by L. L. Muir
But whose tent was she in?
The tent wall glowed red from the torchlights and flood lights set up around the festival. Someone passed by and blocked out the light for a second. The footsteps, crushing the stiff stubble of the field, kept moving.
She remembered finding her booth stripped, remembered Dougal coming back and telling her that everything was safe.
But where was Dougal?
She looked for the door to the tent and noticed a dark familiar shape to her right. Though she couldn’t see the face of it, she knew it had to be her Witch’s Mist. Even her left brain jumped for joy.
Fresh tears were still wetting her face when someone unzipped the tent and Dougal’s grinning face appeared. Even in the darkness, she would know that smile.
“I see the two of ye have been reacquainted.”
“We have. I can’t thank you enough.”
He shrugged like it was nothing. “The child-eater and her henchman are gone, lass. Hand the painting out to me and join me beneath this starry heaven, aye? Ye’ll find yer purse next to the pillow there.”
~
Half an hour later, her paintings, tent, and ladder had been transferred from the back of a new, cherry-red truck into the back of her grandpa’s old pickup and camper shell. The old brown and yellow paint had all but worn off, and it looked lackluster next to every other car parked in the field across from the portables. But it held the most precious cargo.
Watching from a safe distance, they watched Red Nails pay off three different people before she and her driver gave up and drove away. There was no longer anyone she needed to avoid, but there wasn’t any excuse to stay, either. In fact, if she left right away, she could be home soon after midnight.
The Dreadlock Kid locked his pretty truck and went back to the party. She and Dougal were left with an awkward silence between them. She hopped up on her tailgate and looked up at the stars. He did the same.
“I wanted to thank you again,” she said. “You know, for everything.”
His head shook and his Mohawk wobbled. “I didna do much, lass.” He leaned forward with his hands on the edge of the tailgate and watched his feet swing. “I wish I might have done something more substantial to aid ye.”
“Well, you kept my paintings from falling into the wrong hands. For me, that’s pretty major.”
“I suppose ye’ll go now?”
She nodded, then looked up at the stars again. “It will take an hour to get home. What about you?”
“Oh, I might have another day or so before my…ride…will come for me.”
“Are you here with friends, or a band?”
“Nay, lass. I know no one but the two fellows I invited to help us this eve. I was…delivered here…until my ride comes.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Staying?” He frowned and his face looked purple in the blue of the starlight.
“You know, sleeping? You said that was someone else’s tent.”
“Auch, I’ll find shelter, lass.” He waved toward the dark mountain that rose up behind the length of Mendon. “No worries there.”
He would find shelter? Was that a hint? If so, she wasn’t going to take it. She wasn’t looking for some hook-up.
“And tomorrow?”
He shrugged and watched his feet again. “I will put a fine point on it, lass.” He reached over and covered the back of her hand with his. “I believe we two have crossed paths for a reason. And I hope I can be of further use to ye, if ye’ll not run from me.”
When a guy uses words like “don’t run away,” it’s a cue that she should have started running a long time ago. But something freaky was going on where his hand touched hers. If she believed in such things, she would say there were little electrical impulses trying to fuse them together. It was probably just the fact that his palm was incredibly warm and the back of her hand was cool. However, for a second or two, the connection soothed her paranoia and she heard her own voice suggest something ludicrous, like, “Maybe you should come home with me.”
He nodded, serious as a heart attack. “I believe that would be wise.”
She’d half-expected him to gloat, or start beating his chest, but he kept a straight face while he stood and took her hand to help her off the tailgate.
Shut up, she said, to the voices in her head. This was one matter she was going to handle all on her own.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hannah would never be able to forgive herself if this ended up being a repeat of the whole Ski Bum Episode.
Every time she glanced at her passenger, she kicked herself. All the signs were there. He had nowhere to crash for a couple of days. He was handsome, charming. A little too mystic. A little too flattering. And she was about to escort him right into the heart of her life. But hopefully, this time, her actual heart was safe.
If she was smart, she’d turn the truck around and take him back to Mendon, drop him off and pretend she’d never spoken to him in the first place. But like usual, she was indecisive, and she’d already driven most of the way home.
Too late to turn back. Wasn’t it?
Besides, didn’t she owe him a little something for getting her away from that crazy woman?
Another mile rolled under her while she wavered.
In her paranoid state, everything he said made her suspicious. Small talk about her town, her house, the fact that she was single—all reminded her too much of the ski bum who had robbed her blind. He promised to build her some canvas frames, but what might it end up costing her in the end?
She couldn’t believe she’d taken the bait. But who could have resisted such bait?
A hot guy in a kilt—it would be a memory she would never be rid of. She just hoped the memory would be a positive one. Worst case scenario, she would end up calling him The Mendon Bum and hope his name would slip her mind along with anything he ended up stealing from her.
Then again, she was out of money, so it wasn’t like the Scot could steal much. And he absolutely would not be stealing her heart. Kilt or no kilt, flashing green eyes and sexy accent aside, she wasn’t stupid enough to fall for some guy who would walk out of her life in a day or two—after Fate revealed why she’d thrown them together in the first place.
If she was absolutely honest, she would admit that she’d had the same feeling, that something had brought them together intentionally. But it had less to do with him saving Witch’s Mist and more to do with the dream that had inspired the painting. She only wished she remember more details that the young witch in black inviting Hannah to paint her picture.
The witch with a Scottish accent! She’d completely forgotten!
Maybe his own accent could jog her memory. She just needed him to speak.
“You’re going back to Scotland, did you say?”
“Aye.”
She was going to need a heck of a lot more than that. “And this Soni chick, your ride, is going to be able to come get you on Monday?”
“Aye. Or sooner.”
“She doesn’t mind coming as far as Liberty? I mean, I can take you somewhere else, if it would be easier.”
“Nay, lass. She willna mind. And I’ve made a promise, haven’t I, to build some frames for yer canvas? Ye should relax and take a man at his word. Well, uh, this man, at least.”
She nodded, smiled, and blushed when he smiled back.
“Well, um,” she said, “I hope you’ll understand when I insist that you sleep in the work shed.”
He frowned and shook his head. “A single lass like yerself? Living on her own? I wouldna have expected anything else.”
She sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a rush, relieved. She thought he was actually going to argue with her. And now she could relax even more knowing they wouldn’t need to have that conversation while standing toe to toe at her front door, with every fiber of her being screaming at her to drag him inside and kiss him silly.
For the next five minutes, she thought it wise to bite her tongue.<
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“Tell me about this house of yers, the one for which ye owe taxes.”
“It’s yellow. It’s mine. And it will break my heart if I lose it, nearly as much as it would break my heart to part with my paintings.”
He gave her a sympathetic smile. “‘Tis more than just a house then?”
She nodded. “Much more. You’ll see.”
Neither of them spoke much for the rest of the hour-long ride.. She tried to keep her mind on the road and her eyes open. He played with the radio. He also played with the window—even though it had an old-fashioned crank handle. In fact, there was nothing electric at all in the old pickup. The radio was all knobs, which made it more interesting to him, she guessed, because he spent so much time figuring them out. In Scotland, he probably hadn’t had to physically roll down a window or tune in a station in his entire life.
She wasn’t surprised when he offered to drive, considering how closely he’d watched her muscle the tall gear shift in and out of gears. No doubt he wanted so see what it was like driving an old-fashioned clutch, too.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said. “Driving on the opposite side of the road would take some getting used to, and it’s probably not smart to learn in the dark.”
“Auch, aye. Ye’re right, of course. I’m not used to being up and about during the day, else I would have thought of that myself.”
She looked sideways at him. “What do you do for a living, if you’re not up during the day?”
He mumbled something about ghosts and she laughed. “Did you say ghosts?”
“Aye, lass.”
When he didn’t say more, she couldn’t leave it alone. “Come on. You can tell me. I promise not to laugh. I mean, who am I to scoff at how anyone makes a living. At least you make a living, right? Apparently, I’ve just been painting, all this time, for my own enjoyment.” She laughed to keep from crying and hoped her smile would camouflage her wildly swinging emotions. It had been an educational day.
“All right, lass. I’ll tell ye, that for as long as I can remember, I’ve…spent my time on a certain battlefield in Scotland. Culloden Moor, to be exact.”
He said it like she should recognize the name, but she didn’t.
“Sorry. Never heard of it.”
He shrugged and turned his attention back to the road. She did too.
“So, you do ghost tours, then? I mean, if you’re doing it at night…”
“Aye, lass. Steady on for years, I’ve walked among the ghosts of the Highlanders.”
“And have you seen any?” She looked back and forth between the road and his face, hoping she could tell if he was honest when he answered.
“Have I seen any ghosts?” He laughed to himself and smiled out his side window for a few seconds, like he was remembering something funny. “Aye, lassie. I’ve seen more ghosts than…than most ghosts.”
They laughed together at the joke, and she felt something bubbling up in her chest that she hadn’t felt since that first week she’d spent with Alex—before he’d become the bum that conned his way into her heart, house, and bank accounts. But she was enjoying herself too much to let that dark cloud rain on her.
She didn’t often spend much time with other humans, as dedicated as she was to her work. So she would do her best to be present and attentive to this guy who had literally come to her rescue. There was no reason to assume things would turn out badly. And, even though she wouldn’t hold her breath, the guy genuinely wanted to help her.
And there was nothing wrong with hope. The festival vendor life aside, delusional beat depressed any day. Optimism and even False Hope weren’t bad stages to be in. She just prayed his ride would come collect him before she reached the stages of Disgusted or Cruel Hope. But even worse would be the Grateful for Anything and Screw It stages.
Obviously, she needed to get out of the festival life.
She tried to drum up conversation to quiet her mind. “So. You’ve seen a lot of ghosts. What kind of ghosts?”
“Soldiers, mostly. Scots from the Highlands who perished in the Battle of Culloden. It was more of a massacre, in truth, so there were many souls who found the need to haunt the place, aye?”
“That’s so sad. I’m sorry.”
“Thank ye, lass. I’ll pass on yer sympathies if I ever return to the moor. I’m sure the lads would be moved to hear it.”
“The lads? You mean, your ghosts?”
He nodded and looked out the side window again, hiding his face from her.
“Does that mean you’re not going to be a tour guide anymore?”
He spoke to the window. “Aye, lass. I hope to walk in the light on a regular basis, so to speak.”
No wonder the guy had no problems claiming he’d seen witch’s mist before. He’d been living in the world of the paranormal.
She could think of dozens of questions she wanted to ask, but he didn’t seem in the mood to talk about his experiences, so she left him alone. Maybe it was the mention of this massacre that had done it, but he was no longer an extrovert.
Hannah didn’t know anyone her own age who got caught up in history—at least not enough to feel strongly about something that happened hundreds of years ago.
A mile or so later, he turned and gave her a smile. “Forgive me, lass. I was lost in the past, aye?”
“No problem.”
“I suppose ye have questions.”
She shrugged. “That’s okay. We can talk about something more cheerful if you want.”
“Nay, lass. I don’t mind. What do ye wish to ken?”
“Well, I guess I’d like to know why you did it. Was the money good? Or were you trying to help your lads move on?”
He made an exasperated noise and shifted around to face her. “Tell me, lass. Why is it everyone is so anxious to make spirits move on? No one kens what’s waiting on the other side of death—for any of us—so why are mortals so sure that moving on will be best for anyone?”
Unsure of how to answer, she bit her lips together. The last thing she wanted to do was insult him.
Finally, she shrugged. “It’s just an automatic response, I guess. Something we see in the movies, maybe. Or the fact that we hope, so badly, that there is a heaven waiting for everyone, that the bad guys will be punished and the good people will be rewarded. It’s just…faith.”
He gave her a curt nod, then faced forward again. “Faith,” he murmured. “Fair enough. Faith, I can understand. I once had faith in Bonny Prince Charlie, misplaced as it was.”
“Okay. That’s a name I’ve heard before. I’m sure I have.”
He gave a little nod and turned away again. Her lack of Scottish celebrity trivia hadn’t impressed him at all.
For a long time they sat in silence. When she turned off at the sign for Liberty, he perked right up, and she shared his excitement. He was anxious to see her house, he’d said. But not nearly as anxious as she was. After all, she didn’t know how many more times she’d be going home to it…
CHAPTER NINE
The yellow house was charm personified. As soon as the lass turned off the main road, the grand home stood straight ahead and grew larger as they neared. The picturesque façade was lit by strands of clear glass bulbs strung along the roof and two tiers of balconies.
The scene could only look more complete if a large party were taking place on the wide lawns to either side of the drive.
As they neared, Dougal noticed the wink and shine of white paint on the banisters and scalloped trim, so fresh and new as to appear wet. The gingerbreading was equally as white. The spokes and patterns made the embellishments look like sections of a paper snowflake, quartered and tucked into every corner. An intricate fan-shaped piece filled an opening in the pitch of the highest roof. He hoped in the morning he might have the chance to examine the wood work more closely.
“Nay, lass,” he said. “This is no’ just a house.”
She grinned at him and his chest swelled simply because he’d pleased
her.
“I put the lights up for Christmas two years ago,” she said, “but after the holidays, I just couldn’t bring myself to take them down again. The timer must be off, though. They’re not supposed to be on. My electric bill will be painful.” Her smile fled and she frowned at the front step where a dark figure got to its feet. “Oh, great.”
Dougal’s gut clenched and the muscles in his thighs flexed with the need to escape the vehicle. Whatever dread this character brought to the lass’s doorstep, he was glad she hadn’t come home to face it alone.
Will this be my test, Soni?
“Relax,” Hannah said. “He’s a friend…kind of.”
Ah, well, he’d see about that. For what kind of friend would skulk around in the wee hours?
~
Hannah groaned inwardly, knowing that a visit from Donny, her stalker, meant she wasn’t going to get to sleep any time soon.
Donny Hatch was a deputy sheriff for Weber County, assigned to the east side of the mountains which included Liberty, Eden, and the area around the Wolf Creek Resort.
He’d grown up in Liberty, and for ten years, while Hannah and her mother had lived with her paternal grandparents, she and Donny had gone to school together. Through the end of elementary school, all three years of junior high, and two years of high school, Donny had always stared at her from a few spaces over in her yearbooks.
During a strange pity phase in her life, she’d taken him to a Sadie Hawkins Dance, girls’ choice, and he’d been looking at her all moon-eyed ever since. She tried to tell him she invited him only because she knew he wouldn’t embarrass her. He’d taken it as a written-in-blood contract to love him forever.
Only after she and her mother had moved to Boise for a while did he finally give up on her. Eventually, he married. The poor guy had been a little confused when she’d come back to town—like once she’d broken that blood contract, she wasn’t allowed to return to the scene of the crime.