by L. L. Muir
“Come on, Father.” Loretta waved the man to her. “We’re just about to take a tour of the place. I think you should come along. My sister and I will help you understand.” She patted the man on the back when he drew near enough. “I’m sure we can find a bottle of whiskey in that barn. You should probably sip it as we go.”
Lorraine gave Wickham’s three wee laddies a squeeze, then patted Ivy’s cheek. “You two go in the house and enjoy a little peace and quiet with your boys. We’ll take care of the priest.” She gave Wickham a brief hug. “We knew he’d be coming, of course. I think the remainder of the 79 are going to need him here.”
“Here?” Ivy glanced around, wondering if they had a structure left that could be retrofitted as a chapel.
“And you two!” Lorraine started marching toward Soni and Simon, who were busy greeting each other without the use of speech. “You’re coming too. No lagging behind. Hands where we can see them.” She looked back and rolled her eyes. “We promised her parents we’d play chaperone. I hope they give in and let them get married soon. For some reason, we’re unable to see her future anymore.”
“Maybe that’s because,” Wickham whispered so only Ivy could hear, “they don’t need to know everything.”
Wyn lingered on the edge of the mob as they wended their way between buildings. The day was cold, but with no wind it was easily ignored, and few of the Highlanders bothered with their new fluffy coats. The mud and old snow were frozen hard, which kept their boots clean.
Wickham’s older sisters looked a bit bluer than usual each time they stepped out of doors, then pinked up nicely once they stepped inside again. They were quite vocal in their approval of the renovations. The priest nodded and smiled, then took a pull on the whiskey bottle each time the women advised it.
Finally, when the kirk’s man needed aid to walk a straight path, the party led him back to the large barn. They deposited him on a bench, near the fire, in the center of the improvised hall. Noting the glaze in the man’s eyes, Wyndham wasn’t quite sure if the man understood the spectacular ghost story being recited. But he suspected the priest was still paying attention when the details of their resurrection coincided with another long pull.
One of the sisters patted the poor man on the arm and faced the rest. “Like Peter, I suspect Father Donne will have to hear it thrice before he starts to believe!”
Wyndham noticed Soni standing alone near the door and jumped at the chance to speak with her. Though a large window made it clear no one else was about, he asked anyway. “Where is Simon?”
She shrugged her shoulder.
“It’s only that I’d like to have a word with ye, and I thought to have his permission first—”
“Why do you need his permission to speak to me? I’m nae a car. He doesnae hold the keys to me, Wyndham McLeish.”
Wyn lifted a brow, then shook his head and hissed at the nearest man. “Forbes. A word.”
Forbes was quick to oblige and gave Soni a grin and a wink. “What’s doin’?”
“I’m tryin’ to make a point. Would ye mind givin’ Soni a wee squeeze?”
Forbes’ grin broadened. After a quick glance about, he moved closer and wrapped his arms around the lassie. After only a three count, a large form blocked a good deal of the light from the window and Forbes was sent flying back. His arse never hit the ground, however, since Wyn was there to cushion his fall. Sadly, no one was there to cushion Wyn’s, and the back of his head struck an empty bench.
A large hand clamped around Wyn’s upper arm and pulled him to his feet. A mane of blond hair shone like a halo from the light behind. Simon’s face was in shadow. “Sorry, mate.”
Forbes chuckled. “I assume ye’re finished with me, Wyn?”
Wyn rubbed the back of his head, nodding. “And I got just what I deserved.” He smiled at Simon. “I wondered if I might have a private word with Soni?”
The lass grunted and tilted her head up at her man. “Would ye tell him he doesn’t need yer permission?”
“As long as ye keep yer hands to yerself,” Simon said, ignoring her. “Let Forbes’ foolishness be a lesson to ye.”
He forced himself not to smile. “Aye. I will.”
Simon nodded and walked away. Soni watched him go with her mouth hanging open, still gasping.
“Give over,” Wyn said. “Ye wanted his love. Now ye’re stuck with it.”
That won him a smile and her undivided attention. “What’s on yer mind?”
“When we were on the moor, we had very little interaction, ye ken. But now…” He shrugged and led her to the far end of the wall with a wide bench used for pulling on one’s boots. Once they were seated, he tried again. “Many a story has been told about the spirits who went before us. Some claim to have heard those stories from Wickham himself. And others I am certain are pure fancy.”
“And you want to know if they’re true?”
He shook his head. “Some say that ye’ve found a lass for each one of us, that we’ll be expected to…” He shrugged again.
Soni gave him a sad smile. “I don’t have anyone in mind for ye, Wyn. I hadn’t gotten that far down the list. But for the others, yes, I did send them to aid specific women. It seemed to work out fine, though. With a woman around, those Highlanders were more than happy to lend a hand where it was needed. I thought it was clever on my part to promise ye revenge, then show ye life could be sweeter without it. I just ran out of time.”
“Do you regret any of it? Ye lost yer powers. Would ye take it all back to have them again?”
Soni’s head swung back and forth. “I have Simon. What do I need powers for? But yes, I have a few regrets. There was one man I should have pushed more. A Cameron. He declared his love, but I took him away from his woman, gave him his moment with Bonnie Prince Charlie, then sent him on. But at the time, I felt inspired to do so. Even now, I suspect God was nudging me…”
Her attention drifted away and Wyn waited patiently for it to return. To interrupt her thoughts seemed a rude thing to do.
Soni blinked rapidly and smiled. “Maybe the woman has a life she is supposed to lead without him, and I will simply have to trust that God with reunite them.”
“Someone claimed ye sent men back…to the past…and left them there. Alive.”
She bit the corner of her lip and considered for a moment. He wondered if he’d crossed some line. But eventually, she answered. “My uncle has power over Time. He was able to take some back, aye. But those days are done. We must all look forward. It wouldn’t be wise to encourage the others--”
“I understand.”
“Most of the men I sent from the moor are still around. Maybe we’ll need to have a reunion of some sort. Then ye can ask them to tell their own stories, aye?” She bit her lip for a long moment. “I’m sorry I can’t help ye find the perfect lass—”
“Auch, nay! I was hoping ye hadn’t. Ye see, there is a woman I’ve spent a bit of time with, on the moor. Irish, as it happens. I feel as if… I cannot lose this impression that she belongs to me. That I belong to her.” He could feel his face heating and turned aside. “It may not mean anything—”
“Oh, no, Wyndham. It means everything. I may not have the power to make good matches anymore. But I was merely playing at what God does every day. Surely it was He who has set the pair of ye in each other’s way.”
Chapter Three
Bronagh was disappointed when the call went to voicemail. It wasn’t very professional to leave her sort of message where the wrong person might listen to it, but she’d put off the confrontation long enough. She wasn’t going to waste another afternoon drumming up the nerve to say what had to be said.
So she said it. To a recording.
“Mr. Trumbull, this is Bronagh Flannery again from the finance department of Murray’s Headquarters in Inverness. As the accountant over yer region, I have a responsibility, yeah? And, emm… I’ve tried several times to reach ye, so I’ll just have to leave this message on yer voicemail
.
“While I waited to hear from ye, I reviewed the numbers from yer three stores again, as well as the previous year, and I’m sorry to tell ye there are more discrepancies than those we previously discussed from this year. Because ye’ve merged all yer stores into one report, it’s impossible to tell which store is causing the problem. But in total, the difference between yer deposits and yer reports is just under thirty-seven thousand pounds with both years combined. £36,866.44 to be precise.”
She grimaced, imagining how the news was going to land on the other end of the line.
“So, if ye’ll give us a call, I can arrange to meet with whomever is keeping yer books, and yerself, and see if we can get this cleared up before I have to submit my report on the quarter. Ta.”
Deirdre’s big head popped over the top of Bronagh’s cubical and made her nearly jump out of her skin. “Guess what!”
Full and fluffed up, Deirdre’s hair was the exact opposite of Bronagh’s straight black stuff that curled under, slightly, just below her shoulders. Where she was ever running a hand down her fringe to keep it tamed, she doubted Deirdre worried about her hair once she left the house for the day, and Bronagh envied her that.
She took a deep breath and rolled her eyes. “Feckin’ scared me to death, Deirdre. What now?”
Her coworker gnawed her gum and grinned. “Sheriff’s leavin’ town for a whole week.” Her eyes bugged. “A whole week! Some conference in London. But the best part…” The big head vanished, and Deirdre quickly reappeared in the doorway with her hands cupped around her mouth. “He’s taking The Snake with ‘im!”
Sylvan Mahony was the location manager. They called him the Sheriff of Nottingham because he was always explaining why their paychecks were shrinking. After a while, it was shortened to just Sheriff. Mary Pingree, The Snake, was second in command and tended to slink about without being noticed, eavesdropping while she waited for someone to notice her.
If she knew her nickname, Bronagh wondered if the woman would reconsider the tight animal prints she favored. And though it was unkind to think it, she couldn’t help wondering if Mary undressed each night by lying on the floor and slinking out of her clothes.
“And if The Snake is going,” Deirdre continued, “ya know what that means!”
Mary slithered up over Deirdre’s shoulder and sneered up at the puff of blond hair. “What snake?”
Deirdre squeaked like a mouse and disappeared. Her retreat was punctuated by the yelp of her office chair and the high-pitched squeal of its wheels rolling to the far side of her own cubicle.
The Snake rolled her eyes. “Bronagh, Mr. Mahony wishes to speak with ye.” The infinitesimal undertone of excitement meant Deirdre was right, the boss and his assistant were leaving town—which meant Bronagh would be left in charge like the last time. But if the conference was the next week, that might mean she wouldn’t get her usual day off! And that just couldn’t happen!
She jumped to her feet and marched off, not waiting for Mary to catch up. Her stomach was already knotted and hard at the prospect of changing her schedule.
The extra responsibility didn’t bother her. She was well liked—through no fault of her own—and her fellow accountants would get their work done, if only to keep her out of trouble. A week of looser rules would be good for everyone, including herself, and small rebellions and celebrations would only go as far as twenty accountants with OCD could stand. So, even if no one were put in charge, the place would run smoothly enough.
As soon as she stepped into Sheriff’s office, she explained just that.
“Hold onto yer knickers, Flannery,” he interrupted, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on his desk. “I’m not fool enough to leave the place to the wolves--”
“Ye can choose someone else this time—”
“I’d have a rebellion on my hands. We’d come back to half a dozen factions and everyone wearing war paint—”
“What about Deirdre?”
Mahony answered with deadpan eyes that required no further comment.
“Someone a little more focused, then. Morrison!”
“Faction number one. Which would piss off Pollock, creating faction two. Then, for good measure, the women would feel slighted and create faction three—ye did not hear me say that—and so on and so on. However, if I announce that ye’ll be in charge, not a panty will twist—I didn’t say that either.”
Fine. She had to say it. “But Tuesday is the first of the month.” She had to have the first of the month for Culloden, the fifteenth for the sea. They were the lighthouses in her life.
He put his chin on his chest for a second and she knew it was just to keep her from seeing his eyes roll. “Ye’ll have another hundred dollars on yer paycheck, Flannery. That should do more for yer mental health that yer bi-weekly constitutional—”
“I don’t care about the money. I care about the date! There’s no sense trying to explain it. Ye couldn’t possibly understand. That’s why ye’ve got the note from my doctor, so I needn’t explain—”
“Oh, aye. And just how long did ye expect that note to work for ye? It’s been over a year. Ye’ll need another. But sadly, it will be mid-month before I can spare ye the time for a doctor’s appointment.” His eyes narrowed, like they usually did when he was about to be sarcastic. “I’m going away to a conference, ye see—”
“Then leave The Snake here.”
Mahony’s breath caught, then he bit his lips together. Obviously, he’d been aware of the nickname and was trying to keep from smiling over it.
“I’m sorry. I meant Mary. If she stays behind—”
“I know who ye meant.” He forced a frown. “But I’ll let the insult slide this time. Just don’t let me hear ye use it again in my hearing, ye ken?”
“Yes. Ye’re right. I apologize. But I must have Tuesday off, sir. I live a very ordered life for a reason. I’ll be of little use to ye or anyone else if I don’t—”
“Fer feck sakes, Bronagh, yer Irish.” With a grunt of disgust, he relaxed against the back of his chair and folded his arms. “We’re made of tougher stuff. Ye’ll soon see that ye can handle change just fine. And truth be told, ye’ll probably thank me for this.”
Her head shook—half in answer, half in fury. He didn’t know what he was talking about. And if he wasn’t going to honor the note from her doctor, she’d have to take it up with human resources. But that meant calling the London office. And here it was Thursday already. What were the chances they’d get this settled before Mahony left town?
“Fine,” he barked. “I’ll give ye the following Monday off with pay. Along with the hundred. Now, get back to work.” When she didn’t move, he lowered his head like a bull. “Take what’s been offered, Bronagh, and thank me. Or it will cause ye much more distress to have to search for a new job, aye? For someone who dislikes change, that should give ye pause.”
Chapter Four
Wyn had been a patient man. He truly had. But after sitting on a chair for nearly an hour, being picked at and poked, his patience evaporated.
The “stylist” came at him with a flattened wand of some sort, her attention on Wyn’s beard. But she’d already taken her blade to it. If she did anything more, he’d be left with nothing but skin!
Though he was loath to show weakness with so many others waiting for their turns and watching, he leaned away from the so-called barber and held up a hand. “What the devil is that?”
She stopped and wiggled her new weapon. “It’s a beard straightener.”
He ran a hand down his face. There was barely enough beard to tug on beneath his chin. “’Tis straight enough to suit me, lass. Have done.”
She sighed, then got a dangerous look in her eye--a wholly female look, followed by a slow smile. “Let me just do one side and ye can tell me what ye think.”
“Nay. If ye change one side, ye’ll have to change the other, else I will look strange. Put yer weapon away.”
She sighed again, then turned to conside
r the row of tangled beards still waiting and set her “straightener” aside. “I suppose we’re finished then.” She ran her fingers through his hair one last time, compared the length on both sides, then removed her large plastic cape from his shoulders before taking up her broom. With a few deft strokes, the pile of dark blond hair from his head was mixed with the mingled colors of his beard, then deposited in the rubbish bin. “Next!”
Wyn hopped out of the chair and didn’t wait around to watch the next victim. Heaven help the man who tried to keep his beard intact.
Tuesday morning, Muir Ranch
The sun had yet to rise when Wyndham turned off the decadently hot water and stepped out of the shower. He snatched the towel from its hook, held it over his family jewels, and strode carefully to the dressing room. Coverings for the windows hadn’t reached the top of the priority list, and though Ivy Muir was the only female on the premises, he wouldn’t risk offending her.
To his surprise, he was not alone.
His eyes darted to the bench where he’d laid the pile of clothes he’d been hoarding beneath his pillow for days. The denims were now flung haphazardly next to the boots. The socks had fallen on the floor, and Hanlon Forbes sat on the next long bench with Wyn’s coveted shirt held up to his shoulders and draped across his middle.
The man’s eyes were wide with exaggerated horror. “Surely ye didn’t mean to wear this to meet yer lass in the flesh! Pink is a woman’s color. Have ye not heard?”
“’Tisn’t pink,” Wyn said with a shrug, then proceeded to get dressed as if he expected Forbes to give the shirt over when he was ready for it.
“Are ye perhaps blind to color? I’ve heard some men are.”
Wyn ignored him, pulled on the denims over the short pants, or skivvies, as he’d seen others do, then retrieved the socks.