Page 31 of The Blacksmith’s Wish
Her mother looked over.
“Effie, what worries ye?”
Effie sighed heavily, continuing to stir the porridge in slow circles. “I kissed Gowan Black on the first day of the fête.”
Her mother didn’t speak, instead simply waited for her to continue.
“He walked me back toward the square afterward…” Effie stared into the bubbling porridge and moved it from the heat. “…then he fled like a frightened rabbit.”
“Go on,” her mother encouraged.
“It is that…” she admitted quietly. “I dreamed of the kiss. Instead of running away, in the dream… he vanished.” Her voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “And then, like a daft cow, I cried.”
When she finally looked up, she thought she caught the ghost of a smile tugging at her mother’s lips before it disappeared behind practiced composure.
“Lass,” her mother said softly. “There is nothing unusual about dreaming after being kissed by a handsome man.”
Her mother chuckled. “I saw the two of ye wander away from the square. A mother misses very little.”
“Ye…ye knew?”
“I suspected.”
Mortification settled over her like a heavy blanket. “I donnae cry over a man,” Effie muttered stubbornly.
Her mother continued rolling the dough into neat balls for a moment before meeting her daughter’s gaze. “Aye, lass, we all do at some point. Sometimes because of something they have done.” Her mother’s smile softened with memories only she could see. “Sometimes because they have been hurt. And sometimes because we discover, before we wish to admit it, that their happiness has somehow become tied to our own.”
There was a combination of warmth and understanding as she met Effie’s gaze. “When ye care deeply for someone, their pain becomes yer pain. Dreams have a way of revealing truths we spend our waking hours denying.”
Effie swallowed. “It was only a dream.”
“Aye.” Her mother’s eyes sparkled. “But dreams often borrow pieces of our hearts.”
Effie set the wooden spoon upon the worktable and folded her arms. “Are ye truly nae angry that I kissed a man?”
Her mother’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Angry?” Her mother’s rich laughter was a warm, affectionate sound that filled the kitchen. “I have spent years wondering if any man would ever tempt ye enough to steal a kiss. At this moment, I am simply relieved to see ye looking at someone with more than indifference.”
Effie groaned. “Mam.”
“It is true. Ye are well past the age when most lasses are thinking of husbands.”
“I am nae in need of a husband.”
“No?”
She lifted her chin. “Gowan Black is merely…a passing fancy.”
Her mother’s expression held far too much amusement. “If that is what ye believe, I shall not argue.” She reached for another lump of dough and began shaping it into a loaf.
“Now taste the porridge. Yer father and Calum will soon be wondering if we’ve forgotten to feed them. Afterward, I believe ye promised to help Anne deliver meals to the elderly.”
Effie picked up the spoon once more. “Aye.” Yet as she stirred the oats, all she could see was a tall broad-shouldered blacksmith disappearing into a curtain of white mist and the foolish young woman left behind, wishing he had stayed.
*
The morning sun had barely climbed above the hills as Effie guided the mule along the familiar road toward Tokavaig. The wagon creaked behind them, laden with baskets of bread, fresh butter, and jars of preserves for Anne’s visits to the village’s elderly.
The steady clip-clop of hooves gave her far too much time to think. Her mother’s words refused to leave her alone. Ye are well past the age when most lasses are thinking of husbands.
