Page 44 of The Blacksmith’s Wish

Each time those thoughts threatened to surface, he forced them aside and turned his attention to practical matters.

Tokavaig was changing.

Since Clan Ross had crushed their rivals and secured peace throughout the region, families had begun settling on their lands in increasing numbers. New cottages dotted the hillsides. Fields once abandoned were being tilled again. More wagons rolled through the village square each week.

Peace brought prosperity and prosperity brought work. Far more work than he and young Conor could manage alone.

As he rode, he began making plans. The forge would need another workbench. A larger coal bin. More molds. Perhaps even an experienced smith to work beside him until Conor had mastered the trade. Those thoughts occupied his mind far more safely than memories of Effie.

For the next several nights he slept beneath a blanket of stars. The evening air smelled of pine and damp earth, while crickets sang unseen among the grasses. Wind whispered softly through the ancient trees, and his horse occasionally let out a quiet nicker as it grazed nearby.

It was peaceful.

It was simple.

It was, he reminded himself, exactly as life ought to be for a man who intended to remain alone.

*

Days later Gowan arrived back in Tokavaig just after sunrise.

He had scarcely reached the first cottages before villagers began calling to him.

“Gowan! When will the forge be open?”

“I’ve a kettle needing repair!”

“My plowshare snapped clean in two!”

“I’ll be needing hinges before week’s end!”

Each request pulled him from his saddle before he had even reached home. He answered each with patient nods and weary smiles. “The day after tomorrow,” he promised. “I’ll begin taking work then.”

By the time he reached his forge, exhaustion clung to him like a second cloak.

The familiar clang of hammer on iron was absent. Instead, Conor burst from the workshop wearing a grin so broad it nearly split his face.

“Thank the saints ye’re home!” the lad exclaimed, nearly tripping over himself. “We’re near out of everything. I’ve made nails and hooks and a few small pieces, but folk are asking for cooking pots, farming tools, horseshoes, all the things I’m nay skilled enough to finish.”

Gowan chuckled despite his fatigue. “Then they’ve no choice but to wait another day.”

The apprentice looked as though he might argue, but Gowan lifted a hand. “I’ve ridden half the Isle these past days. Today I rest. Tomorrow, at first light, we’ll fire the forge.”

He slipped stiffly from his horse, every muscle protesting. “If anyone comes asking, tell them to return the day after tomorrow.”

“Aye.”

Handing Conor the reins, Gowan rubbed the gelding’s neck affectionately. “Feed him well. Water him, brush him down proper, then gather a few lads to unload the wagon.”

He reached into his leather purse and pressed several coins into Conor’s palm. “Pay the helpers and keep a few for yerself.”

The boy’s face brightened. “Thank ye, Master Gowan.”

He walked to the nearby stand and purchased two hot meat pies from the square and hurried back to his home to avoid running into anyone.

Gowan ate in silence at his small table. The familiar meal barely registered on his tongue. Weariness weighed heavily upon him, settling into his bones after days in the saddle.

He washed away the dust of travel, pulled on a clean tunic, then collapsed onto his bed where sleep claimed him almost instantly.