Ghosts of Culloden Moor 27 - Finlay

by L. L. Muir

  He cocked his head again and watched her without saying anything while the seconds ticked by. Then he reached forward, took her hand, and pulled her to him, slowly, like he would pull a boat through water. “I do believe that is the prettiest compliment I’ve ever been granted…for my thoroughly adequate kisses.”

  Air sputtered out of her mouth and, together, they dissolved into laughter and stepped apart. His deep voice rang out through the trees and probably frightened away anything headed for the stream. She would have given anything to see his face clearly, but he had bent over to catch his breath.

  When he straightened, finally, he grabbed her hand again, though there was nothing gentle about it. “Come on. Let’s get you home before ye insult yer way right into my heart, Angel Mott.”

  They tripped along to the garage with him pulling and she dragging her feet just a little. It was hard to simply let the evening end when she knew it would stay in her memory forever. It was natural to try to drag it out a little longer, wasn’t it? But he was right. There was a real danger of their hearts getting tangled up together, even though they’d only known each other for a day, especially if his emotions were running as high as hers were at the moment.

  Getting romantically involved now would lead straight to heartbreak with him leaving for Scotland tomorrow. So, it was a good thing they were smart enough to stop.

  Right?

  Unfortunately, there were no little angels left on her shoulders to advise her.

  She unlocked the door and turned back to give him the keys, holding up the darkest one. “This is to the rear entrance.”

  He took it and nodded. His face was completely in shadow then, and she thought it was probably better than way.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Robertson.”

  “Fin.”

  She smiled. “Goodnight, Fin.”

  “Goodnight, Angel.”

  She summoned just enough willpower to push through the doorway and close it behind her. Then she listened for him to walk away. When she didn’t hear anything, she began to count. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three… It was over twenty long seconds later when she finally heard his feet shift, then walk away.

  “Let him go, Angel,” she said into the darkness. Then she turned on her flashlight and marched up the stairs to her apartment, like any reasonable, self-respecting, and utterly foolish woman would do.

  It wasn’t until she was buttoned up safely in her pajamas that she realized he’d completely distracted her from extracting information from him. She was so annoyed, she went to the wall of windows, opened the one closest to the restaurant, and called out.

  “Finlay Robertson!” She whistled loudly and shined her flashlight through the trees toward the kitchen windows, shaking it erratically. “Finlay Robertson!” In the distance, she heard a door open.

  “Angel?”

  “Finlay!”

  “Aye. Are ye in trouble, lass?”

  “No, but you are! Tomorrow, you will answer all my questions!”

  Laughter was the only response she got until it was suddenly cut off by the closing of the door.

  Angel laughed her way back to the bedroom, blew out the candle on her nightstand, and fell asleep with a smile on her face. After all, no one could be expected to worry about anything with the power out.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Finlay took another bite of the strange little creation that infused cake with cheese and wondered again how it might have been accomplished. He ultimately decided that he would have to puzzle it out on the morrow with Angel’s help.

  Cheese-cake. Amazing.

  As he’d wandered about the restaurant with a candle to light his way, he’d tasted a great many things—while careful to keep too much cold air from escaping out the refrigeration door, of course—and he’d made a number of discoveries, two of which stood to the fore.

  Firstly, other than the cheese-cake and a few other concoctions, food had not changed much in the past three hundred years. Sweet things seemed to be more important than in his day, but other than that, meat was meat, bread was bread, and fruits and vegetables had, for the most part, kept their shapes and colors.

  His second and most surprising discovery was that he’d been wrong. Bacon was not the greatest blessing mortality could offer a man.

  Woman was.

  Or at least, the woman up the hill was. He could only imagine how dull his second experience with mortality might have been without Angel Mott to give it color. And if he were only granted the one day he’d already spent with her, he would still be eternally grateful to Soncerae Muir for placing him in Haggard.

  In a single day, he had sung, danced a wee bit, and shared both affection and laughter with a good woman. What more could he possibly ask?

  More time with her?

  He couldn’t possibly. Not when he knew the price his two days had already cost. Thinking of the wee witch now, he realized he should have shared his knowledge with the rest of the 79 so they might all refuse the gift she offered. But in ghost form, it had not the impression on him that he felt now—now that his heart was full to bursting for so many reasons.

  He dropped his chin to his chest in shame. “Soni, Grandmother, sisters, forgive me!”

  And what of Angel Mott? Suspecting what he must do, if he were still in Haggard when the sun rose in the morning, he should be begging her forgiveness as well. For he had only two choices before him.

  Make her hate me? Or make her love me?

  His preference would be to win the lass’ love, certainly, but his duty was not to woo her, but to aid her. Alas, he could not keep his cheese-cake and eat it too.

  ~ ~ ~

  At 3:59 in the morning, Angel woke up like she always did, stared at her alarm clock, and waited for the minute to change and the screeching to start. She had one minute of utter silence except for her breathing and the tick of the clock hanging on the wall in the living room. Sometimes, her heartbeat was loud enough to drown out the distant sound, but not that morning.

  Tick… Tick… Tick…

  Almost time to get in the shower, take the brisk, bracing walk from the garage to the restaurant, and make the day’s pastries while she listened to the ghost of John Mott as he reviewed the recipes, lectured on the temperature of the water and yeast, and remind her that the only thing worth eating was made from scratch.

  The high-pitched alarm began pulsing. Her hand automatically shot out to turn it off. She pushed the covers aside, sat up, and spoke the words aloud that made her alert and helped her step into the day.

  “Coming, Mott.”

  She glanced up at the darkened window and remembered that, unlike every other morning, someone was already down in the restaurant. And the previous day came flooding back—like a landslide.

  Employees calling in sick, leaving them shorthanded. Finlay Robertson walking out of the mist like an ancient warrior come to do her dishes. Fin standing in the sink without his shirt on. Fin, charming her customers, her staff, and her. Kissing her, laughing with her, and practically panting over the prospect of eating bacon.

  Finding him standing in her home, freaking out about some prophecy, then running up onto the road to get hit by a truck. Her heart pounded in her ears once more as she remembered that moment when she knew he was dead. Then it jumped for absolute joy when she saw him sitting at the bottom of the hill without a scratch.

  Fin…opening up his arms and holding her when she said the words out loud that ripped her heart in half. “I think I’m going to lose my restaurant.”

  It was hard to read the exact time on her clock with so many tears in her eyes, but it didn’t matter. She made sure the alarm button was off and pulled the covers over herself. There was no need to be up now, no one to make pastries for.

  She should have celebrated the chance to get to sleep in for once, but instead, she cried herself back to oblivion.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Angel woke again after the sun was up. For only a second or two, she wo
rried that she’d overslept and would have no pastries in the display case. But as soon as she realized how puffy her eyes were, her memory woke up like she’d stepped into a cold shower.

  Cold shower…

  Oh, yeah. That too.

  She took a spit bath, brushed the heck out of her hair, and completely ignored how vain she felt as she applied her makeup a lot more carefully than she usually did. The smell of wood smoke hit her in the face the second she opened the door and stepped outside. A campfire. And close by.

  She forced herself to take it slow and not scamper down the path like a giddy teenager. The pop and crackle of dry pine logs drew her to the fire pit she’d built for customers waiting for a table in the colder months. Two large chairs had been moved over from the veranda, but there was no sign of her Scottish friend.

  She wouldn’t panic. He wouldn’t have taken off and left a healthy fire unattended. And he wasn’t the type to leave without saying a nice, gentlemanly goodbye.

  On the far side of the blaze, a small, fat bird had been skewered on crossed branches and set aside, probably waiting for hot coals. Half a dozen eggs sat in a few inches of water inside an old tin pan that usually hung in the dining room as a decoration. She couldn’t help laughing.

  Fin backed out of the rear entrance with his arms full, still wearing his kilt along with the sleeveless shirt that had finally dried. He held an old tea kettle—also a decoration—and her box of assorted tea bags. He looked a little worried at first, like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar, but then he smiled in relief when he saw her face. “A grand mornin’ to ye, lassie.”

  “Good morning. I see you’ve started breakfast.” She pointed to the old pan. “There is a kitchen full of pots, you know.”

  “Auch, I wouldnae wish to stain yer pretty pans in a campfire, aye? Besides, it is I who would have to scrub them clean again.”

  She saw his point, and moved on to the bird. She’d never eaten poultry for breakfast before, but she wouldn’t tell him for fear of hurting his feelings. “You plucked it yourself?”

  He grinned. “I might have.”

  “How did you catch it? I didn’t hear any shots.”

  He laughed. “Perhaps because I went a-huntin’ in yon refrigerated room, aye?”

  She laughed too, and after he insisted there was nothing she could do to help with the meal, they fell into a comfortable silence filled with the crackling fire and a breeze shushing in waves through the aspens and lodgepole pines to the east. It sounded like a massive flock of birds, only without the birds.

  He used the loose end of his plaid to scoot another pan away from the fire. “I found some things in yer icebox last evening…” He had warmed up peas and brown rice to which he then added curry and the boiled eggs.

  She pasted a smile on her face and tasted it, but it was surprisingly good. She wasn’t usually a fan of Indian food, but the combination was clever. “I especially like the burst of sweetness from the peas.”

  “It is called Kedgeree.”

  It might have been the combination of wood smoke and fresh morning air that made her so hungry, but the Cornish hen was a delicious and perhaps underestimated breakfast protein. All in all, it was a much lighter meal than she was used to, and she liked the fact she was able to eat it sitting down.

  “I kind of have a ritual at this time of day. I’d like to go walk around, if you don’t mind.”

  “This is how I found ye in the woods yesterday?”

  “Uh, yeah. Wow. Was that just yesterday?”

  “It was.”

  She nodded and walked to the corner of the building, then walked right back to stand in front of his chair, blocking him in. She wasn’t even sure what she was going to do, but she couldn’t walk away again.

  “Please,” she said. “Explain something to me. How is it that, before you showed up, my favorite part of the day was my morning break, a time when I could feel completely alone in the world. Thirty minutes of absolutely peace and solitude. It was the one thing that helped me get through my day, knowing that the next morning I would have that thirty minutes again.”

  She closed her eyes and paused for a deep cleansing breath, giving herself the chance to reconsider what she was about to admit. It would leave her vulnerable, and his reaction had the potential to cut her deep. But if she didn’t speak up, she might never forgive herself for wasting the chance.

  She opened her eyes and found him watching her, waiting, almost hopeful. Was it really going to be this easy?

  He gave a little nod. “And now?”

  “And now…the idea of spending thirty minutes completely alone…scares the hell out of me.”

  He scooted his chair back as he stood, then reached for her face and pulled her forward to crush her lips with his. It was a desperate movie kiss, and just exactly what she’d needed. She hadn’t wanted to walk around the parking lot, she’d wanted to fly around the tops of the trees like the wind got to do.

  When he ended the kiss, he tilted her head down and pressed his lips to her forehead. “I, too, have never before been frightened of being alone. And yet…” He cleared his throat and took a little step to the side like he’d reconsidered what he’d been about to say. “I am more sorry than ye can know when I say my plans cannot be changed, lass. And though I will cherish every moment and every kiss we have shared, I fear that ye will not.”

  She folded her arms, suddenly chilled by the space between them. “And why will I not?”

  “Because, Angel, ye will come to think of me whenever ye are reminded that ye lost yer restaurant. Those memories will forever be entwined, aye?”

  Poor, sweet man. She wished she could reassure him, somehow, that he was wrong.

  “The truth is,” she said, “I don’t know what will happen in the end. But I will never forget you, Finlay Robertson. And I will never regret you.”

  He looked doubtful.

  She smiled. “You might be worried for nothing, you know.”

  “Oh?”

  “I admit I felt pretty defeated last night, but I was in shock. And now that the shock has worn off, I promise that I’m not ready to give up on Haggard’s. You might be real big on Fate. But I am real big on miracles.”

  “Miracles.” He practically spat the word.

  “That’s right. The glass is half full.” She grinned like an idiot to see if she could get him to smile too. When he didn’t, she told herself it didn’t matter. It was her attitude that would make all the difference. It was she who had to stick around and fight for her business. And fight she would.

  Too bad she’d have to continue the fight alone.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Fin refilled the kettle with water and returned it to the hot coals while Angel went to her office to collect a notebook and a pen. She claimed that the best use of her down time would be to do a little brainstorming, that she hated to let nervous energy go to waste.

  There was no use his asking why she might be nervous. The very mention of washing up the dishes had her tense as a cat. In truth, it made him feel a bit on edge himself.

  She suddenly jumped up from her seat along a picnic table. “I need to refill the generators.”

  “‘Tis done, lass.” He stuck a finger in the kettle. The water was not yet hot.

  “Oh. Thank you.” She sat again, flipped her pen back and forth for a ten count, then popped up again. “I should check the stuff in the freezer…”

  “Firm as a rock, lass. And the other box is holding at the set temperature. I have made certain of it.”

  She nodded, sat once more, and finally applied the end of her pen to the paper. “Fin?”

  “Mmm?” He stirred absently in the coals with a pole he’d made from a green branch, pretending not to be watching her every move.

  “Who is coming to get you?”

  Auch. And so it begins. The beginning of the end.

  “I believe it will be a young lass called Soncerae.”

  “You believe? You don’t know?�
�

  “Nay, lass. I only know that I will be…collected.”

  “I thought you could see the future.”

  “Only a snippet now and then, and only what God wishes me to see.”

  “You can’t see whatever you want, then?”

  He chuckled. “Nay, my angel. I am already given more than I care to see. I envy every man or woman who can walk blindly forward, trusting and hopeful.”

  “Then, what you said yesterday, about Destiny sounding more hopeful?”

  He sighed, finally put his smoking stick aside, and faced her. “Ye can only be hopeful if ye doona already ken what is to be, aye? Knowing that the mountain would fall, it would have been pointless to hope otherwise.”

  She laid her pen aside and tucked her hands under the edges of her legs as if trying to warm them. “And what about this vision you said you’ve had of us? It must be pretty bad if you don’t want to tell me about it.”

  He took up his long stick again and returned to poking in the fire, searching for the right thing to say. It was far too early in the day to pick a fight, but he feared she intended to pick one in any case. He was lucky he’d been able to put her off as long as he had.

  “I’ll give you the same choice I meant to give you last night, before you…distracted me. Okay?”

  He hung his head, then nodded.

  She got up and returned to her seat by the fire, angled it so she faced him. He sat back and gave her his attention. He only prayed that he could satisfy her curiosity without the need to explain just who, and what, he was.

  “You can either tell me about this vision, whatever you think is going to happen between us—and tell me the truth—or…you can look into your crystal ball and tell me how long this canyon will be closed, so I can make a plan.”

  “I have explained that I cannot choose my visions—”

  “Then I guess you’ll have to choose Option A.”

  On the previous day, he obviously should have kept his bloody mouth buttoned shut. But she’d been so suspicious of him, he’d hoped an offering of the truth might ease her mind, which it had at the time. At least she’d ceased thinking of him as a spy and only pitied him for being a madman.