by L. L. Muir
FINLAY
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor (No. 27)
By L.L. Muir
KINDLE EDITION
PUBLISHED BY
Lesli Muir Lytle
www.llmuir.weebly.com
Finlay © 2017 L.Lytle
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Series © 2015 L.Lytle
All rights reserved
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This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To Mister…
for never complaining
when my typing wakes you up
at three o’clock in the morning.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
About the Author
FINLAY
CHAPTER ONE
Finlay Robertson, the 39th Highlander to rise from his grave after the battle, sat upon the ground with legs akimbo, twiddling his thumbs and hoping it would be a long while before Soncerae had a go at him. If he were in a hurry to leave Culloden Moor, he believed he could have done so at any time if he simply drew her attention. But in truth, he was content where he was.
He knew the lass had the best of intentions in her heart when she’d arranged to have him and his ghostly cohorts move on. But surely, she would have to pay a mighty price for stirring in their business. For nothing ever came without a price.
Even God’s mercy must be purchased with a contrite spirit, must it not?
Besides all that, however, Finlay knew more than the rest. Thanks to God inflicting him with a touch of his grandmother’s sight, he saw glimpses into the future from time to time. And the vision he’d had of Soncerae Muir, beloved wee witch that had attached herself to Culloden’s 79, was not a happy vision at all.
Did he pray his prescience was wrong?
Certainly.
Had he tried to prevent visions from coming to pass in his mortal days?
More times than he wished to remember.
But had he ever succeeded?
Never, more’s the pity.
When Soni first came to the moor as a babe in arms, Finlay had peered into her eyes and seen the image of a full-grown lass sporting her flashy black cloak and grinning at him from beside an odd, pale fire. So he’d waited patiently that year when she’d failed to appear on Solstice, even while his fellows ranted and raved, because he’d known they would see her again. He might have put the mood-riddled Highlanders out of their misery that day, but to do so would have revealed his abilities, spotty as they were, and he would rather keep his secret in his grave where it belonged.
Alas, Soni was destined to pay for serving the 79. And since Fin had seen the day when that payment would come due, he knew there would be no sense trying to alter the circumstances. What was cast, was cast. And since there was no changing the future, there was no sense burdening her or anyone else with the foreknowledge.
Trouble was this: his vision of Soncerae was not the only one of late…
Since he’d spilled all his blood on the moor for Bonnie Prince Charlie, Fin had been granted the sight of only a handful of future events. They’d been few and far between—as if God presumed spirits had little need of forewarnings. He’d seen the changing of the moor itself and known that someday it would be a place where Scots would come to pay their respects and keep the memory of Culloden’s fateful battle from fading. He’d seen a glimpse of the horseless carriage, the crowning of the current queen, and what he came to understand to be a television.
None of those images were of a personal nature, however, until Soni came along. And it was surprising indeed to have yet another—and more personal—foresight when the wee witch began peeling his fellow ghosts off the moor and tossing them into the unknown, never to return.
It was no mystery how Fin’s latest vision might come to pass. If Soni was correct, and he would be returned to a body of flesh and blood, he now knew what to prepare himself to face.
Or rather, whom…
“Good evening, men,” Soncerae called out as she came down the path from the car park. The hem of her robes jumped with her lively, bouncing steps that hinted she might have danced her way to the memorial cairn had no one been watching.
Fin wanted to know just what excited her so, but he dared not move closer for fear of catching her eye. Best to hang back and lie low, for surely, he would discover the reason for her enthusiasm by and by.
His fellow apparitions rose from their beds and shuffled toward their usual gathering spot, pulled by the invisible force that was Soncerae Muir. Already seated within the perimeter of her summons, Fin pulled a ghostly stalk of grass from the moor and stuck it between his teeth, then he rested back on his hands and pretended to only half-listen.
That night, instead of brooding from a distance, Number 79 stood before the memorial cairn and waited with his fists on his hips and determination on his brow. If anyone would be able to change the lass’s course, Fin thought, it would be this ghost. After all, he and the others had witnessed the strange connection Soni shared with their leader. And Fin knew, from his vision, that the tall blond had good reason for wanting the lass to lay aside her quest to see them all freed from the moor.
Aye. Simon McLaren knew. But how he knew, perhaps, was a secret like unto Finlay Robertson’s own. Perhaps there were two males haunting Culloden Moor for nearly three centuries to whom the sight had been granted.
Or perhaps, during one of their many private walks, Soni had explained her plan to her somber friend, along with the consequences. Perhaps 79 was reluctant to be a party to those consequences, just as Fin was reluctant. Perhaps the difference between himself and the tall man was the knowledge that Fate—and God—could never be swayed.
Ever.
Soni’s steps slowed when she saw who awaited her. Her white teeth bit into her lower lip as she held back a smile, though the deep dimple i
n her cheek professed how pleased she was to see McLaren up close. Usually, the man only joined the party if he saw some threat to her, like when a few of the Highlanders, saying their goodbyes, had gotten far too close for McLaren’s liking.
The lass was his. He’d made that fact clear. And lucky ghost that he was, she hadn’t denied it.
Only Finlay knew how it would play out in the end…
“Simon,” she said cheerfully. “Do you mean to be next?”
McLaren snorted in answer and waved her closer. Though Fin anticipated the usual white fire and the green band of light to appear, they did not. And when McLaren glanced at the lass’s knees and realized the same, he reached out with both hands, took hold of her arms, and dragged her up against him. Her head bent back with the force of his kiss, and she clung to him to keep her balance.
And he, a ghost as insubstantial as the fog off Moray Firth!
The fifty or so that remained of Culloden’s 79 gawked and pointed. In spite of his preference to lie low, Finlay jumped to his feet lest any block his view of the exchange. Of course, he’d seen the pair touch before, but some of his fellows had not. Expressions on those faces around him varied from shock to excitement. Clearly, some saw it as a promise that they, too, might be able to do the same.
McLaren glanced up, ended the kiss, and warned them all off with one sweeping glower. To a man, they all sobered and took an unconscious step backward in response.
Soni attempted to step back as well, but McLaren’s grasp held.
“Leave this place,” he demanded. “Leave this place and never come back. If ye love me… If ye love any of us, ye’ll cease this foolishness and leave off. Has not enough youth been wasted here?” He shook her, insisting she obey. “Go, I say.”
She shrugged and shook her head. “The bargain is struck—”
“Break it!”
“And cannot be broken.”
Simon glanced around them. “Where is this uncle? Where is Wickham Muir? He can stop this. I ken it!”
Soni’s sleeve fell back and the pale skin of her arm glowed in the darkness as it snaked up along McLaren’s neck, her hand cupping his cheek. There were dark marks on the inside of her forearm—tattoos of some sort—but McLaren did not seem to notice.
“Wickham is bound by his own vows,” she said. “He cannot stop it. And if I were to go away, the payment would come due just the same. So I will not waste this chance. I will leave no soul behind.”
McLaren smiled down into her face though the lines around his eyes were full of pain and devastation. “Indeed, ye sound like a wee soldier now, my lass. None left behind.”
“Simon, I beg ye. Time is precious. Do not waste it moping about. Stay near me.” She pointed to the Cameron memorial where the tall man was wont to linger in protest. “When I could not see ye out there, I was giddy, aye? Just the sight of ye, a smile and a nod, lends wings to my very heart.”
McLaren nodded, kissed her forehead, then reluctantly set her away from him. After a long moment of simply staring into her eyes, he finally released her forearms and stepped back. His attention never left her as she turned to face the rest of them, all innocence and charm, as if they’d not witnessed the interaction.
“Time to be about it, aye?” She gifted each man with a broad grin that was impossible not to return. Soncerae’s gaze scanned the gathering again as if she were looking for someone specific. Fin could almost feel a chill wind pierce his soul when her attention settled on him. Almost, it was, because Finlay and his brethren had long since stopped feeling anything. The wind was a memory only. The cold as well. He was imagining them, ‘twas all.
“Finlay Robertson,” she called, then gestured to a spot on the ground before her.
The green light appeared and expanded, circling around her, just off the ground. The pale bonfire flared to life between herself and the massive stone cairn that stood twenty feet behind. The light and shadows danced between the stones of the memorial and made it appear a living thing.
“Number 39, if ye please…”
Fin resigned himself, nodded, and picked his way around the men standing between him and the conflagration. He and the lads did not care to be stepped through, especially by another ghost.
“Finlay.” Soni gave him a wink. “I am surprised ye haven’t come forward before now. But perhaps ye kenned it was not the right time?”
He waved away her question. “I dinna suppose ye ken just what lies in store for me, then?”
Her brows pinched again. “Why do ye say such a thing? Far be it from me to tell a man with sight what his future will hold, but I have considered carefully where each man might go. I hope I have chosen wisely for ye, of course.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Fate will out. What is to be…will be.”
She laughed lightly. “Ever sober, are ye not?” She lowered her chin and gazed deep into his eyes. “Yer will is free, my friend. Make the most of yer time.”
He scoffed. “Eat, drink, and be merry, ye mean?”
“Be merry. Aye, be merry. Don’t waste a moment.” Though Soni did not look at McLaren, her chin made a slight movement in his direction before she could stop it. Her cheeks blushed pink and she lowered her eyelids for a heartbeat or two, then she was up on her toes and kissing Fin’s cheek—a kiss he surely felt. “Fare thee well, Finlay Robertson. I shall see ye again, soon enough.”
Still shocked by the firm press of her lips on his skin, Finlay held perfectly still. The lass before him, the firelight, and all it touched upon was suddenly swallowed by the dark night. Though his senses ordered him to stand and fight, he clamped his eyes shut against the movement he felt beneath his feet.
No sense resisting.
A pair of heartbeats later, the earth settled again. The orange glow on the insides of his eyelids told him that day had come instantly. He opened his eyes to find an unfamiliar forest all about him. A soft rain descended onto his head and bare shoulders like a fine, wet lace that weighed nothing at all.
His nose filled with the ancient, forgotten smell of bacon! And coffee!
And…fear.
CHAPTER TWO
No two mornings in Pine Creek Canyon were ever the same, even in the summer. Sometimes the air was warm before the sun ever came up. Sometimes a cool chill got trapped between the earth and some low hanging clouds and stayed all day. And some days, in the winter, the old thermostat next to the garage door would start out with no red line at all, when the temperature was below -10F.
But every morning, no matter what the weather, there would be a fresh grid of animal tracks crisscrossing the parking lot of Haggard’s Grill. And every morning, Angel Hess would take a half hour break, come hell or high water, and follow those tracks while munching on her breakfast.
Moistened with mountain dew—the real kind—the expanse of dirt and pea gravel became Grand Central Station in the night. The paws and hooves of dozens of creatures painted trails across the muddy canvas and told a new story each morning. Guessing that story was part of Angel’s morning ritual.
It was a little thing, this ritual. But if she wasn’t resourceful—and lucky—she would have to give up every ritual she’d ever had.
That morning, she barely needed a jacket, and primarily for the moisture. A mix of rain and mist descended into her milk and muesli, making the ceramic bowl seem a little heavier, more slippery, but she wouldn’t be rushed. Soon, she’d be diving back into the chaos, and for the rest of the day she’d be moving non-stop, at about four miles per hour, between the dining room and the kitchen. For the moment, though, she could pretend like nothing mattered except her bowl of cereal and the puzzle of paw prints.
A set of small rabbit tracks led out toward the center of the parking lot and disappeared. An owl or hawk must have snatched him.
A small herd of elk had come through with at least two young. A bobcat had prowled off in the opposite direction. Deer tracks cluttered the east edge of the parking lot that morning, and the pink blossoms that had
opened on the snowberry bushes the day before were sadly gone.
Angel figured the New Moon and cloudy sky would account for so many creatures being braver than usual, moving farther away from the sheltering perimeter, hoping the darkness would protect them. Probably more than one rabbit had paid for it.
She scooped out the last spoonful of berries and nuts, drained the milk from her bowl, and followed three sets of raccoon tracks around the edge of the veranda. A set of small dog-like paws meant a fox had taken the same route. She wanted to make sure they weren’t making themselves comfortable in the dumpster farther down the parking lot.
They hadn’t. Nothing stirred. The heavy plastic lid was still in place.
Angel looked around, tried to see what her four-legged visitors would have seen the night before. The restaurant windows would have been dark, the woods at their backs would have been filled with the echoing of crickets. And in the barn just up the hill from the restaurant, she would have been sleeping soundly, locked safely away from all the excitement.
She looked at her watch. Twelve more minutes…
Haggard’s Grill was a one-in-a-million diner located on a drastic switchback between Idaho Falls, Idaho and Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The canyon in which it was nestled had steep walls that left no room for a town to grow. Instead, there was just the one restaurant that had earned its own exit. Truckers stopped, ate, then moved along. There were no showers, no beds, no reason to linger. And the parking lot was only big enough to accommodate three rigs at a time without cutting into the twenty spots meant for cars.
There was nothing anyone could do about that, however. Short of cutting into the mountain, there was no more space to be had. It was strictly a first come, first served situation. The food was good. Really good. And folks from both states would often make the 45-minute drive just to eat homemade food, remember her dad and the good old days when he was running the place, and drive home again.