by L. L. Muir
DOUGAL
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor (No. 12)
By L.L. Muir
AMAZON KDP EDITION
PUBLISHED BY
Lesli Muir Lytle
www.llmuir.weebly.com
Dougal © 2015 L.Lytle
The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Series © 2015 L.Lytle
All rights reserved
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
DEDICATION
For the artists…
who give away
their souls,
one precious piece
at a time.
A NOTE ABOUT THE GHOSTS
The Gathering should be read first to understand what’s going on between the Muir Witch and these Highland warriors from 1746.
The names of Culloden’s 79 are historically accurate in that we have used only the clan or surnames of those who actually died on that fateful day. The given names have been changed out of respect for those brave men and their descendants. If a ghost happens to share the entire name of a fallen warrior, it is purely accidental.
CHAPTER ONE
Mendon Mountain Music Festival
A massive, white, designer purse, on the shoulder of a boney, crisply dressed woman, paused in front of Hannah’s booth. The woman’s fingernails were candy-apple red and matched the patterned scarf around her wide brimmed hat. She could just picture those nails drumming on the arm of an expensive chair while servants ran back and forth, doing everything the woman could have done for herself if it weren’t for her manicure.
The woman tilted her head back to look down her nose at Witch’s Mist, one of Hannah’s most recent and eye-catching paintings perched on a large table easel at the front of the booth. Happily, the colors brought people in for a closer look. But it happened to be one of her personal favorites. So much so, she was tempted to throw a sheet over it.
Red Nails didn’t deserve to look at it.
“Interesting,” the woman murmured. She glanced around and did a double-take when she noticed Hannah sitting in the corner, like she didn’t expect anyone to be guarding the artwork. She quickly hid her interest and adopted a horribly bored attitude. Pointing in the vague direction of Witch’s Mist, she deigned to say two words. “How much?”
Since Hannah had no intention of allowing one of her children to leave with an obvious child-eater, she tripled the price. “Sixty-six hundred.”
The woman gaped. “Sixty-six hundred?”
“Yes.” Hannah smiled her most patronizing smile that said, “Don’t worry about it, honey. I know you don’t have that kind of money.” Then she bent her head back to the sketch pad and ignored her.
It was a long minute before Red Nails went on her way. Hannah’s neck got a kink from bending far enough to hide behind her dangling hair. So, when the woman was gone, she put her shoulders back and rolled her head around on her shoulders to get rid of the twinge of pain.
“I would swear to it,” came a man’s voice from behind, “that ye gave another woman a different price a wee while ago.”
Hannah watched in shock as a guy in a rumpled Scottish kilt walked through her booth and made his way around the table to look at Witch’s Mist. Since the town of Mendon had been settled by Scots, his wasn’t the first kilt she’d seen that weekend, so it wasn’t the way he was dressed that surprised her. She was bothered by the way he’d ignored the whole “behind the counter” protocol she expected, even if her business was only a 10 by 10 canopy tent.
For the weekend of the festival, that 100 square feet belonged to her, and anything behind the table was a customer-free zone. Anyone who had ever attended an art festival or a county fair knew that. Except one tall Scot, apparently.
She felt exposed, like she’d used the bathroom with the door open only to find there had been people in the hallway!
The night before, she’d slept with her children, making a blanket fort with the table because she’d been so certain no one would invade that space. It was against the rules to camp in the booths, but if she’d gotten wasted like half the vendors and fallen asleep behind their tables, no one would have said a word. And she was prepared to use that argument if anyone tried to penalize her.
Leaving her artwork alone in the after-hours chaos was something she simply couldn’t do. And she certainly wasn’t going to lug them back and forth across the field each night and morning. The frames were expensive. And every time they were moved, they risked damage.
She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes at the intruder, even though he’d moved out of her private space. She just wanted to make sure he didn’t intend to go back the way he’d come.
He was in his late twenties or early thirties. Nicely built. He wasn’t what she would call cute. Not really handsome either. But…striking. His features looked a little Old World—or at least not local. Above his short, close beard, his nose was crooked, like he’d been in a lot of fights. But his cheeks were smooth and tan, his arms a little hairy.
The sides of his head were shaved and the longer hair in the middle created a Mohawk. But much of it fell down in a line, like he’d run out of hair product. And without it, his hair looked more like a thick, mussed horse’s tail trailing down his head and neck.
His eyes were electric green, and they darted back and forth while he took in every little detail of the painting. But this time, she didn’t feel like hiding it.
“You a vendor?” she asked. That might explain his backdoor entrance.
His mouth twisted to the side and he shook his head, which shook his strange Mohawk, but he never took his eyes off the painting.
Not a vendor… “A musician?”
He definitely looked like a musician from one of those Celtic tribal bands that had played late the night before. The noise had proved too much for her and, though she usually didn’t take over the counter drugs if she could help it, she’d jumped at the Tylenol offered by the guy selling corn dogs across the way.
Again, the Scot shook his head and his hair. And the little frown between his brows let her know he didn’t like being interrupted while he was studying her work.
“Witch’s Mist,” he whispered, then glanced at her. “Aptly named, I should say. Though, the only bit of it I’ve seen was green, not this…” he gestured toward the canvas, “sea-blue.”
“Nile blue,” she corrected, then wondered what the color had to do with anything. The guy said he’d seen green mist before—probably soon after sampling a new strain of weed—and she was worried he’d gotten the color wrong? What could it matter?
She bit her lip and waited for what other observations he might make. He was probably just killing time until the lines died down at either of the paraphernalia booths beside her.
“I suppose this is yer witch.” He nodded toward the upper left corner.
“How did you know?” No one ever knew there was a witch in the painting, let alone guessed where it was. However, when setting up her booth the day before, she’d pointed out the witch to another vendor. “You must have heard me explaining it yesterday.”
He shook his head again. “Just arrived a wee while ago, las
s. I guessed where yer witch might be only because mine happens to wear a fine black robe when she summons her green mist to her.”
Don’t engage. Do not engage. Her artist friends were right. She shouldn’t allow herself to be sucked in to someone else’s psychosis. Time to smile and nod and hope he wanders off.
But he didn’t.
Finally, he stepped away from the table and glanced around at the other paintings she’d propped on chairs along the sides of the booth and a tall ladder she used as an easel for smaller paintings. A little one caught his attention, which was typical. Most people who wanted to patronize an artist will look for the smallest one and hope they can afford it.
“Tell me,” he said without looking at her, “why did ye quote the two different prices to two different customers? I’d like to understand.” He was now within three feet of her and getting awfully close to being “behind the counter” again.
She didn’t see anything wrong with telling him the truth. “I didn’t want the second woman to buy it.” But that was only half true, since she really didn’t want anyone to buy it.
He looked at her then, studying her face just like he’d studied both the paintings. And she suddenly didn’t want to know his opinion on what he saw there, in her eyes.
“And how much for this wee auld chair?”
Auld Chair was the name of her smallest painting, but the name plate had fallen off the white washed frame. The guy was just a good guesser, that was all.
“Six hundred,” she said.
“Six hundred.” He chuckled and she braced herself for an insult. “And tell me, lass, is it six hundred because ye wish me to buy it, or because ye hope I’ll be dissuaded?”
“So you’ll buy it,” she lied. The subject of Auld Chair had sat on her grandmother’s porch for all Hannah’s life. But soon after she’d painted it, and while she was sitting at yet another booth, her idiot cousin had taken the chair apart and used the pieces for her stupid craft project.
“The old white paint had been chipping off it,” the cousin had argued. “And it probably had lead in it anyway.”
Lead or no lead, the chair had belonged on that porch. And after Hannah had inherited the house, coming home had always been bittersweet without that chair to welcome her. Bittersweet, just for a second or two, even if she’d only gone to the store.
Parting with the painting would be impossible. She’d known it even as she added it to the box of things to bring to the music festival. And the way the guy was eying it, she wished she would have said six thousand instead.
“I’m certain it’s worth every penny,” he said, and propped it back on the ladder. “But a penny I have not.”
She sighed in relief—a little too loudly.
He laughed, and she didn’t know if it was the depth of her relief or the sound of his voice, but she was completely charmed. Or maybe it was some kind of witch’s mist that made her react that way, because she had no intention of being charmed.
“I’m interested to know how ye arrive at yer prices, if ye don’t mind tellin’.” He lowered his chin and gave her a knowing look. “Yer original prices, aye?”
She relaxed a little as he backed away from the painting and returned to the front of the booth. “According to how much of my soul goes into them, I guess.”
For a second, there was a sparkle in his eyes that made her think he’d been a little charmed himself. Then understanding dawned like a bowling ball dropped on her head.
“You’re an artist.”
CHAPTER TWO
The tall Scot grinned and her knees totally wobbled, even though she was sitting. His teeth were straight and white and in the shade of her canopy, they glowed against the tan of his face.
“Some have called me an artist from time to time, and I’ll take it as a great compliment, even though ye’ve never seen the way I turn a leg.”
She glanced down as his high socks. “Turn a leg? I don’t understand.”
He chuckled. “A table leg, aye? Carpenters like myself turned them by hand back when God’s dog was a pup.”
The image made her smile.
There were a lot of old Scottish families in Liberty, too, where her old house stood. And she was enjoying getting to know some of them. The older folks had fascinating ways of saying things too, but she’d never heard that kind of stuff from guys her own age before.
He stepped close to Witch’s Mist and zoned out again. This time, she was happy to let him look his fill, partly because he was some kind of artist himself, and partly because she knew he wouldn’t try to buy it.
The large designer bag started making its way back along the far side of the wide grassy aisle. It was a wonder Red Nails didn’t trip and fall with her head tipped back so far. Hannah also wondered how that hat stayed on the back of her head. The scarf had to be cutting off circulation to her brain or something.
The hat swiveled in her direction and came to a halt. The woman’s attention caught on the Scottish guy. Then she noticed what he was staring at and her eyes tried to pop out of her head.
Hannah’s stomach fell. She knew she was in trouble.
In three long strides, the woman made it across traffic to stand rudely close to the Scot. “I’ll take it,” she announced, then lifted her purse and reached into the wide opening with a delicate claw. “I can give you a deposit now and have my driver get a cashier’s check for the rest.”
Hannah couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. Her fingers curled in anticipation of having that much money handed to her at once. But inside her chest a voice screamed, “No! Don’t let her take it! Somebody stop her!”
But in the left side of her brain, another part of her was using an old-fashioned calculator to tally up her bills. Punch, punch, punch. Pull the handle down. Enter the back taxes. Grind the handle down again.
“I regret to inform ye, madam, but I’ve just purchased Witch’s Mist m’self.” The Scot put his back to the painting like he was willing to protect it with his body. Inside Hannah’s chest, the loud, obnoxious cheerleader lost her mind, whooping and screaming, relieved someone had rescued her child. The accountant in her started weeping and tossed the massive old calculator out a window.
Red Nails ignored the guy. “I’ll give you a thousand more.” The way she looked Hannah over, from head to toe, said she suspected a thousand dollars would be life-changing for her, let alone the sixty-six hundred she’d quoted. “Come, now. I’m sure all you get is a commission, so the extra thousand would be all yours.”
That extra thousand would have made it impossible to refuse, if the woman hadn’t insulted her along with the offer.
The Scot’s face darkened. “‘Tisn’t for sale, madam.”
The woman’s nose curled on one side. “Really? Let me see your receipt.”
He gestured toward Hannah. “The lass ran my card through her wee phone, not that it is yer concern.”
The woman folded her arms and leaned back on one hip. “All right, then. Go ahead and take it, if it’s yours.”
Hannah’s mouth was finally operational. “I appreciate what you tried to do,” she told her would-be rescuer. To the woman, she said, “You can’t have it.”
Red Nails rolled her eyes. “Did you hear me? I’m willing to pay your price.” She started digging again and produced a small wallet that matched the purse.
“Doesn’t matter,” Hannah said, feeling bolder by the second. “Thank you for the offer. But I can’t possibly part with it.”
The woman frowned and stared, the wallet that probably cost thousands of dollars on its own hovered in the air while she waited for someone reasonable to explain.
Hannah usually made it a point to be kind, even in tense situations, but she still felt like a mama bear protecting her cub. The panic sent her manners out the window along with that old calculator, and the woman was still waiting for a more rational explanation.
So Hannah explained.
“You can’t have it, ma’am, because my paintings ar
e my children. And I have a feeling that you…eat children for breakfast.”
There. At least that was nicer than coming right out and calling her a child-eater, right?
Hannah smiled brightly, pleased she’d pulled back a little at the end. It was better than nothing.
Red Nails gasped so sharply she could have swallowed her teeth if they’d been loose.
After the Scottish dude got his eyes back in his head and took a breath, he exploded with laughter. He had to bend and put his hands on his knees to catch his breath, but every time he did, he just started laughing again.
People stared, then stopped walking altogether when they noticed how he was dressed. A big knot formed in the crowd, and Red Nails slipped a pair of sunglasses on and fought her way back into the festive throng to separate herself from the spectacle.
“You can stop now,” Hannah said. “She’s gone.”
“Children for breakfast,” he repeated.
“Oh, no. Don’t start. You’ll lure real customers over here and I’ll have to lie again.”
He finally wound down. “So, ye doona wish to sell any of them?”
She shook her head and tears filled her eyes, knowing just what she would be giving up instead.
“So ye’ll be packing up and going, I presume?”
“Nope. Can’t do that, either. The rules say I have to stay until the end. They don’t want anyone tearing down until the official event ends. So I’ll have to just turn people away.”
“Well, we’ll both be unpopular then. I doona suppose the woman is happy with either of us.”
“Um, no. I’m sure she’s marching off to find the guy who runs this place, to make sure I am not allowed back again.”
He gave her a funny look. “But lass, do ye truly wish to come back? That is, if ye cannot part with the children?”
She looked around at the display. Scenes from her life looked back. A silly night at college when she’d painted half a dozen feet standing together. One of each. The image forced you to imagine the people attached to those feet—and worry about where their other feet were. Every time. It was a joke, in paint.
