by Amy Vansant
Broch didn’t blame him, but he could never understand how someone could stand on the edge of a loch for hours, waiting for something as dumb as a fish to bite.
Rubbing his neck he recalled the girl he’d met at the inn.
Fiona.
He’d dreamt about her. She’d kissed him, and he’d kissed her back.
Ridiculous.
She wasn’t local. He’d probably never see her again.
He moved to the barrel where they kept water for washing. Keeping the barrel near the fire warmed the water and helped wash away the morning chill. He and his father kept the fire burning day and night.
Imagine if ah could wake in the morn’ and bathe my whole body in warm water.
He knew rich people sometimes took baths with water warmed by the fire. Some swore bathing opened the pores and let in sickness, but he didn’t feel sick when he bathed. He felt wonderful. Bathing couldn’t be wrong. He hoped to be rich enough to have servants draw him a bath each day, but knew there was little chance of that happening. Blacksmithing was an honorable trade, but not one likely to make him rich. Even if he stuck to his studies and became a teacher, he’d never have the money Gavin’s father made as a trader.
Unfortunately, business and trade held little interest for Broch.
As he dried his face on a rough cloth, his mind wandered again to the previous night’s dream. The soft brush of the girl’s lips still lingered on his neck.
He threw down the towel.
Get to work, ye raver.
Stoking the fire, he prepared a piece of iron and pounded the metal, his hammer whistling through the air as he played his rhythmic beat.
If he couldn’t have the woman in his dreams, at least he could wear himself out until he no longer cared.
The heat from the fire turned his flesh red. Sometimes, Brochan wished his adoptive father had been a farmer. For years, he’d had a recurring dream about tending a small plot of land for three older women. In each dream, the crops and seasons changed, but the women remained the same. So much so he’d come to feel as though he knew them as friends or mothers. In the dream, he liked working outdoors. The heat of the sun paled to the heat of the forge.
“I found you,” said a voice.
Brochan glanced from his work, sweat stinging his eyes. He wiped his arm across his face and blinked to bring his vision into focus.
A young woman with dark hair stood at the door of his father’s workshop.
Stepping back from the fire, he dipped the horseshoe on which he’d been working into a barrel of water. A dramatic burst of steam rose with an angry hiss and the girl yipped before breaking into giggles. The sound of her surprised whoop of laughter made him grin.
He recognized the girl from the inn—and his subsequent dream. Unwilling to appear too fervent to speak to her, he kept his face hidden from her and watched the steam rise for several seconds.
It’s just a lassie. Keep the heid, man.
He took a deep breath and glanced over his shoulder, trying to appear as casual as possible.
“Ah ken ye. Yer the lassie from the inn.”
She smiled. “And you’re the laddie from the inn.”
Feeling naked beneath her stare, he splashed water on his body and draped a cloth over his shoulder, across his chest. “Did ye need something? A horseshoe? A nail? Na, I ken—a sword?”
She chuckled. “No. I was in town and saw you here.”
Really? Whit a coincidence. Ah just dreamt we made love beneath the stars.
He pressed his lips together and looked askance, finding it difficult to look into her eyes with such scandalous dreams running through his mind. Facing away from her, he felt emboldened, as if being unable to see her meant she could no longer see him.
“Have ye ever met someone, and thought fer sure ye’d met afore?” he asked, keeping his eyes riveted to the wall as he pretended to straighten his tools.
Her answer came quickly. “Yes. Have you?”
He turned and locked eyes with her. “Aye. Just yesterday, fer the first time. Dae ye think—”
Blushing a furious red, she looked down, pulling a white kerchief from a basket hanging from her arm. The kerchief was folded, creating what looked like a tiny sack.
“Have you ever had pecans?” she asked, cutting him short.
He noted her coloring and frowned.
Ah’m being tae forward. Ah’m terrifying the lass. Answer her question and let her change the subject.
“Ah’ve heard of them. Gavin—he was at the inn with me—he’s had them afore.”
“I did see you with another man at the inn. Where was that friend when you were attacked by those brutes?”
Brochan grinned. “Where he usually is. Far away and flirtin’ with the lassies.”
They stared at one another, dopey grins on their faces, until he felt the urge to straighten his tools once more. “Are ye sure ah can’t make you something?”
Through furtive glances he watched her set the kerchief bundle on her hand and open the four corners to reveal several brown, rugged nuts.
“Would you like a pecan?” she asked.
He peered at her offering.
“Aye?”
She nodded. “My father has them sent from America.”
“Would yer father lik’ ye offering his American nuts tae a sweaty apprentice blacksmith?”
He regretted asking the moment the words left his mouth. He’d only meant to be funny, but it sounded as if he were accusing her of scandalous behavior.
She offered him a sly smile. “No. Perhaps not. But I find it best not to share everything with him.”
Och.
Perhaps the rumor that American girls possessed uncommonly bold natures was true. But she wasn’t lascivious, like Gavin’s lassies.
No. The spark in Fiona’s eye wasn’t flirtation.
It was defiance.
Brochan took a deep breath.
Ah think ah love this lass.
Taking one of the pecans from her palm, he placed it in his mouth. Crunching, his mouth filled with a nutty flavor touched with a hint of what reminded him of maple syrup, another American delicacy that Gavin’s father had allowed him to taste.
He found the girl staring at him, her expression one of expectation. He’d recognized her beauty at the inn, but here, with the early morning sun on her hair, he found her breathtaking.
“Well? Do you like them?” she asked.
He nodded. “Ye hae one.”
“Me? Why?”
He smiled. “Because then I’ll know what your lips taste like.”
She blushed. “Oh, sir. You’re a rapscallion.”
He put his hands on his chest. “Me? Na. Ye just inspire me tae be honest.”
“I suppose that’s a good thing.”
“So, tell me this. Dae ye always bring strange men treats?”
“Certainly not.”
“Sae ah’m special?”
She smirked and looked away, peering into the sky, her hand shading her eyes. He watched the amusement on her countenance evaporate in the morning sun.
“I’ve got to go,” she said.
“Noo?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lingered. I need to get the bread back to my father. He’s waiting for me.”
She offered a wave and scurried away as he leapt to the front of the shop to watch her go.
Climbing into a black carriage with extravagant gold scrollwork on the door, she paused to glance his way and flash a smile.
He grinned. “Come visit any time,” he called after her.
“Who are ye talking tae?”
Broch turned to find Gavin standing behind him.
“Na one.”
“That was the girl from the inn last night, wasn’t it?”
Brochan shrugged. “She wanted a cost on a set of horseshoes.”
“Be sure to up yer asking. She’s rich.”
“Aye?”
“Well, nae as rich as me. But
word is her da made a penny in America.”
Brochan mulled over this. “Did ye ever hae a pecan?”
“Huh?”
He shrugged and turned to his work. “Never mind.”
“She’ll be at my da’s dance tomorrow if ye fancy her.”
“Wha? Fiona will? Howfur?”
“She’s friends with one of the lassies wha’s friends with mah sister. That’s how come she stuck in mah head.”
Broch scowled. “Whit dae ye mean, stuck in yer head?”
“Ah overheard the lassies talking aboot her, blethering aboot a new friend with gorgeous hair and blue eyes.” He flounced his hair in a feminine fashion to pantomime how much the girls had gushed. “Obviously, it’s her.”
“Aye. Go on.”
“It seems this lassie’s da is hard. The sort of mad brute only America kin make. But he’ll be oot of town the night of the dance, so they’ve hatched a plan tae bring her along.”
“Ye dinnae say.”
“I dae say. Should ah take that as a confirmation of yer invitation? Will this be the first time ye grace us with yer presence at one of da’s balls?”
Broch shrugged. “Ah dinnae hae the clothes fer it.”
“Ah’ll lend ye some.”
Brochan peered down at his much shorter friend. “Yer clothes? Ah’d look lik’ Hannibal’s elephant dressed in trousers.”
“Ah’ll lend ye da’s. Ah took after mah maw. That’s why ah’m so pretty.”
He framed his face with his hands and Broch rolled his eyes.
Gavin punched him on the arm. “If ah find ye clothes, ye promise tae come. Aye?”
Broch grimaced. “Aye. If ye can find me clothes—proper clothes—ah’ll come tae yer party.”
Gavin smiled. “Consider it done.”
Chapter Sixteen
Six-year-old Toby Crane huddled in the corner of the windowless room and wiped his forehead against his Transformers t-shirt. It was hot. The floor and walls of the dark room were covered in mattresses and a standing fan balanced on one of them, its cord threading through a tiny hole in the wall. He’d inspected the hole, tried to call through it, but the cord nearly plugged the space.
So hot.
The fan moved the air but there was no vent, only a small cut in the ceiling, the same size as the fan cord-hole. That hole provided him his only light. The sun looked like a laser streaming through to the mattress below. He’d played with it for a while, running his hand through the beam.
Mostly he cried.
One end of the box-like room had a cutout that looked like a door, but it couldn’t be opened from the inside. Pillows were glued to that spot, whereas mattresses ran along the rest of the walls.
An empty bucket with a lid sat in the corner. Toby had thought about peeing in it, but he wasn’t sure that’s what it was for. He was scared that if he used it as a toilet it might anger the man who’d brought him to this place.
He wouldn’t be able to wait much longer.
Toby was exhausted from crying. At first he’d cried from fear. Then, something inside him said that if he cried long and hard enough, someone would come to return him to his father. When that didn’t work, he’d fallen asleep, only to wake up with his eyes swollen and his throat dry and sore.
The air had been cooler and the room darker when he fell asleep. Now, it was hot again.
He jumped at the sound of a metal clanging and realized it was the sound of a latch. The pillow-door creaked opened and a long, thin arm pushed a gallon of water onto the mattress in front of the door.
It was a lady’s arm.
“Let me out! I want to go home!” he screamed, crawling on his hands and knees towards the door. The lady tossed in a white plastic bag and slammed shut the door.
“Let me out!”
A panic built in his chest. He banged on the padded door.
Pushing aside the water, he grabbed one of the pillows padding the door and peeled it away by hanging all his weight from it. The fabric tore and stuffing rained to the ground.
Exposing the metal of the door, he banged his fists against it. Impressed by the noise, he continued, demanding to be set free.
Maybe the lady doesn’t know I’m in here. She didn’t see me.
His arms had nearly tired when the door jerked open and he fell forward onto the dirt, skinning the palms of his hands. He yipped in surprise and pain. Large hands grabbed him around his chest and a cloth covered his face.
A man’s voice hissed in his ear. “You think you’re smart? You think you’re funny making all that racket?”
He tried to wriggle away but the man pressed his face harder into the cloth and everything went black.
Chapter Seventeen
Brochan awoke at nine-thirty, surprised to find Catriona hadn’t gathered him for work. He’d been up late, skulking around Owen’s house and talking to Asher. Without enjoying a drop of Scotch, he felt vaguely hungover. Which reminded him—
Ask Catriona aboot Scotch fae the apartment.
Might be nice to have a nip or two, now and again.
A sweet, brown-sugar scent reached his nostrils and his gaze settled on the mess of pecan pie sitting beside his bed.
Pecans.
His fertile dreamlife still had the tendrils of an illusion weaving through his brain. He’d been roaming nineteenth century Edinburgh once more, without ever leaving his bed.
Probably. He wasn’t sure what was real anymore.
Fiona. Pecans. Something aboot a dance...
Rubbing his hands over his face, Broch stretched his neck, both grateful and worried that Catriona had left him to sleep. On one hand, he wanted to avoid her. Her presence confused him. He hoped his memory would soon return and he would know, once and for all, if he’d left behind a lover.
On the other hand, he couldn’t deny his feelings for Catriona. He wanted to be near her. The feelings she inspired in him were like no other—with the exception of his dream love.
Fiona felt too real to be nothing more than a dream.
To pledge his love to Catriona when Fiona might be waiting for him—it would be cruel to do such a thing, for all involved.
From what Sean said, he couldn’t go back in time to find Fiona. But he could investigate whether or not Owen’s Fiona was also his Fiona. Perhaps she’d lost her memory as well. The moment he’d met her he’d felt the recognition between them.
He needed to talk to her.
Broch hopped in the shower, wrapped his kilt around his waist, slipped into a tee and took the elevator downstairs.
“Ooh. Good morning you sweet, Scottish toffee.” said Jeanie, the office receptionist. She clapped her hands together and her glasses, hanging from a chain around her neck, bounced atop her pendulous bosom.
“Mornin’,” said Broch, responding to the only part of her sentence that he understood.
Jeanie offered an exaggerated sigh. “I just love that accent of yours. Ooh! Say top of the mornin’ to you.”
A man standing in the corner of the room in dirt-speckled clothes huffed a laugh that ruffled his large gray mustache.
“That’s Irish people that say that, you ditz. He’s Scottish.”
“You shush. Close enough.” She dismissed the man with a wave and stared at Broch like a child awaiting a candy. “Go on. Do it. Top of the morning to you.”
Broch winced. “Uh, tap of the mornin’ tae ye?”
“Yes! I love it. I could just eat you alive.” Hooting with glee, Jeanie returned her attention to her computer screen.
Broch took a stride toward the door and Jeanie sprung to life once more.
“Oh. I almost forgot. I have a message for you from Cat. She said to stick around the lot and she’d be back for you later.
Broch frowned. He’d hoped to call a car and see if he could find Fiona.
The mustachioed man placed his mug in the sink of the office kitchenette and approached Broch.
“You as strong as you look?” he asked.
B
roch shrugged. “Howfur strong dae ye think ah am?”
“Very,” mumbled Jeanie, never glancing from her keyboard.
The man scowled at her and then continued. “Tell you what. I’ve got about a million bags of beach sand I need to unload out there and my man didn’t show up for work again today. Damn hippie, pot-smokin’ piece of—” The man’s face grew red, his volume rising until he cut short and sniffed. “Nevermind. Not your problem. But if you have time to kill, could I interest you in helping an old man?”
Broch considered the offer and decided the work might help him to clear his mind. “Aye. Ah kin dae that.”
“Great. My name’s Harry,” The man thrust out a hand and eyeballed Broch’s kilt. “You want to change first?”
Broch shook his hand. “Na.”
The man eyeballed Broch’s kilt a moment longer before nodding and headed for the door. “Later, Jeanie-Bean.”
“Bye Kilty,” called Jeanie.
Harry stopped and turned. “Will you listen to that? She’s been flirting with me for twenty-five years and now she’s only got eyes for you.” He scowled at Broch, poking a finger. “She’s my wife. You keep your big Scottish hands off her.”
Broch gaped at him, unsure of what to say. They remained, locked in a stare, until Harry broke into a broad grin and slapped him on the arm. “I’m kidding. She’d never have you. She likes mustaches.”
He winked at Jeanie and she threw him a kiss.
“Bye Kilty,” she repeated as Harry walked away.
Broch raised a hand in farewell and stepped into the California sun.
An hour later, the sun seemed less delightful. Broch squinted at it, wiping his brow. Where were the clouds? How could there be a place without clouds?
The world has changed.
Hauling the bagged beach sand from Harry’s truck had been the perfect job to keep him busy, but Broch hadn’t counted on Harry disappearing. Before leaving, the old man said he’d been called to another job, but Broch never saw him receive a phone call or talk to anyone.
Without Harry to chatter to, his mind wandered back to his dreams. It drove him mad that his sleeping fantasies were appropriating his waking life. Normally, he wouldn’t give his reveries another thought, but now it seemed clear that his dreams served as a bridge to his former life.