The Parting Glass (Caitlin Ross Book 4) by Katherine Lampe Page A

the summer, tourists taking in the sights and buskers of all species from the truly horrible to the extremely talented. I waved to Linda, another reader, at her table outside the Sundown Saloon.
    “Not on duty tonight?” she called.
    “No. I have another gig.” I lifted the oak box so she could see it.
    “Oh, that’s right. It’s Saturday. Well, have fun!”
    “Does everyone know where we’re going but me?” Timber growled.
    “Almost certainly.” Again I gave him the secretive smile. I couldn’t help myself; after all, it was fun to torment him for a change.
    We walked another block in silence, pushing our way through the crowds, Timber one step behind me. I could feel his eyes on my back. I could also feel his energy getting lower and lower, as if he were lost and confused. I wondered about this until he asked,
    “Should I have dressed for the occasion?”
    “What? Oh no. It’s very much come as you are.” I turned and walked backwards a few paces, taking in his appearance. It was the same as ever, a flannel with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms, jeans, work boots. He had showered and his hair still clung around his neck in damp waves from having been washed. I could smell the clean smell of him even from a distance: soap and herbal shampoo overlying the subtle musk I had already come to identify with him alone. “You’ll do fine.”
    We turned right again onto Thirteenth and walked up a half a block to a narrow purple building flying an Irish flag. The sign over the door read “The County Clare.”
    “A pub?” Timber’s energy level spiked in a not altogether pleasant way. “You’re taking me to a pub on a Saturday night?”
    “I told you I knew where Kevin would be. This is it.”
    I opened the door for him and gestured him inside. A waft of cold air blew out, along with a distant strain of music.
    “Another drinking man?” Timber asked as he passed me.
    “Not particularly.” I followed, letting the door swing shut behind me. “Not to say there won’t be drinking; there usually is.”
    I led Timber through the small foyer, past the bar, and into the main dining room. As we made our way to the back, the music got louder and I could tell from the rising waves of irritation coming from my companion that he had begun to realize what had brought us here. He confirmed my suspicions when, as we entered the back room of the pub with its semi-circle of chairs, almost all filled by people playing fiddles, flutes, accordions, banjos and drums, he grasped my elbow and whirled me to face him. The look on his own face did not indicate amusement.
    “A session? John Stonefeather could be working some dark magic even as we speak and you bring me to an Irish session?”
    I shrugged him off. “I said I’d bring you to where Kevin would be tonight. This is it. Now be a good little shaman, grab yourself a seat and wait until there’s a break so we can talk to him.”
    But the object of our search had already noticed me and jumped out of his chair.
    “Caitlin! You’re here. Now we can get things started for real.”
    “You sound as if you’ve been doing fine without me.” Timber nudged me and I stumbled forward, almost into Kevin’s arms. “Oh,” I went on with a glare over my shoulder. “Kevin, this is Timber MacDuff, from Portland. Oregon. Timber, Kevin Bork, our main bodhrán player. He keeps the others in line.”
    “Pleased to meet you.” Kevin offered his hand, which Timber took as if it were a live coal and dropped just as fast. “You play?”
    “A bit. Now and again,” Timber growled.
    “Fiddle? We could use an extra fiddle tonight; Jim didn’t show up.”
    “Do I look like I have a fiddle about me? Nae, I drum.”
    “Cool! Maybe you could sit in for a set or two; I could use a break and the newbies need a firm hand.” He gestured to a group of half a dozen or so gathered at one end of the semi-circle, all banging away with more enthusiasm than tempo.
    “Oh,