MacGowan's Ghost

by Cindy Miles

  Rolling out of bed, Gabe crossed the floor to the bathroom. He flipped on the light, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on his face. As he rubbed his eyes, his jaw, he looked at himself. A month ago, the dreams had started again. At least, he thought they were dreams. They were so damn real. Christ, what was happening to him?

  With a hand towel, he dried his face, laid the cloth across the sink, and turned out the light.

  In the living room, he stopped. A streak of moonlight shot through the picture window facing the loch, coating everything in silver. The steady tick-tick of the wall clock above the hearth seemed to be only in his head.

  Without thought, Gabe moved toward Jake’s room. The door was cracked, so with a slight push, he eased it open. The lad lay completely relaxed, flat on his back and out of the covers. Gabe crossed the floor, pulled the duvet from beneath Jake’s narrow body, and tucked him in.

  “I dunna want to leave, Da,” Jake muttered.

  A lump formed in Gabe’s throat. He smoothed his son’s cowlick down, watched the hair pop right back up, and leaned over to drop a kiss onto the top of his head. “I know, lad. Now go to sleep.”

  Gabe turned and eased out of the room.

  Instead of going back to bed, he found himself perched on the window seat in the alcove, staring out at the loch. The same silvery beam that bathed his face streaked across the black seawater, catching every ripple, every turn of a wave against the pebbled shore.

  The very same sea that took Kait’s life.

  Now she came to him, whether in sleep or in that gloaming of wakefulness that doesn’t quite seem real, she came. She reached for him, but she was not as he remembered. Chunks of hair were missing, as well as an eye, and her skin was pale white, waterlogged, and fish-nibbled . . .

  As he scrubbed his eyes to rid himself of the vision, another one replaced it straightaway.

  Untamed blond curls, blue eyes, a wide smile with the smallest of dimples to her right cheek. And as he recently noticed at the stairwell, inviting lips that curved just right and would fit against his perfectly . . .

  Swearing in Gaelic, Gabe pushed from the window seat and paced. He stared at the ceiling and rubbed the back of his neck with both hands. What the bloody hell was he doing? Having nightmares about one woman, fantasies about another?

  Christ, he’d known the lass but for half of a day. Why could he not get her off his mind? ’Twasn’t simply because he’d seen her with her jumper over her head. He’d seen breasts before. Loads of them. He hadn’t even really seen hers, yet he couldn’t bloody get the alluring sight out of his brain. ’Twas something else, as well—something about her—and he couldna put a finger on it.

  He didna want to, either. He had no room for such in his life. He owed everything he did to his son. He’d taken Jake’s mother from him. And he’d spend the rest of his days trying to make up for it—even if it killed him.

  Gabe blew out a heavy sigh. Two in the morning and he knew if he tried to sleep, he wouldna. He might as well stay up and occupy his time.

  Pulling on the jeans he’d discarded earlier, he slipped on a T-shirt, a long-sleeved shirt over that, and pulled on socks and boots. Quietly, he eased out of the room and made his way to the small workshop off the kitchen. A single bench, a single lamp, and a single wooden chair, along with his chiseling set and several chunks of marble in various sizes and colors, filled the small eight-by-eight chamber. Against the far wall, a long wooden shelf ran the length of the room, a place to set whatever finished thing he’d made. The room had once been a place to cure meat.

  It now served as Gabe’s escape.

  One of his escapes, anyway.

  He couldna help but wonder if leaving truly was the answer.

  Or if by leaving would he truly be free of his dead wife . . .

  Choosing a small chunk of white marble streaked with obsidian, Gabe settled into the chair, pulled the lamp close, picked up a small hammer, chisel, and file, and set to work.

  As Allie tiptoed down the third-floor steps, all was quiet within Odin’s Thumb. No ghosts, no mortals—nothing. Not even a sign of Dauber. Quarter till seven on a Sunday morning, overcast, and she’d bet anything it was colder than a witch’s tutu outside.

  Perfect.

  Once she made it to Odin’s front door, Allie buttoned her black wool peacoat, pulled on a striped skully, and stepped outside. The cold, late October wind took her breath away, but the air smelled clean, a bit salty, and with a tinge of something Allie just couldn’t seem to put her finger on. She liked it.

  Taking a few moments before starting her morning walk, Allie seized her surroundings. Every one of her five senses snapped to life as she became familiar with the small coastal Scottish village.

  Above her, the Odin’s Thumb sign creaked on iron hinges, swaying softly back and forth with the wind. Quite eerie, actually—the empty street, no noise pollution—only the sound of that creaking sign and the ebb and flow of the sea. The cold coastal air against her skin, the salt of the ocean in her nostrils and on her tongue—all of it felt like a burst of life. How could anyone willingly leave this place?

  On somewhat of an incline, Odin’s Thumb perched at the top, looking down the single lane of whitewashed buildings that rambled to the sea loch at the bottom. Turning in that direction, Allie began to walk.

  The building next to Odin’s was the fishmonger, McMillan’s. Allie had met him at the pub the night before. Willy. Pretty funny guy. Looking into the storefront window, she found the large slab empty of display fish. She supposed on Sunday, Willy had closed shop. She’d make it a point to come see him when he opened for business on Monday.

  As she ambled down past the stores, she discovered all of them closed, save one: the baker. And she’d smelled it long before she reached it. A large picture window with the words BREAD AND PASTRIES painted at the top in red letters displayed loaves of fresh bread and, well, pastries. A smiling woman with brown hair pulled into a ponytail met her gaze through the window and waved her inside. Allie pushed open the door where a bell tinkled her arrival.

  “Aye, come on in out of the cold, gel,” the woman, who might have been in her early forties, said in heavy Highland brogue. “Have you had your breakfast yet, then?”

  The scent of dough and baked bread made Allie’s stomach growl. “Not yet, but I think I’m about to.” She scanned the cases, found a stuffed-to-the-gills meat pie, smiled, and pointed to it. “That looks too good to pass up.”

  “Och, you must be MacGowan’s American ghost buster. I’m Leona, and I see you’ve good taste in meaties,” she said. Leona opened the case, and with a sheet of waxy paper, grabbed the meat pie, pushed it into a white paper sack, and handed it to Allie. “Coffee?”

  “Definitely.” Allie wondered just how many folks had heard of her arrival. She’d be willing to bet everyone. It was a small village. Funny, how Leona didn’t seem to think Allie’s presence an abnormal thing, not to mention one of her neighbors hiring a ghost buster.

  Leona handed a steaming cup of coffee over the counter. “Condiments are in the corner, just there.”

  “Thanks, and I’m Allie,” Allie said. She stepped to the corner and dumped in several spoons of brown sugar and cream.

  “Aye, Justin’s told me all about you. Smitten, that one is.”

  Allie nearly dropped her pie. “Justin?”

  Leona nodded, her ponytail swishing back and forth. “Aye. You’ve met him, no doubt. That swarthy sea captain?” She snorted. “More like a rogue pirate if ye ask me. Quite the flirt. He told me all about you.”

  Allie set her breakfast on the condiments counter, dug in her jeans pocket for a few pounds, and handed them to Leona. “Yes, I’ve met him. Mr. MacGowan told me the village was sort of a . . . haven for spirits. I guess I’m still just surprised. I’m used to dealing with people who are frightened by ghosts, not friends with them.”

  “Aye, the whole Odin’s lot is well known in Sealladh na Mara. Have been for as long as I ca
n remember. They go back centuries—our parents’ parents’ grandparents’ played with the lot when they were lads and lassies.” She shrugged. “I suppose having Justin and the others around at every birth, every celebration, from the time we enter the world—it doesn’t seem overly strange to us. Like family, they are, more than anything.” She leaned on the counter and met Allie’s gaze. “I suppose, for whatever reason, they felt drawn here all those years ago, and didna want to ever leave.”

  Allie resisted the urge to shake her head in wonderment. She was used to people thinking they were seeing ghosts—and wanting her to get rid of them. But this small village thought of the Odin’s spirits as family? New one on her. She rather liked it.

  Leona turned to the register, punched in the numbers, the drawer popped out, and she handed Allie the change. “You know, one legend goes the way of a spell. Centuries ago, before the spirits ever showed up, a band of pirates cursed Sealladh na Mara to keep their hidden treasures safe. They figured if the outlying villages feared the ghosties, they’d stay away.” She smiled. “Funny, how no’ everyone can see those from the other side. So maybe there’s a bit o’ truth to that ole legend, aye?” She winked. “You must have a wee bit of Scot’s blood runnin’ through you, lass, for you to see ghosties the way you do. ’Tis a fine ability, indeed.”

  Allie grinned. “Maybe I do.” She held up the meat pie. “Thanks. I’ll see you around, Leona.”

  “Aye. Why not come round next Saturday? We’re having a ceilidh. They’re always loads of fun. My husband plays the fiddle.”

  The questioning look must have been evident on Allie’s face, because Leona grinned. “ ’Tis a dance, love. A party. Quite informal here, I promise you.” She inclined her head toward the wharf. “We’ll gather just there at about sixish. Bonfire, music, food, and plenty of dancing.”

  Allie smiled. “Thanks. I hope I’m still here.”

  Something sparkled in Leona’s brown eyes. “I’ve a feeling you will be, gel. Now shoo. Enjoy your breakfast, and I’ll be seeing you.”

  With a wave, Allie left Leona to her baking. With her meat pie wrapped tightly in the waxed paper, she sipped her coffee and continued her walk down to the wharf. As she passed the other establishments, one red building stood out amongst the other whitewashed traditionals. It had a single sign that read ROYAL POST. She’d have to remember to stop by and send her mom and sisters a postcard.

  At the wharf, several benches lined the walkway to the water. Allie chose one, set her coffee beside her, and opened the meat pie. Flavors of chipped beef, onion, spices, and cheese popped through the flaky pastry shell as she took that first bite. Her eyes closed as she chewed. Heaven.

  The sounds of the sea, the wind against her cheeks, drowned out any approaching noises. Which is why she nearly jumped out of her skin when Gabe’s deep brogue interrupted her breakfast.

  “I’ve yet to meet a lass who can eat quite as much as you,” he said, suddenly behind her.

  Allie jumped, her mouth full of pie. She finished chewing, swallowed, and nearly choked. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” she said, wheezing. “Is something wrong?”

  Gabe walked around and faced her. Leather jacket, jeans, boots, and a black skully made up his attire. He hadn’t shaved yet, and from the looks of it, he hadn’t slept much, either. Still. Dead sexy. “Aye.” His green eyes bored into hers, lingered a moment as he studied her with an intent and profound stare, before answering—almost as if he wanted to say one thing, but couldn’t. “I’ve a potential buyer coming to look at the place in two hours and I need you to keep the others busy.” His gaze didn’t waver. “That’s what you were hired for, aye?”

  She took a sip of coffee. “You should know by now that no mortal can force spirited souls into doing something they don’t want to do. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  Gabe looked a second or two longer, then out across the loch; then he kicked a pile of pebbles with the toe of his boot. Then, without even a glance back, he shook his head and walked up the lane.

  Allie took another bite of pie and stared after him. She couldn’t figure the man out. She just needed more time. It’d only been a day. Not even a day, actually.

  There was something bothering Gabe MacGowan, and it was a lot more than misbehaving spirits and wanting to sell Odin’s. As a matter of fact, she would bet her life that he didn’t truly want to sell Odin’s at all. She still needed to have a speakeasy with the others, find out just what brought them to Sealladh na Mara.

  She sighed. Gabe was attracted to her. She could tell that for sure. She could also tell he would fight that attraction tooth and nail.

  Her job to keep the others busy?

  Oh, I’ll keep them busy all right . . .

  Chapter 6

  Gabe shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets and made his way back to Odin’s.

  He couldna quite figure out why Allie Morgan burrowed under his skin so much. He hardly knew her.

  Yet somehow, for some odd bloody reason, he found it completely endearing when she’d turned toward him, cheeks stuffed with pie.

  He’d never admit it to anyone.

  The reason he felt to continuously snap at her failed him, as well. He’d snap, she’d smile. Snap, smile.

  ’Twas madness.

  The cold sea wind beat against his face, and for a second, he stopped and faced the loch. Inhaling a lungful of salty air, tasting it on his tongue, Gabe allowed it to revive him after another sleepless night.

  After a moment, he continued on, stomping into Odin’s just as Wee Mary and his mother were setting up the kitchen to begin lunch. Both women, sisters who looked nothing alike, looked up. He slipped his coat off and hung it on the rack.

  “Well, good mornin’ to you, son,” his mother said. “What’s gotten inside your knickers this time, lad? That horrible mug seems to be your usual of late.”

  Wee Mary laughed. “Oy, Laina. You’d only have to lay eyes on her once to understand.” She winked. “Your boy there has been ogling the American.”

  Gabe pulled off his cap and set it atop the coatrack. “I’ve no’ been ogling, woman.”

  “Och,” his mother said, ignoring his innocent plea. “You mean that lovely girl he hired to oust the ghosties?” She tsked. “Gorgeous blond locks the girl has, wouldna you say, Sister?”

  “Aye, indeed.”

  Gabe shook his head, unable to completely smother the grin pulling at his mouth. “You both are crazy.”

  The sisters giggled.

  His mother cocked her head and studied him. “You look like death, boy. Have you no’ been sleeping again?”

  Tying an apron about him, Gabe moved to the cutting table and began preparing the pot roast. “I’m getting enough.” ’Twas a lie, but he didna want to worry his mother over something so insignificant. Besides, he’d brought it on himself. “I’ve someone coming to look at the pub today, so be on your best behavior and stay in the kitchen.” He glanced at them. Their faces revealed nothing as they busied themselves with the peas and potatoes.

  “I need a bit of help mending one of the fences, lad,” his mother said. “I dunna want to leave it for your da when he comes ashore. Do you think you could go over this afternoon sometime?”

  Gabe stared at his mother hard. So hard she finally blushed and looked up.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I’ll go over once I’ve shown Odin’s.” He wouldn’t put it past his mum or auntie to consort with the Odin’s lot in keeping it from being sold.

  His mother shrugged. “That’ll do, then. Mary, pass me that paring knife, eh, love?”

  Together the sisters continued their work. While he paid them both well, he more than appreciated the help. Wee Mary and his mum were the best of cooks, and people came from neighboring villages just to have their Sunday pot roast dinner. Which was exactly why he had one stipulation with the selling of Odin’s: Wee Mary and his mum remained on as cooks.

  Setting aside his carving knives, he scrubb
ed his hands on a dish towel, walked over to the sisters, and put an arm around each. He bent down and planted a kiss on each cheek. “I dunna know what I’d do without either of you meddlesome hens.”

  His mother kissed him back, then popped him on the backside with a towel. “Full of compliments, I see. Oh, go on with you. We’ve work to do, and ’tis work we can do without your bothersome self.”

  “Aye, you cocky lad,” Wee Mary said. “Go.”

  They both beamed at his praise as he left.

  Somehow it made him feel more like an idiot than he already did.

  An hour later Gabe felt somewhat refreshed.

  A shower, shave, clean clothes—even a tie—had him looking and feeling more like a proprietor ready to do business.

  He sincerely hoped he could pull off such a farce.

  Tightening the knot, he glimpsed Jake in the mirror, staring at him with a scowl that stretched clean across his scrunched-up little face. Arms folded and head down like a sulking vulture, his son was the epitome of piss ’n’ pout.

  Gabe would never let on he felt the verra same way.

  Trouble was, he felt more selfish than ever—especially since Allie’s arrival. So many questions—for most of which he had no solid answer. Was he making the move for Jake’s sake, or was he running from the tormenting dreams of his dead wife? He knew the answer, but somehow, not saying it out loud made it not quite as foul. Or as true.

  But Christ—he felt as though he were losing his bloody mind . . .

  He met his son’s accusing gaze in the mirror. “Stop glaring at me so, boy, and get your shoes on. Your granny’s waitin’ for you downstairs.”

  With an exaggerated harrumph, Jake jumped off Gabe’s bed and stomped to his room. By the time Gabe had brushed his teeth and put on his own shoes, Jake was ready.

  And was giving quite a good show of the silent treatment.

  Deciding it best to just ignore it, Gabe inclined his head to the door. “Let’s go.”

  Wordless, Jake stomped to the door, opened it, and stomped out.