in the old country, and involves such things as faerie folk and magic.”

  Dropping into story-telling mode, Maeve’s voice took on a singsong cadence, her faint Irish accent becoming thicker with the telling. “There are many shapes and forms to the magical folk, Ro. Some look like people—just like you or me. There are others that look like animals, but who speak and have thoughts much like our own. Then there are those who are not held to any one form and can change at will from human to animal. One such creature is the Mere. A Mere can take the form of either a fair woman or a horse, a mare to be exact. The Merefolk are mysterious creatures, who can choose to lead a man to his doom, or become their saving grace. Some legends say they were the royal mounts of the Great Hunt, chasing down their quarry with all the bloodlust of a hellhound. Others knew them as Nightmares, black mares with flaming eyes who brought evildoers to justice when no others could or would by driving them mad—visiting their dreams and making their nightmares real.”

  Wrapping a thick woolen blanket around the two of them against the evening chill, Maeve settled deeper into the porch swing cushions. Rohanna was a small spark of warmth pressing against her side. Swinging gently, Maeve thought carefully about her next words, then began again.

  “Many, many years ago, back in Ireland, your great-great-great-grandfather Connor became lost in a bog—a swamp.” Maeve paused to make sure Ro had understood what she meant.

  “Go on, Grandma.” Rohanna’s voice wavered a bit, but her eyes shone with excitement. A small hand gripped two of Maeve’s fingers in a punishing grip, and she gasped. Rohanna was strong for one still so young.

  “Okay, child,” Maeve chuckled, retrieving her clutched fingers and surreptitiously rubbing them back awake. The child was so eager to hear the rest of the story she practically vibrated with energy.

  “His cart and horse had become stuck in a deep patch of sucking mud that had lay hidden beneath the fallen leaves. Now, many men would have given up, and left the horse to its fate to save their belongings. But, he loved that gelding like an old friend and sat the night with him, holding his head above the murky water so that he might continue to breathe. He called out with all his might until his voice went hoarse, even though he knew that there was only a slim chance that another human being would hear him so far from the main road. Cold and wet, Connor lay there shivering for hours, ignoring his own discomfort to give some to his trusted companion. He sat there crooning to the old horse so that it knew he was there, knowing full well that the gelding’s soul was close to fleeing his tired and mud-trapped body.

  “Just when he was about to give up all hope, he heard the sharp snap of deadwood breaking, and movement coming from deep within the darkened woods. He called out one last time before his voice cracked, spent from hours of crying out. What stepped out of those woods was another horse, but one unlike any he had ever seen. This horse had never been tamed by bridle or harness, and its coat was so black it seemed to gather the night about it like a velvet cloak. Its eyes glowed like the brightest moonlight, and silver sparks flew from obsidian hooves whenever they hit bare stone. Now Connor, being a bright man usually, became very afraid. He knew the creature before him was nothing mundane, but one of the faerie folk. And this was not just any Fae, but one of the Meres of the Great Hunt. Connor dropped to his knees and began to pray, he was that sure he would never see his family or friends again, let alone the next sunrise.

  “Instead, with great gentleness, the Mere approached him and nudged the discarded harness lying on the ground, stomping her hooves at him in irritation when he looked up at her blankly, all hope having been poured from him like a cracked pitcher. When that did not move him, the Mere plucked the very cap off of his head and tossed it into the mire. Now, if you’ve ever had a horse laugh at you, you’ll know how that fortified the man to find his backbone. He gained the courage to scramble to his feet, and with great trepidation, he placed the leather straps upon the Mere so that she might pull his old gelding out of the water and mud. When the gelding was safely pulled to dry ground he turned to thank the Mere. He bowed and stuttered, and wished he knew what else to do, but she simply shook herself free of the leather harness as if it was never cinched around her. Slack jawed and in shock he watched her gallop back into the bog, all the while managing not to make a single bit of noise to mark her passage.”

  Mindful of her granddaughter’s young age, Maeve crafted the last bit of her tale carefully.

  “Only after drying the old gelding off and giving him grain did Connor take care of his own needs. He built a peat fire to warm them both before dropping from exhaustion. Despite his best effort to stay alert in the strange bog, he drifted off into a deep drea
mless sleep. Later into the night, before the dawn came and offered the safety of daylight, a visitor entered his camp. It was a woman, with flowing hair colored black as night, and skin so pale that it shone under the moonlight with an ethereal glow. She stoked the fire and tended to his gelding and when he woke, she did not run away from him or show any fear at being alone with a strange man in the wilds. When Connor caught sight of her, he could barely breathe, she was so beautiful. The fire had died down while he slept, and damp had crept into his bones, while the woman was warm and bright and offered to share his blanket with him.

  “Now,” Maeve clucked and patted her granddaughter’s knee. “You are still too young to understand what goes on between a man and a woman. All I can say is that the two lay together that night and kept each other warm. When Connor woke the next morning to the heat of the sun beating down on him hot enough for steam to rise from his clothing. His gelding was busy nuzzling his pockets for a treat and the woman was gone. He was alone, with nothing to prove his tale, and a serious desire to get home.

  “With the early morning sun to guide him, Connor was able to find his way out of the bog. He found his tongue remained wrapped around the strange happenings of that night, even though the telling and retelling of the fantastic tale would have earned him more than one free ale at the pub. Many months passed. He often found his thoughts returning to that night and the strange woman he had met, but in all his travels he never saw or heard of anyone matching her description again.

  “Almost three years to the day went by from his adventure in the bog when he came home to find a small boy sitting on the hearthstone in his small cottage. There was no note to explain who the boy was or how he came to be inside his home, which was just as well since Connor couldn’t read very well. The only clue he had was a simple rune pendant tied to a leather thong around the small boy’s neck. The knowledge of that rune was forbidden but Connor still recognized the bold design. Ehwaz, the symbol for the horse and friendship. The child carried within him and upon his face a shadow of the dark haired woman from the bog as well as the marks of his own fair features. He ran his thumb across the carved rune and looked into emerald green eyes and knew without a doubt that this child was his. He took him into his arms and cried in joy because he had no children of his own. You see, Connor had lost his wife at a young age and had never found another to love.”

  Maeve smiled as she looked down at her granddaughter, the small wrinkles in the corner of her eyes creasing merrily when Rohanna smiled back. So innocent, Maeve thought, would she even remember this old woman’s tale after tonight?

  “Do you know who that little boy was, Rohanna? That boy was your great-great-grandfather. Connor named him Owen after his own father, and as he grew up people noticed that he was special. He had a way with horses like no one else, and word spread far and wide of his abilities.”

  “Just like Da?”

  “Yes, little one,” Maeve nodded, “Just like your father.”

  “And Momma, she was good with the horses, too!” Rohanna spoke fiercely, ever ready to defend her mother.

  Maeve chuckled at the little girl in her arms. Having John and Erin as her parents had doubly marked her with a fiery temperament. Maeve hoped that was enough to see her through all the trials of her life.

  “Yes, Rohanna, your mother was very good with the horses, almost as good as your father is. I have no doubt that their gifts will pass on to you, as well,” she added quietly, not wanting to push the child’s young mind too far today. But, eventually when she is old enough, she will learn the whole story. Eventually she will be ready to embrace her destiny.

  “Now, where was I?” Maeve asked herself. She paused for a moment to gather her thoughts back in like wool to a skein and continued to weave her story.

  “Oh, yes, I remember now.”

  “People who were at their wits end sent their unmanageable horses to Owen, and they soon gentled under his care. It wasn’t long before he was the most sought out trainer in the region, so much so that others became jealous of him. Where once Owen’s talents were spoken about with pride, rumors flew faster than the wind that his ability with horses was an unnatural thing. The least of the rumors said he had made a deal with the faerie folk, the worst of the rumors held that he made a deal with the devil himself. People started to talk about strange happenings around his farm. They said he spoke to the horses, and that they spoke back to him. That on the full moon, the Merefolk would come and dance within his fields, their eyes glowing a fiery blue within the silvery mists.

  “Now Connor, he didn’t fear a soul when it came to his own self, but now he had a family, a son to worry about. He chose to leave his home and his land and journey across the ocean to America, where he had learned there was plenty of open land and he wouldn’t have to deal with superstitious neighbors. He ended up here, in West Virginia, and purchased several large parcels of land to raise and train horses. This cabin here is the first place our family settled and has been in our family since then.”

  “Are there faerie folk here too, Grandma?” Rohanna asked, peering out into the darkening forest from behind the blankets safety.

  “The faerie folk are anywhere the deepest woods and wilds still exist, child, but you don’t need to fear them, Rohanna. They won’t harm you.”

  “But how can that be, Grandma?” Ro asked. “Miss Belinda says they are just stories. She says that they are just faerie tales you made up and aren’t real at all.”

  Ro’s grandmother frowned at the child’s statement. She didn’t want to interfere with her son’s family, but she refused to lie to her granddaughter. “These are not just made up stories to keep you entertained. These stories are a part of your family history. No matter what your new stepmother says, you can always believe in me, child.”

  Smoothing down the soft, blonde hair that so reminded her of Erin, Maeve lovingly kissed her forehead to sooth away the sharpness of her tone. “No matter what, Ro…if you are ever in need of me, I will always find a way to be there. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Grandma, I think so.”

  Maeve chuckled in amusement, a soft noise that echoed the sound of the bubbling stream below them as it continued its merry trip down the hillside. Rohanna was too young to completely understand what she was telling her. For now, she would remember these nights filled with pleasant but innocent seeming childhood stories. When the proper time came, Rohanna would realize the truth behind them.

  ***

  Ro was tired, but like the man in her grandmother’s story, she was trying desperately to stay awake.

  “Grandma, can you tell me another story?”

  “Not tonight, little one. It’s time for you to go to bed.”

  Rohanna yawned. She wanted to hear more about the faerie folk and the wild horses that were as smart as people. She started to doze off in the safety of her grandmother’s arms with the stories of the old country still buzzing in her ears. Visions of black horses with blazing eyes galloped across her dreamscape. She wasn’t afraid of them, not as she thought she should be. Instead, her dream-self grinned wildly, giddy and free as she followed the thundering hooves into the darkness of night, past the pale moon hanging low over the quiet earth…until only she and the beautiful mares shared the starlit sky.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rohanna treasured the illusion of freedom that riding Perseus offered her as they trotted past the hills and forests surrounding her family’s farm. The gelding was her favorite, a solid bay pony just shy of a full horse size, with a big horse attitude and an even bigger heart. It was a beautiful day, a day meant to enjoy rather than simply endure. She turned her face toward the sun, her pale skin warming immediately. She would have to be careful not to burn.

  Taking a deep breath, she caught the scent of clover and wild roses mixed with the smell of meadow grasses almost tall enough to cut for hay. The gelding smelled it too, his nostrils flaring greedily as they trotted past the tempting fields. An inquiring flick of an ea
r back at her made her laugh—he was already too fat as it was.

  “Sorry, buddy. You know the rules. No snacking until we get you home,” she apologized, laughing again when Perseus’ ears drooped in disappointment. She patted the reddish brown hide affectionately before she clicked and nudged him to move out faster. There was no need to tease the poor beast, and she wanted to get deeper into the forest before she had to go back.

  It would have been a perfect day, if only she could forget that her stepmother was waiting for her back at the house—along with a dozen or more guests invited to celebrate Rohanna’s birthday. Or, Ro sneered, more like Belinda’s version of a birthday party for her “beloved stepdaughter.”

  Rohanna’s sarcasm was well placed. Anyone even remotely considered a friend, let alone in her own age group was rarely invited. It was more of an annual event that benefited her stepmother. An excuse to invite every important person in the county to their home so she could showcase how well off they were.

  Ro believed it was also an excuse for her stepmother, who delighted in filling her birthday with boring trivialities, to torment her. Her duties included kissing the wrinkled cheeks of powdered old women who clucked and cooed at her, then commented with age-endowed assurances that she would eventually grow into a “proper young woman” if she would just pay more attention to her selfless and obviously well-bred stepmother. If Ro heard one more veiled comment this year about “appropriate behavior” for a young woman, she swore she would scream in frustration at one of the old biddies until her voice gave out.

  It was her thirteenth birthday and Rohanna had been dreading the day since she’d been informed she was to be fitted for a formal dress to honor the occasion. A dress! She had stopped voluntarily wearing dresses years ago. That is, except for the horrid affairs Belinda subjected her to. Boring afternoon teas filled with speculative old ladies looking her up and down as if she was a prized brood mare, trying to decide if she would be a good match for their grandson in a few years.