by Tammy Swoish
I'm going to try to talk to ghost Samuel.
My curiosity has overridden my fear. I want to know what he wants. He has to be the ghost in my loft.
Day 7
Morning
Samuel did not come back. I sat up half the night waiting, and even called his name a couple of times.
He's so rude.
My mind keeps repeating the encounter with him. I can't get rid of his voice. I have to know what's what, once and for all.
When Am I Going to
See Anything in the Highlands
Besides MacKensie Manor?
5:00 p.m.
I just got back from a bike ride. I thought it would be sweet. I haven't ridden since middle school because that's when it became uncool. The cool kids drove to school, or rode with someone who drove.
I was pedaling down a dirt road—more like a path, really. I was kind of lost, but I knew I was still on MacKensie Land.
There, riding his squatty horse toward me, was Adan McClintogg.
I took a deep breath. Geez, he's so hot. The palms of my hands began sweating.
Wet palms do not grip metal handlebars too well. Add to that the rock that appeared in the path of my front tire, and I was in the middle of the single most embarrassing event of my life to date.
The front tire hit the rock, jerking my hands off the handlebars. My sweaty palms couldn't get a grip on the slick metal and the bike launched forward like some circus sideshow stunt in which I was starring as the idiot clown.
I felt my bottom rise from the seat, and my feet instinctively kicked out to the sides. I gave up trying to grip the handlebars.
For a second, time stopped, and I knew I looked like some deranged X-Games wannabe. I felt myself blush even though I knew the timing was stupid. Adrenaline and shyness make a dumb combination.
The bike landed with a crash a full second before my body smacked the ground beside it.
I was breathing short and fast, like when you get hit in the stomach with a ball. I was lying on my back, although I wasn't sure how I'd landed in that position. I clearly remember heading toward the ground face-first.
I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing. A wet, snotty nose touched my cheek. I opened my eyes and looked into the huge nostrils of Adan's horse. The beast stuck its nose against my neck and pushed.
I swatted at it. “Sick,” I cried.
I heard the crunch of shoes before I saw Adan's boots. It was my first up-close look at the hot Scot. I don't think I'd hit my head, but a head injury was the only explanation I had for my seeing the light that radiated around him—or maybe it was the way his body blocked the sunlight, or maybe he was a Scottish god.
“Are ye injured?” he asked.
Oh yeah, could you give me CPR or something? I thought.
As he squatted beside me, the sun, which had been hidden behind him, blinded me. He was real.
I was having trouble breathing, and now I was seeing red dots.
“Can ye speak, lass?”
“Yes.” I was hurt, not stupid.
“Did ye break anything?”
“I don't know.”
“Let me check before ye move.” He began pressing his fingers along my legs, starting at my ankles. He stopped at my thighs, winked, and moved his fingers up to check my ribs.
Apparently nothing was broken because he stood and said, “Knocked the wind out of ye.”
“Yeah.” I sat up, confident in his medical assessment. I wished I had broken something. Then I wouldn't have felt so stupid.
“I'm Adan McClintogg,” he said, holding his hand out and helping me to my feet.
“I'm Sami Ames.”
“The American guest staying with the MacKensies?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me move the bike, and I'll put ye on the horse and give ye a ride home.”
I looked at the bike. “I'm fine. I'll just ride . . .” The front tire was bent almost in half.
“. . . the horse home,” he said, and laughed.
Riding
We stood next to Adan's horse. “Have ye ridden before?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, not wanting to sound dumb. I already looked like some bike-riding moron. Besides, it was true—I had ridden before, when I was seven, at the local fair's pony ride.
Adan figured out my lie within two seconds. I gave myself away when I didn't know exactly how to get on. At the fair, my dad had picked me up and placed me in the saddle.
Adan looked from the horse to me and back. “You're hurt. Let me help you.” He winked again.
I smiled. He'd given me a way out. It was so romantic. “Okay,” I whispered.
He lifted me, making me feel small for the first time in my teen life. Being almost six feet tall and not model skinny, I haven't felt tiny in years. I've wondered where I'd find a guy strong enough to carry me over the threshold on my wedding night.
He sat me in the saddle and swung up behind me, wrapping his left arm around my waist and grabbing the reins with his right hand.
My stomach did a weird flop. I'd die if I threw up.
His knees pressed into the outsides of my thighs as he gently squeezed with his heels against the horse's flanks, urging him forward. Holy cow . . . or holy horse.
Adan leaned forward and spoke in my ear. “Are ye enjoying your stay?”
I tried to think but was having a hard time concentrating. He was too close. I really hope Mom writes scenes like these in her romance novels. This is great material. I should let her know.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Trying to help save MacKensie Castle and land?”
“Yeah.”
He smelled like outside—how dorky a thought is that? Sounds like a rotten line in a bad romance movie.
He made a clicking sound, and the horse began to jog. I'm sure there's some fancy riding term for the pace, but I don't know it. All I know is, it was a lot faster than the pony ride at the fair.
I loved it: the speed, the wind in my face. It was like riding a bike, but without the work and on top of a sweaty beast instead of a lifeless metal frame. Plus, I didn't get sick to my stomach.
And I bet the horse wouldn't stumble over a small rock in the road.
Adan pulled the horse to a stop about half a mile from MacKensie Castle. “You'll have to walk from here. I'm not welcome.”
“But—”
“ 'Tis fine, Sami Ames,” he said, jumping down and offering me his hand. “You go help save MacKensie Manor.” He climbed back on his horse. “Would ye care if I called on ye, Sami?”
“I don't have a phone.”
He laughed. “Auch, you're a funny one. I mean, may I come and visit ye and perhaps take ye out a time or two?”
“Oh,” I said. “Umm . . . yeah.” I smiled. He wanted to go on a date with me. YES!
“Aye, good, then,” he said, and rode off into the sunset.
That sounds hokey, but he really was riding toward the setting sun.
Day 8
Adan Is So Hot
Hot List
Green eyes: Love a guy with
green eyes.
Black hair: Small curls at end
and kind of shaggy-sexy.
Nice hands: Not girly
hands—hot.
Tall: I'm too tall for short guys.
Voice: When he says things
like “aye,” I get all tingly.
MacKensies Really Hate
McClintoggs. And I'm Not Fooling.
Fiona hates McClintoggs.
“Why?” I asked at breakfast, still having trouble with the whole clan war thing.
“Because they want our land and will stop at nothing to get it,” she said.
“Like what?” I asked.
She shook her head like I was the one with the mental condition, and walked away.
I think Fiona and I could be friends, if she had better style and stopped trashing Adan. She's ruining my whole from-a-distance-really-infatuated-I-want-to-live
-in-your-castle Adan thing.
Day 9
Darn Ghost
Samuel Logan is ticking me off.
It's not enough that he won't talk to me and hides in the dark making thumping noises, but now he's throwing things at me. There were feathers all over the bed when I woke up this morning.
Mom says my pillow probably ripped or something, but I checked all the seams and none of them were torn. Plus, it was still fluffy.
It was Samuel.
What is his problem? What does he want from me?
It'll take more than your little feather boo to scare me, Samuel.
I think it's time for a paranormal investigation.
I wonder if I can get Fiona to help me. With all her “ghosts are welcome” talk, I bet she'd be all for it.
It'd be something we could do together besides clean.
Maybe we'd become friends.
Or at least I could become friends with one of her nutso personalities.
The sticking point is, I don't know how to hunt ghosts, or what to do when I hear from Samuel again.
Day 10
I Want a Favorite Spot
Today Fiona took me to what she calls her favorite spot.
She'd packed a lunch of peanut butter, sugar, and apple sandwiches. They were so good.
I rode on the back of the four-wheeler. I'm used to her driving now and have learned to lean into the turns, which makes the ride more tolerable, and, I'm reluctant to admit, kind of fun.
MacKensie Manor is beautiful. Back home we live in a rural community and I see farmland every day, but here it's different. The land rolls, and when you reach the top of a hill, there are small valleys waiting below. It's like the green pastures, trees, and lakes are inviting you into their magical world.
Okay, enough of the magical mushy stuff.
We stopped and Fiona spread out a small wool blanket. “This is it,” she said. “My favorite place in the world.”
Do I have a favorite place in the world? Maybe the American Eagle store back home.
Fine—I'm shallow. But at least I dress well.
Friends
Fiona and I are becoming friends.
If we were in Allentown, I guess I'd take her to the mall with me. I've kind of gotten used to her personality.
Day 11
Laundry
I'm out of clean clothes. I brought this to Mom's attention, and she announced, “Laundry day,” as if it was a national holiday.
Who knows, maybe it is in Scotland?
At home I'd put my dirty clothes in the laundry room and they'd appear the next day clean and folded in a laundry basket inside my bedroom door. I've always suspected that elves come in overnight and help Mom do the laundry.
Mom told me to follow her outside. In the back of our cottage is a fire pit with a large black pot hanging from a metal pyramid frame. She stood beside it and pointed. “Washing machine.” Then she pointed to a clothesline. “Dryer.”
Antique yard decorations were our Laundromat?
“You've got to be kidding,” I said.
“Nope,” she said.
Whatever.
We live in the modern world, and Mom's pretending that we've traveled through some stupid time warp. I'm being pretty mature about the whole no Internet, no cell phone, no electricity, and no hot water thing, but this is dumb.
“Can't you just wash it at the castle?” I asked.
Mom shook her head. “We're here to help set up a program for tourists. Doing laundry with a wash-board and cauldron full of boiling water will be part of the experience.”
“But we're not tourists. We're family,” I said. “No way will people pay to do this.”
“Yes they will,” Mom said. “People are willing to pay big money to get away from it all and go back to simpler things.”
“Simple is sending your laundry out to be done,” I said, “not doing it like some medieval peasant.”
“Don't be such a spoilsport. Bring over some wood from the pile. I'll get some water.”
I felt like a witch brewing a wicked potion as I moved the large wooden paddle in slow circles around the black pot full of boiling water and dirty laundry. I just needed to add some eye of newt and I'd have a truly menacing concoction.
I've always known that someday I'd have to learn to do laundry. I never thought it'd be like this.
By the time the fire was going strong and the water was boiling, Mom and I had three huge piles of clothes in different areas. Whites were sitting closest to the pot. Mom says it's best to wash those first while the water is cleanest. Then lights and finally darks.
Mom brought a big metal tub out and filled it with cold water. “Rinse,” she said.
Neither the pot nor the tub could hold more than five or six things at a time. I stirred in the first batch of undergarments. This would not be good for my new lacy push-up bra. I held my breath and circled the paddle slowly—gentle cycle.
That was laundry day—a day of torture, burned fingers, gross-smelling homemade soap, and quality time with Mom.
Ruined My Favorite Jeans
All the laundry is washed and hanging to dry.
I ruined my favorite pair of jeans. There's a hole in the left knee from the ancient washboard. It's not one of those cool store-bought rips, either. It looks like I got caught in a meat grinder. Guess they're my chore pants now.
My T-shirts look like boards hanging from the line. They're all stiff. Even my underwear is stiff.
That homemade soap is disgusting. I don't even want to know what's in it, but I'm sure it's not fabric softener.
Day 12
Fiona Is Going to Be
My Ghost-hunting Partner
Fiona has agreed to help hunt the ghost of Samuel Logan. She says she wants to talk to him.
I'm not sure she's on the same wavelength as I am with the ghost-hunting stuff. I want Samuel gone, and Fiona wants him to have tea and a paranormal conversation.
But despite being lost in nineties style, Fiona is very up-to-date in the world of technology. She has a digital camera, a video recorder, and a computer in her room. We got on the Internet and pulled information on ghost-hunting and what to do with a ghost once you make contact. I guess things work a little differently when you go and find them as opposed to them finding you.
We've educated ourselves.
What could go wrong?
Day 13
Calling Samuel Logan
Fiona came over wearing black pants and a black shirt. She looked like she was going to a poetry reading.
She brought her digital camera. I was touching technology again, but my fingers were so burned from laundry day that I had no feeling in them, so Fiona had to snap the pictures.
Besides the research online, neither of us had any experience with ghost-hunting, but we'd both read enough books and watched enough television to know what the paranormal experts say: Are you there? Show us a sign.
We could probably have used a medium. Since neither of us could communicate with the dead, we had to rely on intuition and digital photographic evidence.
I sat on the corner of my straw mattress, and Fiona sat beside me. We'd each had five cups of coffee and were armed with flashlights. Mom was down-stairs, hopefully asleep.
We waited. Silence.
“Are ye there, Sam?” Fiona whispered.
It was so quiet, she kind of scared me. “Why are you whispering?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Seems like what ye should do when speaking with the dead.”
“Yeah, you wouldn't want to wake them,” I said.
“No. Respect,” she said.
“They're dead.”
“Aye.”
We waited some more. More silence.
“He's not doing anything,” I said.
“Aye,” Fiona said. “Maybe he's scared.”
“Scared of what?” I asked. “He's the ghost.”
She shrugged. “I read once that living people are like ghosts to the dead
.” She turned to me. “And you're not wearing black.”
Ah. That made no sense.
We waited. Silence.
We waited. And fell asleep.
Day 14
8 a.m.
We need another plan to catch Samuel Logan. He's an uncooperative ghost.
321 sheep
Today we went into the hills to count sheep. Really.
Yes, I counted 321 sheep. No, I didn't fall asleep. Ha—that's a joke. Get it? Counting sheep puts people to sleep.
Day 15
Shopping
I miss shopping with my friends. I said something about malls and shopping to Fiona today, and she looked at me like I'd grown another head.
What teenage girl in her right mind doesn't understand spending a day at the mall with her girlfriends and her parents' money? I won't even go into the fact that shopping helps build budgeting skills.
Fiona says she doesn't like shopping.
Gasp!
What is her problem? A girl can't live on a sheep farm her whole life. She needs to get out there and experience the world.
Market
Fiona handled my withdrawal from shopping like a true and concerned friend.
Today she took me into the village of Beauly to shop. You can't imagine how excited I was. Are you kidding? I couldn't wait to try things on and smell new, just-hung-on-hangers clothes. Heaven.
But Beauly is a tiny village, and shopping—well, Fiona took me to a farmers' market.
The one main street was lined with booths selling farm-grown stuff. Fiona bought some vegetables; a live chicken, which we had to carry home in a crate (and I think we ate for dinner); and some herbs, purchased from an elderly man, that I think she's going to use to make Samuel Logan show himself to us. I couldn't understand what she and the old man were saying to each other, but I heard the word “spirit” in the conversation.
Walking home took about an hour, since we had to share chicken-carrying duty. Fiona talked on and on about how we'd surely see Samuel in the early hours of the morning.
