The Highlanders

by Ciesielski, J’nell

  “Sure. And that’s why the doc wants you to stick around.” Lars’ tone was cynical, but he released his friend’s arm. “You look a fright. Let’s settle in at Mrs. Donovan’s, then get you cleaned up.”

  They ambled through the dusty streets to a large house shaded by pines. A sign beside the doorbell read Rooms to Let, Bridget Donovan, prop. The gray-haired Irish landlady greeted them affably, but her eyes narrowed when she got a good look at Callan’s bruised face.

  “Been in a fight, have ye?” She crossed her arms. “I don’t allow brawlin in me house.”

  “No brawlin,” Callan promised. “Just an accident.”

  “Hmmph.” She hesitated as if weighing whether or not to believe him. “Well. Come along then.” She turned and led the way toward a flight of stairs.

  “Ain’t you got a room on the ground floor?” Lars said. “My friend here’s in no condition to be climbin up and down stairs.”

  “Nothin but me own quarters,” the landlady said with an aggrieved air.

  “Upstairs is fine,” Callan muttered. His bruises had him on thin ice and he didn’t want to test her patience.

  In a sparsely furnished room, Lars dropped a sack onto one cot, then collapsed on the other. “Brought some things from the camp you might be needin. A comb. Your Sunday suit. Your book.”

  “My book?” Panic gripped Callan’s chest. Had Lars discovered his private journal? The one stuffed in his locker, in which he sketched pictures and scribbled lines of verse? He’d almost gotten punched in the face for it once back in Minnesota, by a barely literate lout who claimed poetry was for sissies.

  “Yeah. That one you been readin before lights out.”

  “Robert Burns.” Relief washed over Callan. Lars might give him guff for reading poetry but wouldn’t find it half as strange as writing it.

  Lars shrugged. “Took a peek at it on the way down. The man’s no Zane Grey. But there’s no accountin for taste. You ready for a shave? You need it.”

  Lars led the way to a barbershop where they both got haircuts and shaves. Thus dandified, they went next to a general store, where Callan picked up a few personal items he needed, like ink and soap and licorice.

  As he stood in line to pay for his purchases, over the pungent odors of tobacco, pickling vinegar, spices, and coffee, the scent of violets swirled around him. He turned. A bonny blond-haired lass of about twenty stood behind him, wearing a dress the soft pinky-purple color of Highland heather. She glanced up, and for a split second their gazes met and held.

  “Are you deaf?” The rough voice of the cashier broke the spell. Callan quickly handed over some cash, heat rushing to his face, while the proprietor clattered the coins into an enormous bronze cash register. Never had he expected to see such a fetching lass standing right behind him in a rough-and-tumble town like Sandpoint. A fancy painted lady, maybe, but not a little slip of a thing looking for all the world like a breath of springtime. He longed to steal another glance but didn’t dare in case he was observed.

  Too late. When they were back out on the wooden sidewalk, Lars nudged him. “I saw you givin that young miss the eye.”

  “I wasna givin anybody any eye,” Callan said crossly.

  “Here she comes. Why don’t you say hello to her?”

  “Nay, I—”

  But before Callan could stop him, Lars was lifting his hat, addressing the two women—the young one in pink and her brown-haired companion, who looked slightly older and a whole lot haughtier.

  “Good day, ladies.” Lars made a great sweeping bow. “How are you enjoyin this lovely May weather?”

  “Nay, Lars.” Callan hissed from the sidelines, mortified.

  “Move along,” the older woman said briskly to the younger. “Pay them no heed.”

  “Can we interest you ladies into takin a walk by the shore?” Lars called after them. While the women appeared not to have heard him, the younger one glanced back over her shoulder, pinning Callan in her long-lashed gaze until the older one tugged her arm and hastened her down the sidewalk.

  “Lars, whatta ye think yer doin?” he chided, his heart pounding like the cannons in the “1812 Overture.” “Those are ladies yer addressin.” To the women’s stiffened backs he called out, “Beggin yer pardon, ladies. Apologies on behalf of my friend here.” The women quickened their pace.

  Lars waved one hand as if brushing away flies. “Aw, forget ’em. Come on, let’s go play some cards.”

  Callan stepped back. “Nay, thank ye. A man could squander his bankroll at the gaming tables.”

  “Or double it,” Lars countered. “Suit yourself then. See you later.”

  Lars turned and headed back toward the tavern they’d visited earlier. Eager to stretch his muscles after days spent lying in a hospital bed, Callan ambled up and down the streets of the small town, looking into shop windows and getting his bearings, until he grew weary and turned back in the direction of the rooming house. Even the silent feature playing at the Gem Theater held less appeal for passing the time than his trusty volume of Burns. The only sight worth seeing would be a certain blond lass, and no lady of her quality would be spending Saturday night away from her own parlor, wherever that was. The question of where that parlor might be occupied his mind all the way home.

  Chapter 2

  ROSE MARCHMONT NEARLY LOST her footing as her sister, Daisy Tanner, grabbed her elbow and propelled her across the street. Though Rose’s senior by only a few years, Daisy assumed the full authority and protectiveness of a mother hen.

  “The first rule of living in Sandpoint is ‘don’t pay any heed to the lumberjacks.’ They’re uncouth, unsavory, and generally unwashed. And they swarm the town like cockroaches on Saturdays, particularly during the warmer months. We ought to have chosen a different day to do our shopping.”

  “All of them are like that?” Rose asked, thinking that the sandy-haired logger they’d just whirled away from didn’t look unsavory at all. Neither did his blond friend, to be honest, although she didn’t appreciate his cheeky attitude. Fresh! But she’d encountered coarser treatment on the streets of Chicago.

  “All of them,” Daisy said brusquely. “You’d best steer clear. Believe me, in the two years I’ve lived in this town, I’ve endured more catcalls and improper suggestions than in my entire life prior. And that’s no compliment to my charms … more to the loggers’ lack of them.” She relaxed her grip on Rose’s arm. “You’ll find Sandpoint to be a rough town, I’m afraid, but every day the trains bring new residents from all walks of life. Robert and I know some much more suitable young men to introduce you to if you’re so inclined.”

  “I’m not at all inclined,” Rose replied. “Mother and Father shipped me out to this godforsaken wilderness to help me recover from a romance, not to start another one.”

  “Well, they were right to do so,” Daisy said firmly. “Jeremy Pyle isn’t worthy of a single one of your tears, and the change of scenery will do you a world of good. It wouldn’t do any harm to consider looking for a suitable husband while you’re here. Robert and I are thrilled to have you stay with us. But I won’t let you remain cooped up in the house day and night with no social life. It isn’t wholesome for a young, pretty girl to stay cooped up with only her violin for company.”

  “I won’t be cooped up. With any luck, I’ll have some students soon to occupy my time.”

  “Besides,” Daisy continued, “Sandpoint is not a godforsaken wilderness. It’s a burgeoning town with a couple churches and a Sunday school and everything.”

  “Spoken like the wife of a prominent First Avenue haberdasher.”

  “I mean it. It may not ever become a great city like Chicago, but it’ll be a fine place in its own right. Just give it a few years. But in the meantime, watch out for those lumberjacks—they’re a sorry lot.”

  When Callan returned to the rooming house, the place was empty except for the landlady, who frowned at him and told him to wipe his feet. He was the only logger in town, it seemed, who didn
’t indulge in whiskey and women. As an outsider, loneliness wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. Moving from logging camp to logging camp, always the odd man out, he kept to himself. Most of the time he didn’t mind; he enjoyed his own company. But every so often, on soft spring evenings like this one, the longing to be back in his own country, maybe strolling with a pretty lass on the banks of a loch, hit so hard, he could taste it.

  Back in his room, with Lars still out carousing who-knows-where, he stretched onto his cot before the open window and tried to read Burns. But the words failed to hold his attention. He laid the book aside, undressed, stretched out again, and closed his eyes, letting the warm spring breeze flow over him, ruffling his hair and carrying his thoughts back to the heather-dotted fields of his homeland. As he drifted off, the wind through the larch and alder trees outside the window whispered a dreamy, romantic song. It was almost as if the breeze carried the sweet strains of a Mendelssohn violin concerto along with the scent of lilacs.

  His breath hitched. His eyes flew open.

  It wasn’t his imagination. There truly was a Mendelssohn violin concerto floating in on the breeze.

  Bolting upright, he peered out the window into the inky blue dusk but saw nothing. No fiddling troubadour wandered the wooden sidewalks. No magical violin-playing pixie perched in the trees. But most definitely the notes of a Mendelssohn concerto swirled around, sweetening the very air of a town more accustomed to the nerve-jangling rhythms of ragtime.

  But where was the music coming from? This was no crude country fiddling, but a polished and practiced performance. Perhaps the neighbors next door owned a Victrola—one remarkably free of scratches and pops.

  No matter. He lay back in the narrow bed and pulled the blanket over himself. To hear such a beautiful sound was a blessing, pure and simple, whatever its origin. He closed his eyes and let the music lift his spirit and soothe his soul. In his mind’s eye, he could picture the notes dancing and changing color, now blue, now purple, the colors of twilight, of homesickness. He could practically taste them, now sweet, now spicy, now mellow. Swallowing the ache in his throat, he savored each passage of the familiar piece, lost in memories, until he slipped into sleep.

  In the cozy back parlor of her sister’s house, Rose let the bow linger on the final note of the concerto, then lowered the violin to her lap. Mendelssohn was one of her favorites, but playing it again felt a little painful, like stretching a dormant muscle. When she’d performed the piece for Jeremy, he’d yawned, glanced at his pocket watch, as if he found the listening tedious. Or perhaps it was just her he’d found tedious. In any event, she should have known their courtship was doomed from the start. They had so little in common. But his charm and good looks, and her amazement at gaining the notice of such a man, dulled her better instincts. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. She stood and stretched, then walked over to the piano, lifted the bench lid, put away Mendelssohn and pulled out Mozart.

  Daisy opened the door and poked her head into the room. “Care to join Robert and me in a game of whist? You’ve earned a break, don’t you think?”

  Rose shook her head. “I need to practice, so I’m ready to take on students. I’m afraid my musical skills grew rusty while I was …” While I was spending all my time with Jeremy. “While I was busy with other things. I don’t want to disappoint anyone who might hire me for lessons.”

  “I doubt anyone could be disappointed in you, Rose. This isn’t Chicago, with a music school on every corner. A small town like Sandpoint is desperate for a teacher.”

  “Apparently no one’s told them how desperate they are. I haven’t had a single inquiry yet.”

  Daisy rested against the doorframe. “It takes time. Robert has posted your notice in his store and several other places around town. I’m sure you’ll get students as soon as word gets around. Plenty of people think Sandpoint could use some higher culture and will want their children to learn music. And from a teacher trained at the prestigious American Conservatory of Music. What could be better?”

  “I hope you’re right.” Rose toyed with the handle of her bow. What would those fine citizens think if they knew she’d thrown over her conservatory training for Jeremy Pyle, who’d promptly thrown her over for a simpering brewery heiress?

  “Don’t stay up too late.” Daisy gently closed the door.

  Rose unfolded the Mozart score, praying her sister’s reassurances of eventual success were true. While Daisy and Robert regularly assured her their home was hers for as long as she wished, she wanted to earn her keep and not wear out her welcome. The longer she could stay in Sandpoint, far away from Chicago and Jeremy, the better. Earning money by giving music lessons would make that possible. But not if nobody wanted them.

  As her fingers flew over the neck of the instrument and her right arm pulled the bow, her mind flew unbidden to the sandy-haired logger she’d seen in town. No doubt a lumberjack would find her love of classical music as ridiculous as tone-deaf Jeremy had. A logger’s musical repertoire, if he had one, was likely limited to a few bawdy drinking songs and odes to Paul Bunyan.

  Still, she thought she’d seen a flicker of something fine in his gray-green eyes. Noble was perhaps too strong a word, but that was the word that stuck in her head. In spite of Daisy’s dire warnings about woodsmen, Rose hoped she’d cross paths with him again.

  Chapter 3

  THE NEXT MORNING THE shriek of a train whistle startled Callan awake. Sometime during the night, Lars had returned from his carousing. Callan had a vague memory of bumping, scraping, and muttered oaths. Now his friend lay snoring on his cot, no doubt the worse for liquor and cigars.

  In the distance, a church bell pealed. Callan rose carefully, wincing at his wounds. He washed in the communal washroom down the hall, combed his hair, and dressed in his one-and-only good suit, a somber blue serge he’d purchased in a Halifax haberdashery, specifically for churchgoing. The jacket fit snugly—too snugly. Three years of working in the woods had built his physique, made his arms and shoulders brawny and hard. Perhaps he’d need to find a tailor skilled enough to let out the seams.

  Leaving his companion dead to the world, he walked down the street to the church he’d spotted on his walk the previous day. The service was just starting as he entered and slipped into a back pew. He pulled a hymnal from the rack, but soon found he didn’t need it—the opening hymn was a familiar one.

  How firm a foundation,

  ye saints of the Lord,

  is laid for your faith

  in His excellent Word.

  Sometimes when he got to singing hymns, Callan forgot himself and his own cares and just sang out loud to his Lord. So, he felt abashed when, after the amen, several people glanced at him with discreet curiosity. He had a strong baritone voice, and a good one, that made people sit up and take notice. He forgot that sometimes, working out in the middle of nowhere, belting out an old Scottish ballad with no one around to hear but the birds and squirrels. As the congregation took their seats, one particular face held its gaze on him a little longer. Glancing up, he was startled to see the winsome face of the bonny lass he’d noticed in town the previous day. The one in the dress the color of Highland heather, who’d been dragged off by her companion before Callan had found the presence of mind to say hello. Maybe he’d have a chance to do so after the service, even though the stern-faced companion was still permanently attached to her elbow.

  When he worked up the nerve to glance at her again, she’d turned her attention to the pulpit. He admired her profile, at least what he could see of it beneath her bonnet: a small, straight nose, pale pink cheeks, determined chin, and curls the color of sunshine. Today she wore blue. He couldn’t see her eyes, but from what he’d seen yesterday, he’d wager they, too, were blue—as blue as the lake on a clear day, most likely. Thoughts of what he’d say to her and how he’d say it filled his mind, making it difficult to concentrate on the words of the preacher up front.

  After the last note of the closing hymn fad
ed, he remained in his pew as others filed out, pretending to look up something in the red hymnbook until out of the corner of his eye he saw the bright blue of her skirt approaching down the center aisle. Then he picked up his hat and prepared to step out of the pew directly into her path, as if entirely by chance. He meant to slip out smoothly, but at the last second his boot caught on the edge of a kneeler, and he stumbled full force into the lass, nearly knocking her over.

  “Goodness,” she exclaimed as she righted herself.

  “I beg yer pardon,” he blurted, sure that his face was as red as the hymnal cover. “My apologies.”

  As she lifted her startled eyes to his, he was rendered mute. Not a mere blue, as he’d thought, but a startling sapphire color, framed by thick lashes.

  “N-nice service, wasn’t it?” he said as soon as he managed to untie his tongue.

  “Yes. Yes, it was,” the girl responded in a low, musical voice, like cool water over river rocks.

  After that sparkling exchange of wit, her brown-haired companion said, “Please excuse us,” but in a friendlier tone than previously. Perhaps she didn’t recognize him in his serge Sunday suit instead of the flannel shirt and work pants that had marked him as a woodsman the day before. His bruised face still would give him away, however, so maybe she was simply in a kinder frame of mind, being in church and all. In any case, she didn’t yell or whack him with her reticule, which he counted as progress.

  The sweet-faced blond woman, her sourpuss friend, and the smartly dressed man who accompanied them—apparently the friend’s husband or beau—swept down the aisle and out the door with the rest of the congregation. Callan followed. At the double doors at the back of the church, he paused to shake hands with the minister.