And his mind kept returning to the memory of that dream.
Nay. Dinnae think of what ye cannae control. Think instead about Jaimie.
Uncle Jaimie, who might actually be his father. He said he’d loved before—Callan’s own mother—but hadn’t understood what he’d felt for Aileen wasn’t really love. Agata had shown him what real love was and how precious that gift was.
Callan exhaled, his breath misting in the air before him, reminding him of the fog in his dreams.
Were Jaimie and Agata right? Would he find happiness again?
Was that dream a sign? If so, ’twas obvious Fia had not only given her blessing but had planted that peace in Callan’s mind.
Was Fia trying to tell him—from Heaven—that he’d find love again? He’d create another family?
But the lassie…how could Callan have a daughter so much older than Adam? Unless his wife had a daughter already. That must be the explanation; if the woman in the dream was future-Callan’s wife—and how could she not be, when he held her with such love?—then she must be a widow with a daughter. Mayhap they were ready to find love again, too.
Jaimie had found happiness again.
Callan would as well. Fia had decreed it.
It was that certainty, settling in his chest, which caused Callan’s steps to lighten and his shoulders to straighten. He even found himself whistling snatches of the songs sure to be sung tonight and over the coming days.
Aye, ’twas Fia’s blessing and the magic of the season which made his heart light.
If he’d been walking faster, he might’ve missed it. But as it was, he was content to stroll leisurely through the pines, and the strange track caught his eye.
It had been years since he’d had to join the huntsmen in the forest, but he could recognize tracks as well as the next warrior. This was no game animal, no hare or bird or deer. Nay, these tracks were…human?
They were small footprints, smudged by something dragging after. Frowning, Callan sunk into a crouch to study the snow. Here was the toe of a small shoe, there the heel-print, both semi-obscured.
But the prints were wrong. This child—for surely ’twas a child to have such small feet—wasn’t walking properly. His or her feet were turned in, from what he could see from the track.
Frowning, Callan stood, cocking his head as he examined the prints in the snow. The child had cut across the path he now followed and appeared to be moving fast. Was he or she wearing a cloak, which had dragged behind the wee one, brushing over the tracks? And what were these odd holes in the snow, here and here?
Pulling his cloak around him, Callan slid off the path and into the shadows between the trees, following the wee tracks. If there was a child wandering through the forest, he—as the laird, and as a man—needed to know.
His steps quickened, imagining the wee bairn, cold and hungry. But even as he flicked his gaze around, alert for danger now in a way he hadn’t felt necessary a few minutes ago, he studied the trail.
What had made these strange holes? They were regularly placed on either side of the tracks and were deep as if the wee one had pushed down on them. If he didn’t know better, he might’ve thought they were canes or walking sticks. But why would a child need a walking stick?
The mystery pulled him deeper into the wood, where the trees were closer together, and the branches blocked more light. The snow was even less dense here, but predators could be sleeping in each hollow or nook.
And still, the child’s tracks led him onward.
Callan increased his pace, his breath puffing before him in the icy air. Why had the child traveled deeper into the forest? There was no evidence he was being chased, but the tracks were still fresh enough to catch up with soon.
But when the tracks reached a little lip at the edge of a hollow, Callan halted abruptly. They didn’t stop here…but worse.
Muttering a curse, Callan sank to his haunches and studied the slope ahead of him. The ground cut away sharply, the dirt covered with gravel and snow patches. ’Twas clear the child hadn’t expected the change, because the tracks suddenly changed, as the wee body tumbled down the incline.
From his perch, his eyes tracked the fall, then the jumble of snow and mud at the bottom where the child had landed. He or she wasn’t there anymore, but there was an odd-looking stick. The same one that had made the holes beside the tracks?
Holding his breath, Callan half-climbed, half-jogged down the incline, until he reached the bottom. He nudged the stick with his toe, surprised by how hefty it seemed, even as he scanned the hollow.
Beside the place where the wee body had fallen, the tracks started again, but differently. Now the child was crawling, dragging one leg behind. Was he or she hurt? Frowning, Callan followed the tracks with his eyes until—there!
Nestled against the base of a pine, surrounded on three sides by dead branches and covered in a gray cloth which almost matched the surrounding snow, Callan saw a pair of big blue eyes.
“Thank the saints,” he muttered under his breath and started for the child.
But as soon as she—for surely ’twas a she, with such delicate features—saw him approach, the child whimpered and tucked her head against her knees, pulling the cloak tighter around her. Nay, ’twas no cloak, but an old blanket.
Cursing his thoughtlessness, Callan halted, certain he was scaring her. But what to do? He knew he could keep her safe, but what was she doing out here in the middle of the woods in the first place? What had chased her?
So, he positioned his sword behind him and sank to his haunches, careful to let her see his hands and his eyes.
“I’ll no’ hurt ye, wee one,” he said in a soothing voice. “I’ve been following yer trail.”
She said naught, but when she peeked up at him, the blanket fell back, and he sucked in a breath.
She was young, aye, mayhap five years old, and her face was shaped very much like a wee pixie’s, with an upturned nose and wide blue eyes.
Two blonde braids hung over her shoulders, pine needles and twigs stuck in them, likely from her rush through the forest. Dirt was smudged across her face and hands, as well as her blanket.
Her features looked like those of a lady, but her appearance told another story.
“Ye’ve had quite the adventure, lassie.”
This time, she didn’t speak, but she did nod once, quickly.
The sight caused him to grin, and when he did, her eyes widened even further before she dropped her chin.
His knees were beginning to ache, holding this position. “I just want to help ye. What’s yer name?”
She didn’t answer, but he wasn’t discouraged. He rested his forearms on his knees, allowing his hands to dangle freely.
“My name is Callan. I’d like to help ye, lassie, but I’ll need to ken what to call ye besides ‘my wee sprite’, which is how ye look now.”
If he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he might’ve missed the quick flash of her smile. But he saw it, and the way her lips formed words.
“What was that, my wee sprite?”
This time she lifted her chin so he could see her clearly, and repeated herself. “Thea. My name is Thea.”
He grinned again and caught her surprised expression. Why was she watching him so closely?
“Well, Thea, I ken this wood well enough and can get us back to the village, if ’tis where ye want to go. Can ye tell me what ye’re doing so deep among the trees?”
Her gaze dropped again to his chest. “I’m waiting,” she whispered.
“Someone told ye to wait here?” Her nod was quick, and Callan frowned. “But surely no’ this deep?” The danger was much greater this far in.
She peeked up at him, then away once more, her eyes flashing in the shadows. Finally, she whispered, “I was following her.”
“Her?”
Her little tongue flicked out across her lower lip. “A lady. A white lady and she didnae walk but floated. She was much faster than me, and I couldnae k
eep up with her.”
A floating white lady? Still, if that’s what she thought she’d seen, it explained why the lassie had all-but-run through the forest, the blanket trailing behind and obscuring her prints.
“A ghost?” Callan asked, trying to contain his smile. “A Highland forest can contain many eldritch sights.”
But she was quick to shake her head. “’Tis Yule. My mother said ’tis a time for celebration. The white lady was nae a ghost, but an angel. She led me here.” Thea’s lips pulled into a frown as she glanced at the ridge where she’d fallen. “At least, I thought she did.”
But Callan’s breath had caught at the word angel.
“This angel…what did she look like?”
Thea seemed more comfortable with him now, which was good because Callan wasn’t certain how much longer he could crouch like this. With a shrug, she straightened from her hiding spot beside the tree.
“She wore a beautiful gown, all flowing and floaty. She hovered above me but had a veil over her face. She kept beckoning me, so I followed.” Thea looked guilty for a moment. “Mother will be worried. I wasnae supposed to leave where she left me.”
Shaken by her casual description of a being who sounded so much like the Fia from his dream, Callan was only half paying attention to her answer when he absentmindedly asked, “And why did she leave ye there?”
“We havenae eaten in two days. Mother went into the village to find some food or mayhap some work. She said she’d come back to get me.”
The confession dragged Callan’s attention back to the here and now. If Fia had visited him in his dream, then ’twas it really impossible to believe she’d visited the forest as well? Nay, he was faced with a wee sprite of a child who needed help.
So, with another soothing smile, he offered her his hand. “Will ye let me help ye, Thea? I can lead ye back to where yer mother left ye.” And after, he’d make sure the woman and her daughter had food in their bellies, a warm place to sleep, and mayhap a job to earn their keep. “I have some influence here.”
She studied him with serious eyes. “Are ye a laird?”
He shrugged, his hand still extended. “Does it matter? I will help ye both.”
“I think ye are. I think the angel brought me here, so ye would find me.”
Callan’s “Mayhap” stuck in his throat at the suggestion. Had Fia led Thea into the forest because she wanted him to find the wee lassie?
And then he wasn’t thinking at all, because the girl had reached out and taken his hand, pulling herself to her feet, and he saw her fully for the first time.
As the blanket pooled around her, he saw that her dress was of good quality, but ragged and dirty. She—and her mother?—had fallen on hard times, whoever they’d once been. But it wasn’t her dress that caught his attention. It wasn’t her pixie-face, or her hair, or the way her hands gripped a walking stick, the twin to the one behind him at the base of the hill.
Nay, ’twas her feet. They were turned in, covered not in sturdy boots, but with rags wrapped around simple slippers. His gaze took in the way Thea rested her weight on the stick and realized the truth. The holes beside the track he’d followed had been made by these sticks, which she used as crutches of sorts as she walked.
But more than that… Callan sucked in a breath as he slowly rose to his full height. “’Tis ye.”
Her gaze was wary. “What?”
She was the lassie in his dream. The one he’d lifted and spun, the one who’d laughed with him.
The one who’d share his future.
He’d wondered how he would acquire a child so much older than Adam, and at that moment, Callan still wasn’t certain. But he knew this lassie, this Thea, would be his.
Dazed, he shook his head, unsure how to explain. He took a step forward and reached for her hands. They were small and bony atop the stick, and as he pulled one into his hold, he saw her shift her weight to stand more comfortably.
As he rubbed the small, frigid hand between his, he felt a warmth seep up his arm. Was she feeling the same? He hoped so. Because at that moment, Callan knew he’d do whatever it took to keep this wee sprite safe and happy.
She’d be part of his future, he knew it.
“Never mind, lassie,” he whispered, smiling. “Ye ken, I think ye’re right about that angel. I think that angel led ye here.” And he’d bless Fia each and every evening for such a gift. “I think she was telling us both we were meant to find one another.”
Thea grinned, her lips tugging upward impishly, making her look even more like a pixie. Adam was going to adore her, Callan knew.
“We didnae find one another, milord. Ye found me!”
“Aye, so I did,” he chuckled, “thanks to that angel. But call me Callan, aright?” Mayhap one day, she’d call him Da.
Thea grinned again, her cheeks flushed with happiness. Without dropping her hand, Callan bent to retrieve her blanket, and when he straightened, he stepped closer to wrap it around her shoulders. ’Twas impossible with one hand, so he tucked her now-warm hand against her stick and reached around her to pull the blanket close. He knew he had to get her back to the keep and warm her. But what of the mysterious mother.
“Timothea!”
The call came from behind him, along with a rattle of gravel. Callan whirled, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword as he widened his stance to protect the lassie behind him.
The woman had just reached the bottom of the incline—without falling—and bent to swipe up the girl’s walking stick as she ran by. She hoisted it over her shoulder like a club as she hurtled across the hollow, terror stark in her eyes.
“Get away from her, ye bastard!” she shrieked as she swung the stick for his head.
Callan stepped forward and grabbed the piece of wood before it could make contact, grunting at the force she’d put behind it. Her momentum halted suddenly, she stumbled and tried to jerk the stick from his grasp, but he didn’t give her the chance.
Instead, he stepped forward, pulling her and the stick closer until he could wrap his free arm around her waist and pull her flush against him.
The woman’s eyes widened as she slammed against his chest, but no more than Callan’s. This close, he could see the woman clearly. She was obviously Thea’s mother, for they shared the same pale hair and big blue eyes. But ’twas not that realization which made him suck in a breath.
“’Tis ye,” he whispered again. She was the woman in his dream. The woman he’d held, the woman he’d kissed. The woman who’d been carrying his bairn as she cuddled with Adam.
His future.
Something changed in her expression. Did she feel it, too? This instantaneous connection the two shared? Or had she followed an angel here to him as well?
Fia, bless ye.
He held his future in his arms.
She shifted against him. “Who are ye?” she whispered.
“Callan. My name is Callan Mackenzie.” He grinned. “I should ken yer name.”
“Glynnis Clyne. I’m—we’re searching for a new home.” Her gaze darted over his shoulder. “Timothea, are ye hurt? Did he touch ye?”
Callan couldn’t tear his eyes away from the beautiful woman in his arms, but his smile grew when he heard the lassie call out matter-of-factly, “He didnae hurt me, Mama. He kept me warm, and he says he’ll find food for us.”
“I’ll find a home for ye,” he vowed in a low whisper.
Glynnis’s eyes searched his. “Will ye?” she breathed as if understanding the strength of his vow.
“Mama, he’s a laird.”
The woman’s face seemed to pale at that knowledge. “Oh, saints preserve us,” she muttered as she began to struggle against him.
Reluctantly, Callan loosened his hold, and she stepped back, warily watching him.
Nay, this would not do.
“Glynnis Clyne, ye and yer daughter were brought here on purpose.”
Thea interrupted, “I followed an angel, Mama!”
Callan
grinned. “As did I. I came out here searching for something, as did ye.”
The beautiful woman was staring, breathless. “I was—I was looking for my daughter.”
“Aye, and she was looking for an angel. I was looking for…” He took a deep breath. “I was looking for my future.”
Love is waiting for ye.
Aunt Agata had promised him that, and Callan was certain she was right.
Turning, he offered the second walking stick to Thea. “Hold this for me, my wee sprite.”
When she did, grinning, he stepped forward and wrapped his hands around her tiny waist, lifting her. She shrieked but threw her arms around his neck as he settled her on his hip. She was tall, aye, but weighed no more than Adam did.
Now he held her the way he had in his dream. The dream Fia had shown him; the vision of his future.
He knew nothing about this lassie, nor her mother. He didn’t know what had chased them from their home, or who they’d once been. But he knew this: holding wee Timothea in his arms like this…’twas right.
They belonged to one another. And as for her mother…
When Callan turned, Glynnis was watching both of them warily, her arms wrapped around her middle, her hands tucked into her threadbare cloak.
He would take her home. He would make sure they both had enough food and a warm bed, and he’d introduce them to his family. He’d celebrate Yule with them. And he’d convince them that their future belonged with him.
Fia had decreed it.
“Glynnis,” he murmured in a low voice, offering her the hand which wasn’t currently supporting her daughter. “Will ye trust me?”
Slowly, she nodded and took a hesitant toward him. When she placed her hand in his, despite the near-frozen condition of her fingers, he felt a warmth spread up his arm.
And when he grinned, she mirrored it.
With one arm supporting Thea, and the other clasped tight in Glynnis’s hold, Callan turned toward home.
Holding his future in his arms.
He was certain this Yule would be one he’d remember forever.
O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales Page 7
