Page 10 of The Wild Hunt

I needed time to find myself again, to piece together the woman I once was. And this trip? It’s my last step toward reclaiming my identity before I face her inevitable wrath and disappointment.

So, no matter how beautiful and charming Cianán might be, I can’t afford to let myself get distracted by anyone right now. I usually have a sense for when I can trust people and their intentions, but with him to a degree, just like with Nathan, I don’t feel anything. It’s as if my body goes quiet in his presence, and I once took that stillness as a sign to trust. But with Nathan, I was wrong, and I don’t want to make that mistake again.

Grabbing my purse, I step outside, the evening air hitting my face as I make my way toward the path down to Ennisvarra andthe pub. The sky is tinged with the beautiful colors of sunset, and I take a deep breath, letting the beauty of the moment wash over me. This place feels like a world away from the life I left behind, and right now, that’s exactly what I need.

I make my way along the narrow path, careful to watch where I am going in the shadows now that night is beginning to fall. The air is cool, but not uncomfortably so, and the gentle rustling of leaves overhead provides a soothing soundtrack to my thoughts. As I near the village, the warm glow of lights spilling from the windows of the buildings onto the cobblestone streets comes into view, along with the cheerful hum of voices.

I smile as I pass by a few parents still trying to wrangle their children into warmer clothes, coaxing them back inside their homes for the evening. It’s such a simple, joyful scene—one I haven’t had in my life for far too long. Here, everything feels different. Less complicated. The tight knot in my chest loosens a little more with each step, and I find myself wanting to savor this brief glimpse at what life is like here.

The sounds of laughter and conversation grow louder as I approach the small, stone building that houses the pub. The door swings open just as I reach for the handle, and I step back to let a couple of locals pass by, who offer me friendly nods and smiles as they go. Inside, the pub is cozy and warm, the scent of hearty food and woodsmoke mingling in the air. The soft glow of lanterns hangs from the low ceiling, casting golden light over the rustic wooden tables and the cheerful patrons gathered around them.

I scan the room, my gaze lingering on the bar where a few people are chatting with the bartender. As much as I dismissed the idea, I still can’t help but feel slightly disappointed when I don’t see Cianán among the patrons. But I do see Bridget at one of the crowded tables waving in my direction, and it instantlybrightens my mood. I wave back and weave through the tables, making my way over to her.

Bridget stands as I approach, surprising me by pulling me into a warm hug. "There you are! I was starting to wonder if you were going to make it tonight," she says with a grin.

"I got a bit lost in my painting," I reply, pulling back to smile a little at her. Her forwardness almost has me backpedaling, but I remind myself she is just a friendly person and I could use some friends. "It smells amazing in here."

Bridget laughs. "Good timing, then,” she says, before introducing me to the others at the table. They all nod and smile in greeting while they continue their conversations. “Let me get you a drink and dinner to welcome you, the special tonight is lamb stew. You’re going to love it."

I grin at Bridget, feeling a bit lighter. "Lamb stew sounds perfect. And I'll take you up on that drink too."

She gestures for me to take a seat while she heads toward the bar. I settle into the chair, feeling the warmth of the pub seep into my skin, and I let myself relax a little. The noise of the room surrounds me, but it’s a comforting hum, a warm welcome—a far cry from the way my life feels back in the States.

Bridget returns a few minutes later, placing a pint of ale in front of me. "Here you go. Local brew. You can’t leave until you’ve had at least one of these," she says with a wink.

I raise the glass to my lips, savoring the rich, malty taste. It’s a bit stronger than what I’m used to, but there’s something hearty about it—like it belongs to this place, much like the cliffs and the sea. Bridget sits across from me, her easy smile still in place as she takes a sip of her own drink.

"So, how are you settling in?" she asks, her tone casual, with genuine interest behind her words.

I shrug, trying not to give too much away. "It’s been nice, honestly. Peaceful."

Bridget nods, her smile never fading. "This place has a way of getting under your skin. It’s like time moves slower here, isn’t it? A bit of a haven away from the rest of the world."

I can't help but agree. "It really is. I’ve been spending most of my time outside, just taking it all in. It’s hard not to feel inspired here."

"You're an artist, right?" she asks, her eyes bright with curiosity. "I thought I remembered you mentioning that when we first met."

I nod, feeling a little self-conscious. "Yeah, I paint mostly. Watercolors, acrylics... whatever I can get my hands on. This place is perfect for it—the cliffs, the sea, the forest, everything."

"That sounds amazing! I can’t even draw stick figures," Bridget jokes, leaning forward. "What have you been working on lately?"

I take a sip of my ale, gathering my thoughts. "Today, I was painting the cliffs just outside the cottage. The light was perfect, and the waves crashing against the rocks... it felt like I could capture the power and the beauty of it all. Everything seems so magical around here. I got so lost in the moment, I didn’t even realize how late it had gotten."

Bridget listens intently, her eyes wide. "That sounds incredible. You’ll have to show me sometime!"

The thought of sharing my work with someone feels a little vulnerable, but there’s something about Bridget’s easygoing nature that makes it feel less intimidating. "Maybe," I say with a small grin, leaving it open-ended.

Before she can respond, the waitress arrives with our dinner—generous bowls of lamb stew and fresh bread. The smell alone is enough to make my stomach growl. As we dig in, the conversation flows easily. We talk about the village, the people, and the rhythms of life here. Bridget shares stories of her ownexperiences, painting a vivid picture of what it's like to live in such a small, close-knit community.

As we finish eating, I realize there’s something I’ve been curious about. I put down my spoon and lean toward Bridget.

"Can I ask you something?" I begin. She nods, her expression open and curious. "Why do you rent out the cottage instead of living in it? It’s beautiful there."

Bridget smiles fondly and leans back in her chair, taking a sip of her ale before responding. "The cottage has been in my family for generations. My grandmother grew up there, and so did my mum. But for me... well, I’ve always preferred living above the bakery. It’s easier being right there, especially since I run the place. Besides," she says with a wink, "I like being in the middle of things, where I can talk to people. That cottage is lovely, but it can feel a bit isolated, especially during the winters."

Bridget pauses, her gaze distant for a moment, as if recalling a memory. "But," she continues, "it wouldn’t be Irish of me to not open the cottage up to others. There’s an old fable that’s been passed down for generations. My gran used to tell it to me when I was a little girl—about a Huntsman, his wife, and their son, Fergus."

I lean forward, intrigued. Bridget smiles and begins to weave the tale.

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