by L. L. Muir
“I don’t think you should be touching me,” she whispered, “when you obviously have a girlfriend out there somewhere.”
He gave her a crooked grin. “Obvious, is it? How is that?”
She could have sworn his muscles swelled like he was showing off—or maybe he was so full of himself he was having a hard time containing it.
“You said a girl paid for your flight. That’s a lot of money to spend…unless you’re expecting something in return.”
He pressed his mouth against his bulging bicep and tried to quiet his laugh.
She tried to turn again but froze at the sound of the trailer door opening. The RV shook as someone climbed inside. After a dozen rattles and rolls, the trailer stilled again, the door slammed shut, and the truck started up.
Flooded with relief, she relaxed against him before she remembered she was still angry. Before she could step away, though, the tip and jolt of the trailer pulling into the road pinned her where she was.
He steadied her with a hand on her back. “Did ye happen to notice the license plates?”
“No.”
“North Dakota, they said. I believe we are leaving Minnesota.”
The pickup gathered speed, the ride smoothed, so she pushed away from him again.
“Dinna fash, Larkin. I have no girlfriend, no woman paying for my favors—”
“I didn’t say—”
“Ye were jealous.” With a finger crooked beneath her chin, he forced her to look at him. “Admit it. And I will admit I’m reserving an extra dose of bitterness against Payette for the same reason.”
The same reason? He was jealous?
She needed a minute to take that in. Someone who regularly had women swooning at his feet liked her enough to be jealous of her…former…boyfriend.
She grinned and threw his own words back at him. “Will wonders never cease?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Larkin got the distinct feeling that Brodrick wouldn’t kiss her again unless she either asked him to or made the first move. But standing up in a moving trailer, waiting for each other to be the first to cave, turned out to be more taxing on her legs that she expected. Besides, she’d gotten tired of watching the little painting swinging hypnotically on the wall above the toilet. Inside the frame were two cows in human poses with names painted in pink on the pockets of their overalls—Elmer and Maribelle.
She suggested they move to somewhere they could sit down. Since she spoke first, she could see in his eyes that he considered it a win for him. She rolled her eyes to let him know he was wrong.
A U-shaped booth with a table filled up the front end of the swaying room. But they agreed it would be smarter to stay close to the bathroom door in case they had to hide again. The kitchen filled the wall opposite the door which left the rest of the space for two twin-sized beds on either side of the walkway to the bathroom.
She sat on one bed and pointed to the other side. He chuckled and sat where he was told.
“I’m not used to so much…”
“Touching? Affection?” He frowned. “I am nae surprised.”
The reminder that Justice had been less than affectionate with her was only slightly less painful than the fact that he’d thrown her under the biggest bus possible. Of course, in the back of her mind, Jiminy Cricket was defending a little sliver of hope that there had been some misunderstanding and that somewhere, Justice was defending her, pleading her case, and planning to testify on her behalf if it came down to that.
Then she remembered that awkward silence on the deputy’s radio, when he’d mentioned her name and Justice bit his head off.
Jiminy stuck his fat fingers in his ears and closed his eyes.
Brodrick watched her closely, but said nothing. She didn’t want to discuss Justice with him, so she turned the magnifying glass back on his life.
“So why did this girl pay your way to the States?”
He shrugged, his gaze suddenly shrouded. “Her name is Soncerae. She didn’t pay for anything—at least not with coin.” He frowned. “I worry what it will cost her in the end, her tinkering with souls…”
Larkin could tell she’d lost his attention, but she let him take his time. Whoever this Soncerae was, it sounded like she was living a pretty shady life, and if Larkin was told too much about it, she might feel compelled to help the girl. At the moment, though, she didn’t know how she could even help herself.
“Hopefully, we have hours before Elmer and Maribelle have to stop for gas again. Maybe we should try to get some sleep.”
He frowned again. “Elmer…” He glanced toward the bathroom. “Oh, aye. I see. Ye meant our hosts.”
“Yeah.” She laid back on the pillow covered in a crisply ironed pillowcase and stretched her legs out. “So how are we going to get anyone to believe that Justice killed Robert?”
“Ye believe me then?”
“It would be a helluva lot easier if I didn’t.”
He nodded and leaned back against the wall with his hands behind his head and stared at the cupboard above her. “If we are to prove Payette’s guilt, we must do so quickly, before I am taken away.”
“You mean we? Before we are taken away?”
“Nay, lass. Soni will summon me back to her verra soon. We have perhaps a day to accomplish what we can. And I fear that fleeing might have been a mistake.”
“Our number one goal right now is to stay alive, okay? In fact, it should be goals one through ten. Any justice we might find will be gravy.”
Yeah, any justice they found, anything better than just staying alive, living and breathing for another day, was going to be a miracle. Her career was over if she couldn’t clear herself. But she wasn’t about to let some innocent foreigner get turned into bloody Swiss cheese just so she could go back to her tepid life.
She remembered something he said and put her elbows beneath her so he could see her scowl. “Wait. You said summon you back? I don’t understand. If your face is on any watch list, you won’t be able to get on an airplane—”
“Nay, lass.” He lowered his chin and gave her a sober look she didn’t care for. “I believe it is time we talked about that witch, aye?”
She laughed but ended up snorting and covering her face with one hand. “That witch you pretended you never mentioned?”
“Aye. The very same. Ye see, Soni is that witch. She’s a wee lass who used her power to send me here, that I might prove myself worthy of some heavenly reward. Or so she implied.”
“You mean a witch witch?” She chuckled. “Magic spells and pointy hats?”
He scowled. “Soni wears no hat. But aye. A witch witch.”
Larkin sat up and leaned forward across the aisle. “This isn’t maybe a Scottish—or Highland—term for some harmless profession? Maybe she’s just a life coach or something? Suggesting you turn your life around?”
He barked with laughter. “A life coach. I shall tell her ye suggested it. But nay, she gave me no coaching. Told me to hold tight to my weapon and sent me through the darkness of the universe to land in Minnesota, of the United States. Life coach indeed.” He laughed again.
Larkin shook her head, trying to get a grip. But the only clear thought within reach was the possibility that she had most likely run off with a mental patient after swallowing his story—hook, line, and sinker—that he hadn’t killed a man, the sheriff who arrested him had.
Holy cow!
The trailer swayed slightly, probably because Elmer was changing lanes, but it was enough to throw her off balance and she lurched forward. A cabinet door slammed overhead at the same time she heard the clank of glass breaking. Hands splayed, she tried to catch herself so she didn’t face plant in Brodrick’s lap, but he shoved her to the side, then sucked in his breath.
She quickly got her feet under her and looked back to find a large triangle of yellow, textured glass jutting up out of the man’s forearm. Blood gushed around it to drip down his skin—but then it stopped.
The blood stop
ped and flowed back into the wound like he existed in some movie, and someone had pressed the rewind button. While she watched in total shock, he grimaced and pulled the glass from the deep gash—the gash that closed as soon as the glass was out.
Instinctively, she reached out to touch the screen that had to be between them, that must be separating her from the familiar man in the movie. But instead, she touched that arm. That whole, healthy, warm and hairy arm.
The movie faded to black.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Auch, there ye are. Easy now. Dinna try to sit up just yet, lassie.”
The voice was from a dream. Had to be. Only she’d never really dreamed about being rescued by a Scotsman before.
Oh, correction. Highlander. It all came flooding back to her, and eventually, her memory got around to explaining why she was currently bumping along inside a large camping trailer. And it ended at the moment Brodrick pulled a piece of yellow glass out of his arm.
“Oh, no. No, no.”
A heavy hand pressed against her shoulder, preventing her from sitting up. A wet washcloth that smelled very strongly of bleach lay on her forehead, and water trickled into the outer curves of her ear. Brodrick’s hip pressed tight against her thigh as he tried to fit on the narrow bed beside her, but he seemed oblivious. Or maybe he was trying to get back at her for not believing him about the witch. The question was, how much time had passed?
“How long—”
“An hour, perhaps a wee longer. After haunting this earth for nigh three hundred years, I’m a mite rusty at guessing the passage of time, as ye can imagine.”
As she could imagine? Haunting? Now he was telling her he was a ghost?
“Oh, no. No, no.”
“Forgive me.” He lifted the cloth off her head and wiped the little trail of water from the side of her face. “I should allow ye to sleep.”
It was a tender gesture. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had been tender with her. A foster mother from her early years, maybe.
“I don’t need to sleep,” she said, and tried to sit up again.
“Nay, lass. I think it best ye remain where ye are. I fear ye might faint again when ye come to believe ye’re sittin’ beside a ghostie.”
“A ghostie?”
“Well, I suppose I am in mortal form at the moment, but not mortal, as ye bore witness. I would have spared ye such details, but I couldn’t have sat idly by while glass rained down on yer head, aye?” He smiled a devious smile. “Payette shot me point blank, to be certain I was dead. Can ye imagine how alarmed he must be to have me live to tell the tale? It is no wonder he wished to lock me away.”
“Why? Why did he shoot you?” She wanted to deal with the easier details first. Of course it wasn’t easy to hear you’ve been dating a man capable of murder, but it was a lot more rational that talking about ghosties and witches, with or without pointy hats.
“Close range, as they say.” He pointed to a spot on his wide chest, impressive even though she couldn’t see much definition beneath his dark t-shirt.
He seemed to be waiting for her to check for a bullet hole or something. So she did. She reached out and dragged two fingers over the spot he’d indicated. Nothing there. Just warm, firm skin under strained cotton. When she held her fingers still, she could feel the thump of his heart. She imagined a bullet pushing through fabric or animal skin, pressing deep into his body, then popping back out again, the hole disappearing.
“Well, your heart’s still beating,” she said a lot breathier than she’d wanted. Up in her head, Jiminy rolled his eyes and slapped his forehead.
“Aye, it is. And for another day or more, it will continue to do so. Only…” He bit his lips together and frowned while he folded and unfolded the washcloth, leaving a wet patch on his denim-covered knee.
“Only?”
He nodded. “Only I failed my task. I arrived too late to save that man, and because of this, we’ve ended up here, with yer life in jeopardy as well. I have no ken how much time I’ll be allotted to set things right.”
“We’re talking about that witch again?” She was glad she was still lying down, just in case.
“Aye. I was sent to that alley for a reason, to save the poor sod ye call Robert. But Payette had already killed him. He was standing over another man, forcing him to dig the bullet back out again. When they saw me, Payette shot me and I went down—perhaps because I expected to. I had no idea at the time that I couldna be killed, ye see. He took my sword and hacked at the body, no doubt to disguise the bullet wound and the mess they’d made of it. It was not unlike the things that were done on the field of Culloden after the battle was lost…”
His focus drifted, along with his voice, and Larkin didn’t want to intrude on his private thoughts. She suspected he might have PTSD, but she would have to hear more to be sure. She desperately wished she could help him by doing more than just helping him escape. But could she really help a man who might or might not have been a ghost?
The hiss of cars passing by told her it had started to rain. She pictured the faces of passengers staring at the road, singing with the radio, going on with their lives oblivious to the impossible, unnatural things that had happened inside the trailer next to them. She was jealous of that oblivion.
She’d entered some Twilight Zone where the world conspired to drive her insane. Betrayed by her boyfriend, hunted by the police, and now tricked by the universe into believing that the one man she needed to trust was somehow immortal. No wonder she’d passed out.
At least her body was trying to protect her…
She took the wet cloth from him, draped it over her eyes, and concentrated on breathing slow and steady. “I’m so sorry if you’ve lived through such gruesome things before. Tell me about this battle, and what happened after it. I promise I’m listening.” Though she didn’t want to hear bloody details, she hoped it would help him to speak about it.
“April 16, 1746. The Battle of Culloden Moor.” He drew his finger along her arm as he spoke, like he was painting the details as he remembered them. “A short, passionate, mismatched battle that didn’t last long. And afterward, no quarter given.” He hissed and got to his feet, leaving her arm and the space beside her cool and bereft. Though the trailer swayed a little, he paced to the front end and back again.
Since he wasn’t there to stop her, she sat up. “What does that mean, no quarter given?”
He stopped, his expression fierce. But that fierceness was not aimed at her. She felt no danger. “It means no mercy. The wounded were murdered where they lay. Those fleeing the battlefield were hunted and slaughtered, sometimes in front of their families, sometimes along with them. Those who surrendered were imprisoned, then hanged or transported. Few were pardoned outright.” He suddenly laughed. “Listen to me, sounding like a blethering tour guide.”
Larkin had no choice but to believe him. The scientist in her had to know how he’d been able to take that glass out of his arm and immediately heal. As a psychologist, she wanted to know if she could help him through the torment he obviously carried around with him. And the woman in her had to know why he might be taken away from her at any minute.
It took all her willpower not to throw her arms around him and refuse to let him go. They quite literally didn’t make them like that anymore.
She supposed it was possible that it was all just an elaborate prank, that his arm hadn’t really healed itself and he wasn’t a three-hundred-year-old Scottish ghost. He could just be a guy who fought in the Middle East and the horrors he’d experienced were even worse than this bit of Scottish history—if it was an actual battle—and by talking about another bloody battle, he was able, in some way, to speak aloud of his own experience. A form of Transference, but instead of a relationship, it was a memory he had transferred onto her.
But even Jiminy Cricket was waving a plaid flag to tell her which scenario he was buying.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It sounds too horrible to bear.”
He nodded, turned as if he intended to start pacing again, then came back to sit beside her. She scooted over to give him room, couldn’t help noticing how his warmth and his weight on the mattress was very real.
“Ye’re right about that. Too horrible to bear. And I suppose it is why The 79 couldna seem to let it all go. We woke the day after. One at a time. I was the 62nd to rise.”
“Is that significant?”
He shrugged off the question, but she was sure he was trying to downplay how important that number was to him. She had to know why.
“Brodrick. Tell me.”
He took a deep breath that filled his lungs and lifted his chest. And as she watched, his eyes reddened. When he finally spoke, his voice was hushed, and she had to lean close to hear him clearly.
“Culloden Moor is hallowed ground, but it can be a disturbing place even for the ghosts who wander above and below the surface. When one among us has a bad turn—a waking nightmare, ye might say, or memories of our pasts peek through the fog to break our hearts all over again—the horn blows.” He shuddered but didn’t seem to notice. “Not Gabriel’s horn, mind ye. A bugler—ghostly white, and as dead as the 79—comes when he is needed. He serves us for some reason. When he calls Assembly, we step into formation and count off. It reminds us that we are not alone in our isolation, that the others have not left us, that we are many and we are united in our outrage.”
“Ghost Roll Call?”
“Aye. Roll Call. By the numbers, ye see. And I am Number 62. Years have gone by, all at a go sometimes, with need for only our numbers, not our names. From time to time, some forget those names, and no wonder. But they remember them again, eventually. Nothing can bring a man panic like forgetting his own name.”
“I can imagine.”
“Can ye?”
She nodded. “I’ve met hundreds of patients through the years that have panic attacks. Forgetting something as trivial as where they parked their car can spark an episode. Kind of like hyperventilating.”