Lachlan (Immortal Highlander Book 1): A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Hazel Hunter

  Lachlan

  Immortal Highlander Book 1

  Hazel Hunter

  Contents

  HH ONLINE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Sneak Peek

  DO ME A FAVOR?

  MORE BOOKS BY HH

  Copyright

  Making Magic

  HH ONLINE

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  Chapter One

  KINLEY CHANDLER HAD expected a perfect day. So of course, she got one. Gray-green sagebrush and bright bush sunflowers carpeted the bluffs above the golden sands where she walked. As dawn peeked over the horizon, the Pacific spread its endless indigo skirts to tease the shore with lacy white flounces. Manic, black-tailed gnat catchers flitted about in pursuit of their insect breakfasts. They uttered scratchy, catlike calls whenever Kinley strayed too near. The rising sun felt good on her face as it heated the briny breeze of the San Diego coast.

  This is where I should be.

  As she skirted a tidal pool, Kinley wondered why she hadn’t come here more often when she’d been stateside. She’d never hiked the entire half-mile trail through the reserve. Atop the cliff in the distance, above a private beach, was the millionaire’s sprawling, fake Italian mansion. Once it had annoyed her, but now it didn’t bother her at all.

  She could stay right here, happily.

  Forever.

  “Captain,” a soft voice said, accompanied by a tentative touch on Kinley’s left forearm. “Time to wake up.”

  The beach from Kinley’s memory winked out of existence as her nose filled with the bleak cologne of old wounds, bleached linen and hand sanitizer. She breathed through the frantic fear bubbling up inside her as she reminded herself that this was America, not Afghanistan, and she no longer occupied a combat zone, but a room in San Diego’s finest VA hospital.

  She didn’t have to fight anymore. She’d lost her last battle, and she was going to be a good loser.

  Opening her eyes meant seeing the pitted ceiling tiles that had been her only sky for the last two months. The machines connected to her body beeped like robotic wrens. Their smudged screens displayed dismal numbers. She focused on them, as evaluating her condition always drove off the pathetic panic caused by her PTSD. She could see that her pulse was too low, and her body temp too high. Her blood oxygen level hovered a digit above borderline. The fever meant she probably had a budding infection in her mangled right leg. If her shredded gut had gone septic she’d already be comatose or dead.

  Kinley focused on the ward nurse’s round face. Brisk smile, forced cheer, dark circles under her eyes—a burnout or a treasure in the making.

  “Heya,” Kinley said.

  “Good morning,” the tired woman said as she began detaching lines and rearranging bags of fluids. “Feeling up to your appointment with the new therapist?”

  “Can’t wait,” Kinley said. An orderly pushed a wheelchair into her room, and only when he parked it next to her bedside did she comprehend that it was for her. “I thought she was coming to me this time.”

  “She wants you up and about, Captain.” The nurse drew back the bed linens. “Here we go.” She nodded to the orderly, who helped shift Kinley into a sitting position. “One, two, three.”

  Being moved woke up her broken body, which protested with a dozen different spikes of pain. The wheelchair rocked as they settled her emaciated ass into it, and her IV line tangled with the stethoscope around the nurse’s neck. Kinley felt her patchwork abdomen throb in protest, but kept silent. If she complained they’d pump her full of opiates, and no way did she want to be high with the new shrink. No one knew about her PTSD except a medic who had been with her during one of her worst episodes on her second tour. He’d knocked her out, and then later told her how to deal with it so she could remain on active duty.

  “Hang on,” the nurse muttered, and extricated herself from the tangle. “There.” She shooed away the orderly and peered at Kinley’s battered face. “You okay?”

  Sweat beads popped along the edges of her lank hair as the pain swelled, and for a moment she thought she might puke or pass out. She shoved it back and bared some teeth.

  “Never better.”

  “We’ll take it slow,” the nurse promised as she wheeled Kinley out into the corridor of Medical Palliative Care Ward Four, which most of the staff referred to privately as Morgue Prep. “Have you met Dr. Stevens yet?”

  “Maybe. All these shrinks look alike to me.”

  Kinley couldn’t get comfortable in any position, so she opted for the least painful, which meant on the only uninjured part of her body: her left forearm. Though she didn’t feel much in her right arm, the cast was too heavy to lift.

  “She seems pretty nice. Very experienced.” The deliberate heartiness in the nurse’s voice took on an edge. “You’re going to give her a chance, aren’t you?”

  “I won’t make this one cry, like that kid who wandered into my room,” Kinley said. “Unless she’s a wimp around the really disfigured terminals, like the last one.”

  “You’re going to live, Captain,” the nurse chided, making the lie sound almost believable. “You’ll turn around any day now, and start healing, and get back on your feet.”

  “Sure,” Kinley said and glanced at the dressings covering her mangled right leg. Her surgeon would be amputating it mid-thigh, assuming she ever got strong enough to go under his blade again. “Any day now.”

  Dr. Geraldine Stevens occupied a smallish office just outside the psych ward, and came out with a ready smile. “Good morning, Captain Chandler.” Thankfully she didn’t try to shake Kinley’s hand. Her gaze shifted to the nurse. “I’ll call when she’s ready to return to her room.”

  Kinley had already seen the inside of the office too many times, so she eyed the new shrink. Dr. Stevens sported a gray blazer with a turquoise-blue linen dress that looked new. But her charcoal pumps looked old enough to be comfortable. She was somewhere between forty and fifty, a head shorter than Kinley, and about twenty pounds overweight. Her careworn look suggested that she was actually concerned for her patients. Or she might be married to a jerk who made her life hell at home. The doc hadn’t opted to wear perfume or makeup, but she had some product in her curly brown hair that smelled of cherries and almonds.

  Behind her the Veteran Administration’s ICARE program poster hung like subliminal propaganda.

  I care, she cares, everybody cares. We’re all such good liars.

  “Do I pass inspec
tion?” Dr. Stevens asked as she sat down behind the desk.

  Let the mind games begin, Kinley thought. “Do you want to?”

  “Everyone wants approval, Captain. If we didn’t, we’d live like tigers or polar bears, and eat each other.” The shrink fussed with some drawers until she found a pen. “Before Dr. Patterson left for Chicago, he briefed me on your case.”

  “Did he say nice things about me?”

  Probably not. Patterson had been a humorless ass who hadn’t been able to look at Kinley for more than three seconds at a time.

  “Did you want him to?” Dr. Stevens said, smiling at her witty turn around as she opened a thick patient file. “You were injured during the rescue of a downed air crew. According to your commendation, you ran into crossfire to pull them out of the wreckage, which insurgents subsequently blew up with an improvised incendiary device.” She frowned. “You didn’t suffer any burns at all?”

  Kinley had never been burned in her life. Not once. In the explosion it was as if the fire went around her. But she couldn’t explain that without sounding like she needed to be transferred to the psych ward.

  “I was thrown clear,” Kinley said and shrugged. “Luckily, right into the Hawk.”

  The explosion had blasted her head-first into the side of her team’s Pave Hawk rescue helicopter. She hadn’t even dented the reinforced steel hull, but the impact had smashed her nose, cracked her cheekbones, and dislocated her jaw. A secondary blast had dropped the wing of the downed plane on her leg, crushing it. At some point during that party she’d also taken six bullets in the back and gut. They’d patched her together as best they could at Bagram. Eight weeks later her body and face resembled something a very drunk Picasso might have drawn.

  But hey, at least she hadn’t been burned.

  “You’re very fortunate, given the circumstances,” Dr. Stevens said and flipped through more pages. “During your sessions with my predecessor you’ve insisted that, aside from your physical condition, you feel fine.”

  Shifting in the wheelchair made Kinley’s lower spine burn like a lit fuse. “I do. I got out alive, my brains aren’t scrambled, and everything can be fixed or cut off or whatever. Life is good.”

  “Dr. Patterson mentioned you feel so fine, in fact, that you’ve been refusing pain medication.” Dr. Stevens arched brows that had been plucked too thin. “According to your chart you’re also not eating much, and several nurses have noted that you sleep most of the day.”

  “That’s from the TV.” She put a little more weight on her forearm to keep the pain bomb in her back from detonating. “Game shows and soap operas are better than tranqs.”

  “Are you pretending to be asleep so you don’t have to eat or speak to anyone? Is that why you haven’t had any visitors since you were admitted? Have you even told your family that you’re here?” When Kinley didn’t answer Stevens closed the chart and gave her a direct look. “Captain Chandler, you should know that I’ve been working with disabled veterans for twenty years now.”

  Why did they always offer that as reassurance? Maybe it was in the VA shrink handbook: Assure patient of your proficiency in dealing with ruined soldiers. Gain their trust. Then screw with their minds a little more.

  “Good for you, Doc.”

  It was a shame Stevens hadn’t read her entire file, or she’d know exactly why Kinley had never had any visitors.

  “I know military culture,” the shrink insisted, “and the highly unrealistic expectations soldiers have of themselves and others. You’re constantly pressured to ‘accept the suck’, as they say.”

  “It’s actually ‘embrace the suck’,” Kinley said, her mouth hitching into a smirk. “Although my personal favorite has always been ‘If you can still twitch, don’t bitch.’”

  Dr. Stevens didn’t return the smile. “I think you’re hiding your condition from your friends and family. You also seem to have no interest in recovery. Unless you start fighting for your life, Captain, you won’t be twitching much longer.” She paused to look into Kinley’s eyes. “You’ll be dead.”

  “Well, then, I guess I’ll have to work on my attitude,” Kinley said. She knew doctors always liked to hear that kind of suck-up bullshit. It might also stop the nurse from putting her on a gastric feeding tube. “I am pretty tired now, though. Could I go back to my room, please?”

  “I have a better idea.” The shrink stood and took a giant purse from the bottom drawer. “Your primary has cleared you for a short day trip. Let’s go for a drive.”

  The chance to leave the VA hospital silenced Kinley, who had never expected to see the outside world again. Even the discomfort caused by being loaded by the electric lift into the handicapped van didn’t seem so bad, not while sunlight poured over her like warm, liquid gold. But as the shrink drove north from downtown and took the I-15 out of the city, Kinley began to feel uneasy.

  “Are you sure this is a short day trip?” she asked. “Because it looks like we’re heading for Seattle. Not that I’d mind, but I think the charge nurse might freak out.”

  Dr. Stevens shook her head. “We’ll arrive at our destination in twenty minutes, and spend an hour there before we return to the hospital. You’ll be back in time for lunch.”

  Kinley guessed the vagueness was calculated, an attempt to coax her into asking questions about where they were going, or chatting about how wonderful it was to be out in the real world again. She also knew the surest way to confound a shrink was to use their tactics against them.

  “That’s good. I have things to do.”

  Like asking about a transfer to hospice, where she could die in fucking peace.

  Once they left the city behind, hills and valleys rose and fell on either side of the interstate, and Kinley could see mountains ahead. They passed Lake Elsinore, and then left the freeway to head west toward the rugged chaparral-covered mountains. The road bisected acres of sparsely-strewn sage and scrub oak, punctuated by huge boulders that gleamed gray and orange in the morning light. Once they had passed a small fire station, Kinley saw a sign indicating where Dr. Stevens was headed, and almost laughed out loud.

  “You’re taking me to Horsethief Canyon?” Kinley said. She hadn’t been there in years but, as the signs on the freeway said, it was part of the Pine Creek Wilderness. “Are you serious?”

  “It’s a lovely spot for a hike,” the other woman said as they slowed and turned. She parked the van in an empty lot with bike stands and a water trough. “There’s a paved riding trail here we can use for you.”

  Kinley could have made a fuss about not being well enough to hike anywhere, even in her wheelchair, but going along with the crazy shrink’s idea was easier. This might be her last trip outside, too.

  “Okay.”

  Dr. Stevens unloaded Kinley and her chair, grabbed her purse, and almost set it in Kinley’s scrawny lap. But she must have seen Kinley tense or maybe she’d just thought better of it. She left it behind the driver’s seat, locked the van, and pushed Kinley across the lot to the promised trail. The weeds that crisscrossed it jostled her wheels, but Kinley ignored the discomforts as she looked ahead toward the slopes. California’s long drought had left much of the area barren, and she could see an old watering hole that had dried up, but the raw, rough rock formations were stunning. More water-polished stones marched up to the edge of a cliff, and made her imagine the waterfall that had once cascaded down them. Before the drought it must have been a magical spot to go swimming.

  “I don’t think we’ll go that way,” Dr. Stevens said when they came to the fork in the trail, and turned to push her up toward a large oak grove. “We should have a better view past the trees.”

  When they reached the oak grove Kinley looked up at the canopy of the gnarled tree limbs. Here the trees looked much more mature, with thick, curving trunks and densely-leafed branches. Dandelion seeds floated like so many unused wishes through the dappled shade between the oaks. Beyond them Kinley could see a gap in the brush, and part of a dried-up rive
rbed. What lay on the other side of the grove must be the old waterfall overlook.

  As Kinley caught the scent of the oaks—a slightly smoky and heavy fragrance—she thought of someone she hadn’t in years, and smiled. Her grandmother Bridget would have loved the spot. She’d always taken her tea out in the afternoon to sit under the giant black oak. As a little girl Kinley would sit there and listen to stories about brownies, kelpies and selkies that her grandmother had told her.

  Even as a child Kinley had been a skeptic. “Do you really believe in such things, Gran?”

  “I do, for we’ve magic in our family,” Bridget said firmly. “That’s why I’m able to find your toys when you forget them. Lost things call to me. My own mam could charm wild birds with her singing. They’d come and eat seeds, right from her hand. She always said it comes from our Scottish blood.”

  “Then what’s my magic?” Kinley asked.

  Her grandmother tapped her cheek. “I can’t tell you yet, sweetheart, but whatever it is, it’s strong. I’ve felt it in you since the day you were born.”

  Bridget had been babysitting her when Kinley’s parents had left for a weekend getaway, and had helped her through the horror and grief after their plane crashed in the sea. She had even gone before a judge to argue that although she was seventy and a widow, she could raise her granddaughter better than the foster care system.

  Bridget Chandler might have looked like a sweet old lady, but she had a will of iron. The judge had granted her full custody of eight-year-old Kinley.