Storm Warrior

titles on the spines had been very different when she was younger. Faery tales, folklore, myths, and legends. Elves, witches, ogres, and dragons. Spells and curses. Good and evil. All just silly fantasy of course, but Morgan still felt a pang of nostalgia. She had loved every single one of them. How many nights had she pleaded with Nainie to keep the light on just a little longer so she could read more of the wonderful stories?

On an impulse, Morgan hurried to the spare bedroom, where about four dozen boxes were stacked against one wall, each neatly labeled in her own handwriting. She’d intended to settle in, of course, to finally free her belongings from storage and to display all her treasures now that she had a house of her own. Yet there were still a lot of boxes whose contents hadn’t seen the light of day since she lived in an apartment. There were even more boxes that hadn’t been opened since Nainie had passed away and left all her things to her granddaughter.

It was a daunting task, and she’d made little progress. Morgan figured she’d be fully unpacked sometime in the next decade or so—if she was lucky. Now the intimidation she usually felt when she entered the room seemed to dissolve. Her anger over Rhys was slowly but surely nudged aside, replaced by a subtle niggling pressure. Look, look, look. Giving in to the compulsion, she began opening boxes.

So many letters, photos, and knickknacks. And books, of course—scores of them, many filled with Welsh folklore. Each one was like an old friend, but she wasn’t there to read. Instead, she glanced at each title, then reached for the next one. Morgan had no idea what she was looking for, but she couldn’t seem to stop. When she’d gone through all the boxes in the guest room, she went to the closet and found more. And still more. By late afternoon, she was sitting in a sea of open boxes and towering stacks of books and papers.

She sighed heavily. So far, all I’ve done is make a helluva mess. But she might as well finish the job.

There were only five boxes left when she discovered something beneath some of Nainie’s favorite cookbooks. It was a small jewelry box from Morgan’s fifteenth birthday, made from dark wood with a Celtic symbol carved on it. Opening it, she found a tangle of silver necklaces and plastic bracelets, sterling earrings and wild- colored dime-store ones. And right on top, a snapshot of Nainie. Morgan had taken the photo herself with her brand-new camera, surprising her grandmother in the kitchen as she rolled out pie dough—a slice of everyday life perfectly captured. How many times had she seen her grandmother bake?

She could nearly smell the cinnamon in the air.

Morgan sighed and drew a finger over the photo, gently tracing the shapeless flowered dress, the faded apron, the glasses sliding down Nainie’s nose, and the crown of blue-gray curly hair that would never behave. Morgan pulled a tendril of her own wayward hair as emotion washed over her.

“Oh, Nainie, I wish you were here. I miss you all the time.” She sniffled hard and rubbed her nose on the shoulder of her shirt. At once she noticed some little white things carefully lined up beside the pastry board. They didn’t look quite like dough scraps…Finally Morgan gave up squinting at them and held the photo near the window for better light. She had to get a magnifying glass, however, before the tiny objects resolved themselves into clever knots and triangles and flowers of leftover dough.

“Faery pastries,” she murmured, remembering. Every baking day, without fail, Nainie would make a small batch of faery pastries, dripping with honey and raisins. Morgan would receive one on a china saucer with a cup of milky tea. As for the rest, a tiny basket of the diminutive baked goods would grace the back porch at sunset.

An offering for the Fair Ones, Nainie had explained. Some of her words came back to Morgan now. There are many things all around us that are old and powerful…They’re not to be feared but to be respected, and it’s long been a gift in our family to know them.

Nainie had believed the faery stories she told her granddaughter. Which made her the only person in the world who could understand what Morgan was going through. Even though her grandmother had passed on, Morgan felt certain that Nainie would be listening and watching over her somehow.

“I’m trying hard not to be stupid here, but you told me that the heart knows things the mind doesn’t and to trust my heart even when things didn’t make sense.” Tears began, only a few at first, and then the floodgates simply burst. “They sure don’t make sense right now. There’s this man in my life. I think he’s a good man, but he’s really confused and so am I…”

She poured her heart out to Nainie’s photo for a very long time. Talking to the dog yesterday had been good for her, but her heart hadn’t been ripped in half at the time. She wasn’t much of a crier by nature, but this time she couldn’t stop the tears. It wasn’t long before the box of Kleenex was empty and she had to switch to toilet paper. Which seemed somewhat undignified, but it was either that or scratchy paper towels.

By the time Morgan was down to hiccups and sniffles, she still had no answers. She loved Rhys, and Rhys, love her though he might, was obviously crazy. It could be the treatable kind of crazy, like schizophrenia or something like that, but he’d have to agree he had a problem. And she didn’t see that happening anytime soon.

With Nainie’s picture in one hand and the old jewelry box in the other, she got unsteadily to her feet and stumbled to the kitchen to make coffee and pull herself together. The sun pouring in the windows seemed to mock her mood as she propped the photo against the salt and pepper shakers on the table. She stood back and surveyed it, then went back to the guest room and came back with a frame. It was far too large for the precious picture, but it would protect it. She centered the photo on the glass and closed it up, then took the Truman’s Farm Equipment calendar down from the wall and hung Nainie’s photo in its place. Maybe I could get Jay to scan it or something. A larger copy of the photo could hang on that wall permanently. Nainie in her kitchen and me in mine.

For a moment, she almost smiled…

Her grandmother used to say that the best medicine for feeling miserable was to go make somebody else happier. Morgan doubted there was a medicine in the world that could make her feel much better—with the possible exception of Jack Daniel’s—but she knew there was one soul who she could visit and at least not make him feel any worse.

She would spend some time with Fred.

Rhys kicked a bale of straw across the floor between the stalls, startling Lucy. Steady beast that she was, the horse didn’t shy or jump, just flattened her ears and switched her tail. He was far too angry to be sorry for kicking the straw right then.

Morgan had been furious when she stormed out of the stable. Although she’d ordered him to leave, Rhys had lingered, knowing that she spoke from the heat of the moment, from the emotions that were tearing at her. Frustration clawed at him as well. He knew how to ride and how to fight, how to farm and how to build. He knew how to care for an injured horse, yet he had no idea whatsoever how to help the woman he loved. She was compassionate and skilled as a healer, clever of mind, but how could she accept a truth that she viewed as impossible? To be fair, few in this time and place would be able to believe such a thing. The Fair Ones were all but forgotten, relegated to myth, diminished to tiny beings that consorted with butterflies in picture books.

Helplessness didn’t sit well with him. Rhys much preferred action, but the situation called for him to give Morgan time. How much time? He paced the stable until the mare was nervous, then walked the fields. He didn’t go far, however. He’d vowed to watch over Morgan Edwards and protect her, and the fact that he’d made that promise while still a dog didn’t nullify his commitment. Even if she didn’t want him, he would see to her safety no matter what.

But she did want him. Of that he was certain.

At noon, Rhys judged himself calm enough to walk the mare and even turned her out for a short time to graze. He studied the horse’s movements, saw that she wasn’t favoring that left hind leg nearly as much, and judged that by the next day she would be ready to spend the morning in the pasture. Morgan would be pleased—if she ever talked to him again. He led the mare back to the stable, noting that the big horse seemed content and comfortable. He was neither.

The red car was gone.

He leaned in the doorway of the barn for a long time. Wondering what Morgan was doing. Wondering what she was thinking. Remembering the night she’d spent in his arms. By all the gods, she’d revealed a passion that matched his own, and his groin ached at the thought.

His heart ached more, however, and was much harder to ignore.