Page 3 of The Blacksmith’s Wish

Effie exhaled sharply, tapping her foot against the packed earth. “Oh, for the love of all things,” she muttered before pushing forward, squeezing herself against the woman’s solid frame. “’Tis nae a matter of life and death, Marta. Pick a carrot and a potato, they all look the same.”

Thankfully Marta lowered that arm so Effie could lean sideways to see around the woman. Relief flooded when she saw the remaining vegetables were still garden-fresh and plentiful.

Marta turned slowly, her shadow falling over Effie, while the vendor, an elderly farmer’s wife with sharp eyes and a knowing smile, paused mid-transaction.

“Wait yer turn, lass,” Marta rumbled, her voice thick with disapproval. “Ye are always in a hurry. Always impatient. ’Tis nae normal.”

Effie rolled her eyes with a dramatic sigh, already reaching past Marta. “If I waited my turn, there’d be naught left but wilted scraps.”

Reaching around the woman, who barely moved, Effie gathered what she needed, a hearty bunch of carrots still dusted with soil, a firm round cabbage, and a bundle of leafy leeks, and dropped them neatly into her basket. Coins clinked as she dropped them into the vendor’s palm. Then ignoring Marta, Effie spun away, moving through the gathered people to her next destination.

Behind her, Marta’s voice carried over the din. “The nerve of that Effie.”

Effie only smiled, not breaking her stride. Let the woman grumble. At least she would not be returning home empty-handed.

After leaving the butcher’s shop, her basket heavier and her pace faster, Effie made her way toward the apothecary, her final errand. If she hurried, she wouldn’t be too late returning home to help her mother with the wash and preparing the midday meal.

Her steps slowed then faltered altogether. She drew in a breath then let it out in a quiet huff of frustration.

Standing before the apothecary door as though they had been planted there by fate itself were Camden Lewis and Gowan Black. The healer and the blacksmith, steady as stone and just as difficult to avoid. They were deep in conversation, as good friends often were.

Effie’s pulse betrayed her at once, quickening despite her better judgment. Gowan Black of all people.

Even from a distance, he commanded attention. Broad shoulders, powerful arms dusted faintly with soot, dark hair catching the sun in uneven strands. It was unfair, truly, that one man should look so…breathtaking. In all of Tokavaig, there was none to rival him when it came to good looks. And worse still, Effie was convinced he knew it.

Her nemesis. The word settled bitterly in her chest, though it did little to quiet the unwelcome stir of memory.

She had first noticed him as a girl of ten. At the time she’d been awkward, bright-eyed, and entirely too certain she had fallen in love. Gowan had been near twenty then, already strong and self-assured, moving through the world with an ease that had fascinated her. From that moment on, she had found every excuse to linger near him, to insert herself wherever he was, befriending his sister Anne with a determination that had bordered on relentless.

Years had passed. Her feelings had deepened, matured, and been met, time and again, with teasing, indifference, and that maddening way he had of looking at her as though she were still that same pestering child. Now she felt nothing but irritation for the annoying man.

At least, that was what she told herself. Lifting her chin, Effie squared her shoulders and schooled her features into cool indifference before striding toward them.

“How fare ye, Camden?” she asked, her tone deliberately polite, and deliberately excluding the man beside him.

Camden’s lips curved, amusement flickering in his steady gaze. “Well, Effie. ’Tis a fine day.”

“Aye,” she replied briskly. “It is. Is Brae about? I require herbs for a poultice. My mother’s knee pains her again.”

She kept her eyes firmly on the healer, as though the blacksmith did not exist at all.

Before Camden could answer, a deeper voice cut through.

“How is yer ankle?”

Effie stilled.

The memory struck sharp and unwelcome. Gowan lifting her as though she weighed nothing, his arm steady beneath her knees, his chest solid at her side as he carried her through the village after her fall. Heat crept up her neck, equal parts embarrassment and something far more dangerous.

She forced herself to look up.

His hazel eyes held hers, steady and unreadable, flecked with gold in the sunlight. Too intent. Too knowing.

“Well,” she answered, her voice clipped.

He didn’t look away. For just a moment too long, neither did she. Then she broke the connection, dragging her gaze aside with effort. Infuriating man. He knew exactly what he was doing. He always had. Even when she was younger, he had seen her feelings plain as day and taken a wicked sort of pleasure in provoking her.

“Brae is inside,” Camden said, his tone easy, as though he had not noticed the shift in the air between them. “He can see to what ye need. I have calls to make.”