Chapter 1
Hitting the wall. Hitting the wall. Damn, the wall hurt.
Fleur Anpao’s body was giving out on mile twenty-eight of her self-imposed twenty-eight point five-mile run. The jog had been beautiful with one side of road A838 so green she wondered if emeralds got their hue from the grass. The other side of the motorway, though, showed nimbostratus metal-colored clouds rolling toward her from the grim North Sea. Or what did they call the bay? Not a firth, she’d been scolded by the chatty bed and breakfast innkeeper about that. Firths were what others might call it—the word “others” had been whispered the same way cancer had been murmured in a previous conversation. Here, in the Highlands, it was a geodha. And Fleur wasn’t too sure how to pronounce it, even after hearing it.
She’d needed something to do on her one day off, so why not run an impromptu marathon by herself? Her body groaned, asking like a petulant teenager, Why not? Why not? I’ll give you why the hell not! It also kept repeating the mantra: Hitting the wall. Yep, her body had multiple voices, and all of them were screaming at her to stop.
Of course, she wouldn’t.
Pursing her lips, Fleur pushed beyond the point of pain. Her breath came in spastically as though she was taking in acid. That same toxin poured through her blood now, making the pumping of her legs burn.
Pound, pound, pound, pound. Pound, pound, pound, pound.
The fourth step in her jog was always more pronounced like the drums at a powwow; although, she hadn’t attended one in years. Similar to a heart’s beat, that triumphant staccato end beat always amped her juices, gave her a little more energy to finish. She saw Cave Smoo, her destination, maybe only a couple hundred yards away. God, let it be over already.
Think of something else. To my right, she thought in a flight attendant’s nasal voice, is the gloomy North Sea, waving in heavy salty air, and to the left is the rich green countryside, dotted with little houses and occasional gas station/convenience stores that sell odd things like pickled meat. Beyond the smell of brine from the ocean, she sniffed the lush green scent of—was it?—heather? Heather was purplish in color, but smelled...well, green. The thought nearly tripped her as she tried to remember the names of the vegetation here.
Concentrating on her breath, Fleur listened to her lungs shakily inhale and struggled to exhale smoothly. But it wasn’t happening. Her breath was erratic at best. Then, her brain skipped to the next discussion, as if it were shuffling songs on her iPod. She thought of the bone she’d drilled yesterday to extract DNA. It had been a tiny toe bone and hardly well preserved, so she wasn’t sure if any molecular evidence remained.
That was why she’d left Ithaca, New York and was here in Scotland. As a favor for her friend, anthropologist Dr. Rachel Bestin-Calloway, Fleur was trying her best to trace the genetic markers of the bones Rachel had excavated last year near Tongue. Since the tarsals were close to Nordic pottery, Fleur was to prove through DNA that, yes, the Norse, or Vikings, or whatever they were called now, got around. She wasn’t interested in the historic research herself, but Fleur would do almost anything for Rachel—her first real friend since she was fourteen. And Rachel’s husband, social historian and fellow PhD, Ian Calloway, had tagged along supposedly to help pass the time with Fleur and Rachel. He’d been the one to tell her the names of the different kinds of greenery, like a tour guide, when this was his first trip here too. Ah, the power of 4G could make anyone an expert.
But Fleur hadn’t found Ian and Rachel this morning, cementing her half-hearted plan to run this idiotic marathon. She shouldn’t have done it, her body screamed at her. She hadn’t had enough sleep last night. Oddly, she kept dreaming of a dog jumping on her. Only, it wasn’t any kind of dog, but a coyote. Never a good sign, her grandmother, Na, would have warned. The dreams hadn’t been the only thing that had made sleep hard to come by. The wind almost never ceased around Tongue. She’d heard it was much worse around Cape Wrath—a tidbit of information Ian had told her yesterday, reading from his smart phone. What a fitting name. Wrath. Because she felt like she was about to explode with...God, was this really anger? What the hell was she angry at? She had a great life. She made great money. She was greatly respected.
That was one of many mantras she repeated, but this one she whispered to herself when she felt so fragile she worried she might break.
Fleur’s vision blurred. Damn, it was hot. The innkeeper had said they’d been having odd weather, being so warm and all. Fleur had to agree. Even with the ominous gray clouds rolling in, it was damn-fire hot. Wow, Fleur hadn’t heard an expression like that since she’d lived in Texas. Weird to think about that right now. Well, she was probably delirious what with running too much. Wearing a black running suit as well as her black CamelBak hadn’t been her best move. Already she had her running jacket tied around her waist. Her t-shirt crumpled somewhere in the pocket of the CamelBak with her iPod and cell. The only color she wore was her expensive-as-hell athletic shoes with florescent blues and greens.
Blinking a lot helped with her hazy vision, but for some bizarre reason it made her feel as if she might cry. Fleur cleared her throat, tripped a little, then found the worn dirt path that paralleled the road for a bit and eventually dove to the shore of the geodha then led to the cave.
Just a little more. Just a little more. Dammit, why was this so hard? Why was life so hard?
She had no clue where that thought had come from.
Stumbling more than jogging, she was relieved there were no tourists at Cave Smoo. In fact, no one was around. Which was good, especially when considering how she’d tripped and face planted as soon as she found the sandy shore, her muscles seeming tenderized by her run. But rocks and pointy shells did not make for a comfortable place to rest. She had to get up to cool down, stretch.
The tide was low, and Fleur could easily walk into the cave, although her muscles felt like taffy. Wasn’t this cavern restricted? Hadn’t Ian said something about not being able to go inside? But her too hot skin desperately needed the shade from the cavity, and she sank to her knees as a tear escaped from the corner of her eye. What the hell? She didn’t cry. She. Did. Not. Cry.
Stretching felt as if her limbs were no longer her own, and small gray dots began to float in her periphery. One of the dots moved in her line of vision, and she swore it looked like a...Shit. A coyote.
A deep male laugh echoed through the cave.
“Did you just—” she asked the shaggy, skinny canine. Her voice trembled. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart pounded ferociously beneath her ribs. No, she’d imagined the chuckle, she told herself, trying to calm her goose bump filled skin, settle the hair standing on her arms and the jittery feeling at the nape of her neck. But as she gazed at the dog, she wondered if it was smiling at her. Shaking her head, she speculated about hallucinations from severe exercise.
That was when she heard a groan. A very disappointed, as if she were the dumbest person on earth, kind of groan.
She swallowed slowly, checking the dog again. It had to be just a dog. There weren’t any coyotes in Scotland. Were there?
Feeling overwhelmingly hot, she took off her CamelBak and flung it toward the front entrance, close to a large limestone rock. But without the small backpack, a chill ran along her spine, penetrating through her skin. Too hot, now too cold—she zipped into her black jacket. Drink some water, she sluggishly reminded herself, but it was just too wonderful to sit. Suddenly, she realized she wasn’t sitting any longer. Prickles of panic perforated through her when she realized her cheek was against the sand, and she could smell the salt from it. While running, she’d pushed herself too far, a bad habit she perpetuated in other facets of her life.
The dog began to bark excitedly, but she could hardly keep her eyes open enough to gauge what he was yipping at. He jumped up and made funny little yelps, almost sounding like guffaws. Running in a tight circle a couple times, he then made an incredibly high leap straight into the air. And hovered ther
e.
Fleur blinked. Weakly, she sat up and stared at the canine floating above ground. Then, its body shifted so the stomach flattened around a man’s dark head. On top of the man’s scalp sat the coyote’s, still looking as though it smiled. Under the coyote pelt, clad in doe-skin leggings and a breechclout, a man materialized, standing on the beach, looking eerily like a long ago Lakota warrior.
It might have taken a thousand years, since time seemed to drip by like a glacier melting, but the man eventually gave her an enormous smile. Bright-as-snow teeth beamed down at her, and he chuckled again. It was deep and rugged. And altogether too real.
He strode toward her, reached down, grabbed her arm, and gently lifted her. That was very, very real—his hold on her, the warmth and strength of his fingers and calloused palm.
“Why didn’t you take a break, Fleur?” he drawled. The man spoke as if he had lived his whole life in the Badlands, on the Sioux reservation.
She wouldn’t answer him. There was no use talking to something provoked by running too hard. This was just in her mind. This was just in her mind. This was...
He shook his head slowly and guided her out of the cave. Although Fleur couldn’t see it, the sun felt calming, comforting, and no longer too hot.
“Baby girl, don’t you remember your grandma telling you running too long with no food would give you a vision?”
She breathed out a puff of relief. “That’s proof then. I’m just hallucinating. That’s all.”
Then, he really laughed. He laughed so hard he had to tilt his head back. “You wish, little girl.”
She tried to step away from him, but he held her firm.
“This can’t be real. This can’t be real. This can’t be—”
“Oh, but this can be real. This can be real. This can be real.” He mimicked her chanting. “Do those mantras really work? I mean, really? If you say it enough, it will come true? Is that what you think?”
As if he’d found a gigantic needle to pop through her skin, she felt as though she was billowing away from her corporal form.
“D-don’t—” was all she could offer to defend herself.
His face went dark. His grip tightened around her arms. The planes of his cheeks tensed and the parenthesis lines around his mouth whitened.
Suddenly his grip shifted, softened incredibly. In the span of a heartbeat, she was suddenly in his lap while he cradled her as if she were child with a skinned knee, caressing her hair from her face. Oddly, she felt consoled, but even that was too unsettling for her to wrap her head around. Rattled, she tried to pull away, push against him. He let her sit up and away from his lap, but still held her arms.
“You have Lakota blood in you,” he whispered, his eyes turned miserably sad. “You are my family. I cannot stand idly by while you are a shell of who you could be.”
She shook her head. Confusion coursed through her, making everything blurry and hurt, because she did feel something familiar about him. Familial. But the words he’d said felt like nails that kept hitting her too tender skin over and over again. She was bleeding interiorly. Maybe exteriorly too.
“This is for your own good, Fleur.”
“What?” she finally seemed to have the capacity to ask.
He looked up as two long shadows drew near. They were women. Beautiful, glowing-like-gold women with glittering turquoise eyes.
Recognition flashed through Fleur as she noted their gold running suits. They no longer wore their matching hats and larger-than-life sunglasses, but they were the twin-like women who’d sat under a giant umbrella by the side of a road, as if that was a natural vacation destination. Not a beach, but the side of a nearly desolate thoroughfare. Fleur struggled to stand to run away from the man, from the strange women, from the moment. In her attempt to flee, she caught the gaze of the coyote still on top of the man’s head. Something in her snapped back in time to her grandmother warning her about, Coyote, the trickster god. The man, the god, not the pelted canine, reached out for her easily enough as if she weren’t fighting with every last ounce of her strength, and with tender but calloused hands he drew her closer to him.
He gazed deeply into her eyes. “I’ve had enough, Fleur. I want so much more for you.” Clearing his throat the way men do to counter a cry, he looked at the two women, then slowly nodded.
“We’re giving you a glimpse,” one of the women spoke in a hushed tone. “You’ll stay here, in the Highlands, but go back a long time ago.”
“What?” Anger surfaced for not having enough wits to ask anything other than that one useless word. But Fleur was far too freaked to figure out many other questions. And through it all she heard...she heard a heartbeat. Her own, or maybe the trickster god across from her, holding her still in the wet sand, she didn’t know. But she heard it. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
“I want so much more for you,” he repeated.
“What?” Fleur heard her own voice, sounding small, almost child-like.
Coyote’s lips curved at just the tips, looking almost proud of her. “Always the one with the questions, my girl.” Then he nodded and glanced at the women again. “How does it work?”
The woman closest to Fleur raised an elegant hand. “You’ve had some problems understanding the accents here, and where I’m sending you the Gaelic is even thicker, but no worries. You’ll understand them, and they’ll understand you.” Then, she gently smiled down at Fleur and snapped her fingers. The world was awash with the scent of salt, the noise of the incoming tide, and totally usurped by blackness.
To read more, you can find Highlander of Mine wherever books are sold...
A Note about the Glimpse Time-Travel Series
Often, history is taught with a clear beginning and end. In a class titled, The History of Western Civilization, it would usually begin with Homer and might have an ending around the Industrial Revolution. It is almost always taught with linear projections—you learn about events in a certain year, work your way forward, then end so many years in the future.
It wasn’t until I was in graduate school that I began to learn history by skipping around, much like a time-traveler would. In order to understand why the Highland Guard in South Carolina fought so urgently for their British monarch in 1776, one needed to understand why they fought so bravely against that similar monarchy in the Battle of Culloden just thirty years before. I’d never had more fun than when I bounced through time, absorbing an event in a particular era to see it shine through a hundred years later, or understanding one happening, only to reexamine it through another aspect of time.
When we are taught history with a linear projection, we see it through the lens of the latter era. I know I did. I often saw the Enlightenment period through the optics of the Victorian. But they were vastly different phases of time, often having varying roles for women, men, and children as well as diverse social mores. It is when we prance about in time, I believe, that we can see history more clearly for what it is.
The Glimpse Time-Travel series will jump, dance, and sprint through different eras of time. My greatest desire is to entertain you, so you feel a resonating similarity with my characters, and in the end maybe come away from the experience thinking no matter what the time, no matter the individuals involved, people have more similarities than differences, more hope than despair, and more love than hate.
A Word about ENEMY OF MINE
In most of the Hollywood versions of British officers during the American Revolutionary War, they are usually portrayed as arrogant, preening, prissy, bloodthirsty, unsympathetic men; although, lately there does seem to be an attempt to paint them in different colors. And in my research I found that many of the men who went to war against America before it was independent were often brave, educated, sympathetic, huge-hearted soldiers. Many came here against their will as well. More often than not, they came to make money, for being a soldier paid better than other jobs of the time. Of the officers that came here, they varied in personalities
as much as they would in any group of people.
I hope my readers forgive my ramblings about the British officers of this time. Believe it or not, I was reined from further chattering. However, if you ever wish to talk about British officers or anything else, please feel free to contact me!!!
https://www.redljameson.com
The Author Wishes to Acknowledge
Danny Elfman for his composition of “Sally’s Song,” which, although only alluded to, was played by Erva.
Ludwig Beethoven’s “Piano Sonata No. Fourteen,” also known as the “Moonlight Sonata.”
iPhone® and MacBook Pro® iTunes® iBooks® and all things Apple®
Kindle®
Amy Lee
Cheap Trick and their composition of “I Want You to Want Me.”
Lord Alfred Tennyson for his prose within his poem, “In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 27” – “'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.”
Harvard University & Harvard University Press
Director Mark Waters’, Mean Girls
Boston, Massachusetts & New York City, New York
The Author wishes to further thank the army who helped this book come to fruition—Lana Williams, Judi Phillips, Amy Brantley, Angela Adams for their insight, suggestions, and patience. I would be at a loss without my military historian advisors and buddies, most of whom had no idea that by night I write steamy romances about the alpha males, whether alive or dead, they introduced me to—Stanley Carpenter, James Mc Intyre, Ann Millbrooke, Barry Stentiford, Anne Midgley.
Last but never least are the people of my heart who without their support and encouragement I doubt any of this would be possible—my friends and family. And Reid, you really are the best kiddo. Now stop arguing with me.
Dedication
For you, Sunny boy...
Reid
Enemy of Mine Page 43