“We undo what shouldn’t have been done?—”
The short one smiled brightly. “And failing that, we make amends.”
“Amends? Warnin’ him home will make amends for somethin’?”
“Oh, it will.”
“Certainly.”
“Butonly if he heeds the warning.”
They headed for the corner of the building but turned back, their smiles gone. “Cian’s happiness is in your hands now, John MacEachern.”
They knew his friend’s name! Impossible!
“All in your hands, sir.”
The pair disappeared around the corner. The swish of their snowpants faded quickly. John didn’t follow to see them to their car…he was afraid they might have vanished into thin air.
He crossed himself and hurried back inside to put the kettle on. Cian MacInnis, the Ghost of Glenmore according to gossip, typically arrived between noon and two. Sadly, it seemed John and his friend were not meant to enjoy a long chat that day. And John had to get a wiggle on if he intended to help his friend get back on the road, as the witches had insisted.
No wise Highlander would dare defy a witch—let alone a pair of them.
CHAPTER TWO
Inside the Glenmore Visitor’s Center, where the world was wide awake and waiting for the sun to rise, I ripped open my backpack and dumped my equipment onto the bench, mortified that the entire ski party was forced to wait for me. My driver had been grumpy due to the early hour, so I hadn’t dared rush him. As a result, I had missed half the leader’s instructions and only heard a few bits and pieces while suiting up.
Everyone else was ready.
“Relax,” said a deep voice behind me.
I turned to find a very tall, very blond man smirking at me. “They’re happy to wait. Gives them more time to blether.”
“Blether?” I blinked and glanced around at the large party of twenty plus skiers paying me little attention, laughing and chatting quietly in the early morning glow coming in through the high windows.
“You know, gossiping? Spinning yarns? These Scots open their mouths in the morning before they open their eyes.”
He had sharp features and high round cheeks that hinted at Nordic genes, but there was no trace of an accent. His pale green eyes matched his cap and the top half of his black, softshelljacket. His slight beard couldn’t hide the deep grooves in his forty-something face, and his goggle tan said he’d spent a lot of time on the snow this season. I would need to stay away from him if I didn’t want to look like a rookie in comparison.
“I’m Phillip.”
I nodded. “Matty.”
“Where are you from?” Not flirty, just friendly.
“Vermont.” I pulled on my neck gaiter and forced it down onto my collar.
His eyes lit. “Really? Where?”
I closed the last snaps at the top of my jacket. “A little ski town called Sugarbush.”
“Sugarbush?” He chuckled. “Then you knowThe Last Chair!”
I bore down against the blow to my chest, which I hadn’t expected to reach me so far from home. I forced myself to smile and strapped my gloves tighter. “Intimately.”
He waited for me to say more.
I gave in. “The Last Chair on Bridgewas mine, until recently. My ex is buying me out of my share.”
