“My parents?”
He shrugged. “Yer childhood, growing up in Texas. We hear rumors, ye ken, up here in the northeast, about th’ wild beasts and th’ lawless ways o’ th’ folk down there. I’d like tae know what it takes tae raise a young woman who can shoot a wolf off a man’s back.”
The drink had done its work. Ginny was able to breathe. She was warm and reasonably comfortable. The only problem was maneuvering the mug to her lips, balanced between her swollen hands.
She hesitated for a moment longer, then took a breath and did as asked. She found herself describing her school days, and her father’s death and her mother’s adjustment to the unthinkable. She also found herself telling him about her brother and that led, naturally, to last October.
He listened sympathetically, asking intelligent questions, reserving judgment. When she was finished, he leaned toward her.
“So, tell me, lass, what’s Jim done?”
Ginny’s eyes had been resting on the Laird’s hands. At his question, she looked up quickly. “Nothing. He’s done nothing.”
“He’s no offered ye any violence?”
She shook her head emphatically. “None.” She watched the Laird’s brow furrow. He regarded her in silence for a moment, then leaned back in his seat.
“There are any number o’ ways a man may hurt a woman. He may no even notice. That doesn’t make him innocent, just gormless.”
Ginny felt a smile twitch at the corner of her mouth. It was a term she hadn’t heard in a long time and brought back memories of childhood.
“Why did ye no hit him, instead o’ the tree?”
She considered and discarded a dozen possible answers, then chose one she was pretty sure this man would understand. “I don’t know him that well.”
The Laird looked at her, one eyebrow up. “That is a verry interesting answer. Does he know you?”
She shook her head. “No, and he never will.”
“Why is that?”
Ginny shook her head. She’d said enough, more than enough.
“He’s disappointed you.”
She glanced up, then back down at her drink. No secret there. Her face had given that much away.
Dr. Gordon tapped a finger soundlessly on the table. She watched the motion, waiting. It was mildly interesting to see how regular the movement was, almost like a clock, steady, hypnotic.
An hour later Ginny realized she had told him everything he wanted to know, everything except Charlie’s secret. About Jim’s tendency to look down on her and her struggle to trust herself and how she had known Jim would be furious, but she’d had to make a choice.
“Ye sacrificed yer happiness fer him.”
She nodded.
Gordon’s mouth turned up slightly at the edges. “Yer a remarkable woman, Ginny Forbes. I wish ye were one o’ mine.”
Ginny had nothing to say to that. She would have given anything to be less remarkable and more loveable.
“What is it, lass?”
She looked up and met his eyes. “I wish I didn’t care. I wish I couldn’t feel anything. I wish I had never met him.”
Dr. Gordon sighed. “Love and life are never easy, but they’re worth it.”
Ginny found no comfort in that and lifted her mug to her lips only to find it empty and there was no comfort in that either.
“T’would be more restful if we had nae hearts, I know, but then we’d ha’e nae joy.”
Joy. No hope of that.
“Ye know what Angus would say, were he here?”
She looked up. “He’d say, don’t give up on my grandson. No yet.” She made a point of rolling her ‘r’s in imitation of her laird's voice.
Dr. Gordon smiled and nodded. “Aye. He’d also say, whatever the cost, each of us has a job tae do. We’re born to it. We owe the clan our lives and our allegiance.”
Ginny looked at him in silence for a long minute, then nodded. She’d heard Angus say exactly that, many times.
Dr. Gordon leaned toward her, his expression a mix of sympathy and conviction. “No matter how far removed frae Caledonia, we’re still Scots. We’ve a talent for trouble and for surviving. It’s in yer blood. Ye’ll do what ye must, because ye must, and because ye can.”
Ginny felt her shoulders sag. He was right. This journey would end eventually, at which point she could go home. In the meantime, she had a job to do right here. Whether Jim wanted it or not, her responsibility was to help him. Help him get Charlie to Halifax. Help him find his place in the community. Help him decide whether or not he wanted to become the Laird of Loch Lonach.
“I can gi'e ye some tools tae help ye face the task, if ye will. Something a bit more constructive than broken bones.”
She nodded.
“Sleep the nicht. We’ll talk agin tomorrow.”
Gordon rose, came around the table and pulled Ginny to her feet. “Come. I promised I’d bring ye back afore th’ kitchen closed.”
* * *
Saturday Evening
Beverwyck Homestead
It was a quarter to seven before the dining room door opened and Ginny stepped through.
Behind her, Jim could see a tall, older man. There was no question who he was. He wore authority as easily as the fisherman’s sweater on his back. His mouth was broad and expressive, his eyes a bright blue, even from this distance, and sharp, unfettered by glasses or other signs of human weakness.
Jim had risen to his feet when she appeared. She started towards him and the Laird let her go, but Jim could see his eyes follow her across the room. Jim reached out and pulled her to him, wrapping his good arm around her, his eyes on the other man the whole time.
Mrs. Gordon, too, had risen. She left the table and went to the Laird. Jim saw her speak to him, then they both turned to look at Jim and Ginny. The Laird said something, then looked down at his wife and smiled, then held the door open for her, shutting it behind them as they left.
Jim let out a breath. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Having to fight to get her back, perhaps. He looked down at her, seeing the bandages and the remnants of tears.
“What did you do to your hands, Ginny?”
“I punched a tree.”
“Why?”
She shrugged, avoiding his eyes.
Jim took a deep breath then turned her toward the door. “Come on.”
He took her to his room, discarding his sling and sitting her down under the reading lamp. He removed the dressings Dr. Gordon had applied and took a good look at the torn flesh.
“No broken bones?”
“They haven’t been x-rayed, but I don’t think so. They don’t hurt enough.”
“Don’t hurt enough.” Jim echoed her words, his heart aching. “Haven’t you been hurt enough already? You have to smash your hands, too?”
“You’re male. You understand that sometimes you have to hit something or explode.”
Jim was familiar with the feeling, but couldn’t recall ever doing this sort of damage to himself. His hands were his livelihood. He needed them in good working order.
“We’ll get them x-rayed, just to be sure.”
“I have a prescription to pick up, too.”
“What is it?”
“A sleeping pill.”
“You told him about the nightmares.”
“I didn’t have to. He’s a very good listener.”
Jim pulled her to her feet. “You can tell me the rest when we get back.”
Dr. Warner met them at intake. “I’ve been waiting for you.” He smiled at Ginny.
“We need to know if anything’s broken.” Jim indicated her hands.
Dr. Warner nodded. “Let’s go find out.” When the scans were complete, he sat down with the two of them and went over the results. “No breaks. Just tissue damage. Dressing changes, ice, and rest.” He cleaned and bandaged her hands, then prescribed a dose of penicillin, which the duty nurse administered behind closed doors.
Once Ginny had been seen to, Dr. Wa
rner turned to Jim. He undid the dressing over the wolf bite and inspected the damage. The wounds were still red and the area swollen and hot.
“Hmm. You got the procaine penicillin? And the anti-inflammatories?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Warner picked up his computer link and started writing. “I’m going to add an oral antibiotic, one tablet every twelve hours for seven days.”
Jim nodded, watching as Dr. Warner re-dressed his arm.
“Here are the sleeping pills for Ginny and here is your antibiotic. You already have the narcotics.”
“Enough for three days, yes.”
“Don’t be afraid to use them.” Dr. Warner stood up and stretched. “I’m going to call it a day.” He looked at Jim, then lifted an eyebrow. “I suggest you do the same.”
* * *
Chapter 29
Saturday Evening
Beverwyck Homestead
After dinner, Dr. Gordon settled down in the chair next to Monroe’s bed, facing him. The medical staff had cleared out when they saw him coming. They understood patient-doctor confidentiality.
“Hello, Charlie. I’m Dr. Gordon. I’m th’ Laird here. I’m also a psychiatrist. I heard about th’ wolves. I was wonderin’ if ye’d like tae talk about it.”
“No, thank you.”
Dr. Gordon nodded. He waited for a moment, then started again. “I understand yer wife and daughters were killed by a drunk driver.”
“Who told you that?”
“Ginny Forbes told Dr. Warner.”
“Oh.”
“I hear ye thought o’ takin yer own life.”
Monroe said nothing, just waited, his eyes on the Laird.
Gordon also waited. He knew the power of silence.
After a while Monroe nodded, slowly.
“I also hear that Ginny talked ye out o’ it.”
“Yes.”
Dr. Gordon nodded. He already had every detail of that incident at the park. His goal here was to see if he could get Monroe talking.
“Ye saw a psychiatrist after that?”
“They took me to the hospital, put me on some medications.”
“Then what?”
“They let me go home.”
Dr. Gordon nodded again. “Which medications?”
Monroe shrugged. “I don’t know the name. Ginny has the bottle. I gave it back to her.”
Dr. Gordon raised an eyebrow. “Ye were no taking them?”
“No.”
“Why not?” He was pretty sure he already knew the answer.
“I didn’t need them. I just had to work through it on my own.”
Dr. Gordon was taking mental notes. Male ego and the illusion of strength in the face of devastating loss. The number of new cases of male depression every day was staggering. Men didn’t know how to admit defeat or ask for help. Even when identified, it was hard for them to change the way they coped. Medications were viewed as weaknesses, lifestyle changes—an admission of guilt.
“I hear ye left th’ others sleepin’ and made yer way off inta th’ woods.”
“For all the good it did me.”
“Why did ye leave yer friends?”
Monroe made eye contact, then looked away. “I was making trouble for them. I thought it would be better if I just left.”
An interesting excuse. “What kind o’ trouble?”
Monroe shrugged. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they kind of fancy each other.”
The corner of Dr. Gordon’s mouth twitched. “Aye, I’d noticed. What’s it to do wi’ ye?”
Monroe’s face twisted. “The way they looked at each other, it reminded me of Mandy.”
“Mandy. That’s yer wife, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about her.”
Two hours later Dr. Gordon had what he felt was a pretty clear picture of what must have happened. Monroe had tried to cope by abusing alcohol. His friends had tried to help, but his job had taken a hit and so had his self-esteem. The suicide attempt was probably more of a way to deal with the guilt than a genuine wish to end his life. Men tended to succeed at suicide.
The background seemed pretty clear, but there was still something Monroe wasn’t telling him. He’d admitted to hearing his wife’s voice, but that hadn’t started until after he was deep in the woods and he’d known it was in his head. So he hadn’t fled because of the hallucinations.
He’d said he was on his way to stay with distant relatives, but he’d let slip that his brother was in Africa. Even if it was true that he had family somewhere in the eastern United States, the story he’d told was that Jim and Ginny were giving him a ride. If that was so, why would he leave them and set off cross country on foot? A fit of despair, with a self-indulgent temper tantrum thrown in for good measure, might push him to look for a period of solitude, but he’d want to find his way back to them to complete the journey.
Unless he was looking for solitude in which to blow his brains out. But that didn’t work, either. He’d stolen a gun, but he hadn’t used it. It had taken some careful questioning, but Monroe had told him the pistol was in the pack he’d abandoned in the snow, so it couldn’t have been the primary reason for his wanting to be alone. Someone intent on taking his own life deep in the woods wouldn’t forget the weapon.
There was something else going on. He was pretty sure none of these three would tell him what it was, but he knew someone who might. He left Monroe in the hands of the medical staff and set off towards his own house.
He let himself in, accepted the single malt his wife had ready, then dropped into his office chair and pulled out the phone.
“Angus, it’s Greg.”
“Gordon.”
“Aye, Gordon, and ye needn’t sound sae enthused tae hear from me agin.”
“Yer a trouble-maker, Gordon. Ye know that?”
“Aye. Ye’ve told me often enough.”
“Well and wha’ is it this time?”
“Were ye aware ye were sending me three patients?”
“I didna send ye any. They were supposed tae be guests. How’s th’ lass?”
“She’ll do. I’m hoping tae get another chance tae talk with her afore she leaves us.”
Angus Mackenzie sighed down the line. “Take guid care o’ her, Greg. We need her.”
Gordon nodded. “I know it.”
“Wha’ aboot th’ other twa?”
“Yer grandson has been making an ass o’ himself.”
“Hrmph. An’ ye think ye can fix him, do ye?”
“I think if he’s not careful he could lose that lass and that would be a shame.”
“I agree, and ye’ve no need tae tell me what he’s been up tae. He told me hisself.”
“Guid. Then I dinna ha’e tae insult ye. That leaves the third.”
“Monroe.”
“Aye, Monroe.”
“How’s th’ leg?”
“He should be on crutches by tomorrow dinner.”
“That’s guid news.”
“Aye, but he’s a problem.”
“Go on.”
“He’s no taking his meds.”
“Ha’e Ginny give them tae him.”
“We can try that, but he also needs tae talk tae someone. He was hallucinatin’ his deid wife.”
There was a short silence, followed by a sigh. “Weel, I’ll see what I can arrange fer him.”
“Leave him with me.”
“That’s no an option.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just nae possible.”
“Angus, tell me wha’s going on.”
“I canna do that.”
“Ye can, ye just won’t.”
“Trust me on this. Ye dinna want tae know.”
Gordon raised an eyebrow. “I canna help him without knowing.”
“Gregory Gordon, yer a fine man an’ a fine physician, but ye canna save everyone. Let it go.”
“What aren’t ye tellin’ me, Angus? What’s th’ dirty little
secret th’ three o’ them are carrying on their souls?”
“Greg, listen tae me. ‘Tis safer for everyone if ye dinna know.”
Gordon frowned, considering the possible reasons for one laird to refuse to level with another. “How can I help, Angus?”
“Get them awa’ fra there as soon as may be and ask nae questions.”
“Can ye assure me ‘tis Homestead business we’re talkin’ about here?”
“It is.”
“Then ye ha’e my word on it and ye owe me a bottle and a visit.”
“Gladly.”
“Th’ good stuff, mind. Not the raw whisky ye sell tae th’ tourists.”
There was a laugh on the other end of the line. “I wouldna do that tae ye, Greg. And I thank ye fer yer help.”
“Dinna make me regret it, Mackenzie.”
“I’ve a feeling ther’ll be regrets soon enough, but I trust this will no be one o’ them.”
“Let’s hope yer right.”
Gordon put the phone away and picked up his drink. He hated not knowing what was going on, but he was no fool. If Angus Mackenzie said curiosity could endanger his Homestead, then he would shelve it and do his best for the three young Texans without full disclosure.
* * *
Chapter 30
Saturday Night
Beverwyck Homestead
Ginny stood looking at herself in the mirror, wondering how she was going to get out of this mess. She had let Jim remove her shoes and socks, but had retreated to the bathroom to get cleaned up and wiggle out of her shirt and pants and into the garment that passed for a nightgown when she was on the road, an oversized tee shirt she had acquired many years before at one of the Highland Games, thoroughly broken in and very soft.
“How are you doing in there?”
“Fine.” It had been a long day and she was on the point of collapse, but Jim clearly had something else he wanted to say.
“Let me in.”
She took a last look at the mirror, then sighed and unlocked the door.
He wrapped her in a terrycloth robe provided by the Homestead and guided her out into the room, positioning her on one end of the couch and himself on the other, facing her.
“How did this happen, Ginny?” he said. “How did we come to this? After all the things we’ve been through together, how is it you felt the need to smash your hands into a tree, rather than face me?”
Viking Vengeance Page 17
