Men of Midnight Complete Collection

by Emilie Richards

  There was an empty table near the door, and he took it, seating her where she could gaze through the glass partition at the passing crowds. She sank into her chair as if she had found a permanent home. Her eyes were grateful, but her lips were drawn in a thin, tight line. For the first time he clearly saw what her decision to come back to Scotland had cost her.

  “You’ll feel fit and ready for anything after you’ve had a bit to eat.” He signaled a gray-haired woman in a white apron lounging against the front counter, and after she had uncurled herself one millimeter at a time, she ambled their way. Fast service was obviously not the motto here. Andrew wondered how many flights had been missed while passengers waited for a cup of coffee. “Do you know what you’d like? It looks as if you’ll have plenty of time to decide.”

  “Soup, if they have it.”

  They settled on two bowls of beef and barley soup and a pot of hot tea. Andrew planned to sneak six lumps of sugar and half a liter of cream into Fiona’s cup. He wished he could lace it with whisky, as well.

  She spoke after their server ambled away. “Andrew, do you know that your hand is bleeding?”

  He looked down. His hands throbbed, but that was no surprise. He had ignored the pain, even welcomed it as his due, an easily borne, infinitesimal particle of the human misery he had witnessed earlier. Now he saw that the skin along the heel of his right hand was cracked and swollen. And there was blood.

  “I’m sorry. Did I get it on your shirt?”

  “I don’t know. That’s hardly the issue, is it?” She took her napkin and dipped it in the ice water that had been set before her. Then she dabbed it against Andrew’s hand. Gently. More gently than anyone had ever touched him.

  He had been fine until that simple kindness. He had been fine, but now, suddenly, he wasn’t.

  He got to his feet, but he couldn’t think of an explanation he wanted her to hear. “I’m going to ring Duncan now. Will you be all right?”

  “Of course. Go ahead.” She looked as if she wanted to say more, but thankfully, she didn’t.

  He had to exit the restaurant and walk a distance to locate a telephone, but he wasn’t sorry. Fiona didn’t need to hear what he had to tell Duncan. As he waited to be connected, he stood with his back to the passing foot traffic and his hand cupped over his ear. When Duncan came on the line, he wasted no time on formalities.

  “I’m here, Dunc. Fiona’s fine, and we’ll be on our way soon. We’re just having something to eat first.”

  He waited for Duncan’s anger to blow itself out before he spoke again. He registered but didn’t really hear the scorching lecture on the other end. When Duncan fell silent, Andrew spoke. “There was a three-car pileup on A82. I was the first car on the scene. One of the cars ignited, Dunc. There were people inside.”

  Suddenly he couldn’t say anything else. Until the moment Fiona had sponged his hand he had successfully pushed the worst of the accident out of his mind. Now, safely away from her, he relived it, in all its horror. He swallowed once. Twice. He still couldn’t speak.

  “Jeez, Andrew. I’m sorry.” Duncan’s tone was tortured with guilt. “Why didn’t you tell me that right away? I should have known you’d have a good reason for keeping Fiona waiting.”

  “I would no’ have come at all, if it was anyone but Fiona here waiting for me.”

  “Did you tell her?”

  “None of the details. God, no. What could I say? It was a wee girl in the car, Duncan, and her parents. I was able to get the bairn out, but not her mum and dad. They’re…no’ with us anymore.”

  “Is the little girl going to be all right?”

  “No.” Andrew ran his hand through his hair. “They were taking her to Glasgow, to a hospital with a special burn unit, the same one where Fiona was taken….”

  Duncan was silent, too.

  “What could I say to Fiona?” Andrew asked. “What could I possibly tell her?”

  He felt a hand on his shoulder, the faint pressure of a woman’s fingers. He turned and saw Fiona gazing at him.

  “You could have told Fiona the truth,” she said. Her eyes gleamed with reproach. “Exactly the way you just told it to her brother.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “I did no’ want to upset you,” Andrew said, when he and Fiona were on the motorway to Druidheachd. “I did no’ want your first day back in Scotland to remind you of your own days in hospital.”

  “There’s nothing you could say or not say that would make me forget them. I grew up in hospitals.” Or maybe she hadn’t grown up. Sometimes Fiona wasn’t sure. “Pretending I was never hospitalized doesn’t help me. Tiptoeing around the truth doesn’t help, either.”

  “Do you want to hear all of it, then?”

  Gazing at Andrew’s profile as the motorway flashed by outside the window, Fiona considered. Neither of them had felt like eating after he’d finished his phone call with Duncan. They had gathered her luggage and started toward Druidheachd. But until now, they hadn’t really talked.

  Her memories of Andrew were hazy and childish. Fire-engine red hair. Being lifted to sit on shoulders that were sturdier than Duncan’s and considerably lower to the ground than her own father’s. A loud laugh. A bright smile. And stories coming so thick and fast that she could hardly savor one before another had begun.

  That boy, the hero of her early childhood, was now a man. And what a man he was. The sturdy youthful shoulders were as broad as an oxen yoke. The hair had ripened to a darker shade, a rich shining auburn that fell in a thick shock across his forehead. His hands—now she understood why they were sore and bleeding—were a giant’s hands. Andrew was everything she wasn’t—brash, strong, fearless. He was exactly the kind of man who had always frightened her the most.

  She stared ahead of her. “I think you should tell me. Yes.”

  He began, but his reluctance was obvious. “I left my house early this morning. I did no’ want you to be forced to wait for me. I knew…”

  She saved him from further explanation. He had understood how frightened she might be of coming to Scotland, frightened of the things that everyone else took for granted. “Thanks for that.”

  He continued. “It’s been so long since you’ve been here. I’m certain you can no’ remember the roads near the village. They’ve changed hardly at all since you were a wee lass. They’re as narrow, as curved and treacherous, as they were in our grandparents’ time. In their grandparents’ time.”

  “And if drivers take them half as fast as you take this motorway, then there’s bound to be trouble.”

  He tapped the brake immediately. “I normally travel at twice this speed.”

  “Maybe it seems fast to me because you insist on driving on the wrong side of the road.” He glanced at her, and she forced a smile.

  “There were few cars on the road at that hour.” His hands gripped the wheel. “I was planning what I would do when I got to the airport. How I would spend the time before your flight. I calculated that I’d have to wait at least an hour. So I decided to take the longer way there. It’s a bit more scenic, and it seemed a fair way to waste time. I was between two villages, on a stretch in the mountains, when I saw smoke rising from somewhere beyond. I thought perhaps someone was burning strips of moorland. It’s done to encourage certain types of undergrowth for game birds, and this is the proper time of year. I thought it might be interesting to watch.”

  “I wish it had been that innocent.” Fiona could see from Andrew’s expression that he wished the same.

  “When I got on a straight bit of road, the smoke thickened. I could see cars ahead of me. For a moment I thought they had stopped to watch the fire, too. Then I realized they were the fire, that there had been an accident, a pileup. I still dinna know how it happened. Who was going in which direction, or why they collided. The road was steep. Perhaps brakes failed. Someone panicked. But the three cars were at angles across the road, two of them folded together as if they’d come off a line just that way. I got as close as I
dared—there was more and more smoke every moment. I was afraid of an explosion. I pulled off the road and began to run….”

  Fiona sat quietly, her hands clenched together. He was much too good a storyteller. She could see the accident unfolding before her. She didn’t prod him to continue. She heard him fighting his emotions, trying to tame them to spare her his misery.

  But they would not be tamed. He spoke faster, as if to finish sooner. “There was a man in a business suit slumped over the steering wheel of the car that was closest to me. His car seemed to be the least damaged, and when I started toward him, he waved me on and opened his door. He managed to get himself out and away from the fire. There was an old woman collapsed against the door of the next car. The door was hardly that anymore. There was no way to open it, but I was able to reach her from the other side and drag her free. I carried her away from the crash. She revived as I carried her, and I laid her on the side of the road beside the man from the first car.”

  “You probably saved her life.”

  Andrew didn’t acknowledge Fiona’s statement, as if it were too insignificant to comment on. “Another car had arrived and stopped by then, full of half-grown lads. One of them ran with me back to the wreck. The smoke was thicker, and I could see flames licking at the interior of the first car. I knew there was no one else inside, and we went straight to the third. There was a man at the wheel—or what had been the wheel—and a woman beside him. They were already dead.” He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “I hope to God they were already dead, Fiona.”

  She rested her hand on his shoulder for a moment. She didn’t know what else to do. Her eyes filled with tears, which were infinitely preferable to the vision that filled his.

  “The flames were fast growing thicker. I knew it would only be seconds at best before the petrol blew. I shouted to the lad to get away, and I started to back away, too. Then I heard a child screaming. I shielded my face and leaned forward, and I saw what I’d missed. Right in the midst of the smoke and flames there was a child strapped into the back seat. And she was…”

  “Don’t!” She took a deep breath. For a moment the world grew dark. She took another, and another, until the darkness receded. “I’m sorry. I…”

  “You dinna need to apologize.”

  Minutes passed before she spoke again. “You got her out?”

  “Aye. And the tank blew just after.”

  “Oh, Andrew.”

  “A crofter had seen the flames, and it was no’ long before assistance arrived. We did what we could for the wee lass until they took her away. But she was badly injured.”

  She heard the truth in his voice, not his words. He didn’t expect the child to survive. “There’ve been so many advances, so many new ways to care for…burned children. It may not be as terrible as you think.”

  “I dinna even know her name. If I ring them, they’ll tell me that I’ve no right to know her condition.”

  Fiona was silent. She replayed his words in her head. She measured her own fears, a lifetime of living as a recluse, the insecurities that had kept her a child for twenty-five years. When she spoke, her voice was firm. Confidence that she didn’t feel buoyed it. “Then we’ll go to the hospital, and we’ll insist that they tell us.”

  “I’ll no’ drag you there, Fiona. If I go, I’ll go alone. Later, when—”

  “We’ll go now, Andrew. Right now. And we’ll make them tell us how she is. Because you won’t sleep tonight, and you won’t think about anything else until you know. And neither will I.”

  * * *

  Andrew’s doubts were as thick as the smoke at the scene of the accident. What odd hand of fate had drawn Fiona into this tragedy in her first hours on Scottish soil in more than twenty years? For all her brave talk, she looked as if a breeze would send her spinning. She had neither eaten nor slept since leaving New York. Even if he discounted how difficult it had been for her to come to Scotland at all, the picture was still of a woman using up her last reserves of strength.

  He still had time to skirt Glasgow and continue toward Druidheachd. There was still time to alter their plan. “You’re certain you want to do this?” he asked. “There’s no shame in changing your mind.”

  “I would like to see how she is.”

  “I should no’ have burdened you with any of this.”

  She was silent for so long that he thought she wasn’t going to answer. “I’ve spent a lifetime not being burdened,” she said at last. “I’ve been protected and sheltered until I’m not sure who or what I am. I had hoped it might be different here.”

  He had been chastised. There was no doubt. “It’s just that—”

  “It’s just that I was burned as a child myself, and I was taken to the very same hospital. And because you’re a kind man, you want to spare me those memories. Nothing can spare me, Andrew. I haven’t forgotten any of it. I won’t suddenly remember the horror of it when I walk through the door. It’s with me always. I can face this.”

  There was nothing else he could say.

  He knew Glasgow well. Almost no one would say it was Scotland’s most picturesque city, although it was the largest. But there was an energy here that he found satisfying, a spirit of renewal that had transformed some of the city’s worst defects. He came to Glasgow when he wanted to lose himself in her theaters or pubs, or just in her exuberant bustle. But today there was no joy in his drive through the city. He pointed out no landmarks or monuments. And when he finally parked his car in front of an imposing Victorian era building, he still couldn’t find anything to say.

  “We’ll go in together,” Fiona said. She didn’t look at him.

  “Aye.”

  “Andrew, whatever has happened to her, you did your best. How many men would have risked their life the way you did?”

  “If I had found her first, she would no’ have been so badly burned.” He heard her quick intake of breath. Misery filled him. He had not meant to admit that.

  “You rescued the survivors as you came to them! Anyone would have done the same. If you’d taken the time to survey the scene and make choices about who to rescue first, you might not have had the time to rescue anyone.”

  “I almost missed her completely. I panicked. I overlooked her at first. If I’d been more careful…”

  “How can you be so hard on yourself?”

  He got out of the car and came around to open her door. “It should never have happened.”

  “Now you’re making sense. It shouldn’t have.” She stood to face him. “But unfortunately, nobody consulted you or me. And all we can do now is make the best of it.”

  Her chin was raised so high he almost didn’t notice the slight wobble. Shame filled him. He was leaning on her, burdening her with his own misery. He had been sent to take care of her. Duncan had trusted him to take care of Fiona, and she was taking care of him.

  “I’m sorry. I dinna know what’s wrong with me. You’re right. I’m no’ God. I know that. It’s just that…”

  “You wish it could be different. I know. I understand that.”

  Andrew studied her face. She wasn’t pretty. He decided that now. Her face was too sharp, too intense for so predictable a word. With her pale curry-colored hair, her ginger freckles and thin, turned-up nose, she might have been merely adorable—if her life had been different. But so much was written on Fiona’s face, so much pain and longing and hope—especially hope—that no one would think her adorable again. Her amber eyes devoured everything in her path; they smoked with emotion. Her mouth was soft and vulnerable. And expressive. She was so obviously a woman who had never learned the art of letting any moment pass without wringing something from it or without letting her reaction show.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  “What are friends for?”

  Not for what he wanted from Fiona. The realization came as an unwelcome surprise. Andrew thought of himself as a simple man. His taste in women had always been simple,
too. He appreciated laughter, energy, buoyant good humor. He had looked for women who didn’t take life seriously, and, most especially, who didn’t take him seriously. Fiona was none of those things. She was a rare butterfly, slowly, so slowly, emerging from a dark, cramped cocoon. She could so easily be frightened away or, worse, injured. She was not for Andrew MacDougall, nor should he even want her to be.

  And yet already he felt a pull toward her that went beyond anything as ordinary as friendship.

  “We will no’ stay long. I promise.” He started toward the hospital entrance. He didn’t want to think about his feelings anymore. He’d never thought of himself as a man who was capable of so many confusing emotions.

  She fell into step beside him, and he slowed to accommodate her. They didn’t speak again, not even when they were inside. They wound their way through the hospital maze, through nurses and desks and explanations of why no one could tell them anything. They moved steadily onward, but as they conquered each new hurdle, Andrew watched Fiona’s skin grow paler and her step less confident.

  “I want you to sit here and wait,” he said at last, pointing to chairs outside the swinging doors that led to the sixth floor burn unit. It was the last place they could try, and a sympathetic nurse had suggested they come up and attempt to speak directly to someone on the floor. “There’s nowt to be gained by going inside.” When she started to protest, he held up his hand. “We might have better luck if I go by myself, Fiona. They might be less intimidated and more inclined to give me information.”

  She appeared to consider, then she nodded. “I’ll wait.”

  He watched until she was seated before he pushed open the doors to continue his search for information. The unit was a long narrow hallway with a dozen rooms on either side and corridors leading in both directions. Personnel scurried from room to room, but no one was on duty at the central desk to help him. He knew better than to stop the nurses and doctors in the midst of their activity. Life and death were precariously balanced in this ward, and he remained out of the way, impatiently waiting until an older man in a white uniform stopped to ask if he needed help.