by L. L. Muir
She grinned broadly. “Did ye hear that? Hand in hand with Charlie, even.”
Kerry hopped from foot to foot, worried he was missing something crucial.
“Fine,” Wickham said, not at all happy. “But only if she comes back for him. If she’s ready to put him in the past, the past is where he stays.”
Soni sent Kerry a wink. “As it happens…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jordan sat back and watched her parents wearing themselves out with a game of darts and she wondered if they’d had more to drink when she hadn’t been paying attention. It was just hard for her to be back at The Bridgend Bar and not see the ghost of Kerry all around her, so she might have lost track of the bar tab.
Finally, the two toddled back to the table, but they didn’t sit. “While we still have the energy, we’re going to go back to the house, if that’s all right with you.”
“That’s fine. Don’t worry about me. I’m not ready to go back yet.”
Her mom gave her a quick once over, then frowned. “Just don’t get chilled. The humidity is freezing me to my bones if I don’t keep moving.”
“No. I won’t get chilled. Just going to go down to the bridge for a minute. I’ll be a half hour behind you.”
Her dad leaned down and kissed her on the cheek—something she never really appreciated until recently. “Remember. The mist won’t come back if you don’t believe.”
He wasn’t teasing her. As it turns out, Ronald Lennox was an honest to goodness romantic who had listened to her story with an open mind. He was so moved by it, he sold some stock and bought them all airfare to Scotland, just so she could try to find Kerry before the trail got too cold.
Catherine came to collect the glasses. “Back to the bridge today? Or have ye already been?” She wasn’t teasing, either.
“Both. I’ve been, and I’ll go one more time. There’s a storm coming, and I might not get a chance tomorrow.”
“Luck to ye, then. And if that blacksmith tries to take ye away with him… Weel, go ahead and go. Yer parents will understand.”
~ ~ ~
The road was slick. The rain from the previous night had turned to ice, and now, with the warm air before the snow, it was melting again. Jordan walked carefully across the pavement, then her feet turned toward the bridge automatically.
They’d been there two days. Their return flight was open-ended. She could stay as long as she needed to.
“But I won’t need to stay longer,” she said aloud. “Because Kerry is coming back today.”
The bridge looked cold and lonely, begging someone to walk across it. The stretch of stones glistened like it had been sprinkled with fairy dust and not plain old Scottish rain.
Jordan stepped onto them and announced herself. “I’m here, Brechin Bridge! And I believe. Can you hear me? I’ve done my part, now bring him back to me!”
She moved to the edge, leaned across the top of the wall, and stared at the water flowing down the South Esk. “Can you hear me down there? It’s time. I’m here. I believe!”
A weak mist skated along the surface of the river, slowing, falling behind, dissipating. She straightened and turned to the far end of the bridge, the direction from which the mist had come the first time. “I’m here. I’ve come back. I’ve done my part, now please, please give me back my blacksmith!”
She heard steps behind her and spun around, her heart leapt in her chest. But it wasn’t Kerry or the man who’d taken him away. Just some guy bundled up against the weather, headed for somewhere beyond Brechin. He tipped his hat to her, but his smile suggested he’d heard her calling out.
She leaned her hip against the wall and waited for him to move far away so she could shout again. From the corner of her eye, she watched him go. Then suddenly, she couldn’t see him anymore, so she looked up.
The brown coat and dark hat had disappeared into a wall of mist that marched steadily toward her. It was spooky—unnatural. And if it isn’t natural…
“Kerry!” She ran blindly at the white wall with her arms outstretched. “Kerry, I’m here!”
Again and again, she changed directions, waiting for that moment when she would crash into him. But there was nothing but mist between the high sides of the bridge.
“Not funny,” she shouted, not caring if the man in the brown coat thought she was crazy. “Give him back, damn you. Give him back now!”
“Damn me?” The dangerous-looking Highlander stood two feet to her left. “And I suppose ye’d bite the hand that feeds ye as well, aye?”
“You!” She ran straight at him and wrapped her arms around him. “I’m so happy to see you!”
“Ye are?”
She nodded. “Now. Where’s my blacksmith?”
The man rolled his eyes and held out a hand to gesture behind her. She held her breath and turned.
Kerry stepped out of the thick white stuff looking exactly as he had the first time she’d seen him. Maybe a little more tired, like she was, after sleeping poorly for a week.
He tilted his head. “Yer blacksmith? I thought I belonged to the town of Brechin.”
She ran at him, barely giving him time to open his arms before pressing into him, not caring if they both fell. “The town of Brechin doesn’t need you like I do. Are you back for good?”
He tipped her head back and smiled into her eyes. “Aye, lass. By the Grace of God and a good friend, aye.” He shook his head. “Ye’re so beautiful it fairly breaks my heart to lay eyes on ye again.”
“Well that’s understandable.”
“It is?”
She nodded. “It’s because I’m in love.”
She never noticed when the mist rolled away, never heard another peep from the man who disappeared with it. Never saw much of anything—with her eyes shut.
EPILOGUE
A trio of older women wandered around the gallery, paying almost as much attention to Kerry as they did to his wife’s framed photographs. Like most visitors, however, they finally gave proper attention to the picture of his mother-in-law.
“Oh, poo. This one’s sold.” The tallest of them turned to Kerry for the dozenth time. “Do you sell prints of this?”
“No. Prints.”
Luckily, the woman frowned at him and moved on, and the trio shuffled into the next section, thankfully out of sight. If any of them asked again, about prints, he’d be shouting at them to get the hell out.
What Jordan needed was an employee who could stomach incessant questions from people who only wanted what was not on offer. And even more desperately, they needed some art his wife was willing to part with for a change. As it was, their entire income was derived from his decorative metal fencing, which he was eager to get back to, instead of babysitting their collection of memories.
Finally, his lovely wife arrived with his lunch, which he snatched from her hand. After pausing long enough to kiss her senseless, he gestured toward the end of the gallery where the three tourists had disappeared. “Dinna invite this lot to come back, aye?” He rolled his eyes to illustrate his point, then disappeared through the doorway.
Kerry ate his lunch quietly in the back room while he gazed at his sleeping son, who had worn himself ragged by squealing and running about the gallery like a madman all morning. Wee Flynn left chubby handprints on any surface he could reach while they waited for Mum to return from Edinburgh. And cleaning off those handprints had left Kerry wishing for a lie-in himself.
The trio of women moved closer once more and Kerry held his breath, listening, waiting for them to ask their questions all over again, no doubt hoping Jordan would give them a different answer.
“The statue in those photos looks just like your man at the desk,” said one.
“My… man?” His wife gasped. “I’m sorry, ladies, but it sounds like you’ve seen our ghost. I hope you didn’t say anything to upset him…”
Kerry pressed his napkin to his face to stifle his laughter. Then he snuck out the back door and up to the house. Ther
e would be no more progress made in his workshop that day, for his mind was occupied with plans for the evening—for how he could best reward the mother of his child for filling his life with laughter.
The woman would have to go along with whatever he planned, for if she did not, he still had one magical hour to collect from her.
THE END
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Note from the author…
Did you enjoy The Blacksmith of Brechin’s story?
You might be interested to know that Brechin is a real town in Scotland—with the arched bridge and The Bridgend Bar. They have cracking dart tournaments there, a beer garden, and a lounge with a dance floor where they put the foot pool table.
A special thanks to everyone who has inquired about my accident. All is well, or will be eventually. In February, just as I was about to finish edits on The Blacksmith, I took a tumble on some concrete steps, broke my wrist, and shattered my right arm. But thanks to some rather handsome physical therapists, I am able to write again. (Getting me to give up physical therapy might take some doing…)
Many more ghosties to come. Keep a weathered eye on The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Facebook page for updates. And better yet, sign up for the newsletter at www.llmuir.com.
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~Lesli
About the Author
L.L. Muir lives in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains with her husband and family. She appreciates funny friends, a well-fed campfire, and rocking sleepy children, especially now that there are so many tiny ones being added to the family.
She ate a disturbing amount of cashews while writing Kerry Mather’s story, and as always, far too much nugget ice.
Be a sport and leave a quick review on this book’s Amazon page, aye?
You can reach her personally through her website— www.llmuir.weebly.com , or on Facebook at L.L. Muir.
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