by Amy Vansant
He smiled.
Chapter Six
Catriona tossed her purse onto Sean’s kitchen table with a clattering of carelessly stowed sunglasses scratching against loose change and lipsticks. She spotted the top of Sean’s head through the kitchen window and leaned across the sink to get a better view.
He sat on his porch with whiskey in hand. No sign of Brochan in sight.
She took a deep breath. Quiet time with Sean had become a minefield since Broch showed up and their family’s time-traveling history began to spill. Last time they talked, Sean told her, as a little girl, she sometimes popped from one room to another.
Why he didn’t have me exorcised by a priest, I don’t know.
She had no popping powers as an adult. That was a good thing. She could think of a few times she might have made a real ass of herself if given the chance. Popping into a cheating boyfriend’s apartment unannounced, for example.
Her photographic memory proved the only remnant of those unique abilities. Sean suggested her mind had the ability to pop back and revisit a memory any time she needed it. Sort of quasi-time travel, where only her memory flew back for a refresher.
Which she had to admit was pretty cool.
She opened the sliding door to join Sean.
Here we go.
“How’s the big guy?” she asked, taking a seat on the opposite side of the patio table.
Sean smirked and shook his head. “It’s been quite a day.”
“What happened?”
“Well, it seems our friend Dr. Pete told Broch his man-parts were too big and he needed to cut them off so it would look more like his.”
Catriona, who’d been allowing the sparkling turquoise blue of Sean’s pool to hypnotize her away from her day, felt her attention yanking back to the present. She turned away from the dancing glow of the underwater light with a snort of laughter.
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“Nope. Told him his member would terrify you, specifically. Not that I wanted to hear about any of that.”
Catriona slapped her hand to her chest. “Me? How did I enter that inane conversation?”
Sean smirked. “I would imagine because Pete fancies you. He wanted to hobble the competition with insecurities.”
“Psht.” Catriona rolled her eyes. “Pete isn’t after me. We’ve even talked about our mutual lack of interest.”
“I suspect one of you was lying. But the important part is Broch—who was hopped up on nine pain pills at the time because no one’s ever explained to him the concept of overdosing—had a meltdown in the waiting room, wailing he didn’t want to cut off his willy.”
Catriona covered her face with her hand, cackling.
“Please dinnae cut aff mah pee pee,” she aped.
Sean barked a laugh, setting down his glass to keep from spilling. “I think a couple of the gentlemen in the waiting room got up and left. The rest just crossed their legs.”
Catriona’s waning laughter whipped into round two. “They thought every man admitted had their junk snipped?”
“Wait, didn’t he come in with a gunshot wound in the back?” asked Sean, pretending to be a waiting room patron.
Catriona wiped away her tears. “Stop. I can’t take it.” She sniffed and took a deep breath. “Ooh...oh boy. Okay. He’s good now?”
Sean nodded. “He’s sleeping. I made him throw up at least four of the pills and the dosage wasn’t high.”
“Did you make him an appointment with a rabbi for his adult extreme-makeover bris?”
“I’ll do that first thing in the morning.”
Catriona giggled again and stood. “I need a drink.”
Sean pushed the bottle towards her. She ducked inside to grab a glass and returned to pour herself a healthy shot.
“I have some news to share as well, but it isn’t half as funny,” she said, taking a sip. The tension in her shoulders began to ease.
“What’s that?”
“I left the hospital because Fiona texted me to come pick her up from jail.”
Sean cocked his head. “A woman you barely know, who drugged Broch before he had the chance to drug himself, texted you?”
“Yep.”
“When did you give her your number?”
“Never. But remember, she was with a semi-conscious Broch for an evening. She could have easily gone through his phone.”
“Good point. What did she want?”
“Well, that’s the funny part. Mostly, it seemed she wanted a ride home. But then implied she’s a bit of a time-bender herself—and, oh—that she’s my sister and our father is looking for us.”
Sean’s expression fell slack. “What?”
Catriona nodded. “That was my reaction, more or less. She also implied that she and I being in the same place would make it easier for him to find us. And from her tone, I’m guessing that’s not a good thing for anyone.”
Sean sat back. “Like he’s drawn to you both somehow?”
“I was hoping you’d know. Is that a thing with you people? I mean, us people?”
“If it is, it’s above my pay grade. Though, I’ve often wondered the chicken-and-the-egg thing with Broch being here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Was I sent to this place because Broch was destined to show up years later? Or was he sent here because I was here?”
Catriona grimaced. “I don’t think you have enough whiskey for us to get into that one tonight.”
“Probably not. What else did Fiona say?”
Catriona shrugged. “Nothing. She walked into her house and shut the door.”
“You didn’t follow her?”
Catriona chuckled. “When men go crashing through people’s doors to get answers, they look like tough guys. When women do it, we look like lunatics. Either way, we all end up in jail. I wasn’t going to give her the opportunity to call the cops on me.”
Sean nodded slowly. “Very wise. Women should probably be in charge of the world.”
“Duh.”
They sat staring at the pool in silence for several minutes. Catriona was grateful for the peace. It had been a very odd day.
When he finished his glass, Sean stood. “I’m going to retire. I assume you’re staying here?”
She nodded.
“Tomorrow I’ll do a little digging into Fiona Duffy. She’s never been more than a blip on my radar. Maybe she deserves a little more scrutiny.”
“Maybe she deserves a good kick in the lady balls.”
Sean smiled and kissed the top of her skull. “I’m thinking it’s a good thing you weren’t drinking whiskey when you met her today.”
Sean opened the slider and Catriona reached out to touch his wrist.
“Hey. You’d tell me if you knew anything more about my history, wouldn’t you? Anything else about any of us?”
He patted her fingers with his opposite hand.
“Of course I would.”
She stared at him, trying to read his inscrutable expression.
Hopeless. Nothing to do but believe him.
With a final smile, he disappeared inside the house.
Catriona remained seated for the rest of her drink. It felt as though the turquoise pool water, sparkling beneath the desert moon, should inspire epiphanies about fate and time, mysteries and love. Instead all it did was make her sleepy.
Or maybe that was the whiskey.
She pushed her glass into the center of the table and stood, reaching to the sky to stretch her back. She wasn’t of the mind to solve mysteries tonight. For all she knew, Fiona was a nut. She’d been a suspect in a kidnapping and she’d date-drugged Broch. The bitch had been floating around Hollywood as a B-list actress and tabloid temptress for some time. She didn’t work for Parasol, so they’d never had a reason to meet until Fiona’s recent nefarious involvement in their last job. In Catriona’s opinion, she’d gotten off easy with a couple days in jail.
Catriona’s gaze drifted to the stars t
hat were clearly visible in the un-light-polluted desert sky. She did her best to let it all go...stress…confusion…suspicions…
She wandered inside, weaving through the kitchen and into the hallway without the need to turn on a light. She’d grown up in the little house with Sean and could walk the rooms blindfolded.
Heading down the hall she passed the guestroom, pausing to peek inside.
Broch lay on his stomach, sound asleep beneath a thin layer of covers. She watched the steady rise and fall of his back.
What do you know, you big slab of Scottish haggis?
Did he know more than he’d shared with her? Was he up to something?
She chewed on her lip, considering.
He did take a bullet for me...
But that was the oldest trick in the book, wasn’t it? Take a bullet for someone so they’ll believe anything you say?
Maybe not. Seemed like a pretty extreme way to gain someone’s confidence.
With a grunt, Catriona headed for her bedroom
I’m watching you, Highlander.
Chapter Seven
Edinburgh, Scotland. 1833.
Broch stared at the ceiling of his adoptive father’s blacksmith forge.
It had been a year since they buried Catriona. He’d been holding her in his arms when her father shot her. Broch suspected her father had been aiming for him, but he’d never had the chance to find out. The man had disappeared. Broch guessed he’d left Scotland and returned to America, abandoning the body of his own daughter for fear he’d be dragged to jail and hanged.
With no one to tend to the girl, Broch claimed the body, though he’d only known Catriona for a week.
The time didn’t matter. He’d loved her. Of that he was certain.
Broch had never buried anyone before. His friend, Gavin, had talked to his rich father and the old man offered Broch a lair on the family land. They had a small service with candles and a fine meal, where Broch pushed beef around his plate until it was time to go.
Nearly a year ago.
Things never felt the same.
How many nights had he watched the light from the fire dance on his ceiling, feeling as though his chest would crack clean open? Anchored by sadness, any dreams of travel had died with Catriona. Any joy he’d found pounding metal for his father had dissipated. Gone was the thrill of completing a sword behind his father’s back. The news that he’d graduated from apprentice to blacksmith had barely raised his pulse. The old man was in ill-health and had bestowed all his responsibility upon his boy. Now each day Broch performed by rote.
What was the point of anything without Catriona?
Something rustled in the corner of the shop and Broch rolled over, certain he’d find a rodent creeping toward his hay-stuffed kip. Enough of the local folk paid his father with meat and milk so they had no need to keep animals themselves. Broch felt grateful to not have to share his bed with livestock. He had friends much less well-to-do than Gavin who lived in croft houses with their families and their animals, all of them stuffed in the same windowless box.
Broch’s eye traced the curve of a shadow standing in the corner of the room.
It was no rat.
His eye adjusting to the dying light of the fire, he watched as a fair-faced young man appeared from the darkness, as if rising from a darkened loch.
“Who are ye?” asked Broch.
The man raised a knife and whispered. “Stay in your bed.”
Broch’s eyebrows hoisted like the sails of a ship. “Ye’re American?”
“Just stay there.” The figure inched toward the door, still brandishing the knife in his direction.
Broch stood, suspecting his initial assessment of the intruder had been wrong.
“I said stay there!” hissed the trespasser.
“Ye sound lik’ someone ah ken.”
Broch lunged forward and the figure did the same, blade slashing. Broch dodged the point and caught the wrist of the hand holding the weapon, pushing it and his midnight visitor against the wall with a clattering of pots and tools.
“Brochan?” called the old blacksmith from his bedroom in the back of the shop.
Broch pressed his body against the intruder’s, certain now that his guess had been correct. It was no fair-faced young man robbing his blacksmith shop.
It was a woman.
“Be quiet,” he whispered in her ear. “Ah willnae harm ye.”
He called to the back of the shop. “Sorry Da, ah wis up takin’ a pish.”
“Och. Mind yerself.” The old man grunted.
Brochan returned his focus to the butterfly he’d pinned to his wall. The whites of her wild eyes nearly glowed in the dark.
Leaning hard against her to keep her still, he twisted the knife from her hand and pulled at her wrist, dragging her through the door and into the outdoor workshop area.
The moment they stepped into the cool evening the girl twisted, desperate to break free.
“You’re hurting me,” she whined.
“Hold, ’n‘ it wilnae hurt.”
“What do you want?”
“Whit dae ah want? Ah want tae ken whit yer doin’ in mah home.”
The girl sniffed, copping what he felt a haughty air for a common criminal.
“I’m hungry. I was looking for food.”
“Thare's a tavern doon thare. Ye hae na coin?”
“No, I hay nah coin. Why would I creep around your sad little hovel if I had money?”
Broch scowled. “Ye’d dae weel nae tae mock the fowk who’s land yer in, American.”
It was darker outside than it had been in the house, but he thought he saw the young woman roll her eyes. Her fire reminded him of Catriona.
“Are all wummin fae America as saucy as ye?” he wondered aloud.
She smiled. “There are no women in America like me.”
“Ah hae an argument wi’ ye oan that point.” Brochan released her wrist and she rubbed it with her opposite hand but did not run. He motioned for her to leave.
“Git oot.”
She remained rooted in her spot, so close to him he could hear her breathing.
“I still haven’t solved my problem. I need food.”
Brochan found it difficult not to laugh. “Och, whit ahm ah thinkin’? Where are mah manners. Shuid ah tak’ ye inside and cook ye a meal?”
“You could take me to the tavern, but first you should put on some britches.”
Broch glanced down and realized he’d leapt from his kip stark naked to trap the intruder.
He grimaced, though he remained mildly amused by his own oversight. He had to admit, this evening was the first he’d felt some semblance of his old self.
“Aye. I kin dae that.”
He opened the door and strode back inside to grab his kilt and a shirt. Glancing over his shoulder to be sure the thieving woman wasn’t peeking in his door, he lifted a pot sitting on another and pulled some coins from inside the second. He slipped the money into his leather sporran and returned outdoors.
“Och, yer still here,” he said, pretending to be disappointed.
The woman leaned against his workbench, her arms crossed against her chest as if annoyed he’d made her wait. He’d expected her to run, but on second thought, supposed the bandit didn’t have a reason to flee since he’d just agreed to buy her supper.
How she’d transformed from a robber to a dinner date, he wasn’t sure.
Without pause he strode towards the tavern.
“Follow me.”
She scurried up beside him.
“So you’ve met American girls before?” she asked.
He sighed. “Aye. Seems the town is choked wi’ thaim lately.”
He reached the door of the Sheep Heid Inn and jerked it open to enter. Only the bartender and two men playing cards in the corner remained from the early evening rush.
A man sat behind the bar, his eyes closed, his head resting on his hand. The lamp’s light dipped into the pocked surface of hi
s bald skull.
“Kin we git somethin’ tae eat, John?” Brochan asked. John always appeared asleep, but rarely was.
True to form, the man shook his head without opening his eyes. “Cook’s lang gaen.”
Broch turned and stared into the haunted eyes of the woman behind him. Though her dark hair had been chopped nearly as short as a boy’s, and hunger had replaced the feminine curve of her face with sharp angles, in the brighter light of the tavern, there was no mistaking his intruder for a boy. She filled her shirt in ways no boy ever could.
As he studied the lines of her face, he felt the tendrils of a creeping realization.
She looks lik’ Catriona.
There was no mistaking it. The full lips, the stormy green eyes, pale complexion and dark hair—there were differences, certainly, but—
The girl put her hands on her hips and stared back at him. “Are you going to stand there staring at me, or are you going to buy me some food?”
He sighed.
At the sound of the woman’s voice, John’s eyes opened and he straightened in his seat. Broch looked at him, silently begging for assistance.
John yawned. “Tell ye whit. If ye promise nae tae stay lang, ah will pat together some meat and bread fur ye. Then ahm needin’ tae close up.”
John’s eyes had locked on the girl. No doubt, he, too, had been struck by her tragic beauty and been inspired to feed her.
Broch nodded. “Aye. Thank ye. We willnae be lang.”
“Ale as well?”
“Aye. Twa.”
Broch moved to a table on the opposite side of the bar from the card players. The men watched them with steady interest. Broch held the stare of one to be sure the patron understood he wanted no interference. With a sniff, the man returned his attention to his hand.
Broch sat and the girl took a place across from him.
“Sae, who are ye?” he asked.
She tossed her hair from her eyes. “Fiona.”
Broch struggled to keep his composure. Fiona had been the name he’d known Catriona by until the last moments of her life. Her father had dubbed her so, though he didn’t understand why.
“Ahm Brochan.”
“Nice to meet you.” Her eyes darted back to the bar, searching for any sign of the man arriving with food.