The Charm Stone by Donna Kauffman

shore. She could see the ferry dock from here and, she imagined, on a perfectly clear day maybe the mainland as well. To the north she could see the rocky hills that covered the opposite end of the island she'd yet to explore.
    She made a mental note to head that way next time. In the car. To her right was the roll of hill and heather that formed the part of the island she'd driven around… had it just been yesterday?
    She turned around then, steeling herself for the impact of what lay behind her. Black's Tower thrust from the pile of stone that once had been Winter-haven, forbidding even now that it was little more than a ruin. It wasn't picturesque, as the port town was. But it was more awe-inspiring.
    As was the man who resided in it.
    She resolutely turned her back. And just as resolutely ignored the chills that raced over her skin when she thought of Connal MacNeil.
    She knew she had to face more-far more-than the fact that she'd tangled tongues with him this morning. She'd done plenty of soul-searching back in Gregor's cabin. Her first instinct had been to turn to her dad, tell him everything and get his take on it. But he was half a world away and grieving. No, she had to come to terms with this herself first, before discussing it with anyone. If she ever did.
    She looked past the dock to the open waters, hoping beyond hope that a ferry would magically appear on the horizon.
Like Connal magically appeared in front of you on the beach?
Scowling, she pushed onward, the downhill ride not much easier on her body.
    Yes, she'd seen him vanish before her very eyes. She'd listened to his explanation. And then there was the whole Bagan issue. She had to deal with all of it. She hadn't spent enough time in Scotland to absorb the more whimsical, mystical side of its history. Surfers were more interested in the wave action than recounting fairy tales. But there was no denying that being here, in a land out of step with modern times,carried with it that undeniable feeling that the magical and the mystical were possible.
    What she had to accept was that not only was it possible, but highly probable. Which was why she was heading into town. She wanted to hear ghost stories.

    By the time she parked her bike next to the others in front of Roddy's pub, the only thing she really wanted was a drink. The constant island wind had left her cheeks ruddy, but the bright summer sun had beat down on her back, soaking her shirt until it clung to her much like Connal's shirt had clung to that amazing chest of his.
So broad and-
    She cut off that train of thought and pushed inside the store first. She slid her sunglasses off and looked about for Maeve, but didn't see her.
Might as well pick up a few things,
she thought. Gregor's bike had a wire basket on the front. She'd just have to buy things that were rutproof.
    She'd put several cans on the counter and was contemplating adding a tin of cookies when Maeve pushed through a small door near the back of the store.
    “Hello there,” she said, her weathered face creasing into a warm smile. “Ye look a bit road-weary. Would ye care for a lemonade? I just made a batch.”
    “Thank you, I'd love some,” Josie said with an appreciative smile. “I thought I was in pretty good shape, but I have to admit your sheep trails about wore me out.”
    “You biked it then?” She shook her head. “Och, dinna tell me ye took Gregor's old clattering heap?” At Josie's nod, she said, “I'm surprised you're walking upright.”
    Josie grinned. “So am I. My dad would say it was acharacter-building trip, but I'm pretty sure the only thing I built was blisters.”
    “I'm in the way of agreeing with you, though I'm sure your father is a wise man. Would you like a lift home?”
    “Oh no, I couldn't put you out, really. I'll manage.”
    Maeve poured the lemonade. “It's from a mix,” she said apologetically. “We don't get much fresh fruit but what we grow ourselves.”
    “It's wet, right?” Josie knew