by C. J. Bahr
Table of Contents
Title Page
Walking Through Fire
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
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
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Honors for CJ Bahr
Winner
2014 Florida’s Romance Writers Contest
“The Golden Palm” in paranormal category
~*~
Second Place
2014 Chesapeake Romance Writers Contest
“Finish the Damn Book Contest”
The Rudy Award in paranormal category
~*~
Fourth Place
2014 MORWA’s “Gateway Contest”
paranormal category
~*~
Sixth Place
Utah RWA’s “Great Beginnings Contest”
Walking
Through Fire
by
CJ Bahr
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Walking Through Fire
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by CJ Bahr
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Faery Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-615-6
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-616-3
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my parents, Catherine and Allan,
avid readers who gave me a love of books by example.
~*~
Thanks, Mom and Dad,
I hope they have books in heaven.
I miss you both.
Acknowledgements
A novel may start out with a single person and a computer, but a large family joins in its birth. Be they family, friends, mentors, or even you, the reader, this story would just be another document on my computer without the community effort.
First, a huge thank you to my fellow Friday nighters: Marla White, Bekah Wright, and Heidi Carson. Your input, critiques, and “but whys?” along with good wine, friendship and conversation made this book what it is today. I couldn’t have done it without you gals.
To my beta-readers, Nahmi, Bill, and Maureen— Thank you for braving the rough versions and your brilliant advice.
To my editor, Amanda Barnett at Wild Rose Press, for her amazing support and help in polishing Walking Through Fire and making it the best book it could be. Also, a special thank you to my cover artist, Debbie Taylor, for bringing Simon to life. And of course, to the rest of the gang at Wild Rose Press; it’s a pleasure and honor to be a member of the garden.
Last, but in no means last, a huge thank you to my parents. I wish they could have been here to witness the birth of my first book. They were responsible for instilling in me a love of reading. I don’t remember a time they were without a book. They led by example. I was brought up believing that if I worked hard, stayed persistent, there wasn’t anything I couldn’t accomplish.
And thanks to you, my readers, for picking up this book. I love sharing Simon and Laurel’s story with you. Enjoy!
Chapter One
Northern Scotland, Near Durness
July 1809
The first tingle of fear raced up Simon MacKay’s spine as he found himself alone in the pitch dark—kneeling on rough, wet granite. Waves thundered and crashed around him in the gloom. He must be in one of the sea caves on his estate. A blast of salty, cold air struck him, clearing his muddled, throbbing head to frightening awareness. He staggered clumsily to his feet, pain shooting through his arms and shoulders. He couldn’t move his hands.
“Nay!” His shout echoed in the darkness. He was bound to the cave’s wall. He struggled, arms stretched tautly behind him, his muscles strained against the ropes tying his wrists. Ignoring the bite of the coarse fibers and the pain of his tortured joints, panic set in. He had to get free. He had to get out. His family was in danger.
A wave slammed in close, spraying water onto his face. Sweat mingled with salt water as he thrashed. The metal mooring ring trapping him clanked against the limestone rock, as his heart raced with equal parts dread and exertion. Clasped hands turned sticky with blood from the rough bindings biting into his flesh. Simon ignored this too.
Ice water drenched him as the next wave crashed against the wall. The chill soaking froze him in place. The tide was coming in, and the cave was rapidly filling. He hung his head and water dripped from his long hair to streak down his face, mimicking the tears he couldn’t shed. His body started to shake as shock and disbelief speared his mind. If he didn’t free himself, he’d drown and his family would be left unprotected.
“I canna die like this. I won’t!”
He lifted his head and peered into the shadows. Another wave hit him waist high before he felt the dragging pull of the ocean’s retreat. He could now hear lapping water.
I will die here, his traitorous thoughts declared, and for what?
A choked laugh escaped Simon, and he shook his head. “Never!” He strained once more against his bonds, but they held fast. Whoever tied the knots had done it well.
How had he gotten here? His last recollection before waking in the cave was leaving the manor and walking to the stable. He entered, but then it all blurred together. His throbbing head held the missing clue. He’d been struck. There had been no warn
ing, no telltale movement.
The next wave hit him chest high, slamming him against the wall, crushing his arms behind him. This time however, as the wave retreated, frigid water remained clawing at his ankles.
Simon prayed the high water mark wasn’t above his head. With no light, he couldn’t tell. In his soul though, he knew. He was meant to die, and at the rate the tide continued to rush in, his fate would soon be sealed.
“Damn you to hell, you bloody devil!” His cry was lost in the booming darkness. He should have known better, should have anticipated. There had been threats. He ignored them all. More fool he. Now he would pay the ultimate price.
He shook with rage as the icy water swirled about his waist. Numb to his physical discomfort, his inner turmoil was dagger sharp. Who had done this to him?
The thoughts of his tormentor fled from his mind when an incoming wave crashed above his head, submerging him. He instinctively held his breath until the arctic wash drained away to chest level. He braced and waited in the darkness for the wave set to finish. He knew the sea’s rhythm, it was in his family’s blood.
Three. Four. Five. The last wave pulled him from the wall, stretching his arms painfully behind him. He floated back and his feet found ground. The sea now reached his neck.
Regrets flooded him. Who would care for his family? He would be leaving behind a little sister and a sick mother. Sadly, the sea had already claimed his father, and now she would have the son. Were the men in his family cursed? Simon would disappear, and the MacKay name would die with him. Would the sick bastard who killed him now go after little Jean or his Ma? Who would stop him?
A sob escaped his throat, and he ruthlessly bit his lip. He would not die a sniveling coward.
The water lapped his chin and reached higher to caress his mouth.
The bastard would pay. Though he knew not who his murderer be, Simon saved his last thoughts to curse his enemy.
The water closed over his head, submerging him into a liquid world. He held his breath, willing the water to retreat, but the sea would not be cheated.
His lungs burned, tears squeezed from his closed eyes, and mingled unseen in his watery prison. He bit his lips, drawing blood in his effort not to breathe, but his body betrayed him.
Purely reflexive, his mouth gasped open sucking in air for his oxygen-starved lungs. All they received was the cold water of the north Atlantic.
On the second inhalation, his body started to convulse when the ocean filled his lungs.
On the third, Simon MacKay drowned.
Chapter Two
Northern Scotland, Near Durness
July, Present Day
Laurel Saville breathed a sigh of relief. Cleitmuir Bed and Breakfast appeared before her in the parting strands of fog. She coasted her rental car to a halt on the circular gravel driveway and shut off the engine. It had been a long trip, almost twenty-four hours worth. It started in Chicago with two plane connections ending in Inverness, followed by the almost three and a half hour drive on mostly single lane roads. Home felt light years away.
Letting out a pent up breath, she closed her eyes. No sound reached her through the fog. Peace at last.
“Lori!”
Laurel’s eyes snapped open and she smiled while watching a tiny bundle of blonde energy break into a run. All of five-foot-one (if you measured generously), Beth Leighton, now Murray, reached the car, grinning.
“Lori, Lori, Lori, you made it!”
Laurel opened the door, and stepped out to embrace her best friend.
“I can’t believe you’re finally here. God, how I missed you.” Beth squeezed her tight before releasing her to peer upwards.
“Me, too.” Laurel vowed it wouldn’t be so long between visits. It had been so much easier when Beth lived in Chicago, but at least now Laurel had a great excuse to visit a country she always wanted to see. The Scottish Highlands, a beautiful land of craggy mountains, rough coastlines, heather-filled hills, and hardy, hospitable people. A land filled with history. She couldn’t believe she was finally here.
“Though I have to admit,” she teased. “I wasn’t sure I’d make it. I swore I was lost the last few miles. Thank God for GPS, since you picked a pretty isolated spot to live. There isn’t a soul around, unless you count the sheep.”
“But there will be! Things are really growing in Cleitmuir, and we’re in at the ground floor.”
“With sheep for guests?” Laurel joked. Looking around, she only caught hints of the grounds and hotel through the tendrils of fog.
Beth slapped her shoulder. “Quit it. You’ll love the place. It’s a nice change from Chicago, and,” she stated with a knowing look in her eyes, “you need a break. Come on.” Beth wrapped her arm around Laurel’s waist, “you have to meet Grant.”
Heading toward the hotel, Laurel’s happiness morphed into guilt. Beth was more than just a best friend, she was family, having grown up with her since kindergarten. They’d been so close, inseparable. What one did the other did also. It couldn’t last of course. By college they started making their own lives. Laurel became a history nut and started work for a museum, while Beth chose interior design as her life’s pursuit. On a trip to Scotland where Beth studied Celtic design, she met and fell in love with Grant. A soul mate, she had claimed, and love at first sight. How was it possible Laurel had missed one of the biggest events of their lives? How could she not have made time to be at her friend’s wedding?
“Beth,” she sighed and shook her head. “I’m so sorry I missed your wedding—”
“Not another word,” Beth wagged a finger. “I’m the one who got married at the last second and across the pond. You’re here now and that’s what counts.”
“But almost a year?”
“Nope. Nada. Zip it my giant friend.”
Laurel looked down. “Are those gray hairs I’m seeing?”
“Bite your tongue!” They both laughed as they reached the hotel.
Laurel felt herself unwind. It was always like this. No matter how long they’d been apart, with Beth, time stood still. She was glad Beth had called when she had and then insisted Laurel come, right now, for a visit. It was exactly what she needed after Derek. How Beth always knew when things weren’t right with her, she couldn’t guess.
They mounted the wide stone stairs to the double doors, one of which stood open.
“Ceud mile failte gu, Cleitmuir,” Beth flung wide her arms as they crossed the threshold. “That’s a ‘hundred thousand welcomes’ in Gaelic, don’t you know?”
“Ah, Beth, you’re sounding a bit Irish, and you married to a Scot...” she shook her head in mock dismay.
“So, what do you think?” Beth asked grinning.
Envy swept through Laurel, while she took in the warm inviting entrance. The large vaulted ceiling stood guard over rich hardwood floors, covered with thick throw carpets of dark greens, rusts, and golds. Padded benches lined either side of the walls, and a wide grand staircase occupied the far end of the hall. There were two rooms on either side, one obviously used as a lobby/office to check in guests and the other an inviting sitting room complete with a huge fireplace, bay windows, and the requisite comfortable chairs and couches. When the fog lifted, sunlight would flood through the large windows and light the entranceway with a warm glow. The hotel oozed an upper crust aristocracy yet somehow remained enchanting, welcoming. Romantic. Laurel cringed inwardly. She’d leave the romance to Beth, who was living her dream.
“It’s lovely, Beth. You’ve outdone yourself. It puts Pemberley Hall to shame. I’m sure Mr. Darcy would be quite put out.”
“He’s English. We Scots have better taste.”
Laurel looked up at the booming voice, and saw a man built like a bulldog, walking down the stairs.
“Grant! Come meet Lori.”
“Ah, the infamous Laurel, we meet at last.” Grant stopped in front of Laurel and gave her a quick hug and kisses to both cheeks. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“I�
��m so happy to finally meet you,” Laurel returned. “It’s hard to believe I’m actually here. Cleitmuir is amazing, I can’t wait to see the rest of the hotel. Beth emailed during the renovations, but the pictures don’t do it justice. Between you and Cleitmuir, it’s no wonder why Beth makes her life here.” She smiled at Grant. She had seen pictures of him, too. Laurel had to admit she was still a bit shocked. He wasn’t at all the physical type Beth had dated while in school. Back then she’d gone for the dark, lithe, dancer types. Grant resembled a bruiser—all muscle, broad shoulders, stocky. Though the twinkling brown eyes, and a great smile softened the image. She looked forward to getting to know him. “Thank you so much for inviting me, I hope it wasn’t too much of an imposition.”
“Och, never mind. Bethy is paying for it with a return of favors,” Grant winked.
“Grant!” Beth punched his shoulder. “You’ve only just met her!”
Grant laughed. “After everything you’ve told me about you and her, I doubt I even caused a slight blush.” He scooped Beth close to him, keeping his arm wrapped about her shoulders. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. We even gave you the best room in the house, well, besides the master suite,” Grant grinned. “By the way, we’ll be busy, a full house soon. The Primrose Festival is taking place this month.”
“A festival?”
“Aye. Not as grand as September’s Northern Lights Festival, but we have our moments,” Grant replied.
“Wow, I didn’t know it was party time. I really don’t need a fancy room, and wouldn’t want to take the income away from you. Any room will do. Or I can find another place, a sleeping bag in the stable or something. Beth knows I did field work for my degree. I can pretty much sleep anywhere in comfort.”
“Absolutely not,” Beth frowned at her. “I won’t allow it. You hated fieldwork and besides there’s not another place close by. Grant and I wouldn’t dream of having you camp out in our stable. No way.”
Grant laughed again. “Just give in. My wee spitfire has a habit of getting her way, as I’m sure you know. Moreover, we rarely let the room you’ll be staying in during the summer months, so we won’t be losing any income.”