by L. L. Muir
What could possibly change in the day he must wait for Father Donne?
He noticed McHenish squinting at a wee bit of yellow paper. "What's that then?"
"A recipe from Lady Muir. Her hand is not so easily read. What do ye suppose this means?"
Wyn looked at the word above the man's finger. "Vinegar."
"Auch, excellent."
"You have vinegar?"
The man shook his head. "Nay. But MacTavish said vinegar is a code word for wine."
MacTavish. “Of course he did.”
Looking back on some of the boozier suppers he’d eaten at the makeshift dining hall that also served as their bunkhouse, he was willing to wager that MacTavish’s cooking advice had been given very early on.
McHenish folded the paper smaller and stuffed it into his pocket. It reminded Wyn of the notes he'd left behind for Bronagh. It really was too bad of him to have teased her so—first, that he would return, and second, that a grave mistake wanted correcting.
Ivy proved how wrong-headed he’d been for wanting to woo Bronagh as a new man. Had he been wrong-headed about other things as well?
If he hadn’t been trying to be clever about it, would he have left such a teasing message? He knew her well. He knew how the smallest mistake would drive her wild. And yet, he’d intentionally done so.
Though he’d told Ivy about the notes, he’d omitted the fact that his lass was a perfectionist. Would Ivy have chastened him for using Bronagh’s weakness against her?
No doubt at all.
He’d been an eejit, a stranger named Mac when he should have been her knight in shining armor called Wyndham.
Well, it was a certainty his armor was shining now. And the Wyndham McLeish he used to be wouldn’t let a mere twenty kilometers and cold weather keep him from rectifying his mistakes!
After making a rather tasteless batch of spaghetti, Bronagh sat down in a chair near her picture window and opened one of her grandmother's novels. It was a thick book she'd been pecking at now and then, and she was forced to flip through the first pages to remind herself of the characters each time she opened it again.
But at last, with an unknowable stretch of jobless days ahead, she was determined to get through it without forgetting what it was about. No matter how verbose the writing, she couldn't put it aside and choose another book. It wasn’t her style to leave things unfinished.
Of course she could drop it in the trash and forget about it entirely in a few days. The trash collector would take the choice away from her when he drove off with it. But sadly, she was rather attached to anything that gran had cherished, especially things she’d touched to the point of wearing thin. And if Gran had cherished this well-worn, dog-eared book, time would reveal why.
Bronagh opened to the wee card the old woman had used for a bookmark. There were two red squares on one side--a card separated from a box-game of Candyland. Its edges were worn even more than the book's cover. But if it was good enough for Gran, it was good enough for her.
She started at chapter five and soon realized she'd already read it. But she pushed on. There was no hurry, and it wouldn't hurt to be reminded.
Her life had been blessedly peaceful since her trip to Culloden two days before. It was weird, but she was much less worried about going crazy, now that she believed Wyndham McLeish was a ghost. It explained so much. But more than that, it meant she wasn’t responsible for anything he said or did. She didn’t have to analyze his words, didn’t have to wonder what was wrong with her for being in love with her own creation.
There was nothing wrong with her. After all, plenty of people believed in ghosts, didn’t they? Loud James for one. And he didn’t seem like a man who needed a straitjacket.
It explained why Wyn only appeared to her at the battlefield and why he didn’t come around on Wednesday. It wasn’t the first of the month and he knew she only went to Culloden on the first. Also, he totally could have been put off by Mac’s appearance the day before. She just prayed her ghost would be there for her in April, so they could go right back to the way they were.
It was a long shot, but there was a chance Wyn had wanted to put her and Mac together, to stir things up and bring attention to the fact that he never got credit for fighting at Culloden. Maybe having a question mark in place of his Christian name really bothered him.
The only mystery left to solve was why Mac looked so much like Wyn. Of course, she had no proof, just a feeling—that Mac might be a descendant of that mysterious McLeish listed in Loud James’ book. It could explain their resemblance and the whole eyebrow situation. There was no reason to assume it, since Mac had never given his last name in any of their interactions, but still.
And all that business about Wyndham being a common name besides a clan name—it was rubbish, all of it. Why all the secrecy unless he was hiding his surname on purpose? Unless he already knew about the ghost…
Until she had those answers, so she could tie up all the loose ends, she would keep on hoping for Mac to come back.
With her attention not really on the book, Bronagh caught a movement outside. The wind teased at an empty hawthorn branch, sending it bouncing. It was nearly late enough to pull the drapes, but there was still a little light left to read by.
So back to the page...
A blue pickup truck drove down the street from right to left. Maybe it was the slow roll of the tires that caught her attention. Two houses down, it sped up and disappeared. Odd that.
Back to the page...
She was just starting to enjoy the story when the same slow progress of blue drew her attention again. She kept her head down but watched beneath the edge of her fringe as the truck rolled past again. At the same spot, it might have increased its speed. She couldn’t be sure.
The teenaged girl next door drew a lot of traffic to the street, and it was a weekend. So Bronagh didn't think much of it. After all it wasn't her house they'd come to see. And stalking was more of a high school sport. If a fella wanted to see her, he'd march up to the door and...
Mac’s image immediately came to mind and made her give up her reading altogether. She moved to the front bedroom and took up a position at the edge of the curtain where she could see the east end of the street better. The most important thing in the world to her at that moment was to see who was driving that pickup. Man or teenager?
She'd nearly given up hope when the boxy shadow appeared again. The slow roll began long before it reached her house. The driver was clearly a full-grown man, not a heartsick teen hoping for a glimpse of the girl next door. The truck was average in size. His eyes were nearly level with the top of the window. A tall fella then. Bulky coat. It was getting too dark to pick out anything else in the few seconds he was visible.
It’s him!
But why didn’t he just park and come in? Was he worried she might try to lock him up again? She chuckled and shook her head. That couldn’t be it. There was no way that man would be afraid of her. This was the guy who’d grabbed her arm and held it so gently even after she’d given his neck a good pinch.
So maybe he wasn’t sure which house was hers. He’d left in the dark and maybe hadn’t noticed the house number.
She hurried to the closet and pulled on her coat. With gloves and hat in place, she hurried out the front door and down to the second set of steps nearest the road, to sit and wait for the blue truck to reappear. “Please, God, let him come round again.”
Chapter Seventeen
Bronagh lowered her bum onto the top step and tucked the long end of her coat beneath it to protect her from the cold concrete. The storm the day before had left slush piled on the grass, but a fresh batch of light and fluffy snowflakes were just getting started. A gentle gust of air sent them spinning in all directions, like wee boys, hyped up on sugar, playing Tasmanian Devil in a school yard.
She stuffed her mittened hands between her knees and hoped Mac would appreciate that she was risking her nose, among other things, just to get his attention
.
To distract herself, she thought about that moment in the café again. It was impossible to forget the way he’d simply held her arm—and not because he was distracted with a phone call or unaware he was touching her. She could easily imagine Wyn holding her like that, so grateful he could finally feel her that he might never let go...
Hens! How long had it been since she’d had some physical contact, if she was going on so over a little hand-holding?
She sat there freezing for another five minutes before she supposed the truck wasn’t coming back. Maybe it hadn’t been Mac after all. So, begrudgingly, she reached to the brief stretch of railing at the side of the steps and stood to go back inside. When she took one last look over her shoulder, she saw the truck pull around the corner again. He had yet to turn on his lights, and in the gloaming, the paint looked darker now, black even. But it was the same truck, and now it was the night that had turned a dark blue.
The vehicle lurched suddenly. She’d been spotted. A glance up and down the street proved she was the only one out, so she had to be the cause. It was too late to slip back inside and wait for a knock on her door, so she slowly picked her way to the curb. Still a house away, the truck stopped, and for a few seconds, she wondered if he didn’t want to face her after all.
She tilted her head and stuck her hands in her pockets, hoping he got the message--I know it’s you. And ye know that I know. So now what do we do?
The truck inched forward again. The front wheels turned and the truck veered out of the street, toward her. A wee thrill ran up her spine. Honestly, she couldn’t wait to see his face again and to ask him if he was a McLeish. However, since the apology she’d offered before was only to a door, she needed to get that out of the way first.
She leaned down a bit, waiting for him to come close enough to see his eyes and give him a smile. But the eyes she looked into weren’t Mac’s. The vaguely familiar face was twisted, enraged.
Bronagh reared back, fighting to keep her balance with her hands stuck in her pockets. The engine roared. Silver grill and headlights jumped the curbing and lunged for her. She stumbled, freed her hands, and flung her arms out while her feet scrambled beneath her. She made it to the small steps and with headlights to either side of her, she threw herself forward and prayed for a miracle.
The engine roared over the backs of her legs, took a breath, and roared again, surging forward. But it never made any progress. A dark shadow jumped on the edge of her vision, but she couldn’t worry about what else might be coming for her as she scrambled on all fours to the snow-covered grass, then got her feet under her again.
The world suddenly tipped sideways and Bronagh’s view of the metal grill and headlights was just a bright silver smear. Whatever struck across her chest had knocked the wind out of her. Her senses were so scrambled, she felt warmth at her back. Probably blood.
Then she was flying, flying, dreading what would break when she landed. But she didn’t land.
The world tipped up again. Her feet hung beneath her. She was jarred, over and over again, but couldn’t imagine why. Had the driver been aiming for someone else? Had she just been in the way?
The ground came up to meet her feet and she was released by that pole across her chest. She crumbled into the slush, so grateful for the soft landing, so confused to be at the west end of her property. The rear bumper of the truck now hovered over the spot where she’d been standing on the curb. Only the steps and the drastic slope had stopped it. The short stretch of railing was now a permanent hood ornament.
In her state of shock, her imagination ran wild. The ghost of Wyndham McLeish sat on a dark horse between her and the truck. The animal pawed at the ground as if daring the driver to step out of his twisted metal sanctuary. On the back of the saddle, Wyn’s small round shield rocked back and forth with the animal’s movements. The wind teased the folds of Wyn’s kilt—the kilt she hadn’t just imagined last August.
But her poor mind had taken some license with some details. First, while she’d always thought of his kilt as red, his tartan was blue and green. Easy to see in the lights of the truck and the blue streetlamps that had just switched on.
Second, he wore the modern puffy parka like Mac had worn the day before. And third, her mind had exchanged Wyn’s long hair and full beard for Mac’s shorter hair and trimmed whiskers. Clearly, she needed to reboot.
Her hallucination pulled a sword from his hip and pointed it at the truck’s window. “Come out, ye bastard!”
But all Bronagh wanted was for the driver to go away and leave her alone! If he got out of the vehicle, he might still come after her. What had he been thinking? Why would anyone want to harm her?
She should run. She should shout at the top of her lungs until her neighbors came out their doors. But all she could manage was to quake in her boots and hope her knees didn’t get frostbite.
Another roar filled the night. The wheels of the truck spun in reverse. One tire spun in the snow while the other was bent at an awkward angle against the concrete steps with the front bumper folded into a taco.
If the bumper was there, then what was it that had struck her across the middle and sent her through the air?
Off his horse now, Wyn began hacking at the roof of the vehicle, still bellowing, explaining which pieces of her assailant’s body he would cut off and feed to him. His graphic tirade didn’t help her nerves, but she wouldn’t wish his image away for anything. Coping mechanism or not, she needed him there. Even if she was the only one who could see him.
Agnes Pennyweather appeared out of nowhere and squatted next to her. “Come away, lass. Bobbies will be here in a wink. The drunken sot might have run ye doon!” She sent an angry nod and a wad of spittle toward the truck. “Dinnae worry. He won’t be escaping his consequences tonight, not with that Jacobite standin’ guard.”
Bronagh was grateful for the help. Agnes was small but wiry and helped her make sense of her legs. The woman led her forcibly toward the end of the hedge that separated their yards, and Bronagh was grateful she didn’t have to make any decisions for the moment. She had no energy for arguing, so she didn’t point out that it was no accident.
Her brain caught up with her ears. Bobbies? Good. Agnes had called the police.
He wouldn’t get away? Right. Did she say Jacobite?
With that Jacobite standin’ guard.
Bronagh twisted her neck to see what Agnes could have been talking about, but the only thing keeping the madman inside his truck was…Wyndham. With his round targe on his saddle and the white cockade on the side of his bonnet, the symbol for Bonnie Prince Charlie’s rebellion.
“Just let him come beggin’ fer mercy,” Agnes was saying, guiding Bronagh steadily toward her porch. “My Patrick made my door. Four inches thick, it is. I’ll pierce him through the keyhole if he comes knockin’. I’ve got the thinnest dagger ye’ve ever seen.” She chuckled in her throat. “Low keyhole. Probably skewer his sweetmeats.”
Bronagh finally resisted and got the old woman to stop. “What did you say about the Jacobite?”
Agnes looked back with her. “Jacobite?”
Bronagh bit her bottom lip to keep from making a fool of herself. She must have misunderstood.
“Dinnae be silly, Bronagh. I’d never skewer a Jacobite. Especially one so braw. Besides, he’s protecting ye, aye?” Agnes patted her arm and turned her back toward her house. “I just hope the horse isnae harmed with all that sword swingin’.”
Wyn was disappointed when the police arrived to save the bastard from him. The coward had hidden behind locked doors and a window Wyn had failed to break. He'd damaged the side of his weapon trying to peel open the metal box to get to the doomed man, and he'd just about succeeded when he was interrupted. But he knew it was better for Bronagh if blood wasn't spilt on her property. He couldn't predict what trouble that might cause her. And he didn't know how she'd feel about such violence, despite the fact that she might have been killed.
He shuddered,
remembering the moment he’d realized what the blackguard intended. But what made his blood run cold was what might have happened had he not come along when he had. It was truly serendipitous, as if God was watching over the lass and sending Wyn to her rescue. And since he'd not offend God for any reason, he got down on one knee and thanked The Almighty for nudging him on.
Unfortunately, his impromptu prayer coincided with the authorities’ demand to drop his weapons and lie face down on the ground. Foolishly, he thought they should wait just a moment for him to finish. They thought otherwise and tried to force him to the ground. He tried to explain but was interrupted by a bite on his leg and a jolt of electricity bouncing through his veins. When he ceased convulsing on the footpath, he admitted the error was his.
A man separated himself from the growing crowd and told the officer what he'd witnessed from across the street, when he'd stepped outside with his pipe. The villain, in the process of being extricated from his vehicle, heard the tale and insisted Wyn was responsible for the damage to his truck. In turn, the officer pointed out that the truck was destroyed when it was driven off the road and into the railing. And this relieved Wyn of all responsibility.
One officer, in joking fashion, asked Wyn if he had a permit for his sword. A rhetorical question, as it happened, since his fellows didn't wait for an answer before breaking into laughter. The words prop and costume were bandied about as well. The driver was placed in the protection of a police car, beyond Wyn's reach, and seemed rather offended when an officer posed next to Wyn for a photograph.
With a menacing step toward the car, Wyn made it clear how offended he was by the attempt upon Bronagh's life! He noticed the driver's door was open; the man could hear him fine. So he turned to the officer in charge and shouted, "Just how long will ye be protecting this man?"