by Jo Jones
Angus had no’ seen such an obvious mixture of anger and…defeat?...since that April day on Culloden Moor when he and so many of his companions bled their lives into Scotland’s mud for a Prince that dinna have the backbone to stand for his own cause.
For nearly three centuries, Angus had raged and grieved, along with the 79, over the loss of life and the death blow dealt to Scotland that fateful day. It still occupied a place in his soul, so ’twas easily recognizable in this young lad, but over what?
Angus studied the room, anxious to find the cause of that unholy noise but could find no obvious offender. What captured his attention was the beauty of an unfinished canvas on an easel, and a couple of finished ones leaning against the far wall.
The lad must have sensed him when he stepped deeper into the room. He stopped mid-stroke and turned slowly, his eyes widening as a swift, recognizable sliver of fear flickered through them. He pulled one of the talking devices Angus had seen the tourists use at Culloden’s Visitor’s Center, swiped a finger across it, and the horrific screeching stopped.
Thank the saints and stars!
Just as slowly, the lad set the brush aside, studying Angus from top to bottom as if he were an apparition. “What the…? Who are you? What are you doing here?” His voice was quiet, measured, almost a whisper.
Angus shoved the sack toward the lad. “I brought your lunch.”
The boy’s eyebrows scrunched together, and his eyes darted around the room as if someone or something would jump out to reveal the truth.
“Grif sent it.” Angus offered, taking a step closer, holding the sack a bit higher. “I ken ye dinna hear me enter due tae the loud…music?...ye were playing? Ye’re Blake, are ye no’?”
“The question is, who are you?” Blake countered, an edge of belligerence coloring his voice.
“I am Angus MacLauchlan.” Angus stood tall and proud. “I’ve come tae…” he caught himself just in time. “I’m working, this day, for Lucy. Helping with the apples and such.” He glanced at the wicked slashes of red and black paint on the canvas, and back at Blake. “Grif thought ye might be hungry.”
Angus noted the curled hand still pressed against the lad’s belly. It dinna appear to be the boy’s will to curl it so. It seemed to do so of its own volition. Angus shifted the sack slightly toward Blake’s healthy hand. “Soup, I believe. And a sandwich from Grif’s grill.”
Blake took the sack and set it aside. “Okay. You delivered it. You can go now.” He turned away dismissively, muttering something under his breath, but Angus heard the derisive comment about his absurd skirt and the new low Lucy had reached in her never-ending collection of crazy reprobates.
Mayhap seventeen, in age. Eighteen at most, Angus judged. He’d been that cocky, all-knowing, belligerent age once. Centuries ago. Regardless, he doubted growing from boy to man had changed all that much over time, even with the deep-seated pain he so easily recognized in the lad.
Angus had learned to vent his pain, fear and frustration on the practice field, with a broadsword. This lad used a paint brush and horrific, deafening noise to signify his.
“Mayhap later ye’d like tae help me pick more apples? Unless Lucy has another task for me, o’course.”
Blake barked a laugh that indicted how absurd he thought the offer. “Thanks, but I’m busy.”
“Och.” Angus nodded. “Ye’ve more canvases tae massacre, then?”
Blake’s rage came hot and fast, coloring his face a bright crimson. “Get out.” He pointed a shaky finger at the door.
Angus stepped forward. Blake retreated but kept his pretense of control despite Angus’ overpowering size looming over him like a thick oak branch over a spindly twig. Angus knew Blake felt it.
“I…I want to eat my lunch now. Alone.” Blake tried again to take charge, but with less conviction.
At least the lad was no’ a complete coward. “Did ye paint these others?” Angus moved to the half-finished canvas of an old man in the orchard, boosting a young boy onto his shoulders to reach an apple. “ ’Twill be bonny indeed, when finished.”
“It’s as finished as it’s going to get,” Blake said bitterly. “This is what I paint now!” He gestured toward the red and black.
“Why is that?” Angus asked, sensing the lad’s need to voice whatever it was, out loud.
Sneering, Blake held out his curled left hand. “You’re not blind, so you must be stupid.”
“Aye,” Angus replied, careful to keep his face blank. “I must be, for I dinna ken why that would stop a lad with yer talent.”
“I’m left-handed, you idiot!” Blake shouted. “I painted that with my left hand. Now I can’t even hold a brush with it. Do you ken that?”
“Aye.” Angus replied calmly, bending to peer at the other paintings. “That, and a lot more.”
He had no business interfering with the lad or his problems, and he was sure Lucy would no’ appreciate his meddling. But he recognized himself so strongly in Blake he couldna seem to walk away.
Soni would be appearing at any time to reveal his required task and he’d be pulled away from this place and these people, forever. He’d never see the lad again. Nor Lucy. And for some reason he couldna identify, the idea of leaving without the opportunity to know her better—much better—settled like a dull blade in his chest.
He released a weighty sigh. His two-day quest had been preordained. ’Twas useless to rail against it. Though he could do naught about his attraction to Lucy nor assuage his regret, he would do what he could for the lad. Without the luxury of time to take a softer approach to Blake’s pain, he’d have to do what Number 2, Alistair, had done with Angus, all those long centuries before.
The shock of Alistair’s scorn, the man Angus admired above all others, had ripped him from his pit of self-pity and despair. Needing to prove his worth to the man became Angus’ supreme quest and pushed him to make the final leap from boy to man. They’d been fast friends–nae–brothers, ever since.
Certainly, the lad dinna have anything but contempt for Angus so the plan could well backfire, but ’twas all Angus had to offer, given the circumstances.
He walked close to Blake, towering over him in a stance of pure disdain. “What I kenned the moment I saw ye, is that ye’re a coward, and a lazy laggard tae boot,” he growled. “While yer sister does the work of two men, ye’re hidin’ in here, wallowin’ in yer wretched puddle of self-pity. The stink of it is revolting.”
He stepped back as if he found the proximity to Blake to be foul, before pointing to the unfinished canvas. “Does yer self-indulgence feed yer soul the way finishing that painting could? I’ve fought beside brave, braw lads with injuries far exceeding yours, and they dinna quit. They dinna whine! They fought with their last ounce of strength, willing tae give their lives for what they believed in. If ye put half as much energy and emotion into finding a solution tae yer problem, tae relearnin’, redirectin’ yer strengths, as ye have tae pityin’ yerself, ye’d no’ be standing here like a wee bairn wailing over yer losses.”
“What do you know?” the lad sneered. “You’re just a delivery boy. Another of my sister’s lost causes. You don’t know me, and I don’t give a damn what you think. You’re nothing.” His voice caught on a half-sob. “A nobody!”
“Aye lad.” Angus walked to the door before turning back. “A nobody who almost lost himself before he learned that his future was in his hands alone, and whatever success he had would be up tae him to create.” He gave the boy a hard stare. “Ye’ll have tae build yer own stairway out of hell, Blake. No one can do it for ye.” He shrugged and continued. “Or remain as ye are, if ye’ve no the courage tae change.”
As he left the room, he called over his shoulder. “Enjoy yer lunch.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Troubled by his failure with Blake, Angus headed back to Grif’s kitchen. He needed a drink of water and a distraction to get the agony in Blake’s eyes out of his head. He’d failed the boy and mayhap even done further dam
age. ’Twas daft of him to assume that because Alistair had saved him, he could help a lad he dinna even know, in a time he was completely unfamiliar with.
Grif was ladling soup into two bowls as Angus entered and when he saw him, added a third. “Sit.” He nodded at the stool Angus had occupied earlier. “Start with this, and I’ll make you a sandwich as soon as I get these last orders plated.”
By the time Angus had settled on the stool, Grif was handing him the soup and a big glass of water with chunks of bobbing ice. Angus peered at it, touched the ice in wonder, then gratefully downed two-thirds of the water.
But ’twas no’ only his thirst that needed quenching. Though he knew he should be focused on whatever deed of valor he’d been sent to accomplish, he couldna ignore the powerful desire to learn more about Lucy, her world, and what had brought Blake to such a painful state.
Grif brought Angus the same kind of steaming sandwich, he’d sent to Blake, only larger. “Will ye join me?” Angus asked. “I ken ’twill take the two of us tae conquer this beast.”
Grif laughed and glanced at the empty order window. “I could probably manage a few minutes.” He grabbed another plate, a couple of glasses of milk and eased onto a stool with a groan. “Ahhh, that feels good. These old feet have been barking at me for the last hour.”
Angus peered at Grif in confusion, but let his curiosity about the remark slide. Other questions pressed more heavily. “I took Blake’s lunch tae him, as ye asked.” He passed half the sandwich to Grif. “The lad’s in a dark place, tae be sure. I saw some of his paintings. They’re remarkable. I ken his hand was no’ always so?”
“No.” Grif sighed. “A few months ago, he and his best friend, Matt Brinley, were in a car accident. Tragically, Matt will never walk again, but Blake healed up pretty well, except for his hand.” Grif took a sip of milk before continuing. “The boy’s not been himself, since. Lucy and I are both worried he may not pull out of it.”
“Och! ’Tis dreadful, indeed. Do they have other family? He and Lucy?”
“No,” Griff shook his head. “Sadly, both of their parents died in a car accident, about three years back. Lucy’s been trying to fill the gap ever since, but Blake won’t have it. He’s always been a handful, even for his parents. He stole the victory-bell from the football game at last year’s festival. He claimed it was just a joke, but the town didn’t see it that way. Some of them are still holding a pretty good grudge. I guess they’ve grown tired of his jokes over the years.”
“That must make it hard for Lucy.”
“You have no idea,’ Grif said, shaking his head. “And he’s far worse now that he’s lost his dream of being a famous painter and he can’t still threaten to walk out and never look back, once he turns eighteen. The injustice of it is churning him up inside. And, since Lucy is the only target close at hand, he mostly takes his frustration out on her.”
Angus tried to put himself in Blake’s place and then in Lucy’s. ’Twas interesting how differently each of them handled their misfortunes.
“The orchard—their father’s legacy, handed down from his father—was supposed to be Blake’s as well,” Grif went on, “but Blake made it clear early on, he wasn’t interested. His father never understood that. After he died, Lucy altered her own dreams to fit both hers and her father’s and built this place to augment the orchard, pretty much on sheer guts and a prayer.” Grif took a bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “I think she’s raising Blake the same way; doing the best she can, one day at a time, and praying things turn out.”
“Ye think a lot of her.” Angus stated.
Grif’s nod was emphatic. “I do. She’s—”
Lucy pushed through the swinging doors, packing a wide smile and a bin of dirty dishes. “Whew! I think that’s the biggest lunch crowd we’ve had in a long time. I’ve got a couple of tables just finishing up and then I need to head over to the park to set up.” She sat the bin near the sink. “I left a box of fresh produce inside the cooler. Will you load it in the truck for me, Angus, along with those extra four boxes of apples? I’ll drop them at the C.C. on my way. If you’ll come with me, I’ll take advantage of those strong arms—” She stopped as a pink blush tinged her cheeks. “I mean, additional hands setting up, will get us back here a lot faster.”
Of course he’d go with her. He wanted nothing more than to spend more time with her and he doubted she’d let him, once she found him out. ’Twas selfish to put his own wishes first, but mayhap he’d still stumble on the deed Soni sent him here to accomplish.
“ ’Twould be my pleasure.”
She couldna ken how much.
“After you eat something, Lucy. You haven’t stopped all day,” Grif reminded her.
“I’ve snacked here and there. I’m good,” she assured him. “I’ve got a game-committee meeting later so I’m hoping to get everything finished and get back here before too late. I’d like us all, you included, Angus,” she added, “to have dinner with Blake, tonight. He’ll be anxious about the game tomorrow, and what people will say.” She grabbed an empty bin. “If he’ll even go. He’s never missed a game, but after what happened last year, and now the accident and some people being…less than kind about both, all he wants to do is hide in the house. Maybe if we all encourage him…?”
Encourage him? Angus’ encounter with Blake had been about as far from encouragement as he could get. What would Lucy think when she found out what he’d done? She’d no’ want him at her table, that was sure. Likely nowhere around, a’tall. His heart sank. All he’d done was make things harder for her—for everyone— and that was the last thing he wanted.
“I’ll barbeque some ribs, later.” Griff offered. “He won’t turn those down.”
“Thanks, Grif.” Lucy’s voice revealed her affection for the man.
Angus felt a surprising twinge of jealousy, regretting that he’d never hear such warmth from her, for himself. Why? It shouldn’t matter so much, when he’d be leaving at any moment.
But, it did matter. It mattered a lot.
“Well, I’ve got tables to clear.” She held up the empty bin. “Stacy’s going to stay the afternoon and keep the store open. Will you back her up if she needs anything, Grif?”
“Sure thing.”
When they’d finished eating, Grif handed Angus two boxed pies. “Add these to the delivery.”
“Lucy takes fruit and vegetables to this place often?” Angus asked.
“She insists on taking something several times a week. The success of Community Caretakers means a lot to her.”
“What kind of place is it?” Angus picked up the pie-boxes.
“Sort of a community center for people in need of food, shelter, clothing, a helping hand, or whatever. Times can be tough in a farming community, so we all pitch in to help each other, and anyone else who might need it.”
Angus couldna help thinking what such bounty would have meant to his family and others in similar situations. If such a thing had existed, his father would never have had to enslave him to keep the rest of his family from starving. “Anyone can go there?”
“Anyone,” Grif assured him. “Townsfolk, families passing through, someone down on their luck, and even stray dogs like you and me,” he winked.
The wonder of such a place settled like a warm weight in Angus’ chest. In his world, ’twas a rare occurrence to see a helping hand through the rough times. Such a thing would have saved countless lives filled with hopelessness, despair and devastating hardship.
He might have grown up with his sisters. He’d have had a warm hearth to beat back the cold. He might even have grown to manhood without the burden of resentment against his father.
As unwelcome emotions burned in his throat, a combination of wonder, regret, and admiration grew for a lass whose heart stood open to friends and strangers alike, despite the heavy burdens she already carried.
Angus turned away from Grif, unable to trust his ability to hide his feelings. “I’ll load those app
les and the vegetables Lucy mentioned. Will ye tell her I’ll be ready whenever she is?”
~ ~ ~
Angus tried not to let his nervousness show as he curled his fingers over the edge of the seat in Lucy’s lorry. Speeding along at such a dizzying pace was exhilarating, to be sure, but ’twould take a wee bit of getting used to. And there she was, steering the thing with one hand, as she pointed out Ashton’s highlights with the other.
Listening more to the charm of her voice than her exact words, he worried how to tell her about the liberty he’d taken with Blake. He likely owed them both an apology since he couldna share the motivation behind his desperate attempt to shock Blake from his well of self-pity.
“The produce and one box of apples, are for the C.C. We’ll take the remaining three boxes to the park for the apple-bobbing booth.” She flashed a bright smile that pierced his very soul. “Don’t be surprised when I take shameless advantage of you.” Angus’s gaze shot to hers as a momentary jolt pierced his gut. “I promised to set up the booth for the pie-eating contest.”
Belatedly realizing what she meant, brought an embarrassed tinge of warmth to his neck. Centuries in the singular company of braw warriors had left him unpracticed with the subtleties of conversation.
“Grif’s always willing to do anything I ask, but as much as I appreciate him, he’s not as—” she let her glance slide over Angus’s thick chest and arms, “able, as you are, with…you know, the really heavy stuff. Besides, he’s swamped with the café and today I really needed him to stay and keep an eye on the things.”
Now that she’d partially opened the door, ’twas probably as good a time as any to clear his conscience. “ ’Tis my wish tae help with whatever ye need, Lucy, as long as I can. But, since I’ll be movin’ on, soon, ’tis good ye’ve Blake tae help ye. He appears tae be a strong enough lad.”
