Saving Time

by Jenn Lees

  Thanks, Mindy Graham, my ever-supportive critique partner and cyber-friend. We’ll meet in person one day.

  To my beta readers, our daughter Gill, Jill Williams, Ileana Noble and Natasha Campbell. I’m grateful for the time you’ve put in reading my roughs and all your helpful comments.

  Our daughter, Emma, who gave valuable input and has a line editor’s eye.

  My thanks to the judges of the Romance Writers of Australia’s competitions who gave advice on Rory and Siobhan’s first kiss and the first 10 000 words. Also, to the judges of Ink & Insights 2018 for their comments on the manuscript.

  I would like to acknowledge my long-suffering family and friends who listened to me talking about my book—again.

  And wonderful Scotland, you are a constant source of inspiration.

  Finally, to my husband, for his patient endurance while I spend so much time with the people in the worlds in my head.

  I trust you will see some of yourself in my brave heroes.

  Jenn

  RESTORING TIME: COMMUNITY CHRONICLES BOOK 4

  PART ONE

  Strange what a lack of sunlight can do.

  The high mountains surrounding their secluded glen are a darker-brown, a duskier-green, and little heather blooms its purple this year.

  The cloud-kissed mountains maintain their usual cloak of grey; now deeper; now darker.

  They swirl in front of the weaker sun; its insipid light struggles to break through the cloak the Earth now wears.

  He walks through the field of oats with hands held down, palms forward beside his thighs and fingers splayed.

  His habit at harvest time—to stroke the plants and guess the yield.

  Like sailing in a wee boat, trailing his hands in the silky water of a still loch.

  The stalks are thigh high but sparse. The glossy heads hanging from each thin stalk are less than last year, and the oat grass grows yet thinner.

  Rory lifts his head and sighs.

  It is the time of shadows.

  Chapter One

  Invercharing Community Compound

  Two and a Half Months after Summer Solstice 2061

  Plastic sheeting, shredded through by the wind, covered the eastern window. They’d used the last of the silver duct-tape patching the sheets of old plastic and tarps which covered the doorways and the larger windows of the Invercharing Community Compound. Hay bales line the outside walls for extra insulation against the dispersing nuclear fallout cloud which had made a slow way to the northern hemisphere and, hopefully, was now dissipating to nothing.

  Rory stomped through the walkways and halls of the Compound. His shoulders tensed, and his neck had an ache that went right up into his head. Two months being couped up inside was teeth-gritting.

  The annoying thing was, outside the autumnal sun shone on the mountains lining either side of their isolated glen. Green, windswept mountains beckoned to him through cracks in the plastic sheeting, which covered the east side windows of the main building. His stallion, Boy, paced his stall that very morning. Vexed and whinnying, he tossed his head and stomped a hoof at the lack of exercise as Rory brushed him down.

  Rory took a long pull of air. Surely the nuclear fallout cloud—what there was of it—should have passed by now? That’s if it even spread up this far. But Siobhan was adamant they had to stay inside in case their intel wasn’t accurate enough—the Scottish Government’s intel, from whatever source they could find. They did have more links to the outside world than his isolated Community in the North Western Highlands, that was for certain.

  Every day confined to the compound was one less day with Siobhan. The heart-wrenching, gut-churning feeling began again. Rory clenched his fists by his sides. If that Bethany Watts didn’t let Siobhan go as soon as it was safe to travel—he didn’t care whose Prime Minister she was—.

  “Rory.” Kendra’s voice came from right behind him.

  “Och!” He spun. “Will ye desist from sneaking up on a man!”

  “Sorry, boss.” Kendra flinched, and her eyes widened as she took a step back. “It’s just the natives are restless again.” She flicked her long, dark plait over her shoulder, regaining her warrior-like composure.

  Rory shook his head. The bandits who’d agreed to behave themselves had come to the Compound when they sent out the message that the cloud of nuclear fallout headed their way. There were bandits, and there were bandits. Four of the local bands, ones of the more human kind, had responded and pledged their best behaviour and settled into the outer buildings of the Community’s compound. Under guard, of course. Rory had even managed to track down Webster and his clan of nomads and offered them safe-shelter and hospitality in exchange for the return of all they’d stolen from Rory and his crew on their way back from Loch Ewe—including his father’s rifle.

  That was almost a lifetime ago. Well, a long two-and-a-half months, anyway.

  “So? Boss?”

  “Oh, aye. Let them go.” Rory released a sigh. “I dinnae blame them. We are nae sure the air’s clear but if they want tae take the risk, I’ll no’ prevent them.”

  Kendra raised her dark brows. “Right, boss. I’ll tell them to pack up.”

  “No, it’s okay, Kendra. I’ll do it.”

  The make-shift enclosed walkway from the main buildings to the Community’s largest barn was barely holding together. The breeze coming through gaps brushed Rory’s cheek as he passed the iron sheeting and bales of hay which comprised the tunnel-like structure. The sound of angry voices came from the barn ahead of him. In between comments holding annoyance and discontent, Callum’s deep tones rumbled to him.

  “Och, here he is,” Callum said as Rory stepped through the door-within-a-door to the barn. Rory’s twin brother’s expression, in an identical pale face dusted with ginger freckles, was one of relief, his hunched shoulder’s easing themselves down as Rory approached.

  Rory turned on the packed-earth floor of the large barn where they usually sheltered stock for the winter, having now crammed the animals into another of the large sheds to make room for the human guests. Bales of hay lined the walls and, again, tarpaulins covered any gaps. Rory faced the crowd of bandits. Those who hadn’t come when invited would’ve hunkered down in the caves of the mountains and hoped for the best.

  This group was a mixture of previously independent bands of men and women who lived and roamed the local countryside. Rory had realised that bandits were not all the violent thieves and murderers he’d thought they were. These thieved and poached anything they could to survive and sell to each other or on the black market, but they did it without too much trouble. Rory snorted. Why they always called it the black market, he’d never know. Nothing was official. Most things were black market now, apart from what people could honestly grow and glean from the land or make for themselves, like those in the Community system did.

  “I believe ye are all wantin’ to leave.”

  The crowd of bandits responded with angry and defensive comments.

  Rory raised his hand. “Can ye decide on a representative to come and speak with me, please?”

  The shouting settled down and Micah McNair, the leader of the largest group to stay with them, stepped forward. He wore his hair in dreadlocks, not from a sense of fashion, more from the lack of personal grooming. He was a tall man in his late thirties who looked like he belonged on a beach. His dreads were sun bleached and his face tanned—or was it just dirt? The bandit groups lived an outdoor life for most of the year, and it had been a good summer. Out of all of them, Micah would be the man Rory would trust the most, if trust could come into a relationship with a bandit.

  “Micah, I’ll give each person two days rations and you may leave when you are ready.”

  “Two days?” Micah double blinked. “But you guys have storehouses full o’ stuff.”

  “And how would you ken that, then?”

  “We assume.” Micah stood taller, flicked his leather jacket aside and placed a hand on his belt. This action u
sually revealed a weapon. The Community had confiscated the bandits’ weapons on entry and would return them when they left. Micah’s gesture revealed a well-worn, handmade leather accessory bereft of its usual holster.

  “Two days’ worth o’ rations for each person when you leave.” Rory reiterated. “I’ll no’ have my people short for the sake o’ yours.”

  Micah drew his brow.

  “It was out o’ the goodness of our hearts that you got to be safe from the nuclear cloud.” Rory spoke low and stern. “Be grateful for that, and two days of food.”

  “But what if the water’s contaminated? And everything else?”

  “Then we’re all in the same boat, aye?” Rory stared at Micah’s blue eyes, as pale as the winter sky.

  Micah turned and walked back to his people and spread the information.

  Webster stood at the back of the crowded barn, wearing his usual long coat over brown-grey trousers and a home-spun jumper. His woman, Dierdra, looked at him with her kohl-lined eyes, and his people stood behind him, their faces solemn. Webster pursed his lips then walked forwards through the surprised and dismayed conversations of the bandits and headed for Rory.

  “So, young man.” Webster placed his feet apart as he stood in front of Rory, his arms slowly crossing over his chest as he spoke. “What if, due to the kind hospitality we have experienced in your crowded barn for over two-months, we wish to stay?”

  Rory’s cheek tugged. He’d expected no less from Webster. The two-and-a-half months had found a once-enemy become respected, but not quite loved.

  “Och well, we’ll immediately issue you with your orders, give you chores, set a timetable for—”

  “Aye, I thought as much.” Webster waved a friendly hand at him. “When are you meeting up with that exceptionally good-looking wife of yours, young Campbell?”

  Rory breathed in deeply. “As soon as I can.”

  “If she asks again about a parley of meaningful dialogue with the Scottish Government, tell her I’m still not remotely interested. Wouldn’t want a woman like her on my case. Good luck to you, young Campbell.” Webster stepped closer and flicked his chin in the direction of the bandit leaders who stood in a group, their heads bent together. “They seem to have gotten along surprisingly well,” he whispered. “The two months in each other’s’ company has forged relationships that you and your wife might do well to pay some attention to.”

  “Aye,” Rory gave a nod. “That may do more good than harm. Could come in handy when the meaningful dialogue is to happen.” He turned his gaze to the wrinkled face before him, the months inside had done nothing to remove the ingrained dirt. “There’s the makings of a leader in McNair. He may be able to pull the reprobates into line, to our benefit.”

  Webster snorted. “You’re as disillusioned as your wife. They’re hard core. Too late to change them. Too many years of doing what they know how to do well. Don’t let this wee time of co-operation fool you. Pure survival, that’s all it was.” Webster finished with a nod.

  Rory tilted his head in thought at Webster’s retreating back. It would be nice, for once, to see the potential for the best in people. Or was he getting soft? He flicked a shrug. The safety of the Community must always come first. His father had drummed it into him. It was no different now. The bandits had a lot to prove, and this time of co-operation could be a start—or a fleeting aberration.

  Micah strode forwards, the group of bandits parting from around him as he headed for Rory.

  “We wanna go now.”

  “Right now?” Rory raised a brow.

  Micah nodded.

  “Give me a wee bit o’ time to prepare your provisions then you can leave all at once.”

  KENDRA AND CEILIDH portioned out non-perishable foodstuffs into sacks and handed them to the members of the bandit groups who’d lined up. Ceilidh’s face beamed with her usual smile and her cheeky comments caused laughter to surround her as always. At the door through which the parting guests would exit, Callum and Xian stood beside barrels containing weapons, ready to return them to their owners. A table set with various small firearms and containers of shells and shotgun cartridges sat beside another table covered in blades of all shapes and sizes. Rifle butts, sword handles, and archer’s bows clanked against each other as the leaving guests rummaged in the barrels for their own weapons.

  Webster’s odd group of highland nomads had also decided to leave.

  Micah was last in line and stood chatting to Ceilidh whose face flushed as she looked up at him from under her eyelashes. Micah lingered.

  Och, no you don’t.

  Rory stepped closer to his younger sister.

  “You’ll be wantin’ to leave before it gets dark, McNair. Better get your people out of here now.”

  “Aye, okay then,” Micah said, dragging his eyes away from Ceilidh. “But next time we meet, Rory, I trust we’ll be able to be civil to each other.”

  “Depends on if you behave yoursel’ or no’, McNair.”

  Micah McNair followed the last of his people out of the barn, trailing behind the other bandit groups making their way through the section of the tunnel they’d opened especially. Webster tipped his hat in silence at Rory as his clan followed him out.

  Rory spun on his heel and headed to the CB radio room. He would check with Siobhan if all this nuclear weather had cleared for certain.

  And then it would be time for her to come home.

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  Restoring Time: Community Chronicles Book 4.

  www.jennleeswriter.com

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jenn Lees writes time travel in dystopian future Earth and beautiful but damaged fantasy worlds in the midst of conflict. Where heroes, blissfully ignorant of their potential, rise to the challenges before them.

  An Australian writer, she has travelled extensively and lived on three continents.

  Scotland remains her source of inspiration. Jenn loves walking through a forest and climbing a mountain to experience the view.

  Her only disappointment in life is that time travel is not possible...apparently.

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  Also by Jenn Lees

  Community Chronicles

  The Crash

  Stolen Time

  Saving Time

  Restoring Time: Community Chronicles Book 4 (Coming Soon)

  The Dal Cruinne Series

  Murtairean. An Assassin's Tale