Flags of red darkened her cheeks even as her chin lifted again. “You said there are two things I should know about you, so what’s the other one?”
Considering her mood, Niall plucked the broken rail out of her hand, then turned and used it to start chipping at the mortar. “I feel it’s only fair to warn ye that whenever you get spitting mad—at me or anyone else, apparently—I find myself fighting a powerful desire to kiss you.”
There, he’d said it. But Niall figured a man should probably warn a lass that he was interested, if only to save himself from getting his face slapped when he finally got around to taking action. The silence that ensued but for the sound of mortar hitting the floor, however, had him fighting a more immediate urge to glance over his shoulder to see her expression.
“Maybe there’s a shovel or something down here,” she muttered, her voice moving away.
Okay then; it would appear he in turn had learned a couple of things about Birch this morning. One, she wasn’t so stubborn she couldn’t be reasoned with, and two, the woman had one hell of a temper. No, he’d learned three things—the third being that his pretty little neighbor could out-cuss most men.
He was going to have to get a language translation app for his phone.
“I found this,” she said, a rusty old pickax appearing beside him.
Niall took it without looking at her and drove the pick into the crack he’d managed to open up. “Can you explain something to me, Birch?”
“What?” she asked, sounding more defensive than cooperative.
“Well, I find myself wondering what would compel a young girl who’s spent her entire life under the rule of a domineering father to trust a young man enough to run away with him. For that matter, if Misty is with child, how had she dared be intimate with Reggie in the first place? Would the lass not have worried she might be jumping out of the frying pan into the fire?”
“Not if she thought Reggie could save her from her father,” Birch said, moving into his line of vision. “Teenagers turn to their peers for support, especially if the adults in their lives have proven untrustworthy.”
Niall straightened. “Are ye saying Misty doesn’t even trust her mother?”
“No. I believe she simply realizes that Sally is just as powerless.”
Niall started digging again. “How can a woman allow her daughter to be locked in a cellar? For that matter, why would she even stay with an abusive husband?”
“Women stay for any number of reasons; anything from honestly believing they don’t have a choice to feeling shame for being in such a position to begin with, or simply lacking the financial means to escape. It’s been my experience that sometimes all it takes is a complete stranger—someone like me, who has a fancy degree proclaiming I’m an expert—to tell them they can leave.”
Niall saw her gesture at the house above them.
“Small-minded men like Ike Vaughn,” she continued, “set themselves up as king of their little world by controlling everything. You probably didn’t notice, but the first thing I saw when I sat down at the table was that the kitchen is immaculate; there’s not one thing out of place, and every surface has been scrubbed so clean, the finish is worn off in places.”
“Aye, I did happen to notice,” he said, stepping out of the way when one of the smaller rocks tumbled free. “So you think that simply giving Mrs. Vaughn permission to leave is all it would take?”
“For Sally, I suspect that answer would be yes.” Birch shrugged. “But for many women it would be no, especially if there’s a history of violence. In the United States alone, nearly five hundred women between the ages of sixteen and twenty-four are killed every year by someone who professes to love them. And nearly seventy percent of those murders occur after the woman leaves the relationship.”
Niall went back to work on the wall, his blows more aggressive.
“Domestic abuse,” Birch continued heatedly, “has always been considered a women’s issue—a label likely coined by men to distance themselves from the problem. But there’s been movement toward exposing the roots of abuse as being a men’s issue, recognizing that male behavior is what needs to change.”
Niall straightened again. “Ye make it sound as if all men are brutes, where I’ll have you know that I’ve never raised a hand to a woman or child. Hell, I won’t even hit a defenseless man, even if he deserves it.”
“Abuse isn’t only physical,” she shot back. “It can be emotional, sexual, verbal, economic, or even neglect.” She gestured toward the window. “And let’s not forget isolation; Ike Vaughn has Sally and Misty living so far off the beaten path that only a four-wheel-drive can get here.”
“All those things are considered abuse?” Niall asked, undecided which disturbed him more—that he hadn’t realized or that he hadn’t even thought about it.
“If a man destroys something a woman cherishes, embarrasses her in public, or controls what she does and who she sees,” Birch explained, her words growing clipped, “he’s being emotionally abusive. Constantly calling her ugly or stupid or clumsy is verbally abusive and insidiously effective. Not letting her work or taking her paychecks if she does have a job, and requiring she ask for money to buy even a pair of shoes is economic abuse.” Her chin lifted. “But personally, I think getting punched in the face is actually the least destructive because it’s openly hostile, rather than hidden behind a man claiming he loves her so damn much that he wants to make sure she and the whole world know it. Are you starting to get the picture, Chief MacKeage?”
Since he couldn’t respond to save his soul, Niall mutely watched Birch suck in a calming breath and suddenly drop to her knees when Shep nudged her hand.
“I’m sorry if I’ve given you the impression that I hate men, because I don’t,” she continued softly, wrapping her arms around Shep and brushing her cheek on his head. “In fact, I’ve dealt with many abusive women. But domestic violence is still for the most part a men’s issue. For centuries women the world over have tried to get laws passed to give them some semblance of protection, but only a man has the power to change another man’s behavior.”
“How?” Niall barely managed to whisper.
She lifted her head and smiled sadly. “Have you ever sat at a table with a bunch of your buddies, playing cards or just drinking, and had one of them make a derogatory or sexist remark about a woman? And did you laugh it off, or agree with him, or maybe even add a remark of your own? Or did you speak up and say, ‘Hey, cut it out. That could be my sister or mother or my daughter you’re talking about.’” She went back to hugging Shep. “Laws making domestic abuse a crime don’t work. But if one man is willing to speak up, then a dozen men, then a hundred, it will eventually become socially unacceptable.”
She gave Shep a final squeeze and stood up, again smiling sadly as she lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. “But that’s not going to happen until all men—especially the good guys—acknowledge that the problem begins and ends with them. It takes leadership to change society; strong male role models who can teach the next generation of young men how to treat their mothers and sisters and girlfriends.”
Well, he’d asked. Niall went back to work on the wall, the ping of the axe echoing through the sudden silence as he sensed Birch hesitate before quietly walking away.
Chapter Six
Birch unzipped Misty’s runaway bag, which she’d found stashed under the bed, and pulled out the boots sitting inside, held them up to gauge their size, then tossed them down when she realized they were at least two sizes too small. Next she pulled out a pair of jeans and held them up by the waist, remembering the quiet, wide-eyed girl she’d met this morning was about her size, except maybe a little narrower in the hips.
Not for long, Birch thought with a sigh as she dug through the backpack for some socks. Maybe the Crisis Center should officially ask the Birthing Clinic to start handing out birth control—
although there was a good chance her petition would be falling on deaf ears, seeing how three of their five mutual committee women were pregnant. Forget the legend about something being in the water around here; considering their husbands were freaking walking mountains of testosterone, the women had probably gotten pregnant just by holding their hands.
No, she might have better luck talking directly to Dr. Bentley, since he was acting as the town’s general practitioner as well as the clinic’s obstetrician. She might get the cold shoulder from Maude though, figuring not only was the scary-sweet midwife fairly tight with the famous five, but her livelihood more or less depended on it raining babies.
Birch glanced toward the window in time to see Niall step out of the way when several small rocks broke free of the wall. She picked up the jeans and rushed to the closet she’d hidden in, sat down on a wooden box and took off her wet boots, then stood up and stripped off her damp slacks. She was just slipping into Misty’s jeans when another rock—this one sounding rather large—crashed to the floor, accompanied by what she assumed was a curse in a language she didn’t recognize.
Birch sat down again and peeled off her wet socks, then took a moment to wrap her hands around her cold toes even as she felt her face flush with heat. Chief MacKeage hadn’t really said he wanted to kiss her, had he? Especially when she got mad? Was he one of those weirdos who got turned on by a woman’s anger, or just a typical horny toad making a run at the new girl in town after already working his way through all the local women? He’d probably left a trail of broken hearts in his wake, too, because what girl wouldn’t want to be seen strolling down the street on the arm of a tall, handsome man with a shiny badge pinned to his chest?
Not that she thought this particular mountain of testosterone was handsome or anything. Birch felt her face heat up even more, remembering Niall calmly telling her that he grew slower and quieter the more urgent a situation became, while she’d been right in the middle of cussing out Reggie. And him. And the entire situation. Although, in truth, she’d mostly been angry for putting herself in danger this morning.
Mon Dieu, Ike Vaughn had scared her when he’d come home and found her talking to his wife and daughter. Apparently he had heard in town that she was running the new Crisis Center, so Birch had barely said her name when the man had gone off like a rocket. And although Ike Vaughn wasn’t exactly a hulk, she wouldn’t have stood a chance if he’d gotten physically violent.
She was going to have to keep her bear spray clipped to her belt. Oh, and her phone, too. Merde; at this rate she’d be running around looking like a cop. Shep poked his head in the closet, his body shaking enough that Birch could tell he was wagging his tail. “I’m coming,” she said, quickly slipping on the thick socks, then wrestling her feet back into her wet boots. “I’m coming,” she repeated more loudly when Niall called her name. “I’m changing into some of Misty’s clothes.”
Birch finished lacing her boots and ran out of the closet, but halted beside the broken stairs when she saw Niall had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. It wasn’t so much the sweat-darkened shirt clinging to his broad shoulders that caught her off guard—she did watch the man go swimming regularly, after all—but rather the pistol tucked in the back of his belt. Not that she knew why the sight of it should surprise her, since her father never left the house without a backup weapon.
“I need ye to stand over here,” he said, nodding to his right as he wedged a thick board under a boulder directly beneath the window. Holding the board in place, he pointed up at where the floor joists rested on the foundation. “Watch the foundation sill and tell me if it starts to bow or if any of the rocks along it start to loosen.” He used his sleeve to wipe his forehead. “The operative word would be starts; if too many rocks around the window fall, this whole side of the house could cave in.”
“Do you really know what you’re doing?” Birch asked, walking over and frowning up at the ancient beam. When she looked over to see Niall was frowning at her, she shrugged. “Your DNA or whatever’s floating around in your Scottish blood hasn’t laid siege to a castle in at least what . . . several hundred years?”
He stretched to grab the pickax, but not quickly enough for her to miss his grin. “Ye might be surprised how recently it’s been for my particular lineage,” he said, placing his shoulder under the board, then wiggling to adjust his stance. He looked at her again, completely sober. “Watch the sill. Wait,” he said, glancing around. “Shep, falaich.”
“What language is that and what did you tell him?”
“It’s Gaelic for hide,” he said, using his shoulder to put pressure on the board, then adjusting his position several more times. “Watch the sill.”
Birch turned her attention to the beam above the window. That is, until she heard a soft grunt and looked over to see Niall slowly straightening, his eyes closed and sweat breaking out on his forehead again as the board started bending from the strain.
“Well?” he said through gritted teeth.
Well what? Oh, she was supposed to be watching the beam. “It looks fine to me,” she said, even as her gaze—of its own volition—slid to those amazing, straining muscles again. Yes, she might find men annoying, but she definitely didn’t hate them.
“Here,” he said tightly, holding out the pickax. “Pull more dirt away from under the right side of the stone. Keep checking that sill,” he said when she started digging.
Birch alternated between digging and glancing up, being careful not to strike him with the other end of the pick as she widened and deepened the crack. “Oh, the rock just moved!” she said, stilling when the axe became wedged deep in the foundation.
“A few more strikes,” he growled, straining upward on the board. “But be ready to run when I tell you.”
She was trying to wrestle the pick back out of the crack when the board suddenly snapped with the force of a gunshot going off. Niall snagged Birch around the waist on his way by just as the huge boulder crashed to the floor, setting off a dust-billowing landslide when a large portion of the wall came down with it.
“Tabernacle!” Birch yelped. “You nearly brought the house down on us!”
She didn’t know where the man found the strength, considering his entire body was quivering from the strain he’d just put it through, but he hugged her so tightly she actually squeaked—not that he heard it over his laughter. “Aye, but we’re free,” he said, just before he kissed her.
He honest to God was kissing her! And not just a peck, either, but taking advantage of the fact that she’d opened her mouth to give him hell. Birch was trying to decide how to respond when he just as suddenly stepped away, the kiss-stealing jerk apparently not feeling the situation was urgent enough to get all slow and quiet.
She was going to have to watch her cussing around him.
“Come on,” he said, leading her over to the gaping hole. “Mind the broken glass,” he added as he lifted her onto the pile of debris.
Propelled by a large hand on her backside—giving her a suspiciously lecherous pat more than a push—Birch scrambled up onto the lawn, his laughter drowning out her gasp. She’d barely made it to her feet when Shep came charging out behind her, and she was just wiping her hands on her borrowed jeans when Niall grabbed one of them and started toward the front of the house.
“I need ye to call Nicholas and explain what’s happening and how to get here,” he said, reaching in his pocket and pulling out his cell phone. “When he arrives, point him up the mountain.” He stopped when they reached the porch and handed her the phone. “His number is programmed in, so after ye call Nicholas, call your mum and let her know you’re okay,” he added, sitting her down on the steps.
Birch popped back up the moment he stepped away. “I’m going with you,” she said, shoving the phone at him. “You can call Nicholas on our way.”
“You’ll slow me down.”
�
�I’ll keep up.”
“Your boots are soaked through and your feet will be blistered in minutes.”
“If I fall behind, you can keep going and I’ll catch up,” she shot back, shoving his phone in her pocket when he didn’t take it and bolting toward the woods. “I need to be there for Misty and Sally.”
She was pulled to a halt within two strides, and he grasped her shoulders again, then simply stood staring at her. “Hell,” he suddenly muttered, leading her back to the house. “Go inside and find some boots,” he said over her heated protest—which she stopped when his words sank in. “And get your jacket.”
Birch ran up two of the steps and turned to look him level in the eyes. “You’re going to take off the moment I go inside.”
He held out his hand. “I’m going to call Nicholas. Ye have two minutes.”
She in turn eyed him for several seconds, then slapped the phone in his hand, ran across the porch, and slammed through the door. She found footwear lined up under the coatrack in the kitchen and grabbed what she assumed were Sally’s garden boots—not that they had a speck of dirt on them.
Birch pulled a chair from the table and sat down, glanced out the open door to see Niall talking on the phone as he strode toward the barn, then unlaced her boots again. She kicked them off, squeezed her feet into the rubber pacs, and stomped them on as she went back to the pegs and grabbed her jacket. Glancing around the kitchen as she patted her pockets to make sure she had her phone and bear spray, Birch ran to the sink, found a glass in a nearby cupboard and filled it with water, then took a long drink. Then she refilled the glass, figuring Niall had probably lost a gallon of sweat digging them out of the cellar, and ran out to the porch.
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