Page 2 of Claws for Celebration (Hollow Oak Mates #3)

MOIRA

T he ancient bus wheezed to a stop with a hiss of hydraulic brakes, its engine shuddering like an old man catching his breath. Moira Marsh clutched her laptop bag tighter against her chest and peered through the grimy window at what was supposed to be her home for the next six weeks.

"End of the line, miss," called the driver, a weathered man with kind eyes beneath bushy gray brows. "Hollow Oak Municipal Building. Though I gotta say, you picked an interesting time to visit our little town."

"Interesting how?" Moira asked, shouldering her bag and grabbing her rolling suitcase from the overhead compartment. Her limbs felt stiff from the three-hour journey up winding mountain roads that seemed to climb toward the very clouds.

The driver chuckled, tipping his baseball cap. "You'll see. Place has a way of surprising folks who ain't expecting magic around every corner."

Magic. Right. Moira forced a polite smile. "I'm sure it's lovely. Very... atmospheric."

And it was atmospheric, she had to admit as she stepped off the bus into the crisp mountain air.

Hollow Oak looked like someone had plucked a village from a Brothers Grimm tale and nestled it between peaks that scraped the belly of low-hanging clouds.

Mist clung to cobblestone streets that curved and wandered with no apparent logic, following the natural contours of the mountainside.

Gas-style street lamps flickered to life in the gathering dusk, casting golden pools of light that made the fog glow like spun silver.

"Professional hazard," she muttered under her breath, adjusting her wire-rimmed glasses. "Spend enough time with historical documents and everything starts looking like a fairy tale."

But even as she dismissed the whimsical thought, something deep in her chest fluttered with recognition.

The mountain air tasted different here, clean and wild with an underlying sweetness that reminded her of honeysuckle and old parchment.

Her grandmother's perfume, if memory served.

Strange how scents could transport you across decades in an instant.

The bus rumbled away, leaving Moira alone on what appeared to be the town's main street.

Shops lined both sides of the cobblestone thoroughfare, their hand-painted signs swaying gently in the evening breeze.

The Griddle & Grind Café promised "Comfort Food & Magical Brews," while The Hollow Mercantile advertised "Enchanted Goods for Discerning Customers.

" Even the Silver Fang Tavern's weathered sign bore mysterious symbols carved around its edges.

"They really lean into the mystical tourism angle," Moira observed, though she had to appreciate the commitment to theme.

Her professional eye catalogued architectural details: Victorian gingerbread trim mixed with what looked like much older stonework, buildings that seemed to have grown organically from the mountainside rather than being imposed upon it.

Her skin prickled with awareness as she walked, pulling her wheeled suitcase over uneven stones.

The sensation reminded her of walking through old libraries late at night, when the silence felt full of whispered conversations between ancient texts.

Ridiculous, of course. She was tired, probably low on blood sugar, and definitely overthinking things because she'd spent the last two weeks immersed in research about Appalachian folklore in preparation for this assignment.

The Hollow Oak Municipal Building sat at the end of the main street like a dowager queen holding court.

Three stories of gray stone with tall windows and a copper-green roof, it managed to look both stately and welcoming.

Warm light spilled from its windows, and Moira could see someone moving around inside.

She climbed the front steps, her heels clicking against stone worn smooth by countless visitors. The heavy oak door opened before she could knock.

"Dr. Marsh! Right on time." A woman with silver hair and half-moon spectacles smiled warmly from the doorway.

She wore a sensible cardigan over a floral dress, looking every inch the small-town librarian or historical society president.

"I'm Miriam Caldwell, town clerk and your contact for this project.

Come in, come in. You must be exhausted. "

"Please, just Moira," she said, stepping into a lobby that smelled of lemon oil and old wood. "And yes, it's been a long day. Thank you for meeting me so late."

"Nonsense. We keep flexible hours here in Hollow Oak." Miriam's eyes twinkled behind her spectacles. "Can I offer you some tea? Twyla at the café sent over a thermos of her special blend. Says it's perfect for travelers who need to settle their roots."

The phrasing struck Moira as odd, but she nodded gratefully. "That sounds wonderful."

Miriam led her through a lobby decorated with historical photographs and local artifacts, past a grand staircase with a polished banister that begged to be touched. The building felt alive somehow, as if the very walls held memories of all the business conducted within them over the decades.

"Here we are," Miriam said, opening a door marked 'Archives.' "Your temporary kingdom."

The basement archive was larger than Moira had expected, with climate-controlled storage and proper archival lighting.

Boxes and filing cabinets lined the walls in neat rows, while a modern computer workstation waited in the center of the room.

Everything looked professionally organized, which was more than she could say for some municipal archives she'd worked with.

"This is impressive," Moira said, setting down her laptop bag. "Much better equipped than I anticipated."

"We take our history seriously here," Miriam replied, pouring steaming tea from a thermos into two ceramic mugs. "Some records go back to the town's founding in 1847. Others are... older."

"Older how?" Moira accepted the mug gratefully, inhaling the complex blend of herbs and spices.

"Family documents, genealogical records, that sort of thing.

Some date to the original settler families who were here before Hollow Oak was officially incorporated.

" Miriam sipped her tea, watching Moira with curious eyes.

"Speaking of family records, I couldn't help but notice your surname.

Marsh is one of our founding family names. "

The tea suddenly tasted too hot. Moira set down her mug carefully. "Is it? I wouldn't know. My grandmother never talked much about her family background."

"Families have their reasons for keeping quiet about the past," Miriam said gently. "Sometimes the stories are too painful. Sometimes they're too precious to share with outsiders."

"And sometimes there's just nothing interesting to tell," Moira added, though something in her disagreed.

Her grandmother had always deflected questions about her childhood with vague mentions of "mountain folk" and "old ways.

" Growing up, Moira had assumed it meant erty or some small-town scandal best left buried.

"Well," Miriam said brightly, "you'll have plenty of time to explore our local history while you're here. Six weeks should be enough to digitize the priority documents, though I suspect you'll find our collection more extensive than your university indicated."

"Extensive how?"

"Diverse. We have land grants, birth and death records, business licenses, court proceedings, personal correspondence, family Bibles, recipe collections, even some old medical journals from the town's first doctor.

" Miriam's eyes gleamed with the fervor of a true history enthusiast. "There are also some more.

.. unusual items. Folklore collections, ritual descriptions, genealogical charts that trace some fascinating family connections. "

"Sounds like my kind of treasure hunt," Moira admitted. Despite her exhaustion, excitement stirred at the prospect of diving into centuries of preserved history. "When can I start?"

"Tomorrow morning, if you're up for it. But tonight, you need to get settled.

" Miriam stood, gathering their empty mugs.

"I've arranged accommodations at The Hearth & Hollow Inn.

It's just two blocks over, and if I do say so myself, I serve the best breakfast in three counties. But I may be biased since I run it."

As they climbed back to the main floor, Moira found herself reluctant to leave the archives. Something about the basement felt... right. Like coming home after a long journey, though she'd never set foot in Hollow Oak before today.

"Mrs. Caldwell," she said as they reached the lobby, "that tea Twyla sent. What was in it?"

"Oh, a little of this and that. Chamomile for calm, lavender for peace, mountain mint for clarity." Miriam's smile held secrets. "And a few other things to help newcomers adjust to our mountain air. It can be overwhelming for folks not used to the altitude."

Altitude. That was a reasonable explanation for the way her skin continued to tingle, for the sense that every breath carried whispered secrets. High elevation could cause all sorts of odd sensations.

"Thank you," Moira said. "For everything. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"I'll stop by around nine to see how you're settling in here. The archive keys are on the desk, and there's a staff entrance around back if you prefer to come and go without walking through the main building. And if you need anything else, I live at the Inn myself so I am always reachable."

Outside, the mist had thickened, transforming Hollow Oak into something ethereal and dreamlike.

Street lamps glowed like fairy lights through the fog, and Moira could have sworn she heard music drifting from the direction of the tavern.

Laughter mixed with fiddle tunes and voices raised in harmony, the sound of a community gathering to share stories and companionship.

Her rolling suitcase bumped over cobblestones as she followed Miriam's directions toward the inn as the older lady locked up and closed the Municipal building.

The mist seemed to part before her and close behind her, as if the town itself was guiding her path.

More fancy, of course. Atmospheric pressure and wind patterns could create all sorts of optical illusions in mountainous terrain.

But as she walked through the misty streets of Hollow Oak, Moira couldn't shake the feeling that she'd been here before.

In dreams, perhaps, or in the half-remembered stories her grandmother used to whisper during thunderstorms. Stories about mountain magic and family gifts, about roots that ran deeper than memory and blood that called to blood across generations.

"Professional hazard," she repeated, though the words held less conviction now because something ancient stirred in recognition, as if welcoming her home.