“So lifelike,” she murmured.
“So detailed,” Arianna added.
A chorus of voices agreed. He looked down from his pedestal upon a garden of blooming beauties, bright faces turned up to him, eyes shining with appreciation.
Pedestal? How curious …
A hand—was it Gina’s or Arianna’s—brushed his manhood
He didn’t move. He couldn’t move. He was a statue, lovingly rendered in the finest of marble.
The women continued to come and go in the room. They smiled at him. They spoke of Michelangelo and da Vinci. They caressed his perfect marble limbs.
Aisleen appeared. She smiled mischievously and began playing with his perfect marble toes, nibbling on them, tweaking them.
She gasped. Her eyes widened. She stepped back, his big toe held between her thumb and forefinger.
A cry of dismay rose. His right ear detached. His left hand cracked, dissolving into marble dust. One leg came off at the knee, shattering to bits as it struck the stone floor.
Then Arianna pointed to his groin and gave a strangled little cry. The crowd sobbed as one …
Fitz jerked awake in the chill darkness of the cabin.
It was only a nightmare, he thought. There was no need for him to worry. Of course he was still intact.
But …
Reassured, he rolled over, inching closer to the smoldering fire. He missed Vixen’s furry warmth beside him. He missed the solid warmth of a good meal in his belly.
Most of all, he missed the sweet warmth of a woman beneath him.
Some nightmares, he reflected, seemed never to end.
Dearest Claire,
It pains me to write these words, but the truth of it is that all that keeps us now in this cabin is Sam. And he will not be leaving here alive. Sam knows this. He knew it before any of us, I think. Indeed, he told us. But I didn’t want to believe him. We do what we can to make him comfortable, while we wait for the inevitable.
In the meantime, our days are taken up with our own efforts to survive …
Duncan flinched at the gunshot sound of a tree cracking in the cold.
He was some distance from the cabin, in a thickly wooded area, rifle in hand. The food stores, even with the addition of the salmon meant for the dogs, were running perilously low.
But so far, their hunting expeditions had yielded only a couple of hares. And he was having no more luck this day. Of what use were tracking skills if there is nothing to track?
The forest was as silent as death, save for the occasional snap of a frozen tree limb, and the slight sounds he made moving carefully forward.
His stomach rumbled. Loudly. Well, if there were any game around, that would have flushed it out!
But—wait. Ahead and to the left. There was something. A sound, an animal sound of some sort.
He crept forward cautiously. A few hundred yards and through the winter-bare branches he could see what he had heard.
The dog Klute, feeding off the carcass of a dead moose. It hadn’t been killed that long ago, he noted. The stains on the snow were still bright red.
Klute raised his head. He stared directly at Duncan. His lip curled back, baring his teeth in a guttural snarl. His muzzle was covered in blood.
Slowly, Duncan raised the rifle to his shoulder. The brute might know what that meant—he’d seen Pie shot—but he might not.
He did. He sprang back into the tree cover, fading into the general grayness.
No matter. If the kill didn’t look diseased, Duncan would be quite happy to take Klute’s leavings.
He pushed through the trees and knelt by the carcass. The moose had been old and scrawny, but there was no sign of sickness. It hadn’t died from anything other than a torn throat.
The dog had gone for the entrails, ripping into the stomach. None of the meat had yet been touched.
Duncan set the rifle aside and unstrapped a large knife from his thigh. His stomach was rumbling again, and he could feel saliva starting in his mouth. Meat, even raw meat, had awakened every hunger pang in his body.
First, he had to finish up the bloody job of gutting. He reached into the torn stomach …
Ninety pounds of fury struck him in the back, sending him sprawling over the dead moose. He felt the dog’s teeth ripping through the hood of his parka, lacerating the back of his head, seeking a death grip on his neck.
The brute’s full weight was on him. Though he still had the knife in his hand, there was no way he could manage a clear thrust.
Oaths that he hadn’t used in centuries, delivered in a burr that would have set Fitzcairn’s teeth on edge, poured out of him. He got his hands underneath his chest, and pushed himself up, first to his knees, then upright. The dog still clung to him, teeth buried in the nape of his neck.
The brute let go, finally, dropping to the ground. Duncan fell on him before he could gather himself to renew the attack. The knife blade flashed, up and down, again and again. All of the frustration he’d felt the last few weeks exploded in a frenzy.
He could not save Sam. Despite his best efforts, the man was dying, in pain, by inches. It would have been far better for him if he had gone under the ice and drowned.
The dog was long dead when he stopped. He pushed back from the body, panting with exertion, covered with gore.
He knelt by the body, his hands resting on his knees. Finally, he dropped the knife by his side, and lowered his head.
He was Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. He had just slaughtered a dumb animal as though it were a mortal enemy.
Because he could not kill the real enemy—this blasted land that could take a man’s life in an instant—and his soul, too, if he were not ever-vigilant.
He raised his head and looked up at the sky. Today, it was that damnable ghostly white that meant yet more snow was coming. He’d best get the meat back to the cabin quickly.
He was Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. He would not give up.
Danny sat on the floor by the fire, his legs drawn up, his arms crossed on his knees. Hugh was out gathering firewood and MacLeod had taken the rifle in search of game.
The green-eyed angel was hovering over the heathen.
He could see them quite clearly now. Indeed, they were the figures from the great staircase window in his dream house, come to life for him.
Oh, Danny-boy, we love you so, the blue-eyed angel sang.
Before the angels had appeared, he’d been feeling a great loneliness here in this cabin. Hugh fretted on about the brown dog. MacLeod concerned himself only with the heathen.
Sure and it seemed that the two of them were forgetting the gold. The fortune they had with them, the fortune still to be dug out of the ground when spring came.
The green-eyed angel was sitting now on the dying man’s chest.
Not a thought were they giving to the future. The fine things to be bought, the journeys to be taken, the houses to be …
But you must bide …
Waiting, waiting.
The man was not one of their kind. He was a mortal.
She leaned forward, brushing her wings against his mouth, back and forth, back and forth, in time to his labored breathing.
Danny rose slowly to his feet.
If the man did not die tomorrow, he would die the day after or the day after that or next week, or next year.
Or today, Danny-boy, the brown-eyed angel whispered. He could die today.
Danny crossed to the bed. He picked up a thick fur robe.
It’s dead he well may be, the singer crooned.
The green-eyed angel rose to give him room.
He bent over the heathen.
“Danny! Fitzcairn!”
MacLeod’s voice, calling from outside the cabin, shouting about fresh meat.
Danny clenched his jaw and tossed the fur robe back on the bed.
Around him, the angels sighed.
Siwash Sam knew that his time had come. It was, in fact, past due. If the Scotsman had no
t made him eat of the moose meat, he would have been gone days ago.
But now, no food or drink or medicine would matter. He could hear the call of the eagle, the grunt of the bear. He was ready.
He called the Scotsman to him.
“I will leave this place soon,” he said.
“Sam—”
“Listen. Do not argue. I have no time for it.”
The Scotsman knelt by the bed. He listened.
Sam spoke slowly. The pain robbed him of breath. But he made sure that the Scotsman could find the way to McPherson.
The Englishman stood now at the foot of the bed. Sam could see him dimly. His face was lined with worry.
“Fitz, I think—” the Scotsman said.
The Englishman nodded.
“I shook your hand. I made a promise,” Sam said.
“Sam has kept that promise,” the Scotsman replied in a low voice. “He has guided us well. Because of him, these cheechakos have survived.”
Sam smiled faintly. The Englishman had been shot and had drowned. The Irishman had taken a killing fall. They all had walked away from a bear fight.
He had heard them talking when they thought he was asleep.
He had seen the swords.
These three did not need the likes of Siwash Sam to survive.
He stared for a moment into the dark eyes of the man bent over him. If he were to ask him now, if he were to say What manner of men are you?, the Scotsman would answer.
It did not seem important.
But there was one last thing that was.
“Scotsman,” he said weakly. “Come closer.”
He took a deep breath as the man leaned over him.
“I am called Nia-sut-lin,” he whispered. “Tell this to the fire.”
Duncan melted snow and washed Sam’s body as well as he could. He made a pyre of the last sled, and they put him on it, on a bed of the driest wood they could find.
There was no real sunset at this time of the year, but Duncan judged when it was evening by where the moon was in the sky.
Fitz had roasted meat, and brewed some of the last of their tea. They couldn’t sit in the snow, so they stood by the sled, eating and sharing their memories of Sam.
Even Danny was there, though Duncan knew that he had been reluctant to take part in what he called “heathen rites.” He assumed that Fitz had prevailed on him to join with them.
Fitz sang “Amazing Grace,” all of the verses. Duncan marveled, as he always did, at how good his voice was.
He wasn’t certain what Sam would have thought of the hymn singing. But Fitz had very much wanted to do it.
Then Duncan stepped forward. He lit a branch and walked around the pyre, setting the wood ablaze.
He didn’t know the Siwash words, so he spoke Lakota, sending the spirit of Nia-sut-lin to join that of the bear. He prayed, as Sam had for his brother, that it would not be long before that spirit would be born again into this world.
The three Immortals stood together then watching as the all-too-mortal remains of the man they had known as Siwash Sam were consumed by fire.
Finally, Fitz turned away. “Look, MacLeod,” he said softly, pointing toward the ridge behind the cabin.
Rip sat silhouetted against the snow. How long had he been there? Duncan wondered.
As the fire slowly died, the black-and-gray dog threw back his head and howled mournfully. The sound went on and on, an animal wail of grief more genuine than any human keening.
Then he rose to his feet and, without a backward glance, disappeared into the darkness.
Chapter 11
“No, Danny. We can’t take the gold with us,” Duncan said. “We have to travel with what we can carry on our backs. Three bags of gold are a weight that’s not needed.”
“After all these months, after all of the dying that’s been done, you want to just walk away and leave it?” the young Immortal cried. “I’ll not do it, MacLeod. I’ll go without food, but I’ll not go without what we’ve left of the gold.”
“Danny, it’s not as though anyone is going to stroll in here in the next few months. We’ll take just a handful. That’s more than enough to establish the claim. The rest will be here when winter breaks.”
“No. I said it, and I mean it.”
“Look, lad,” Fitzcairn interrupted. “We can hide what we leave behind. Here in the cabin, or outside in a place that’s well marked.”
“Hugh, I won’t see another summer as a poor man, I swear.”
Fitzcairn paced between them, running his fingers through his shaggy curls.
“Fitz, sit down.” Duncan spoke sharply. “You’re giving me a headache.”
“A minute, MacLeod,” he responded. “We’ve come this far together. We’ll get to that blasted fort together, too.” He crossed to the corner where the three bags of gold were stored, all in a heap. One by one, he hefted them.
“Here, lad.” He threw one bag across the room. The young Immortal caught it, nearly losing his balance.
“You’ve hardly any strength, Danny,” Duncan said. “None of us do. We’re not going to die from lack of food, but even our kind need proper nourishment. Gold,” he added wryly, “is heavy.”
“I can carry it,” Danny said stubbornly.
“All right, all right,” Fitz said. “You’ve spent time in diplomatic circles, MacLeod. Let’s exercise the art of compromise here.” He turned to Danny, who stood, still holding the gold.
“That bag there, you could carry that with some ease, could you not?” Fitz asked.
“And two more besides,” Danny replied, his jaw set.
“That one bag?” Fitz repeated.
“Yes,” Danny replied, reluctantly.
“All right, that’s it then. MacLeod, there are three bags of gold left. There are three of us. You and I can choose to leave ours behind. If Danny chooses to burden himself with his, then we should let him be.”
“Hugh—” Danny began.
Fitzcairn turned on him. “There are three bags and three of us. I would think that would be clear.”
Danny’s blue eyes darkened. But he said no more.
There was no dawn to speak of, but a man could tell the time by the wheeling of the stars. When the hour was right, they started out, headed still north and a bit west.
All three bore full packs—the remaining food, fur robes and blankets, a pot or two, some basic tools. And the one bag of gold. The other two had been buried under the back of the cabin, by the area where the wood had been piled.
It had taken some time to dig through the frozen soil. Duncan had fretted the whole while, but Fitz’s appeal to diplomacy had struck a chord. So he lent his own diminishing strength to the effort, and finally the hole was deep enough to hold both bags.
As they walked away, Danny turned, as though he were bidding someone farewell. Then he shouldered his burden and followed the other two Immortals into the dark of the day.
Danny, sweet Danny, the brown-eyed angel crooned, her dark hair curling ‘round her ears. You needn’t worry your handsome head. My sisters and I will guard your gold.
“You’ll not be coming with me then?” Danny asked, a tremor in his voice. The angels laughed, all of them, swooping around him. Their laughter sounded like fine crystal shattering on stone.
Oh, Danny. They spoke as one. We’ll not leave you. We’re here for you. And there for the gold. You can trust us. We’re all you can trust. Remember …
They were gone, shimmering away. They left him with a sense of peace. He could trust his angels. He would remember.
Hours later, after they had camped for the night, Vixen appeared.
“Well, there you are, my fine beastie,” Fitz said. He ignored MacLeod’s frown and held out a bite of salted moose meat. The dog sniffed it, took it daintily. Then she yawned and settled at his feet.
“Finicky?” MacLeod crouched down beside them.
“Fed, I would say,” Fitz replied, patting her head. “Under the current circumst
ances, an educated nose is no doubt of more use in filling the belly then our opposable thumbs.” He held up his mittened hand and waggled his right thumb. Vixen shifted and thumped her tail, expectantly. Smiling, he began to pet her again, running his hand through her thick winter fur.
“Nonetheless, she’s lost some of her weight,” MacLeod offered. “Now that we’re on the move, do you think she’ll stay with us?”
“Yes. Yes, I do think so,” Fitz said slowly. “If she was going to answer—what was the term the Indian used?—the call of the wild? Well, if that were true, she wouldn’t be here at all.”
“It’s your way with the ladies, Fitz. Two-legged, four-legged—”
Fitz laughed. “True words, laddie. Remember that sorrel filly I had when we were in Naples? Bonita, her name was.”
“Oh, I remember,” MacLeod replied. “She stepped on my foot running to you for a bit of apple. Broke it, as I recall.”
Fitz shrugged. “When it comes to the fairer sex of any species, Highlander, if you can’t lead, then you must follow. Or get out of the way. If you’d only realized that two hundred years ago, I’d be with Gina now, instead of—”
“Instead of here with me,” MacLeod interrupted, “eager to go off into the forest and use your opposable thumbs to gather some wood.”
“Exactly why would I be eager to leave the warmth of the fire, might I ask?”
“If the dog is here to stay,” MacLeod answered, “we can build a rough sled and harness her. We’d make even better time without a load on our backs.”
Fitz rose. “Lead on MacLeod,” he said. Vixen opened one eye—the golden one—and looked up at him.
“Be at ease, beastie,” he instructed, as he grabbed the lantern. MacLeod fetched the hand ax, stopping for a minute to tell Danny what they were about. The two went off then about their business.
The dog settled back to sleep with a sigh of contentment in a nest of blankets that smelled of Hugh Fitzcairn.
Don’t even ask it, Danny-boy, the dark-eyed angel said.
“But with the brown dog here, all the gold can be carried,” he protested. “We’ve gone but a day—”
They’ll not go back, I’m telling you. They’re rich already, the both of them.
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