Catch Me If You Can

by Donna Kauffman

  She pulled her mobile back out and punched up the number of a friend of hers from university who lived just outside Durnish. If she was lucky, Val wouldn’t mind her bunking out on her sofa for the night. It was the perfect plan, really, since she certainly didn’t fancy being alone in her own bed tonight. She and Valerie didn’t keep in touch often, but her former dorm mate was always good for a few ales and some laughs at the local pub.

  With the ringing phone pressed to her ear, she threw a few things together and grabbed her files. Pleased with her plan, she headed out. This way she’d be back before the storm hit. Which was a good thing, because she had a busy agenda planned for tomorrow.

  She’d finish her article, go over her notes for the next one and get the proposal out for the one after that. Then spend the remainder of her day figuring out her options for Ballantrae, maybe formulating a letter to Taggart’s sons depending on how her meeting with Doug went. After which she’d settle in for a nice cozy evening while the storm raged outside. A bottle of wine, maybe some cheese, a good book. And there would be a nice fire to keep her warm.

  After all, she had plenty of bed linens that needed burning.

  Chapter 5

  Tag downshifted and switched the windshield wipers to a faster speed as he began pushing the little rental uphill again. He’d landed in Glasgow just after eleven a.m. local time, which was the wee hours of the morning by his internal clock. By all rights he should have been bleary-eyed and exhausted. Any hope he’d had of sleeping his way across the Atlantic had been abandoned pretty early on. He’d tried, but as the other passengers around him had dozed, he’d been fidgety and edgy and unable to settle down. So he’d pulled out Maura Sinclair’s letters and read them over again.

  Jace had ribbed him about developing some masochistic crush on his dad’s pen pal. Tag had taken it in stride, but privately he thought Jace might not be that far off. He was undeniably curious. What kind of woman signs her heritage over to a complete stranger? A desperate one, of course. In rereading the letters, reading between the lines, he could only surmise that it had been Maura who’d come to his father for help. How else could he have known about the place? No matter how much the man had changed in his later years, Tag simply could not see him tracing back his much-reviled ancestry and hunting up this place. Of course, he couldn’t imagine him buying it either, so who the hell knew what was going on.

  But though Tag might not know much about Ballantrae, he knew enough from her letters to understand that it was directly connected to the origins of Rogues Hollow, and the three men who had founded it: Teague Morgan, Iain Sinclair, and Dougal Ramsay. He could only gather she was somehow tied to Iain. Which meant this was every bit as much her heritage, however loosely, as it was his.

  And somehow, some way, she managed to con Taggart Morgan into single-handedly saving the rundown remains of their entwined family history, complete with dwindling tenant farms and a village struggling to stay alive. The cynic in him said that she’d just been looking for a patsy, a sugar daddy of sorts. Her correspondence painted a different picture, of course. Her dedication to preserving this part of her heritage appeared absolute, but she made it clear she wasn’t just looking for a handout. She wanted Taggart to feel the same bond to the place she did, even at the expense of giving up whatever legal right she might have had to it.

  Of course, that might have been a ploy to make sure he didn’t renege on the deal and sell it off to someone else. Someone who might not be as keen on letting her stick around. After all, she had a pretty sweet deal going. She’d figured out a way to keep the roof over her head she’d lived under all her life, without being responsible for the financial obligation of maintaining it. All she had to do, basically, was house sit and oversee the occasional work crew.

  Not that he had any right to judge, seeing as his father had barely been cold in the ground before he’d just signed over his share of his own heritage, thereby freeing him from any responsibility whatsoever to its upkeeping and maintenance. Hell, he didn’t even have to house sit.

  But as cynical an edge as he’d tried to maintain while reading her letters, he’d still ended up feeling as if he’d formed an odd sort of personal attachment to her. The way she related the stories about life in Ballantrae, from the difficulties leasing out the land to farmers, to the struggles of the villagers trying to keep their businesses afloat despite the steady dwindling of the local population, had given him a different sort of insight. A portrait that was quite intimate in a different way.

  As his plane had circled the airport, he’d found himself wondering as he had that first night, why they’d chosen posted letters versus the more commonly accepted e-mails. His father had a computer, but, curious, he’d checked, and there was no correspondence to or from Maura there. Perhaps she didn’t have access to e-mail. So why not call? International calls weren’t so expensive these days. But a glance at the last few phone bills hadn’t turned up any overseas phone charges either. The cherrywood box and file from Mick were the sum total of his father’s connection to his Scotland property. And Maura.

  The sun had long since set as Tag climbed further up the next mountain. The thrumming sound on the roof of the car softened, then disappeared completely as the rain that fell in the valleys changed over to the snow that capped the Grampian peaks. He slowed on the curves, and tightened his grip on the wheel as he renewed his focus on the road ahead. He probably should have stayed in the city for the day, acclimated himself to the time change and headed out in the morning. But he’d still been edgy and restless upon arriving, and had decided to just get in the car, buy a map, and head out, figuring he’d stop when he got too tired to keep driving.

  Which, he realized now, he should have done a while back when he’d passed through Durnish, the last town he’d passed through that could actually be called such. But it was too far back to turn around now. He’d managed his way out of Glasgow well enough, and by the time he’d hit the more rural, single-track roads, he was comfortable enough driving on the left, going through the occasional roundabout. But now, hours later, climbing into the mountains, his shoulders and neck were tightening up from the strain of peering through the fogged windshield; he was still struggling to master using a stick shift with his left hand rather than his right. And the weather was growing worse by the minute.

  To top it off, he hadn’t passed by so much as a barn, much less a town, in over an hour. There were dots and town names on the map he’d bought in the airport, but he’d quickly learned that just because a town had a name, that didn’t necessarily correspond to there being any visible signs of actual civilization there.

  Unless of course you counted the sheep.

  Initially, despite the bleak weather, he’d enjoyed his view of the countryside as he’d left Glasgow and Stirling behind. If he weren’t so distracted by what lay ahead, he might have stopped and done some wandering. He’d only worked briefly on that first dig, which had been in Wales, but he’d been so confused then, about what he really wanted, why he was really there, that he hadn’t done much more than show up on site before the opening had come on the dig in Peru. He’d jumped on it, and never looked back.

  He knew the countryside was rife with the detritus of its heritage, from the small cairns that dotted the roadside, to the occasional sign directing tourists to this battlefield or that castle. Under different circumstances, he’d have been immediately captivated by the possibilities of what lay out there, waiting to be discovered. Once upon a time, he had been fascinated by the history surrounding the beginnings of this country. Specifically the Piets, with their mystical beliefs, rife with mixed interpretations and controversy. His mind would have been spinning, lost in imagining those who had walked this very land before him, wondering about their beliefs, their rites and rituals. What they had done, who they had loved, how they had died, what mark they’d left behind.

  He didn’t need a shrink to explain to him why he’d fled that dig site in Wales, or why he’d focuse
d his skills and talents half a globe away. He knew that coming here would unearth a wealth of memories he’d just as soon leave buried. But maybe it was time to do exactly that, to deal with his own demons once and for all, put his father’s legacy to rest, and maybe allow himself to look beyond the immediate past of the Morgan clan to that of their distant ancestors. Who knows, he might even enjoy it.

  If he could ever find a place to get out of this damn cold weather.

  He cranked up the heater and flexed his shoulders, working the kink out of his neck. He supposed he had Maura to thank for this epiphany, or at least the actions he’d taken because of it. He smiled briefly, wondering how she would feel if she knew about the impact she was having on the life of a man she’d never met. And since he’d alerted no one on this side of the pond of his impending arrival, she couldn’t possibly know that was about to change.

  He rounded the peak bend and downshifted, gently riding the brakes as he began the winding crawl downhill. The snow was coming down so hard now, and the air so thick with damp fog and swirling flakes, his meager headlights barely penetrated the gloom enough to see the road. It was only a little after six in the evening, but days were short here in the winter. It had been fully dark for some time now, made darker still by the storm. He squinted, looking for the marker. He should only be a few kilometers from the next dot on the map, which had been slightly bigger than the others, so he was holding out hope there was an actual town attached to it.

  Calyth, he thought, recalling the sign some clicks back. He didn’t care what kind of accommodations were available. His usual digs included a heavy tarpaulin, a woven hammock, and some mosquito netting. So he wasn’t exactly picky. He just wanted to get some sleep, and if he was lucky, put some food in his belly. Hopefully by the time he got down off this mountain and into town, the current blizzard would change to rain again. Ballantrae looked to be only an hour or two beyond Calyth, so he could sleep in and still be there by noon.

  And now that he’d committed himself to this course of action, a part of him wanted to see Ballantrae for the first time by daylight anyway. Plus he had no idea what kind of welcome he’d receive, in town or at the castle. Maybe it was just as well he found lodging outside Ballantrae altogether. For all he knew, he wouldn’t be staying on at the castle itself, despite the fact that he technically owned it now. A lot of that would depend on Ms. Sinclair. And what he might find out about the castle itself.

  He was still undecided on exactly what he wanted to do about any of it. Whether he wanted to maintain the financial arrangement with her, or hire someone else, or for that matter get rid of the property altogether. He’d need to know a lot more before he made any final decisions. He’d read her letters and let himself get swept up in the emotion of it, the passion of discovery, which wasn’t unusual in his line of work. A vivid imagination was mandatory, an ability to see the people he was studying, visualize how they looked, walked, talked, interacted.

  But that didn’t mean he wasn’t a scientist as well, careful to find out the facts, piece together the truths that he could prove. He shouldn’t have been so quick to head out, he knew that. He should have done some research first, on Ballantrae, and maybe Maura Sinclair herself. He should have even talked to Mick, find out what else he knew about the story behind this deal his father had struck with her. But he hadn’t wanted to do that. Mostly, he acknowledged, because he hadn’t wanted to risk giving himself enough time to talk himself out of doing this. Or question what might really be at the root of his curiosity.

  He had no idea if they’d both feel comfortable staying under the same roof. No matter how big that roof might be. And he didn’t see himself striding in and kicking her out until further notice, either.

  He didn’t know how long he expected to stay, but there was no denying his curiosity was growing the farther into the country he traveled. He recognized that steady thrum, stirring his blood. The one that generally meant digging would soon follow. Literally or figuratively. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but before leaving Virginia, he’d extended his leave from the dig in Chacchoben by another week or two. Just in case.

  His mind drifted to tomorrow, to just how he’d approach Ballantrae. Best to go directly to the castle, rather than poke around town. Rural townships the world over had at least one commonality: they all had a well-established form of communication. The Internet had nothing on a small village when it came to spreading the latest news. And it would be best if Maura heard about his arrival directly from him.

  He tried to imagine how she’d react to his surprise visit, which was tricky given he had no idea what she looked like. His predictions had ranged from young, vibrant, with curly black hair and milkmaid skin, to older, with white hair cut in some no-nonsense fashion, matched with blue eyes that shone with the wisdom she’d gained from years of responsibility to the castle and dependent villagers. Perhaps a bit stooped in posture, but square of shoulder. It was probably somewhere in between.

  He was jerked from his reverie when a dark object suddenly loomed large and unmoving through the swirl of snow, right in front of him.

  “Shit!” He spun the steering wheel hard and swerved, barely avoiding a head-on collision with whatever the hell was currently blocking almost the entire narrow track. The back end of his car fishtailed dangerously. He fought hard to straighten it out, but traction was minimal and as soon as the rear tires slid off the pavement, the entire back end of the car was swallowed trunk deep into a snowbank.

  He knew from the angle of the car that, even with a stick shift, he wasn’t driving out of this. Which meant getting out in this freezing blizzard to push, pull, or otherwise dig himself out. With what, he had no idea. It hadn’t occurred to him to buy a shovel before leaving the city. And if the car came with an emergency kit or flares, it was buried in the trunk, under a ton of snow. Not that there would likely be another traveler on the road this late at night, during a storm.

  No, he was the only idiot trying that particular maneuver, he thought, smacking the steering wheel with open palms. Which also meant that if he didn’t dig his way out, his sleeping quarters had just gotten a hell of a lot more cramped for the night. Compared to the small compact, a hammock would have been roomy.

  It was only after he’d zipped up the flannel-lined, heavy canvas jacket he’d bummed off of Jace before leaving, and tugged on the gloves he’d tossed aside a few hours back, that he thought to look back at what had sent him off the road in the first place. Visibility was poor bordering on nonexistent with his headlights aiming in the wrong direction. But he could distinctly make out… something.

  Swearing under his breath, he shut off the engine and got out of the car. If he couldn’t dig out, he had to at least clear out a small area around the tailpipe if he wanted to be able to run the engine periodically for heat. He shivered hard and tucked his hands beneath his armpits as he began trekking back the thirty or so yards to the shadow blocking the road. He had to duck his chin to keep the snowflakes from stinging his eyes. He had on leather boots that had seen better days and his toes quickly began to feel the chill. He’d packed his winter boots in his duffel. Which was also in the trunk.

  The call of the rain forest grew stronger with every step.

  But, even freezing his ass off and stranded miles from the nearest town, he couldn’t quite convince himself that he’d made a mistake coming here. Not yet, anyway.

  About five yards out, he realized that the dark lump was actually a vehicle, half covered with snow. It was a small pickup of sorts, white, which is why he hadn’t seen it clearly. The back end was sticking up at an odd angle, jutting directly into the path of traffic. Had it been clear weather, he could have easily avoided it, but coming around a corner like that, with the dark and reduced visibility, it had looked as if it were right in front of him. On closer examination, the front end of the truck was pitched at a downward angle beyond the edge of the road. The wheel he could see was half off the edge of the road, which me
ant the passenger-side wheel on the opposite side was probably no longer in contact with the ground. All he could see beyond the road’s edge was a swirl of gloom and blowing snowflakes.

  It was impossible to see how far down the mountainside the truck would have plunged, but if the skid had continued a few inches farther the driver would have found out. The engine wasn’t running, no lights were on. And there were no flares stuck on the roadway. Though, judging from the amount of snow already accumulated in the open truck bed, the accident might have happened some time back. For all he knew, the flares or danger signs had long since been swallowed in the snow. Which, on the side of the road, was piling up over his calves and edging kneeward.

  “Hello?” he called out, but with the wind and weather, even a shout didn’t travel very far. He carefully drew closer, not wanting to slip and slide his way over the edge. But he wanted to make sure no one was hurt inside the vehicle. “Although what good that will do either of us, I have no idea,” he grumbled. Gingerly, he scuffed forward, making sure the soles of his boots stayed in as direct a contact with hard ground as possible. He swiped a sleeve very carefully over the driver-side window and tapped on the glass. “Hello?” He bent down to peer inside, not realizing how much he was dreading what he’d find until he spied the driver seat and sighed deeply when he saw it was empty. There was no one on the passenger side either, and no backseat to worry about. He glanced in the open truck bed, but the lumpy shapes beneath the snow weren’t the right size for a human body.

  Good Samaritan deed done, he resolutely turned himself back to the other immediate problem: digging himself out. As he trudged back to his half-buried car, he wondered where the occupant of the truck had gone. Hopefully it had still been daylight, and not snowing yet. Maybe a rain-slick road was cause for the accident. The driver had probably hiked down into town or caught a ride in.