Dougal

by L. L. Muir

  And the rest of her pieces were the same, containing inside jokes or sentiments that only she could truly appreciate.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I should stop torturing myself.” Which meant she would be choosing another kind of torture—losing her house. Unfortunately, even knowing that, she still couldn’t part with them. The admission brought tears to her eyes and pushed them out onto her cheeks.

  “Here now, lassie. Dinna greet.”

  She shook her head and ignored him, indulging for the first time in what would probably be a year of mourning. “What good is the house,” she whispered, “without the old chair anyway?”

  “What’s that, lass?”

  She forced the tears back and briefly explained that she needed to sell some of her paintings in order to pay taxes. “So if I was smart, I’d chase that woman down and offer the painting for the original price.”

  The guy shook his head and rustled his Mohawk. “Nay, miss. Her type only wants it if it’s expensive, and only if someone else wants it. She’d hang it on a wall and never look at it again. The painting would die from a lack of attention.”

  She was completely caught off guard by his grasp of the situation, and it was such a relief to be understood, she could only nod.

  Silence stretched out between them. The crowd had lost interest, except for a few women who couldn’t take their eyes off the guy’s knees. Even so, it seemed like the two of them were suddenly alone in a bubble.

  He jumped, like he’d just remembered something, and stepped forward with his hand extended. “Dougal Cameron, at yer service.”

  She extended her hand too, but he grabbed it, turned it, and kissed the back of it before she could think to stop him. His lips were warm, and the kiss was tender, but it was just too creepy, even if it was some kind of Scottish chivalry thing. Chivalry was dead and best left to video games.

  “Well, thanks again.” She pulled her hand back.

  He frowned. “Ye dinna wish to give me yer name?”

  “Oh, uh, sorry. My name is Hannah. Hannah Garr.”

  “Lovely.” After a few seconds of awkward silence, he winked and turned away, bypassed the next booth, and got lost in the crowd.

  She was relieved, she told herself…over and over again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  By weaving in and out of the strange crowd of music enthusiasts, Dougal hoped to elude his own witch for the moment. Little more than an hour ago, he’d been praying for his noble deed to present itself so he could move on to his meeting with Charles Stuart. He was anxious to vent his spleen as it were, and anxious to let a bit of the prince’s blood as well—through the nose and mouth, and in that order.

  But quick as the flash of a lass’s smile, the urgency was gone.

  It surprised him that a brief encounter with Miss Hannah could so quickly ease his thirst for revenge. The thirst was still there, of course, but the slaking of it could wait a piece. After all, he’d not been mortal for long and he’d yet to enjoy himself. A thorough perusal of his sporran, however, proved he’d not a coin to his name, so enjoying his mortal senses might prove difficult.

  The smells in the air were free for the tasting, thank the heavens, and he greedily gulped up the savory scent of cooking meat. Unfortunately, it made his belly groan.

  A fog of pipe smoke caught him next, though it tasted of nothing familiar. As soon as that was out of his nose, the sweet tang of summer grasses cleaned his pallet. But it also invited the memories of Culloden Moor along, and the shadow of the battle threatened to descend over him like a cloud.

  He shook his head to dispel any unpleasantness and crashed into a pair of lasses. They, too, had a lovely clean smell to them and it cheered him instantly.

  “I beg pardon,” he said, retreated, and made to go around them. But they moved into his path again, suggesting he hadn’t been to blame for the first misstep.

  “Would you mind?” asked the one, then held up her cellular phone.

  “What is it I might mind, lass?”

  She giggled and nudged her friend, who seemed to have difficulty making sound come out of her mouth, no matter how she tried. Her lips opened and closed silently.

  “Can we take a picture with you?” asked the first.

  He considered. At the moment he seemed solid enough, so it stood to reason his image would appear in a photograph.

  “Twenty bucks?” The lass added, as if she worried he would refuse her. Though a gentleman would decline the offer of money for so paltry a service, the smell of meat wafted past his nose again, and he took it as a sign from the heavens that he should accept.

  “That’ll do fine,” he said and opened his arms. The lass gave her phone over to an older woman and she and her friend tucked themselves up snug against him.

  Dougal gave a wide smile to the woman holding the phone, and after the first lass checked the image, she handed over a twenty-dollar bill as easily as a penny.

  Looking somewhat uncomfortable, the woman who had taken the photo stepped close. “Would you mind one more?” She gestured for her husband to come nearer and handed the confused man a camera from her purse.

  The man looked closely at Dougal’s kilt, rolled his eyes, then stepped back to aim the camera. His wife held on tight for possibly longer than was necessary, and indeed, dawdled so long while thanking Dougal, her husband saw fit to step forward and pull her away.

  Dougal looked down at the two matching bills in his hand, tucked them into his sporran, then turned to follow the smell of food. His stomach had to wait for another six photographs, however, before he could slip away.

  Until he was able to eat his fill, he was careful not to make eye contact with anyone, just in case.

  He was flattered, truly. But he’d been witness to many a similar occurrence on the battlefield. Only the men accosted for pictures were the wearers of modern-day kilts and usually sported a set of Highland pipes. But few of them were paid for their smiles…

  He was enjoying the shade and privacy provided by a low-hanging branch and the coolness of a large plastic glassful of ginger beer when he heard a familiar voice.

  The child-eater was berating a man. The only things clearly visible below the leaves were the man’s shorts and sandals.

  “Don’t you have any control here at all?” the Child-Eater demanded.

  “Look,” the man said. “I’m sorry she won’t sell it to you, but we don’t have a lot of rules here, you know?”

  “Don’t you get a percentage of her sales or something?”

  The man chuckled. “No, ma’am. This is a music festival. We’re just trying to bring the music to the people, and the people to the music. That’s it. The booths are just, you know, for fun.”

  There was a long, silent pause before the fellow made his excuses and hurried away.

  “John,” the woman said. “You’re just going to have to buy it for me, that’s all. There are no banks open. I’ll have to go home to get the cash. I need you to stay here and make sure no one else buys that painting, and if you see a man in a blue kilt, make sure he doesn’t take off with anything large. I’ll call you when I’m back.”

  Dougal went the long way round the shrubbery. He noted the child-eater walking toward the road where all the cars were parked. Unfortunately, he had no idea who John might be.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The music festival was an affair that unfolded in the opposite direction of most outdoor events around the state. At the Scottish Festival, Peach Days, or Swiss Days, the crowd always hit the booths first, searching frantically for the latest craze before that craze was sold out. And then later in the day, most people were interested in food and socializing.

  At the music festival, the crowd was there for the entertainment first and foremost. And when the hunger for music and food was satisfied, they started looking around for other entertainment and finally noticed there were rows of vendors waiting for them.

  The older crowd would be gone by seven. Hopefully, Red Nails
had a dinner party to host so Hannah’s heart could stop jumping every time she saw a white purse.

  The afternoon was a bummer all around. Few took notice of her booth, but then again, she never had to ask herself if she really wanted to part with something. And after a lot of quiet time to think about her lovely Victorian, she was right back where she started, not knowing what she really wanted. If she had to decide between the paintings and the house, it was silly to choose the paintings, but still…

  It was like trying to choose between her heart and her soul. What cruel god would make that kind of a choice necessary?

  Around six o’clock, she drew two caricatures for a couple of teenagers who wanted to document their first date with something besides a selfie. And since forty bucks wasn’t enough to make a dent in anything but her hunger, she walked across the flattened grass and ordered a corndog and a drink.

  Better to fatten up if she was going to be living on the street anyway, right?

  Back at her station, she had just finished the last of her corndog—which, by the way, she would never eat in public again, thanks to some lewd glances—when the Scottish dude came rushing back.

  He tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “Quick, lass. Sign a receipt for Witch’s Mist, and hurry. The child-eater plans to have her henchman purchase the painting, and I’ve no ken what the man looks like. If ye truly wish for Witch’s Mist to remain yers, ye must do what I say. But ye must decide and quickly.”

  With shaking hands, she took out the book of receipts that got very little use.

  Very. Little. Use.

  Why hadn’t she realized it before? She could have saved herself a little gas and a lot of heartache if she’d never pretended she could part with a single canvas. The choice between her heart and soul had been made long ago—she just hadn’t realized it!

  “Twenty dollars. Witch’s Mist. Dougal Cameron.”

  She ripped the white copy out of the book and handed it over. The act of doing so did something crazy to her insides. She was both nauseated and relieved, and she didn’t have a second to figure out why. The Celtic tribal band started up again, which meant no one would be speaking, let alone thinking in peace, for a little while.

  “Thank ye, lass. I’ll protect it with my life.” He put his hand over his heart, bowed, then scooped up the painting and hurried away.

  She hadn’t expected him to take it! “Wait!”

  Her voice was lost in the skirl of pipes and the manic beat of drums as the band paraded down the aisle between herself and the corn dogs. The dancing, whooping audience swallowed the Scot and her painting before she ever made it out of her booth. And with the chaos growing, she couldn’t even consider leaving her other children unprotected.

  ~

  The bare-boned truth was this—nothing was more boring than manning a booth. It takes vigilance and work to smile at every passerby. It’s exhausting to pretend to be both physically and mentally present for two days straight.

  Hannah was happy to learn that the vendors could strike their booths at ten p.m. that night since there would be no business done on Sunday. She’d forgotten the only thing on the schedule for the next morning was a yoga-sun-greeting-meditation-something that was planned for the ungodly hour of seven a.m. And she certainly wasn’t going to hide under a table all night just to attend. If she could get everything packed up by 10:30, she could make it home by midnight.

  She just hoped Dougal Cameron wasn’t planning to keep Witch’s Mist until morning.

  Or longer.

  Now that she thought about it, they guy had a receipt to prove he’d bought the painting. He could just drive off with it.

  Had he been conning her all along? Trying to think of a way to get the painting for just twenty bucks? The first time he’d shown up, he said he didn’t have a penny. Then he’d handed over twenty bucks. What’s up with that?

  It made her sick to distrust him. But she was notorious for being too trusting. Had she screwed up again? Or was she over-correcting now? Gah! She was going to lose her mind! But who could blame her? One of her children was missing!

  And all she could do was wait…and pray.

  ~

  Across the way, Hannah noticed a tall guy in a suit waiting for a corndog. Although most people could appreciate a state fair, oversized, dipped-in-real-corn-batter corn dog, the suit was definitely out of place. Was he stopping off after work?

  She was pretty sure that, in Mendon, only the funeral directors wore suits to work. And this guy definitely didn’t look like the mortuary type. He looked more like a thug with his sunglasses on in spite of the late afternoon. He lifted his glasses and scanned her side of the aisle, and when his gaze caught on her booth a little longer than the rest, she realized who he had to be—Red Nails’ driver, or as the Scot called him, her henchman.

  And if Dougal Cameron was telling the truth, the man would come over and look for Witch’s Mist. Maybe he just wanted lunch first…

  In the meantime, six different women stopped and looked over her paintings. But each time they asked the price of something, she had to confess that they were no longer for sale. When the sixth woman had a hard time understanding, Hannah had to lie and tell her that someone had purchased the entire collection. It was the only way to get her to leave.

  She kept tabs on the thug in the suit while she sketched and scared away customers. He finished his food and still didn’t come. He wandered down the row, but when he came back, he kept to the far side. The waiting drove her crazy. Why didn’t he just come over already? What was he waiting for? He couldn’t possibly know the painting was gone without coming up to her table and looking around.

  Or had he been watching when Dougal carried it away? Did he expect him to return it?

  It creeped her out to think the man might know what was going on. It made her feel like eyes were watching her—eyes she couldn’t see. The sensation wasn’t new to her since she had a real live stalker at home, but it made her feel helpless, and she hated to feel helpless.

  She dropped her pencil and forgot all about her sketch when a horrible realization consumed her. It meant Red Nails and her goon might get their hands on any one of her other children and with no fuss at all—

  Hannah had to pee!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The portable toilets were at the top of the long gravel drive and out of sight. No way could Hannah watch the booth as she walked away, pee quickly, then run back. She was either doomed to pee her pants, or she would have to find someone trustworthy to man the booth for her. And it would have to be someone who could stand up to the bullying of Red Nails and/or her driver.

  She was doomed.

  To buy time, she tried to think of something else. Once again, she wondered if the Scot had lied to her. It would certainly make more sense than some woman obsessing about her painting just because she couldn’t have it. After all, the painting wasn’t so extraordinary.

  Hannah wondered what he would do with it. Keep it? Sell it on eBay? Con someone else into thinking it was worth much more than it was?

  Wow. He had played her so well. All that crap about the only witch’s mist he’d ever seen had been green… It simply had to be a coincidence that she’d seen green mist too, but only in a dream she’d had. It was the same dream that had inspired the painting, but she knew she’d have better luck selling it if she made the mist Nile blue…

  Why wasn’t she more upset? She’d been robbed, probably. One of her favorite children was gone. Other than a full bladder, what was wrong with her? Was it just the lingering effect of his flattery making her stupid?

  The vendors to either side of her were far too busy to watch her stuff, like they’d been able to do for her a few times since they’d set up shop the day before. With a steady line of customers, they never had time to glance her way, let alone make eye contact. She had to find someone else.

  Her bladder expanded by increments while she watched the crowd file past. She needed a loner, or maybe a coupl
e of girls who could at least entertain each other.

  With her hopes set on girls, she didn’t notice the guy with the Mohawk until he was five feet away.

  She tried to appear calm for the benefit of the suit across the way. After all, she still didn’t know where the biggest threat might come from. For all she knew, there was no threat.

  “You’re back,” she said blandly. “Don’t look now, but I think we’re being watched.”

  “Oh, are we now?” He grinned at her. “I pray it is the only reason ye’re not so happy to see me.”

  She nodded. She was happy to see that he hadn’t taken the painting and left town, but he had returned empty-handed. She was also glad for a chance to see his face again, in case she ever decided to paint it. But that was all. She just needed to memorize a few details, and she’d be good.

  Kilted Conman sounded like a good title.

  “Where’s your kilt? I mean, I would have liked to see it one more time, so I could draw it maybe.”

  He had little lines around his flashing green eyes when he smiled. “So ye’ve missed me, then.”

  She forced herself to laugh.

  His eyebrows bounced. “I’m in disguise, lass. It seems women in these parts appreciate the chance to have their photos taken with a man wrapped in plaid. So I must say, I’ve made a pretty penny this day. I also worried that child-eater’s henchman might be on the look-out for a Scottish accomplice, so I bought some street clothes from a bloke who has a shelter pitched in yon field. I can retrieve my kilt, and yer painting, when the evil woman is gone.”

  Witch’s Mist was in a tent? Great. There were only fifty places she had to search.

  “I noticed some women stopping by. Have ye decided ye can bear to part with a painting or two after all?”

  “No. I haven’t changed my mind. But we can’t bring cars in here and load up until after ten o’clock tonight. I have to keep pretending until then.”