Page 34 of The Blacksmith’s Wish

Gowan still stood where she’d first seen him. Only now the hammer rested against the anvil. His apprentice wore an enormous grin. And Gowan himself was trying, quite unsuccessfully, not to laugh.

*

The afternoon sun had begun its slow descent by the time Effie guided the mule back through Tokavaig. The wagon felt considerably lighter now that the baskets of bread and stew had been delivered to every cottage Anne had listed that morning.

The day had been filled with smiles from grateful elders, aching joints rubbed with healing salves, and more stories than Effie could count. Yet one conversation lingered above all the others. She’d confessed to Anne what had happened at the fête, about the kiss and the feelings that had lingered since. Admitted that she was confused.

“Ye should speak to him.” Anne had suggested with ease, as if what had transpired between Effie and Gowan didn’t surprise her. First her mother and now Anne. Did the entire village ken about the kiss?

“I have spoken to him.” Effie had retorted. “Many times.”

“Nay,” Anne had replied with an amused smile, as they left old Meira’s cottage. “Ye’ve argued with him, teased him, kissed him, and stared at him when ye thought he was nae looking. But ye’ve not truly spoken to him.”

Effie had protested, of course.

Anne merely laughed. “Gowan has reasons for keeping folk at a distance. Good reasons. If ye wish to ken why he vanished from the fête, ask the man himself instead of inventing answers.”

Now, as the blacksmith’s shop came into view, Effie’s stomach fluttered so violently she wondered if she’d eaten something spoiled. Perhaps Anne was right. Perhaps he’d left because he’d regretted kissing her.

Drawing a slow breath, she guided the mule to a stop beside the forge. It was strangely quiet; the familiar ringing of hammer against anvil was absent. There was no apprentice hurrying about gathering tools.

“Gowan?” she called softly.

When no reply came, she climbed from the wagon and smoothed trembling hands over her skirts.

The forge stood empty. A few glowing coals still smoldered beneath a blanket of ash, and several horseshoes rested upon the anvil awaiting their final shaping.

She took another tentative step.

Then heard the splash of water behind the smithy. Curiosity nudged her forward and before caution could object she rounded the corner. At seeing him, she came to an abrupt stop.

Gowan stood beside a large rain barrel, his broad back turned toward her. He had stripped off his tunic, leaving him bare from the waist up as he dipped a wooden bucket into the cool water and poured it over himself. Water cascaded over powerful shoulders and down the hard planes of his back.

For one stunned heartbeat, Effie noticed only the strength of him.

Broad shoulders formed the top of a V, his body slimming to a narrow waist. The muscles earned through years of swinging a hammer.

Then her gaze drifted lower and her breath caught.

The entire right side of his body was covered in scars. Angry and Twisted. The flesh across his shoulder blade looked melted, the skin pulled taut in uneven ridges that spread over his ribs and wrapped around his side. Some scars were pale with age, others remained a darker pink, all of them jagged reminders of unimaginable agony. They stretched farther than she’d first realized, disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers.

Her heart clenched painfully. Dear Lord. No wonder he kept everyone at arm’s length.

Without thinking, she whispered his name.

“Gowan…”

He froze. The bucket slipped from his fingers and landed with a dull splash. Slowly he turned and for the briefest instant their eyes met before shock flooded his face.

His expression morphed into horror as his gaze collided with hers before instinctively dropping to his own scarred body. Gowan stumbled backward as though struck.

“Nay.” The single word escaped him in a broken whisper.

Effie immediately lifted both hands. “I didnae mean to…” Before she could finish, he snatched the discarded tunic from a nearby bench and yanked it over his head with frantic haste.

The damp linen clung to him awkwardly as he struggled to pull it into place. His breathing came fast. Then without another word, he rushed into the cottage, the door slamming shut hard enough to rattle the wooden frame.

Effie remained rooted where she stood. Anne’s words echoed in her mind. “He has good reasons for keeping folk at a distance.”