by Marlie May
My mind blanked from the frontal assault. “I…I’m just doing what needs to be done.”
“I saw you hauling bags of mulch around to Jolene’s back yard last evening.”
“You expect her to do it herself? She’s old. Her flowerbeds were in horrible shape.”
“It’s too much.”
I couldn’t understand why Paisley was bringing this up now since we’d lived with this norm for years. “I like helping Jolene.”
“This isn’t just about Jolene or about helping people. It’s…everything.” Paisley grumbled. “Why do you have to do all of it all the time?”
“It’s not always me. Other people chip in, too.”
“Who?”
“Ah…well, Harlon used to.”
“He and Mom moved away years ago. You’ve carried the full load since then.”
“Jolene appreciates the help.” The elderly woman told me so whenever I saw her.
“And she told me she wanted to hire a high school kid to do a few odd jobs around her place, but you wouldn’t let her.”
“That’s because I can do her odd jobs for her,” I said. “What did she mean specifically? Did she say?”
“Paint her trim. Repair her fence.”
“She doesn’t need to hire anyone for that.” I rose. “I’ll go talk to her about it right now. Set up a time to—”
Paisley snagged my sleeve as I stalked past. “Sit down.”
“I won’t take long.”
“Let her pay someone to do it,” she said through clenched teeth.
“I said I’ll take care of it for her.”
Paisley flung her arms into the air. “Will you take a second to listen to yourself?”
“This is stupid.” Two could play the arm flinging game. “If anyone’s not listening, it’s you. I want to do these things for Jolene. For all of us.”
“Don’t fool yourself into thinking this is about us. This is about you being in control.”
“This is not a power trip.”
“Isn’t it?” My sister’s perceptive eyes dared me to look away.
I slumped against the rail.
“I get why you do it,” she whispered.
How dare she confront me like this? My emotions had ridden a rollercoaster since…well, since that night I met Dag. Before that, I’d been fine. I’d been…in control.
I dropped into my chair and rubbed my face. “Where are you going with this, Paisley?”
My sister rubbed my arm. “I’m grateful for what you’ve done for the Foundation.”
“You know I do it for you.”
“When did I ask you to do it for me?” The defeat in Paisley’s voice made my heart ache. “No one said you needed to wear yourself out trying to be everything, not just for me, but for the entire neighborhood and the Foundation. You leave nothing for yourself.”
“What I’m doing for the Foundation is vital. I know it helps.”
“I think you’ve lost track of why you’re doing it.”
“I haven’t.” Projecting a stiff upper lip, I held in my sorrow. The last thing I wanted to do was break down in front of my sister. Like always, I had to be the strong one in the family. “They need the money.”
“You’re not the only one who can raise it for them,” she said softly. “You’re wearing yourself ragged. What do you run, ten, twenty miles a week?”
I picked at my cuticles, which were still ragged and sore from the last time I’d been at them. “More like thirty.”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, thirty miles a week. Why your bones haven’t splintered into a thousand pieces is beyond me.”
“If I don’t train, I can’t compete. Without low finishing times, I won’t qualify for big events.”
“So, you keep on running. On top of doing everyone’s odd jobs and working multiple hours a week to pay most of our bills.”
“You work, too.”
“Only twenty hours. It’s all I can do when I’m in school.”
“You’ve been sick. You don’t have to work at all if you don’t want to. I can do it for both of us. I’ll pick up more shifts at the diner and give you an allowance.”
She groaned. “I’m twenty-three freaking years-old. I don’t want you to give me an allowance.”
Realizing that I’d taken things too far, I reached out and took her hand. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s what I’m trying to get through to you.” Paisley pulled away and pressed her palm against her chest as if she needed to keep something vital from leaking out. “Maybe I want to do things for myself every now and then. Maybe I don’t want you taking care of me anymore.”
My voice fractured. “You don’t mean that.”
She opened her mouth to speak. Closed it. Opened it again. “Okay. You’re right. I don’t. From the moment my parents ditched me, you and your mom have been there for me. You’ve been the best big sister a girl could have. You climbed into bed with me at night when it thundered outside. Held my hand during every single chemo treatment. Told me to hold strong while we waited for them to find a donor for the transplant.” With a deep breath, she continued, “Tell me the truth. Did you cry when you found out we weren’t a match?”
With tears filling my eyes, I nodded. More than anything, I’d wanted to be the one to donate to Paisley. It should’ve been my marrow that saved my sister’s life. Instead, some woman we didn’t know had gotten that honor.
“Here’s the deal,” she said. “You need to slow down and back off being everyone’s savior. And let me live the life I’ve been given.”
“I want to be there for you.” To protect her from harm and keep the world from shoving her down its throat and spitting her back out again.
“Don’t you get it?” The anguish in her eyes brought my breath to a shuddering halt. “As long as you keep holding on to me, I can’t fly free. And I want to be free. To do something successful all by myself. Or crash if things don’t turn out right. I want to pick myself up, brush the dirt off my butt, and keep going.”
“I let you do that.” Together, we could—
“Alone.”
The word shattered me. How could I survive the pain? “Are you saying you’re leaving me?”
Paisley tumbled off her chair and knelt in front of me. I stiffened, but she made me surrender my hands to hers. “I’ll never leave you.” She leaned back, and our eyes locked together. “But I want to be seen as an equal, not a burden.”
I stroked the face of the sister I’d loved since Mom brought her home all those years ago. “You’ll never be a burden to me.”
“If we keep going like this, I will be.” Paisley’s head tilted forward, and her short blonde hair slid across her face. “I’d hate that more than anything.”
I struggled to smile because I’d dug this well of sorrow all on my own. “That’ll never happen.”
“Easy to say now, but when I’m eighty and wrinkled and my false teeth rattle in my mouth like lobster claws, you might have a different opinion.”
I laughed, and she joined in.
“I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me, but I think you’ve lost track of why you’re doing it.” Her shoulders stiffened. “I’m going to do my share from now on.”
“You’ve been sick.”
“I haven’t been sick for years.”
“But you could be again.” I gulped, hating to name it. “They said remissions don’t always last. I can’t lose you.”
Shaking a finger, she smiled softly. “I see what you’re thinking. But I’m not a fragile bird to be kept locked in a cage. Life will find me, even if you hide me away. You’ve got to open my door and let me fly.”
The words hit me harder than when I’d walked in on Ted.
By trying to be everything for Paisley—no, by doing everything for her, I’d held her back. She needed to live her life without me hovering over her all the time.
Maybe the rest of the world did, too.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
<
br /> “If you want to make up for it, you can start by taking this.” Pulling an envelope from her pocket, Paisley handed it to me.
I smoothed the creases on the surface. “What’s this?”
“Money to pay off Ted’s debt. It’s enough, right?”
A quick peek told me it was more than enough. Horrified, I thrust the envelope toward her. “You earned this money at the Y.”
“I’ve been saving for something special. I think this is the time to use it.”
“I can’t take it.”
“You will. It’s time to put Ted behind you so you can move on to someone new.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Someone wonderful.”
Dag.
“If the bill is paid in full, you’re free, right?” she said.
I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel without Ted’s debt hanging around my neck. No more monthly payments, no more berating myself every time I saw the balance that never seemed to drop.
Like always, my sister was right. Past mistakes had haunted me for too long.
Paisley wasn’t the only one who needed to fly free.
Dag
Dressed in full Scottish regalia, I stood in my bedroom, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
Like those brawny men in movies, I puffed my chest and posed.
“’Tis part of the challenge she’s laid out,” I said. “If she turns ye down, there’ll likely be other, less discerning lasses at the Brew House ye can impress.”
A different woman with brunette hair. Tropical blue eyes. A heart-shaped face.
The sweetest laugh I’d ever heard.
Plenty of women like that around town.
I tried to tell myself dressing like this again meant nothing. I just wasn’t ready to give up on Lark. The lure of her kisses kept me going. Her moans…well, I already knew what her moans did to me. All the time.
Scruff meandered into the bedroom and climbed the geriatric staircase I’d built when I discovered the cat could no longer jump onto the bed by himself. Fourteen was seventy-two human years. No wonder he was slowing down. Scruff sniffed the plastic that had covered the kilt. Deciding it was worthy, he circled on top of it before settling in the middle. Blinking up at me, he seemed to say, this will do and you can leave now.
Yeah, I needed to get to Lark’s place and put this plan into motion. As I tucked the garment bag inside the closet, I rationalized. I liked Lark. I wanted to get to know her better. That was all this was.
Scruff looked up as if to say, you keep on thinking that, buddy.
On principle, I gave him a sneer. In reality, I admitted this was different. I just wasn’t sure what to make of it.
But Lark…she made me think of a future. Together.
After grabbing my claymore from the closet, I drove out to Piney Meadows. I parked one street over from Lark’s place and went around to the trunk.
With a grin, I strapped on my claymore and lifted my brother’s guitar from its case. I’d borrowed it while Gunner was out of town. Not that I played the guitar, but I hung out drinking beer while Gunner played often enough. How hard could it be?
While stumbling around to the back of Lark’s trailer, I snagged my kilt on a bush and nearly ripped my leg off when I tripped. Who’d leave a wheelbarrow in the middle of a walkway?
I selected what I assumed was Lark’s window. They all looked alike, but the odds were in my favor.
My first two pebbles became soldiers lost to the cause, but the third pinged on the glass. A shadow crossed inside the room. I scrambled to assume a courtly pose and strummed the guitar. It sure didn’t sound the same as when Gunner played it, but I just needed to warm up. Find my groove. My odds improved with the fourth pebble on her window. Because cool. She lifted it open.
Tipping my head back, I sang, “Lark, oh Lark.”
Paisley poked her head out and chuckled when she saw me. “You’ve got the wrong window, lover boy.”
Damn. Figured. “Which one’s Lark’s?”
“Love the kilt, by the way.” She grimaced. “Not keen on your song, though.”
“Lark’s window, please?”
She giggled.
My sigh bled out when she did nothing but stare at me, her eyebrows high. “Where can I find Lark’s window?”
“Oh. On the front, furthest left from the door.”
“Thanks.” I gathered my stuff and strode toward the path, my kilt flapping on my legs, my ass feeling like it hung out for the world to see. I reached the front without falling over the rake someone had propped against the wall. Lark didn’t need a watchdog. She had enough booby-traps around to take out a SWAT team.
The pebble supply was limited out front, but I located some and started throwing them, finally hitting her window.
“Lark, oh, Lark,” I sang out.
Nothing.
I straightened my tartan. Lifted the guitar into position. Posed. This was it. My hands shook. Sweat sprang up along my forehead. Christ only knew why I was nervous. I needed to get over it. This would either work, or it wouldn’t. If it didn’t, I’d go home and think of something else to try.
The guitar made a harsh twang when I strummed it. “Lark, oh Lark.”
Where the hell was she?
Lifting my voice, I sang louder. “Lark, oh Lark.”
Just when I was ready to call it quits, the lass of my dreams opened the window and stuck her head out.
“What the…Dag?”
Lark
Lenore’s maid, Talia, hovered beside her, fluttering her chapped hands. “Whatever shall we do with him? He cannae remain here.”
Wounded, Duncan lay in Lenore’s bed. Thank the Lord she could trust Talia to remain silent. Only the steady rise and fall of Duncan’s chest gave her hope he’d live.
The dressing she’d secured at his waist seeped blood. With each drop, he grew paler.
She whispered as she stroked his dark auburn hair away from his forehead. He stirred at her touch. Groaned. “Please. Be well.”
“Lenore. Run!” His head thrashed on the pillow. “’Tis unsafe for ye here, lass.”
She’d see Eadric—the man she was expected to marry in three weeks’ time—dead for his treachery. Better to spend her days serving at Melrose Abbey than marry so cruel a man.
If he died…how could she bear knowing she was responsible?
Dag bolted upright, clutching his side. His stark gaze met hers. “Lark!”
My eyes popped open. For a moment, only my ragged breathing filled the room. In my dream, I’d lived a scene from book two, To Rescue A Highlander. Not long after this scene, Lenore was locked in her room to prepare for her wedding to Eadric, and Duncan was chained in the tower. Thankfully, Talia helped them escape into the moors.
The dream felt real. If I closed my eyes, I could picture Dag lying on the bed, his shirt stained with blood, calling my name—
Wait a minute.
Dag bolted upright, clutching his side. “Lark!”
My dream had started with the correct characters but ended with me and Dag. Why had I substituted us for Lenore and Duncan?
“Lark, oh, Lark.”
The call came from outside. Okay, that was weird.
“Lark, oh, Lark,” someone sang again. Off key and much too loud. They’d wake the neighbors.
I scrambled from the bed and lifted the window, sticking my head out. “What the…? Dag?” Was that my voice coming across like I’d run fifty miles?
“It is I.” He swept his arm wide and bowed. A sword clanked against his leg with the movement.
“I thought it was cats fighting.”
His palmed pressed against his chest. “Ye have wounded my verra heart, lass.”
Lass. I had to be dreaming.
“What are you doing here?” Besides standing outside my bedroom window looking hot enough to melt chocolate.
“I’m doing what ye willed me to do, lass.” He strode closer, the folds of his kilt shifting across his muscular thighs. Other than the guitar, he look
ed just the way I’d pictured Duncan in Revenge of the Highlander.
Was it wrong of me to wish Dag had come seeking some sort of revenge? That he’d do a little pillaging while he was at it? I fanned my face. It was steamy out tonight.
“Are you still talking like that?” There was nothing wrong with admitting to myself that I was glad he hadn’t given up.
He halted right in front of me, his lips spreading in a devilish grin. “I’ve come to woo ye, lass.”
This line came from book one, after Duncan and Lenore quarreled. What was the title of that one? For some reason, I couldn’t remember. All I could think about was how drool-worthy Dag looked.
“I…I…” I’d lost the connection between my tongue and my brain.
Dag’s eyes slid down my chest, and he swallowed. I didn’t wear much to bed, only a snug sleep tank and shorty shorts. I yanked the top forward but it plastered back into place, doing nothing to hide my response to his presence.
“Ye ken that a pretty face suits the dish-cloot,” he said in a heavy brogue.
“Dish-cloot? What does that mean?”
His shoulders fell. “Something about looking better than a dishcloth. Work with me here.”
“Is that like the kindergarten teacher nose thing? If so, I’m still coming up short. Only now you’re comparing me to a dishcloth. What’s she? A towel?” The bigger cloth had to equal a more impressive cloth.
“’Tis nay what I meant,” he said. “Ye look better than a dishcloth.”
“Better than a towel, too?” My grin kept slipping out, giving me away. Damn, this was fun. “I’m beginning to worry about the fabric comparison.”
Another sigh. “Let me get back to my song, lass?”
I rested my elbows on the sill, propping my chin on my hands. “The stage is yours.”
Dag strummed his guitar a few times.
I struggled not to cringe. “You haven’t taken lessons yet, have you?”
“Och, ye be hurting my pride, lass.”
“People don’t really talk like that in Scotland, do they? I think you’re making this language thing up.”