Page 2 of The Blacksmith’s Wish

His hammer rose and fell in steady strikes, each clang ringing throughout the workshop, but his thoughts refused to settle. They circled, again and again, back to the warriors who had come through earlier.

Men who bore swords as naturally as breath. Men who served the laird. Men he might have stood beside. There had been a time, long ago, though it did not always feel so distant, when he had imagined a different life for himself. One beyond the village. One where he would ride with the guard, defend the clan, carve his place among men tested by battle rather than by fire.

But his father had put an end to that notion with firm certainty. The village needs ye more. The words had been final, unyielding. And Gowan, loyal son that he had been, had obeyed.

So his world had narrowed to what was in front of him. Iron and flame, sweat and smoke. And the fire had marked him as surely as any blade ever could.

He reached into the forge with his tongs, gripping the heated metal, but as he turned, the skin along his left side pulled tight, an unnatural stretch that sent a dull ache flaring through him. The old injury never truly let him forget.

The first fire had nearly claimed him, swallowing his home and his parents in a night of smoke and screams. He had lived when he shouldn’t have. Thank the heavens he’d managed to save his sweet sister from certain death. The second had been slower. Crueler. Red-hot iron, slipping where it shouldn’t have. The searing contact. The smell of his own flesh burning.

Gowan’s jaw tightened.

He shook his head sharply, as though he could dislodge the memory before it took hold and returned his focus to the task at hand. The hammer struck harder now, faster, each blow an effort to silence what lingered beneath the surface. A soft sound broke through the rhythm.

There was a flicker of movement on the ground, and he glanced down. Silas, the cat, padded toward him with unhurried confidence, tail held high, weaving between his legs as was his custom. In and out, brushing against him with lazy insistence before finally stopping to look up, golden eyes gleaming with expectation. A loud, demanding meow followed.

Despite himself, Gowan huffed a quiet breath of amusement. “Aye, Silas. Ye’ve decided for me, have ye? Time for a rest.”

The cat answered with another insistent cry, as though confirming the matter.

Anne had given the creature to him months ago, claiming it had taken too much interest in her chickens and would serve better keeping mice from his shop. But Gowan had known better the moment she’d set the small bundle of fur into his arms.

She worried. Always had. And in her quiet way, she had tried to give him something more than the solitude he pretended to prefer.

“Come inside, if ye’re hungry,” he called to Conor.

He set aside his tools and went inside to the small hearth where a pot of stew sat waiting. The rich scent of herbs and meat filled the air as he warmed it, the simple comfort of it at odds with the restlessness still lingering in his chest.

First, he ladled a portion onto a plate and set it aside to cool, then he filled two bowls for himself and Conor. The boy grabbed his bowl and a chuck of bread. “I prefer to eat outside if ye have no objection, Master.”

Gowan waved the restless boy out, knowing the youngster loved eating whilst watching whatever happened at the village square.

After blowing on the food on the plate until it seemed cool enough for the cat to eat, he placed it on the floor. Silas wasted no time and began devouring the offering.

Gowan poured water from a pitcher into a cup before settling at the table with his own bowl. For a while, there was only the quiet scrape of spoon against wood and the soft sounds of the cat devouring its meal.

His gaze drifted across the room. The space was large, solid, crafted by his own hands, beam by beam, stone by stone. He had built it with care, with purpose, for a future he had once believed would come. A home meant to be filled with laughter and warmth that came with having a family.

His grip tightened slightly around the spoon. That future had never come to pass. And likely never would.

To the village, Gowan Black was a man to be respected. Strong. Reliable. Steady as the anvil beneath his hammer. He wore that image well, hid behind it, even. His beard covering the burn scars along his jaw. His heavy tunics concealing the damage that marred his body. His gruff demeanor deflecting questions before they could even be asked.

No one looked too closely to see what lay beneath. Only his sister knew the truth. About the scarring, the doubts, and the memories that haunted him. Always.

One truth he didn’t hide was the certainty that whatever life he had once imagined had been burned away long ago.

Chapter Two

The midmorning sun was bright in a cloudless sky, spilling golden light over the village as Effie McRay hurried along the worn path toward the square. The air was already warm, humming with the promise of a busy day, and the distant murmur of voices and clatter of trade drifted toward her.

As always, she had lingered in bed far longer than she should’ve, wrapped in soft blankets, drowsy and content, while the world stirred without her. Rising early had never suited Effie. Why would it, when her bed held her so sweetly, cradling her in warmth and quiet after a restful night. It hardly seemed fair that the most comfortable place in all of Skye was also the one that earned her mother’s sharpest scoldings.

And now she would pay the price for it. By the time she reached the village square, breathless and flushed, it was already alive with activity. Stalls brimmed with goods. Bright voices of sellers and buyers seemed to float in the gentle breeze. She inhaled the scents of fresh bread, herbs, and grilled meat. She followed the sounds of voices that rose and fell in lively exchange, the steady sounds of bartering.

Effie moved through the crowd with practiced ease, clutching her basket as she made straight for the vegetable stand, only to come up short.

Blocking the entire front of it stood a farmer’s wife called Marta. Wide as she was tall, the woman planted her feet wide, fists braced on her hips as though she guarded the produce with her very life and not a soul would dare slip past her.