by Janet Dailey
“I Am Not Your Brother!”
His voice was husky with his effort to keep its volume down. “What is it going to take to get it through your head that we are not related?”
“But—” How could he say that?
Whit read her thoughts before she could speak them.
“It means nothing that my father married your mother. There’s no blood tie between us. You aren’t my sister. You’re a woman, and a damned beautiful woman at that!”
She couldn’t deal with this kind of talk—not from Whit. She tried to push away from him, but he simply tightened his hold to bring her closer to the bare wall of his chest.
Books by Janet Daily
Calder Born, Calder Bred
Stands a Calder Man
This Calder Range
This Calder Sky
The Best Way to Lose
Touch The Wind
The Glory Game
The Pride of Hannah Wade
Silver Wings, Santiago Blue
For the Love of God
Foxfire Light
The Hostage Bride
The Lancaster Men
Leftover Love
Mistletoe & Holly
The Second Time
Separate Cabins
Terms of Surrender
Western Man
Nightway
Ride the Thunder
The Rogue
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Copyright © 1981 by Janet Dailey
Cover art copyright © 1984 Bob Maguire
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Originally published by Silhouette Books,
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ISBN 978-1-391-8917-7
First Pocket Books printing December 1984
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THE LANCASTER MEN
Chapter One
When a family of tourists drifted on to view other contests of the Highland Games, a space was left on the inside ring of spectators. Shari Sutherland quickly slipped into the vacated area, drawing her two friends with her. Her hair glistened blackly in the afternoon sun, thick and full-bodied as its loose waves brushed her shoulders.
Her attire differed slightly from that of her female companions. Her slacks were camel tan, topped with a silk blouse in the palest shade of cream. Around her neck, she wore the tartan scarf of the Sutherland clan.
The brown-haired Beth Daniels wore snug-fitting gold-colored jeans and a matching checked blouse with the tails knotted at the waist while her chic, blonde counterpart, Doré Evans, was dressed in white slacks and a shimmering striped blouse in variegated shades of turquoise and lavender. Neither of Shari’s friends displayed the distinctive plaid of a Scottish clan.
The Grandfather Mountain Highland Games were held each summer in MacRae Meadows located high on the slopes of the mountain which gave the annual event its name. The festivities attracted a throng of spectators and participants alike to this North Carolina area that so resembled the rugged terrain of Scotland.
The proud, boisterous wail of the bagpipe filled the air, issuing forth its wild cry that sang through the blood. Shari felt the power of its music and her green eyes were alive with the heady strength of it as she watched the competing dancers.
Without taking her eyes from the contestants, she leaned toward her two friends to whisper an explanation. “This is the Ghillie Callum, the Sword Dance.”
“You could have fooled me,” Doré murmured dryly, a little aloof and unmoved by the spectacle. Shari was used to the faintly patronizing attitude of her friend and smiled away the remark without taking offense.
“Malcolm Canmore of Scotland is the one who is usually given credit for originating the dance,” Shari continued in the same low voice. “After a battle in 1054 in which he killed one of Macbeth’s chiefs near Dunsinane, he took his dead enemy’s sword and laid his own over the top of it to form a cross. Then he danced over the symbol to celebrate his triumph.”
“It’s kinda like a war dance, isn’t it?” A trace of irony slanted Beth’s mouth. “Society accepted this, but thought the dances of the American Indian were strange and heathen.”
“You’re right. This was essentially a war dance.” Shari addressed her remarks to Beth who seemed to be more in tune with the imagery of the dance than Doré. “Like the Indian war dances, it was performed on the eve of a battle. It was a way of relieving tension and displaying self-control as well as a means of foretelling the outcome of a battle.”
Beth pulled her glance away from the competition long enough to cast a puzzled frown at her friend and guide. “How could a dance predict the outcome?”
“The warrior would dance over his sword and scabbard, arranged in the shape of a cross. If his feet didn’t touch the sword or scabbard, they would be victorious in battle. But if he misstepped and disturbed the position of the sword or scabbard, it was considered an omen of defeat,” Shari explained.
“These dancers aren’t doing it right,” Doré pointed out. “They aren’t using a sword and a scabbard. Those crosses are formed by two swords.” Which proved she had been listening despite her expression of disinterest in the proceedings and Shari’s explanation of the dance’s origin.
“For the purposes of modern dance, two swords are used.” Shari assured her friend that it was being performed correctly. “The displacement of the swords with a missed step is now a means of eliminating contestants from the competition, so, in a sense, it is still a bad omen.”
“It certainly is for the dancer,” Beth agreed, a smile of amusement flashing across her face.
A responding smile curved Shari’s bow-shaped mouth as she lapsed into silence, her explanation concluded, leaving her free to watch the intricate pattern of precise footwork. The dance demanded grace and energy, the arms arched above the head, the quick action of pointed toes flirting close to the crossed blades.
In the background, the bagpipe established the fevered pitch, sending tongues of excitement through Shari’s veins with its battle song. Her own feet ached to take part in the ancient ritual, but she held them still. When the last note of the song faded to a wheezing sound, she turned from the scene with a trace of regret.
“Where can we get something cold to drink?” Doré’s glance swept the horde of spectators with a look of long-suffering patience. “Isn’t anybody else as thirsty as I am?”
“I wouldn’t mind a cold drink,” Beth appeared to feel obligated by friendship to agree with the blonde. “There were some vendors by the entrance, weren’t there, Shari?”
“I believe so, yes. We’ll work our way in that direction and see,” she suggested.
She knew better than to suggest that Doré might satisfy her thirst at one of the water fountains located conveniently nearby. Doré had an almost continental aversion to water as a drink.
Their place on the inside
ring of spectators was quickly taken by other tourists as they moved away. The crowd that had gathered for the Highland Games was a colorful mixture. Male and female alike were garbed in the individual tartan plaid of their particular clan, the men in kilts and the women in pleated skirts.
Since the public was invited to attend the festivities, there was a bright array of summerwear along with the traditional dress of the Scots. Athletic competitions were being held in addition to the dance and piping contests.
“I don’t know when I’ve seen so many men with knobby knees,” Doré remarked after they had passed a particularly portly gentleman with his kilt flapping about his knees. “What are those funny little leather pouches hanging from their waists?”
“They are called ‘sporrans.’ The sporran is a kind of belt purse,” Shari explained. “You have to remember when these costumes were common attire, pockets were not in vogue, and men needed to carry their small possessions in something. A more ornamental sporran, made from fur, is used with eveningwear and the plain leather is considered proper for daytime.”
“It’s really quite unusual and decorative.” Doré was always the first to wear new fashion trends. “I’m surprised it hasn’t caught on.”
“You could always start a new fad,” Beth suggested.
“I might do that.” It was a shrugging reply that seemed to indicate the suggestion would be forgotten tomorrow.
They circled a small group of people all wearing the same tartan plaid. Beth slowed to glance back at them, then turned to Shari with a thoughtful frown. “None of those people look like they’re related to one another. I know this is known as the Gathering of the Scottish Clan, but I’m not sure that I know exactly what a ‘clan’ is? Do they just share the same last name?”
“Clan is Gaelic for family. Essentially this is a series of family reunions to which the public is invited,” Shari explained. “While they may not be directly related, they’ve traced their family genealogy and learned that they share a common ancestor. This celebration is really a means of preserving our Scottish heritage.”
“But why here in this particular place in North Carolina?” Doré swept the locale with a surveying glance, not overly impressed. “It’s very picturesque, but …”
“Do you have the feeling, Shari, that our city friend is more comfortable surrounded by concrete than trees?” Beth teased.
Shari laughed briefly, but let that question pass. “Probably the most basic reason for this site is because the originators of the celebration were raised here in Linville. But there were other contributing factors as well. When North Carolina was being colonized, a lot of Scottish families settled here in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Plus the area bears a very strong resemblance to the Highlands in Scotland. In that sense, this was a natural choice.”
“I suppose,” Doré conceded as her attention was claimed by the sight of a vendor’s stall. “Good. That man is selling soft drinks.”
After they had all bought their cold drinks, they searched until they found a shady spot to sip them away from the crowds. Shari lifted her gaze to the mountain that silently watched over the celebration.
Grandfather Mountain, so named by the Indians because the broken outline of the mountain peak looked like the profile of an old man gazing skyward. It had become one of the more popular recreation sites in the State with its swinging footbridge providing a view of nearly one hundred miles, its cave of inlaid stone, and a natural rock likeness of the Sphinx.
So many of her summers had been spent in the shadow of this mountain that seeing it again was like seeing an old friend. She remembered the times when she and Rory had hurried to keep up with Whit while they hiked the mountain’s trails.
Rory had always been so impatient whenever she stopped to gaze at the rhododendron growing in wild profusion on the slopes, but not Whit. Whit was the one who pointed out the rowan tree and the sand myrtle.
A smile flitted across her lips as she recalled the time she and Rory had taken off on their own. A mist had swept in through the mountain gaps and covered the top of Grandfather Mountain. She and Rory had gotten lost in it, but Whit had found them. It was the first and only time that she could recall ever seeing Whit angry and he had been furious with them.
“Why the smile?” Beth inquired with a curious look.
Shari lifted a shoulder in a dismissing shrug. “I was just recalling some of my childhood ‘misadventures.’” She didn’t bore them with the details.
“Do you live very far from here?” Doré stirred the ice in her drink with a straw. “I know you said the condominium where we’re staying is just a summer place.”
“Gold Leaf is over an hour’s drive from here, out of the mountains,” she replied, still thoughtful and vaguely reminiscing. “The Lancasters used to own one of those old summer houses in the village when I was a child. It’s cooler here in the mountains and we’d spend the hot, summer weeks here instead of at the farm. The summer house was sold a few years ago. Then Whit bought the condominium.”
“What is Gold Leaf?” Beth wanted to know.
Doré supplied the answer before Shari could. “That’s the name of the family tobacco plantation,” she said, revealing her interest in anything that implied money.
“The Lancaster family made its money in tobacco. That’s why they named the farm Gold Leaf,” Shari explained. “In recent years, it has diversified, raising other crops but tobacco is still one of the principal ones.”
“Does your family live there?” Beth questioned. “You said it belonged to the Lancaster family.”
“It does. My mother lives there and my younger brother, Rory, as well as Whit who runs Gold Leaf now since Grandfather Lancaster isn’t able to get around any more,” Shari replied and finished her cold drink.
“Then your mother was a Lancaster?” Beth attempted to figure out Shari’s relationship to the Lancasters.
“No. The explanation is a little involved,” she smiled. “My father was Robert Sutherland. He was killed in a car wreck when I was only a couple of months old. I was a year old when my mother met and married John Lancaster who was a widower with a twelve-year-old son. My younger brother, Rory, is actually my half brother. And Whit is my step-brother. There isn’t any true blood relationship between myself and Granddad Lancaster.” Shari glanced at Beth. The brown-haired girl was frowning intently. “I’ve confused you, haven’t I?” she laughed.
“I don’t think so.” Beth shook her head, but she didn’t appear too certain. “What about your step-father John Lancaster?”
“He died when I was fourteen from pneumonia complications. At the time, Whit was already being groomed to take his place in the family business. He stepped in to fill the void after my stepfather died and managed the farm under the direction of Granddad Lancaster. Granddad put him in full charge of the operation three years ago and ostensibly retired.” While he didn’t run the business anymore, Shari knew full well that Granddad Lancaster still ran the family.
“How old is your grandfather?” There was a wistful note in Beth’s voice. Knowing how close she was to her own family, Shari guessed her friend was feeling a twinge of homesickness.
The question made her pause to add up the years. The resulting answer made her realize that she had forgotten her step-grandfather was that old.
“He’s seventy-eight, but he looks like he’s in his sixties. He’s still very much the patriarch of the family.” A fact she knew all too well.
“Since we’re so close, you are planning to visit them, aren’t you?” Beth frowned, because Shari hadn’t mentioned anything about it.
Smiling lightly, Shari tried to shrug away the twinge of guilty conscience. “When we planned this vacation, I thought it was supposed to be a complete break from everything for us. Besides, it would hardly be fair for me to visit my family when neither of you can see yours since they are so far away.”
“I don’t mind,” Beth assured her.
“I think it would be fascinating to
see your family home,” Doré inserted. Until that moment, Shari had believed her blonde-haired friend would be an ally.
With pressure being applied from both sides, Shari attempted to delicately explain her situation at home. “I don’t think either of you understand what you’re saying. Twenty minutes after we arrive at Gold Leaf, you’ll probably find yourselves referees in a shouting match.”
“Why?” A frown of puzzled concern took over Beth’s expression.
“To put it mildly, I don’t get along very well with my grandfather.” There was a rueful twist of her mouth since her reply was something of an understatement. “We can’t carry on a conversation for five minutes without an argument starting. Granddad Lancaster has some antiquated notions about a woman’s role in life and he disapproves of just about everything I do.”
“I suppose he’s one of those old-fashioned Southern men who believes that women are the weaker sex and need to be looked after and protected.”
Doré read between the lines of Shari’s answer and made a mocking conclusion. “No doubt, he has the attitude that educating a woman is a waste of time.”
“He is sufficiently liberated to concede that education is a good thing, but he doesn’t like my choice of university or my major.” Her sense of fair play wouldn’t permit her to go along with such a sweeping condemnation of her step-grandfather’s attitude.
“What’s wrong with Duke University?” Beth’s expression was ringed with disbelief, her college pride aroused. “Heavens, it’s one of the top colleges in the country.”
“But there are several others in the State that are equal academically,” Shari reasoned, a hint of a smile curving her lips. “As far as Granddad is concerned, Duke has several drawbacks. Number one, I can’t live at home while I’m attending college.” Her green eyes widened in mock horror. “And Heaven only knows what could happen to a young girl living on campus—away from the nest and without the sheltering wing of the family to protect her from lecherous college boys always ready to take advantage of her.”
“Do you mean it isn’t like that?” Doré feigned surprise and they all laughed.
