Hope Everlastin' Book 4

by Mickee Madden

  "This will always be your home," said Roan softly.

  "I know. But you see, I can leave, because ma brither will be here, raisin’ his family and carin’ for these old walls wi' the same devotion I have all these years."

  Swallowing hard, Roan nodded. "Aye, tha' goes wi’ou' sayin’."

  "Dinna dwell on what's to come. Fegs, Roan, you'll have yer hands full, wha' wi' Laura and the boys, and openin’ this place to the public. You willna have time to miss me."

  A strangled laugh escaped Roan, and the tears in his eyes made them glimmer. "Wha' will I do wi’ou'' yer sage advice?"

  "Probably stay ou' o' trouble."

  Roan smiled, nodded, and opened the door to the dining room. "Good night, old mon."

  "Good night, you Ingliss swine."

  It amazed Roan that what once had been grievous insults between them had somehow become endearments. As he crossed the dining room toward the hall he flashed back to the verbal battle he and Lachlan had shared during those first stormy days of their acquaintance. Back then, if anyone had predicted that he and the ghost would eventually become friends, he would have had them measured for a straightjacket and a padded room. And now they were more than friends.

  Blood brothers.

  Brothers by choice, which to him was more meaningful than if genetics had thrown them together.

  "In a way, genetics did," he murmured humorously as he started up the staircase.

  He was on the fourth step when a sound gave him pause. Frowning, he listened intently, and when he heard the rap again he descended and went to the cellar door at the side of the stairs. More than a minute passed while he kept an ear to the wood. The sound didn't come again, but his curiosity wouldn't let him walk away.

  He thought about Laura and Taryn's ghost. Was the unwelcome visitor in the cellar, or was he so tired he was hearing things now?

  Opening the door, he peered into the bottomless darkness. A twinge of apprehension pricked at his awareness. "Hello?"

  No response.

  Still, he couldn't shake the notion something wasn't quite right. Gooseflesh rose on his arms, and the hairs at the back of his neck squirmed against his sensitized skin. He considered fetching Lachlan, but then told himself he was overreacting. So what if he encountered a ghost? It wouldn't be the first, but he preferred to believe only the living now remained within the walls of Baird House.

  His spine stiffened when he detected what sounded like something dragging across cement. The sound was so soft that he nearly convinced himself it was his imagination playing tricks on him, but he had to know for sure.

  Taking a candle from the bar and lighting it as he returned to the door, he held it out and squinted into the shadows below. A grimace twitched on his face.

  What if this ghost were endowed with Lachlan's previous abilities?

  Could he be faced with a physical confrontation?

  "Damn me," he grumbled, and took the first step before his courage deserted him.

  By the time he reached the cellar floor he was mentally berating his imagination. He stepped away from the stairs and held out the candle. Although the meager light left little for him to view from his standpoint, he convinced himself he would find nothing to warrant a further search. Laura would be anxious by now. He'd only told her he was going to make sure the boys were still in bed.

  He released a scoffing chuckle and turned toward the staircase. He froze in shock when a grotesque visage materialized within the golden glow of the flickering candle flame. Pale eyes devoid of life stared at him. Blistered cheeks puffed up and then the pursed lips expelled air.

  The flame extinguished.

  Plunged into darkness, Roan snapped from his stupor, but too late. Two swift successions of impacts staggered him, one just below the right collarbone, another in his right shoulder. Excruciating pain turned out the light in his mind. Internal darkness yanked him into its clutches, and he collapsed to the floor.

  Unaware that Roan lay bleeding in the cellar, Lachlan ambled in the direction of the carriage house with Reith's meal on a tray. He'd left by the kitchen door, deciding to take advantage of the fresh air instead of taking the shorter route via the front doors. The night was cool, but the indigo awning above him was speckled with countless resplendent stars, some seeming so close that he was tempted to reach up to see if he could touch one.

  He looked above him again as he stopped by the new oak, and saw a shooting star in the southern sky. Wonder gladdened his heart, and he thought about Winston and Deliah, and hoped they were enjoying their stay in Edinburgh. He wouldn't mind seeing the city again before he left Scotland. Especially visit Edinburgh Castle, which majestically crowned the core of an extinct volcano. He had seen it on his move to Crossmichael, and had planned to one day tour its interior. That hadn't happened prior to his death, and now the possibility of seeing it with Beth made it all the more exciting.

  Reith wasn't in the lower part of the carriage house when he arrived. Thinking he might be asleep in the loft, he called out his name but got no response. He placed the tray on the cot and the coffeepot on the floor. The wood stove was cold. No lanterns were lit. The latter he found on the floor by one of the crates but he had no idea where Reith kept the matches.

  "Where are you, lad?"

  Silence.

  Lachlan quirked an eyebrow when he remembered Reith had talked about trenching the field. Surely the young man wouldn't be working in the dark?

  Lachlan spied a lit lantern across the field before he'd fully exited the woods. With a rueful shake of his head, he walked toward it, and was nearly upon Reith before he saw him.

  "Laddie, have you no concept o' callin’ it quits for a day?"

  Bent over the trench he was expanding, Reith straightened into a kneeling position and peered up at his employer. "I be nearly done wi' this section."

  "Wi' a trowel?" Lachlan asked disapprovingly. "There are shovels on the property."

  "I was usin’ one, earlier. I be usin’ the trowel now to loosen up these rocks, sir."

  "Tis night!"

  "Sir, I can see by the lantern's light weel enough."

  Lachlan crouched at the young man's side and humorously looked him in the eye. "You lookin’ for a raise in wage, are you?"

  A rueful grin appeared on Reith's mouth. "If aught, I be tryin’ to earn the clothes on ma back."

  Lowering his head below the line of his shoulders, Lachlan gave it a shake and looked up with a paternal frown. "Have I been harsh wi' you?"

  Startled, Reith said, "No, sir!"

  "Then pray tell, Reith, why do you feel so bloody compelled to break yer young back as you are?"

  Reith rested his buttocks on his heels. "Ma back be fine, sir. I told ye I like to work. Besides, unless I be no' bone weary when I lie down, I canna sleep for thinkin’ o' ma wife."

  Lachlan stood. Reith followed suit and said, "I didna mean to complain, sir. It was but an explanation why I dinna mind workin’ so late."

  "Yer dinner's in the carriage house."

  On cue, Reith's stomach grumbled. "I havena much to go," he said, looking down at the trench. "Mayhaps anither hour's work."

  "At least eat first." Lachlan's tone took on a teasing lilt. "Steak, and potatoes in their jackets, bread, and a pot o' coffee. Naught tha' will taste good once cold."

  "I am a wee hungry."

  "By the sounds o' yer stomach, yer mair'n a wee in need o' nourishment. If you must, the work will be waitin’ for you when ye're done."

  Reith offered a grateful smile. "How does a mon become so wise, sir?"

  Lachlan laughed. "You silver-tongued devil, you. Wise, you say? Weel, ma lad, tis a sorry fact I've no' a wise thought in ma head, itherwise, I wouldna be so prone to trouble, aye? Now, come along." He lifted the lantern by its handle and passed it to Reith. "I've a date wi' ma Beth."

  They walked silently until reaching the woods, where Reith stated, "Tis good to see ye so happy, sir. Ye deserve no less."

  Lachlan lo
oked wistfully up at the stars and sighed. "You'll see yer wife soon," he said, the conviction in his tone taking Reith aback.

  "I be no' sure tha's good news."

  Lachlan looked at him, perplexed. "Why?"

  Reith shrugged. "Tis too soon to expect her forgiveness."

  "Was yer wrong so great?"

  Lowering his head, Reith murmured, "Aye."

  "I canna imagine you ever hurtin’ anyone."

  Reith looked up. "Sufferin’ can either break a mon or build his character. I refused to be bro-ked."

  "Who made you suffer?"

  "I pray ye, sir, dinna ask me. I shouldna spoken o' it. I be aware ye have the knowin’, but learnin’ o' ma past will only confuse ye."

  Lachlan chuckled. "Confuse me mair'n dyin’ and returnin’ to the land o' the livin’?"

  He sobered when Reith gave a solemn nod.

  "I willna pry," Lachlan said on a sigh of resignation. "But I want you to know you can tell me anythin’. Wha’ever is in yer past, it canna alter ma opinion o' you."

  "Thank ye, sir."

  Patting Reith on the shoulder, Lachlan said, "Eat yer supper. I'll see you in the morn wi' yer breakfast."

  "Taitneach aislings, sir."

  Pleasant dreams.

  "You speak Gaelic?"

  "Aye. Tis ma first language."

  Lachlan grinned appreciatively. "Twould be grand to speak in ma native tongue now and then."

  Reith nodded then lifted a hand in a parting gesture and headed for the carriage house.

  Lachlan watched him for a moment before taking the path through the woods which led him to the south side of the house. Instead of going on to the front doors, he leaned against the cold brick of the wall a few feet away and stared up at the stars. He was convinced he was the luckiest man alive. The Lucky Baird of old had been carried over to the new Lachlan.

  His steps buoyant, he entered the house with thoughts of snuggling next to Beth. It had been a long, exhausting day and he was glad it would soon be over. Beth had not mentioned her murder since that morning but it remained at the periphery of Lachlan's mind, gnawing at his resolve to leave the past behind him.

  He looked down at his left hand. It was suddenly numb, somehow leaden, and when he tried to move the fingers he couldn't.

  "Old age," he muttered.

  Entering the house, he headed for the staircase. A maddening, tingling sensation pulsed through the hand. He paused on the bottom step and forcefully worked the fingers. They moved sluggishly like disembodied digits attempting to function through the willpower of someone gifted with telekinesis. The concentration necessary for him to accomplish this small feat soon tired him.

  He was on the third step when a piercing pain lanced his right shoulder. Staggering to the first floor landing, he leaned against the balustrade and breathlessly massaged the area.

  "I'm fallin’ apart," he muttered.

  He sucked in deep breaths to clear away the nauseating roaring in his ears. Now his entire system tingled. He glanced down at his legs, asking himself if he trusted them to carry him to the third floor. It would be bitter irony if he plunged to his death on the stairs—an insult to the powers that had brought him back, only to have his corporeal existence diabolically work against him.

  It crossed his mind to call out to Beth, but he was reluctant to worry her needlessly. Besides, if he did take a fall, he doubted she would have the strength to stop it, possibly breaking her own neck for her troubles.

  Grimacing at the image of a double catastrophe, he peered up the staircase. It seemed an inordinately long climb, now, the stairs looming and intimidating.

  "Fegs, mon! Get a grip!"

  His hearing cleared of the internal noise. The numbness waned. The left hand still felt odd and somehow disconnected from his wrist, but he was grateful for whatever blessing came his way at this point.

  Again he stepped on the first stair. This time, he detected an external sound.

  Distant.

  Muffled.

  His gaze crept to the midway landing. He told himself the sound could be coming from the second or third floor but a niggling suspicion suggested otherwise.

  To satisfy the sense of dread yawning through him, he opened the parlor door and peered in. Nothing. Next he checked the bar. Nothing. He was standing in the hall near the balustrade when he looked at the cellar door. A chill gripped him. The dread transformed into something so dark and vile that his vision blurred. However, his hearing sharpened at the same time. Now he heard the distinct sounds of someone moaning and someone weeping.

  The instant he opened the door, a gust of psychic waves rolled over him. He descended the stairs in the dark. When he reached the bottom the door slammed, and he heard the exterior bolt grind into place.

  He didn't have time to panic, for Kahl wailed, "Lannie! The boogeyman got us!"

  A groan followed, then a grunted, "Damn me, it hurts."

  Lachlan's feet soon found Roan's legs. Going down on his knees and groping in the darkness, he discovered Roan was slumped against the stair rail. Close by, Alby was sobbing. Kahl and Kevin inched closer to Lachlan.

  "Roan, wha' the hell happened?"

  "A mon came at me wi' a knife. Got me twice. Shoulder and ma chest, I think."

  "Have you lost a lot o' blood?"

  "Dinna think so," Roan murmured. "Lightheaded, though."

  "There's a lantern and matches by the Scotch cellar," said Lachlan, easing onto his feet. "I'll be right back."

  "Watch yer step. I canna even see ma hand in front o' ma face down here."

  "Roan, ma lad, I could find ma way around this place in ma slee— Och! Fegs! Bloody hell, wha' do I need wi' two shins, anyway?"

  Roan's attempt to laugh resulted in a coughing fit, which only aggravated his wounds.

  Shortly, Lachlan had the lantern lit and returned to Roan's side, where he placed it on the floor. He spied Alby cowering beneath the stairs, wretched sobs quaking through him. Going down on one knee, Lachlan held out his arms.

  "Come here, lad. Come to Lannie."

  Alby closed his eyes and sobbed harder. Finagling as best he could beneath the cramped space, Lachlan managed to pull the boy toward him until he was able to cradle him in his arms. Alby hid his face against Lachlan's chest and held on for dear life.

  "I need to check yer uncle's wounds, Alby," said Lachlan softly. "Tis a lot to ask, I know, but can you help me?"

  The boy's head lifted fractionally. "How can I help?"

  "Do you think you can hold his shirt open for me? Dinna look at the wounds, though. No' a pretty sight if two o' us are left to toss up our innards."

  A hoarse chuckle escaped Alby. He fully lifted his head and peered into Lachlan's eyes. The boy's face was swollen and blotchy.

  "God," Lachlan breathed and swallowed past the tightness in his throat. "Alby, you have ma word, whoever did this to you will pay dearly."

  "He put his smelly hand on my face and dragged me down here," Alby whimpered.

  "He did the same to Kahl and me," said Kevin.

  Lachlan regarded the oldest boy. Although he knew Kevin was as frightened as his brother, his eight-year-old face held the anger of an adult.

  "He said he was gonna kill us if we went up the stairs," Kevin continued, his voice surprisingly level considering the circumstances. "He locked us down here, but he undid it a little while ago until you came down."

  "He has us trapped down here," Roan said sickly. He attempted to sit up then slumped back against the railing. "He's efter the women, Lannie. We have to get ou' o' here."

  "Hold on a minute."

  Lachlan ran to the Scotch cellar. He returned moments later with a bottle and a cork.

  "Take a swig o' this," said Lachlan, passing the opened bottle of whisky to Roan.

  Without hesitation, Roan took three hefty gulps, shuddered, then downed two more and grimaced as they hit bottom. Lachlan took the bottle and sent Alby a visual gesture to do his part. The older boys stood aside
and allowed Alby to unbutton Roan's shirt. Following Lachlan's instructions, he was careful not to look at the wounds as he parted the material. He turned his back to Roan and calmly waited for Lachlan to proceed.

  "You've lost a fair measure o' blood," Lachlan said. "Close yer eyes."

  "Why?"

  "Just do as I say. I need to check the wounds mair closely, but I canna concentrate if I have to see the sufferin’ in yer eyes."

  Believing Lachlan, Roan complied. He released a howl of pain and surprise when Lachlan poured some of the Scotch on the wounds.

  "Are you daft!" Roan shrieked, blinking rapidly, his face as pale as a sun-bleached skull. "You lied to me!"

  "Aye. Now listen to me, Roan. There's anither way ou' o' here through the north cellar. If I get you on yer feet, do you think you can walk?"

  Roan held out his hand for the whisky. Lachlan reluctantly passed it to him. Roan downed several gulps, gasped, burped then placed the bottle on the ground next to him.

  "Damn me, I'll walk or crawl. Wha’ever it takes."

  "Concentrate on the women," said Lachlan, positioning himself behind Roan as he leaned forward. He hooked his hands beneath Roan's armpits. "Ready?"

  "Aye."

  One try brought Roan to his feet, but he swayed, and would have keeled over if not for Lachlan holding him up.

  "Kevin, ye're in charge o' the lantern," said Lachlan.

  "I want to carry it," insisted Kahl.

  "I need you and Alby to walk behind me."

  "Why?"

  "Ta guard the rear in case yer boogeymon tries to sneak up on us," said Lachlan.

  To his relief, the boys obeyed without further question.

  Midway to the furthest end of the basement, Roan managed to hold his own walking. His steps were slow but steady. He kept himself focused on the women, not the pain radiating through his upper torso.

  "Who is he?" he asked Lachlan.

  "I suspect he's Winston's Phantom."

  "He's the boogeyman," Kevin insisted.

  "No, he's just an evil mon," Lachlan said. 'Roan, I'm goin’ ahead a bit. The door's flush wi' the wall to conceal it."

  "Wha' if tha's locked, too?"

  "Hopefully he doesna know it exists. I designed the sections o’ the cellars to look as though they're sealed off from one anither."