Page 4 of Claws for Celebration (Hollow Oak Mates #3)

MOIRA

T hree hours into her work at The Hollow Oak Book Nook, Moira had to admit she'd found something close to heaven.

The rare books section felt like a scholar's dream, with proper archival lighting, climate control that kept the ancient pages from deteriorating, and a workspace that somehow managed to be both functional and cozy.

Afternoon sunlight slanted through tall windows, creating pools of golden warmth that made the leather-bound volumes glow like jewels.

But it wasn't just the books that held her attention.

Lucien moved through his domain with fluid grace, checking on other customers, restocking shelves, and somehow managing to be both present and unobtrusive.

He reminded her of the big cats she'd studied during her undergraduate anthropology courses, all contained power and watchful stillness.

When he walked, his feet made no sound on the hardwood floors, and when he turned his head to listen to a customer's question, the motion was precise and economical.

It should have been unsettling. Instead, she found it oddly comforting, as if some primal part of her recognized him as a protector rather than a threat.

"Focus, Moira," she murmured to herself, adjusting her camera angle to capture a particularly faded entry in the Thornwell genealogy. "You're here to work, not to ogle the locals."

Though 'local' seemed an inadequate description for someone like Lucien Vale.

Everything about him suggested depths she couldn't fathom, from the way his dark green eyes seemed to catalog every detail of his surroundings to the careful precision with which he'd arranged her workspace.

Even his voice carried layers, warm and cultured on the surface but with an underlying roughness that made her think of whiskey and midnight conversations.

"Any luck with the cross-references?" he asked, appearing beside her table with the silent approach she was beginning to recognize as characteristic.

"Actually, yes." Moira gestured to the open genealogy, trying to ignore how her pulse quickened at his proximity.

He smelled like cedar and old books, with an underlying wildness that reminded her of forest hiking trails after rain.

"The family connections in this region are fascinating.

The same names appear in multiple bloodlines across several generations. "

"Small communities tend to intermarry," Lucien observed. "Practical considerations often outweighed romantic preferences in frontier settlements."

"True, but this goes beyond practical marriages.

" Moira pulled up several photographs on her laptop screen.

"Look at this pattern. The Shadowheart line connects to the Thornwells, the Ashfords, the Greywoods, and at least a dozen other families.

Almost like they were deliberately preserving specific genetic traits. "

Lucien's expression grew thoughtful, though something flickered in his eyes that might have been concern. "What kind of traits?"

"That's what's interesting. The genealogies don't just track bloodlines, they include notations about family characteristics.

Intelligence, longevity, resistance to common diseases.

" Moira traced her finger across the laptop screen.

"But also stranger things. 'Second sight,' 'plant affinity,' 'weather sensitivity.

' It reads almost like they were cataloging magical abilities. "

"Mountain communities often developed their own folklore to explain unusual talents," Lucien said carefully. "Herbal knowledge might be called 'plant magic,' while someone with good instincts about weather patterns could be seen as having supernatural gifts."

"Maybe." But something in his tone suggested he believed there was more to it than folklore. "Have you ever heard of the Shadowheart family specifically? They seem to be central to many of these bloodline connections."

"Old stories mention them occasionally," Lucien replied. "They disappeared from the records sometime in the late 1700s. Local legend says they moved away after some kind of family tragedy."

Moira nodded, making a note to research that gap in the records more thoroughly. As she reached for another volume, her grandmother's voice echoed in her memory: " Some stories are too dangerous to tell, little bird. Some names are better left unspoken. "

The recollection made her pause, pen hovering over her notebook.

Grandmother Elara had always been secretive about their family history, deflecting questions with vague references to "mountain folk" and "old troubles.

" But sitting here surrounded by genealogical records that stretched back centuries, Moira wondered if those deflections had hidden deeper truths.

"Are you all right?" Lucien asked, and she realized she'd been staring at her notebook for several minutes.

"Sorry, just remembering something my grandmother used to say." Moira shook off the melancholy and reached for the next volume in her stack. "She grew up in the mountains somewhere, but she never talked about her family. I always assumed there wasn't much to discuss."

The book she selected was bound in deep burgundy leather, its spine worn smooth by countless hands.

The moment her fingers touched the cover, warmth spread up her arms like sunlight through her veins.

She blinked, startled by the sensation, but when she looked down, the book appeared perfectly ordinary.

"Mountain air," she murmured, echoing Mrs. Caldwell's explanation from the previous evening. "Takes some getting used to."

She opened the volume carefully, revealing pages covered in elegant handwriting that documented births, deaths, and marriages spanning nearly two centuries. The ink had faded to sepia, but the records remained legible, a testament to whoever had taken such care in their preservation.

Moira worked methodically, photographing each page and cross-referencing names with her growing database. The repetitive work was soothing, requiring just enough concentration to quiet her mind while leaving space for the peaceful atmosphere of the bookstore to work its magic.

That atmosphere was helped considerably by Lucien's presence.

He moved in and out of her peripheral vision, helping customers, answering questions about local history, and occasionally bringing her fresh coffee or a plate of cookies from the café down the street.

His attention felt protective rather than intrusive, as if he understood her need to focus while ensuring she remained comfortable.

"These are incredible," she commented during one of his check-ins, gesturing to the cookies. "Twyla's recipe?"

"Her grandmother's, apparently. Some family traditions run deep in Hollow Oak." Lucien's smile carried warmth that made her stomach flutter. "Twyla claims the secret ingredient is mountain herbs, but I suspect it's mostly just skill and practice."

"Most family recipes have a touch of mystery," Moira agreed, biting into a cookie that tasted like cinnamon and honey with undertones she couldn't identify. "My grandmother made bread that never went stale, but she took the recipe to her grave."

"Some knowledge is meant to be earned rather than inherited," Lucien said softly.

Something in his tone made her look up sharply, but his expression revealed nothing beyond mild interest in their conversation. Still, she found herself studying his face, noting the sharp cheekbones that caught the afternoon light and the way his dark hair fell in waves that begged to be touched.

Professional , she reminded herself firmly. You're here to do a job, not to develop a crush on the local bookstore owner .

But as the afternoon wore on and their easy conversation continued, Moira found her professional resolve weakening.

Lucien was clearly intelligent, well-read, and possessed of a dry sense of humor that emerged during their discussions of local history.

More importantly, he treated her work with genuine respect, asking thoughtful questions about her research methods and offering insights about the families and events documented in the genealogies.

It was nearly five o'clock when she found it.

The entry was buried in a section documenting marriages from the 1820s, written in the same careful script as the rest of the volume. But when Moira read the names, her hands began to shake so violently that she nearly dropped her camera.

"Elara Seraphina Shadowheart, wed to Thomas Marsh, June 21st, 1823. Born October 13th, 1805. Issue: Margaret, born 1824; Samuel, born 1826. Note: bloodline preserved, gifts dormant, extended lifespan."

Her grandmother's name. Her grandmother's full name, including the middle name Seraphina that she'd always claimed was an old family tradition. The birth date that Moira had celebrated every October 13th for twenty-six years of her life.

"No," she whispered, staring at the page. "That's not possible."

The implications crashed over her like a tidal wave.

If this was accurate, her grandmother had been born in 1805.

That would make her over two hundred years old when she died five years ago.

Samuel Marsh, born in 1826, would be her great-great-grandfather, explaining how the Marsh name had passed down through the generations.

"Moira?" Lucien's voice seemed to come from very far away. "What's wrong?"

She looked up to find him standing beside her chair, concern etched across his features. "This entry," she managed, pointing to the line with a trembling finger. "That's my grandmother. Elara Seraphina Shadowheart. Same full name, same birth date I celebrated with her every year."

Lucien went very still, and for a moment, she could have sworn his eyes flashed with some emotion too complex to interpret. "Are you certain?"

"October 13th, 1805. Elara Seraphina. She always told me Seraphina was a family name passed down through generations, but she said her maiden name was Smith.

" Moira's voice cracked as the reality sank in.

"If this is real, if this is her, then she was over two hundred years old.

And she never told me. She lied about everything. "

“Or maybe it’s just a coincidence. A name passed down,” he suggested, though he sounded skeptical himself.

“But these names all seem…” she didn’t have the words to explain how she knew them. How she knew that this was her grandmother.

"People sometimes change their names when they leave small communities," Lucien said carefully. "Especially if they're trying to distance themselves from difficult memories."

"But why would she lie about it? And what does 'gifts dormant' mean?"

Before Lucien could answer, the brass bell above the front door chimed, and a woman's voice called out cheerfully, "Lucien? Are you hiding back there with your books again?"

"Back here, Twyla," Lucien replied, though his attention remained focused on Moira's distressed expression.

A woman appeared between the shelves, carrying a bakery box and wearing an apron dusted with flour.

She had wheat-colored hair pinned up in a practical bun and warm brown eyes that sparkled with curiosity.

"I brought some fresh scones for your researcher friend, but it looks like I'm interrupting something important. "

"Twyla Honeytree, Moira Marsh," Lucien said by way of introduction. "Moira just discovered some unexpected family history in the genealogies."

"Did she now?" Twyla's eyes sharpened with interest. "Marsh, you said? That's one of our founding families. Goes way back in these mountains."

"So I'm learning," Moira said, accepting the cup of tea Twyla pressed into her hands. The blend smelled of chamomile and something floral she couldn't identify. "Though I'm beginning to think my grandmother kept more secrets than I realized."

"Families have their reasons for keeping quiet about the past," Twyla said gently, echoing Mrs. Caldwell's words from the previous evening. "But blood calls to blood, especially in places like Hollow Oak. Maybe it's time for those old stories to find their way back to the light."

As Moira photographed the damning entry, her hands still trembling with shock and discovery, she had the feeling that finding her grandmother's true name was only the beginning.

The genealogy held more secrets, she was certain, and every instinct she possessed urged her to keep digging until she understood why Elara Shadowheart had fled her mountain home and hidden her true identity for the rest of her life.

Whatever the reason, Moira suspected it was connected to the strange sensations she'd been experiencing since arriving in Hollow Oak.

The way the mountain air seemed to whisper secrets, the warmth that had spread through her when touching certain books, the growing certainty that this misty mountain town held answers to questions she'd never known to ask.

She only hoped she was strong enough to handle whatever truths lay buried in the pages of the past.