Whatever the elder magic-maker had planned, Niall expected it would be . . . epic.
“Hey, pooch,” he said when Shep came tearing across the road from the park—ignoring the newly painted crosswalk—and fell into step beside him. Niall noticed his first officer was wet. “Looks to me like you’ve been worrying the fish at the bottom of the falls instead of watching for our vandals,” he said with a chuckle. “The least ye could have done was caught us a couple for breakfast.”
With a grumbling snarl Niall took as an apology, they continued past the church and turned onto the camp road, making the mile walk in companionable silence as Niall found himself recalling the fantastical tale his father, Ian MacKeage, had told him nine centuries ago.
Ian had vanished several years earlier, along with Laird Greylen, Grey’s brother Morgan, and their cousin Callum. Since the MacKeages had been at war with the MacBains at the time, Niall had been elected laird not a month after the four men had gone missing and were presumed dead. The story Ian had given everyone upon suddenly reappearing several years later—despite looking a good twenty years older—had been plausible, though highly unlikely.
But about a month after Ian’s return, his age-bent father had asked Niall to take him on a hunting trip. Only rather than looking for game, Ian had spent the next four days and nights explaining where he’d been living for the last thirty-five years. It seemed an old drùidh named Pendaär—whom they’d know as their clan priest, Father Daar—had needed Greylen to sire his heir. The only problem was the woman destined to be the highlander’s match lived in twenty-first-century America. And being somewhat inept, the old drùidh’s spell had sent Ian and Morgan and Callum, as well as the six MacBain warriors they’d been fighting at the time, forward with Grey. Hell, even their warhorses had gotten sucked into the magical storm.
Of the four MacKeages, Ian had been the only one who’d left behind a wife and children, and of the six MacBains . . . well, all but Michael had died over the next three years chasing lightning storms trying to get back to their original time. So upon finding himself alone in the modern world, Michael had moved to Pine Creek and purchased a Christmas tree farm right next door to his old enemies.
In fact, it had been Michael’s twenty-first-century son, Robbie MacBain, who had brought Niall’s father back when Ian had asked to go home to die. Having discovered he was a Guardian with magical powers of his own, Robbie had granted Ian’s request, along with the assurance that the old man would have many years with his wife and grandchildren before he got planted.
Probably the most fantastical part of Ian’s tale was that upon arriving in Maine, the four MacKeage warriors had purchased a mountain and built a ski resort. Niall gave a silent chuckle, remembering his father saying how he’d thought the notion of riding people up a mountain on tiny benches hanging from a puny cable, just so they could ski down on two thin pieces of wood, was nothing short of crazy. And, Ian had said as he’d spat on the ground, noble warriors had no call to be in such a useless business. But that very nobleness had compelled them to embrace their laird’s decision, and today TarStone Mountain Ski Resort drew people to Maine from all over the world.
Much like the Bottomless Sea was doing in Spellbound Falls.
Except unlike in Pine Creek, Spellbound Falls’ and Turtleback Station’s appeal was the work of magic. A little over four years ago, in what was arguably an outrageous attempt to impress a woman, Maximilian Oceanus had conjured up an earthquake to open a huge subterranean fissure beginning in the Gulf of Maine and continuing all the way to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Mac had made the underground river surface in six lakes in Maine and one in Canada, moved several nearby mountains, and cut a deep fiord at the north end of Bottomless Lake—thus changing the forty-mile-long, freshwater lake to an inland sea just so he would have saltwater to swim in.
And the bastard had done it without cracking a single window.
The new Bottomless Sea had actual tides, was home to all manner of marine life, and had inevitably put two sleepy wilderness towns on the worldwide map. Towns which now needed a police force to make sure the small horde of tourists flocking to this ninth natural wonder of the world didn’t piss off the locals.
All of which made his father’s time-traveling tale not so fantastical. But then, twenty months ago Niall had also had the pleasure of riding a lightning storm. And, by God, he had decided he never wanted to ride one again. So he’d hightailed it to Pine Creek before Titus Oceanus—or his enforcer, Nicholas—could send him back.
Except no one had even tried going after him. And upon learning it was Titus who had suggested Duncan offer him the position of police chief, Niall was beginning to suspect that instead of bringing him here to marry Carolina, the elder magic-maker may have had something else in mind for him all along.
And here he thought the two theurgists—divine agents of human affairs—were supposed to protect man’s free will, whereas Titus and Mac seemed to have developed a habit for quietly directing it. Mac had practically hit Duncan over the head with the magic to get him to marry the widow Peg Thompson and her four little heathens, and Titus had all but dared Alec to walk into Nova Mare and steal Carolina. Hell, even their man Nicholas hadn’t been safe from the meddling Oceanuses, with the mythical warrior now happily married to Julia and expecting their first child. A boy, Nicholas had assured everyone; the first of six. But maybe the man did know about such things, since it was rumored he was actually the son of the Norse god Odin.
Niall turned into the shelter’s driveway with a heavy sigh, tired of trying to guess why Titus had brought him here. He stopped and looked at the darkened downstairs window he knew was Birch’s bedroom and hoped whatever the old bastard had in store for him didn’t involve returning to the twelfth century. Because for as much as he loved his homeland, he didn’t miss his clansmen’s constant looks of sympathy. Nor did he miss the daily reminder of his own ineptness whenever he’d stood at his keep’s window and gazed down on Simone’s grave.
Nay, Titus had no business setting him up to protect the good people of two small Maine towns when a mere slip of a seventeen-year-old girl could outfox him with nothing more than a smile just to go get herself killed not three hours before they were supposed to meet at the altar.
Chapter Three
As drinking establishments went, Niall supposed the Bottoms Up might be considered typical for a tourist boomtown situated in the middle of the wilderness. The two powerful wizards, mythical warrior, modern highlander, and twelfth-century laird sitting at the back corner table, however, were not exactly typical patrons—Duncan coming the closest as the only native-born Mainer, although the contrary bastard did have the questionable good fortune of being able to command the magic.
Even though the tables were filled mostly with local men enjoying libations and hearty food on this unusually mild weeknight in early June, Niall knew the bar would soon refill with tourists. The happy hour crowd catching up on town news usually headed home fairly early, since most of them had to be back at work by sunrise. But even before the barmaids could wipe down the tables, a new wave of men and women would come tromping in, hungry and thirsty from spending the day hiking and fishing and cruising Bottomless on tour boats, as well as browsing the steadily growing number of craft shops all vying for their tourist dollars.
Though slightly larger in population and sitting at the southernmost end of the new Bottomless Sea, Turtleback Station was actively—even aggressively—competing for those very same dollars. That is, except when the two towns had called a ceasefire in their little tourist tug-of-war long enough to vote on sharing a police force. There’d been a bit of an uproar, though, when the Turtleback councilmen had learned Niall had been given free housing in Spellbound, and had argued that since they were larger and therefore more vulnerable to crime, the police chief should be stationed in Turtleback.
Not that either town had a station yet. Hell, Niall
had had to rig his own pickup with a siren and lights and radio, and even supply his own gun.
The Spellbound councilmen had in turn argued that Turtleback was thirty miles closer to the county sheriff’s office (which was still over sixty miles away) and already had a deputy living in town—conveniently forgetting that Jason Biggs was responsible for patrolling nearly four hundred miles of county roads. And then the councilmen, backed up by a second citizen vote, had offered to contribute sixty percent of the combined law enforcement budget—assuming anyone could call covering salaries and gas an actual budget. And so because the good people of Turtleback were apparently more frugal with their dollars than worried about getting robbed, Niall was living in the Crisis Center’s dooryard and using his truck as a mobile office until he had a stationary . . . station in each town, into which he would eventually post three more full-time officers.
Niall waited until Jasmine finished handing out everyone’s drinks, then softly tugged on her apron before she could leave. “Wait up, lass. Does Macie not usually work Thursday evenings?”
“Usually,” Jasmine said with a snap of her gum. “But she called me an hour ago and asked if I’d come in and cover the rest of her shift.”
“Is she ill?”
The questionably legal-aged waitress shrugged. “She looked fine to me.”
The only reason Niall wasn’t questioning the girl’s age was because he knew Vanetta was too sharp of a businesswoman to risk losing her liquor license by hiring a barmaid who wasn’t even old enough to drink.
Jasmine stopped chewing and leaned closer. “I got the feeling Macie left to meet someone,” she whispered loudly to be heard over the din of many conversations. “My guess is she snuck off to see her baby’s daddy, since Everest said the guy was in here earlier.”
“Why do you say she’s sneaking off?” Mac asked, his grin implying he wasn’t the least bit apologetic to be eavesdropping. “Macie is a grown woman.”
Jasmine looked at him in surprise. “You’re kidding, right? Have you met Warden Callahan? The woman would have a cow if she knew Macie was seeing the guy she ran away from and would probably go after him with that bear spray she carries.” The girl shot Niall a smile. “Wouldn’t it be ironic if you had to arrest the new crisis counselor for assaulting a man? Bet you wouldn’t mind tossing her in jail, if you had one.”
Okay, then; apparently his neighborly little war was becoming as public as the Kents’. “It’s Miss Callahan’s job to protect her residents,” Niall said, not unkindly. “Sometimes even from themselves.” He held up his hand when Jasmine started to protest. “I know Johnny wasn’t abusive, but Birch might be worried he’ll try to talk Macie into going back to the colony. And I’m sure she wouldn’t have a problem with the two of them meeting at the shelter, since it’s also her job to help couples reconcile.”
“Yeah, okay,” Jasmine said, striding off with another snap of her gum.
“Warden Callahan?” Mac drawled.
“The woman’s heart is in the right place.”
“You’re defending her?” Duncan said in surprise. “Didn’t you tell me a few days ago that ye wanted to take the little termagant on a one-way boat ride up the fiord?”
Titus set down his glass, his sharp green eyes lighting with interest. “Are we about to witness another infamous wife-stealing?” The old theurgist arched a regal brow. “You don’t believe three weeks is rather quick to decide a woman is the one, even for a MacKeage?”
“The idea was to leave her there,” Niall said, taking a drink to hide his scowl.
“So, Chief,” Titus continued with a chuckle, “is there a reason you’re still the sum total of our police force nearly two months after its inception?”
“Aye,” Niall said with a grimace, even though he was glad for the change of subject. “To date my choice of applicants have been four boys barely weaned off their mamas, three men whose bellies are so big they likely haven’t seen their peckers in years, two gentlemen old enough to be my grandfather—one of whom told me he has a device planted inside him to remind his heart to beat—and one character I suspect only wanted the job because of our proximity to the border.”
“What is so alluring about working near the border?” Titus asked.
Niall shrugged. “If I had plans to move contraband between countries, I might feel that few people will question a man roaming the woods all hours of the night if he’s wearing a badge and gun.”
Titus’s eyes lit up again. “That was an astute observation.” He looked at Duncan. “And you were astute as well, for seeing what a fine chief your ancestor would make.”
Duncan dismissed the compliment with a tight grin and looked at Niall. “Didn’t any women apply for the positions?”
“Three,” Niall snapped, not liking this subject any better.
“And?”
“And none of them appeared to be a good fit.”
Duncan shook his head. “We explained that you have to seriously consider women applicants so they can’t sue us for discrimination.”
“And I told you that I’m not putting a woman in harm’s way.” Niall took another drink to keep from growling, then lowered his glass with a glare. “I’d be spending more time watching her back than my own.”
“You’ve met Trace Huntsman, haven’t you?” Mac interjected. “Married to Matt Gregor’s sister, Fiona.”
“Aye,” Niall said with a nod. “Trace and Fiona and the twins often visited when I was living with Matt and Winter. I’ve even been down to Midnight Bay a couple of times and had the pleasure of hauling lobster traps on Trace’s boat.”
“Then maybe you should ask him about putting females in harm’s way,” Mac went on. “Since Trace told me he preferred having women soldiers watching his back when he was fighting his war.” Mac’s grin widened when Niall started glaring at him. “Trace feels that because of their physical disadvantage, women are better at reading the subtle clues people—men in particular—give off, and can often disarm a situation before it turns deadly.”
Niall looked at Nicholas, who, he noticed, appeared more interested in his ale than the conversation. “How many women are on your security force?”
“Three at Nova Mare and four at Inglenook,” Nicholas said with a shrug. “I’ve found our women and younger guests seem to prefer dealing with female guards.”
Niall decided it was time to change the subject again and turned his attention back to Duncan. “I still contend that thirty miles is too far apart for towns to be sharing a police force. Even at sixty miles an hour, which is pushing the limit of safety on that road, it can still take me thirty minutes to get on-scene.”
“It beats waiting two or three hours for a county sheriff to show up,” Duncan countered. “That’s why the plan is to station a couple of officers in each town while pooling our resources to save on administrative costs.”
“What resources?” Niall countered back. “I don’t even have one station.”
“We’re working on that.”
“And while you’re working on it,” Niall went on, “see if ye can’t get your fellow councilmen to pony up enough money for me to hire a secretary. When I trained with Jack Stone, it was obvious that Ethel is the heart of Pine Creek’s force for keeping everything organized, answering the phone, and dealing with walk-ins.”
“I’ll try, but don’t hold your breath.” Duncan suddenly sighed. “It’s hard for people who’ve lived paycheck to paycheck all their lives to wrap their minds around a budget that now involves millions of dollars instead of a few hundred thousand.”
“But are the towns not collecting millions in taxes?” Titus asked. “What with all the new businesses springing up and the grand year-round homes being built to replace the old seasonal camps, the town coffers should be flush with dollars.”
“Aye,” Duncan admitted. “But the older folks are stubbornly tigh
tfisted, and they don’t like the idea of building an infrastructure that’s turning their wilderness into small cities—especially if they can sneak by with what they have.”
Such as not purchasing a new cookstove if two burners were still working, Niall thought as he grinned into his ale.
Apparently not liking this subject, since he was directly responsible for turning Spellbound and Turtleback into small cities, Mac lifted his glass in salute. “To progress,” he offered, “and the wisdom and courage to embrace it.” He looked at Titus. “Speaking of which, how is your mass exodus coming along?”
Titus let out a resigned sigh of his own. “Folks becoming set in their ways is a timeless affliction, I’m afraid.”
“How many are left?” Mac asked with a chuckle.
“Eight families for a total of two dozen stubborn souls. And don’t think the irony is lost on me that it’s the younger islanders who are reluctant to leave. I finally gave them the choice of being gone in two weeks or becoming instant celebrities when an army of twenty-first-century scientists descend on their long-lost mythical home.”
“Wouldn’t it simply be wiser to leave Atlantis lost?” Duncan asked. “Are ye not worried that any number of nations will go to war over it? Hell, at least seven countries have laid claim to Antarctica.”
Apparently deciding that was a rhetorical question, Titus turned his attention across the table. “Is there a reason you’re quieter than usual this evening, Nicholas? You appear ready to fall asleep in your cups.”
“Julia is nesting,” Nicholas said as he glanced at Mac. “Has Olivia shaken you awake in the middle of the night yet and informed you the nursery needs to be finished by yesterday?”
The Highlander Next Door Page 3