Love Everlastin' Book 3

by Mickee Madden

  "Patience," he whispered, and popped another pork rind into his mouth.

  Greatness required both patience and careful planning.

  Chapter 6

  The rest of the day passed in relative quiet. Winston was present when Roan questioned the boys about the sweaters. They swore they didn't know anything about them. Winston knew they were lying, but didn't press the issue. At the time, he was amused by their mischief, and his mind was occupied with other matters. Deliah, for one.

  Between Laura and Agnes, Winston saw little of Deliah. The women fitted her with warmer clothing, braided her hair then took her into the kitchen, which Winston later was told was a mistake. The young woman couldn't boil water. In fact Deliah's fascination with the effervescing liquid in the pan had Laura paranoid she would try to reach into the water.

  Since Winston and Deliah polished off Roan's lamb stew for lunch, Laura and Agnes reheated the remainder of the ham in the gas oven. It was served with spicy apple stuffing, baked potatoes garnished with butter and sour cream, and homemade sourdough bread. With the exceptions of the boys exchanging dirty jokes and attempting to start another food fight across the table, and Laura telling Deliah how she and Roan had met, it was a quiet meal. Even Agnes sat at the table.

  Deliah, as expected, was the center of attention. The silverware, glasses and plates delighted her as if she'd never actually touched anything like them. The boys laughed hysterically when she discovered things sprinkled out of the salt and pepper shakers. And the food....

  She had a curious way of eating. Winston was so fascinated with watching her facial expressions whenever she tasted something different, his meal had cooled before he'd hardly begun to eat. He questioned the possibility she was suffering some form of amnesia. How else could everything seem so new to her? She watched and attempted to imitate using the utensils. At lunchtime, she refused to taste the stew until Winston had started to eat, and he'd noticed how awkwardly she'd handled the soupspoon.

  After dinner, Roan took the boys into the library to read them stories before their bedtime, and Winston helped the women clear the table and do the dishes. The latter resulted in a playful bubble fight amongst Winston, Deliah and Laura, while Agnes retired to the grayness.

  With the kitchen cleaned, Winston hoped to get some private time with Deliah, but again Laura had other ideas. Since the soapy dishwater had proven so entertaining for Deliah, Laura wanted to introduce her to a bubble bath. The excitement in Deliah's eyes told Winston he couldn't compete with what Laura was describing to her, so he graciously excused himself and went into the hall.

  Suddenly, he felt like the odd man out. Shoving his hands into his pants pockets, he glanced up the staircase, then down the hall to the library. The pocket doors were open. He couldn't hear Roan or the boys, but he headed in that direction, hoping to spend a little time with them. No one was there.

  Winston particularly liked this room. It had a masculine atmosphere that appealed to him. Of all the rooms he could remember in the main part of the house, this one was the least furnished. The dark-stained, built-in shelves were filled with leather bound books from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Red plaid covered the overstuffed sofa and two chairs. The coffee table and the end tables placed at each end of the sofa were highly polished cherry wood. An enormous braided rug of black, red and dark green, covered the oak plank floor between the sofa and the red brick fireplace with its red-and-black veined mantelpiece.

  The fireplace was fully stoked and the hearth light's orange glow softened the contours of the room. He considered taking a book to read in his room, but then thought better of it. He wasn't really in the mood to sit or lie still. The restlessness stirring inside him was maddening.

  If he could only take a long walk in one of the gardens surrounding the house.

  Or just a long walk in the fresh air.

  He ended up standing in front of one of the windows, his arms folded against his chest, his gaze scanning the woods which separated the house and the open field where four headstones existed beneath a solitary oak. Large snowflakes continued to fall. Driving had to be hell, let alone walking in this stuff. He'd thought yesterday's rain would clear away a lot of the white stuff, but it hadn't lasted but a couple of hours. It had rained, then hailed, then frozen atop the accumulation of compacted snow. Now it was snowing again.

  He was beginning to think spring would never come.

  And if it did, would the snow ever go away?

  "Depressin’, isn't it?" Roan chuckled.

  Winston was surprised to find the man standing directly behind him, also looking out the window.

  "I'm getting claustrophobic."

  "Aye, I know wha' you mean," Roan sighed. "Join me for a Scotch?"

  "Are the boys in bed?"

  Roan gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "I'll no' say for how long. C'mon, Winston, a good Scotch chases away the chill in the bones."

  Winston sat next to his host on the sofa. Two glasses and a crystal decanter were set upon a sterling silver tray on the coffee table.

  "I saw you come in here," Roan explained, holding out a half-filled glass to Winston.

  "I didn't think the tray was on the table when I came in."

  Roan took a long swallow of the Scotch and waited until the fiery liquid hit his stomach. He smacked his lips, grinned at Winston, then reclined against the back of the sofa and crossed his left ankle over his right knee. "We haven't had much chance to talk. Your room comfortable enough?"

  "Better than I deserve. You know—" Winston took a sip of his Scotch, then cradled the glass between his hands. "—it was very generous o' you to let me stay. I know this isn't an open invitation—"

  Winston quieted when Roan lifted a hand in protest. "Och, mon, it is opened, all right. Stay as long as you like. The house is far too large for us. Sometimes...weel, sometimes I find it bloody lonely here."

  "Even with the boys?" Winston grinned.

  Roan made a rueful face. "Ah, the lads. I know I bluster too much abou' them. But the truth is, I can't imagine ma life withou' them being underfoot. Now...is tha' bloody bonkers or wha'?"

  "Actually, I envy you your life," Winston said softly, staring into the fireplace.

  "Do you, now? Weel, I'm no' crazy, or ungrateful. Laura and the lads are mair than I ever hoped for. But wha' abou' you? Ever been in love?"

  A dry chuckle escaped Winston. "No."

  Roan nodded and said sagely, "I guess a mon has to love himself before he can love anither."

  "Never thought o' it tha' way," Winston murmured. He stared into the amber depths of his Scotch, a slight frown visible across his otherwise smooth brow.

  "No' even a near hit?" Roan laughed low.

  Winston looked up and smiled. "Infatuation a couple o' times. I guess I haven't met ma significant other, yet."

  Taking a long swig of his drink, Roan again nodded. "Maybe you have. I couldn't help but noticed the way you were watchin’ the lass at the dinner table."

  "Deliah?"

  "So we have a name now. Have you learned anythin’ mair abou' her?"

  "Zilch," Winston sighed. He thought about taking another sip of the Scotch, but his head was already getting fuzzy. "She has an impenetrable wall surrounding her mind."

  "Do you come across tha' often?"

  A sour burst of laughter ejected from Winston's throat. "Never! And I don't mind telling you it frustrates the bloody hell ou' o' me."

  "Are you attracted to her?"

  Winston's eyes narrowed upon the laird. "Wha' are you digging for, Roan Ingliss?"

  With a chuckle, Roan finished off his Scotch and placed the glass on the table. He sat back, placed his right ankle atop his left knee again, and stretched out his left arm along the back of the sofa. Amusement danced in his eyes, and a grin pulled at one corner of his mouth.

  "I'll tell you, Winston, ye're lookin’ a damn sight better than when I brought you into this house. You've got life back in yer eyes. And although I d
on't claim to be psychic, I know when a mon has his fair measure o' happiness."

  A denial nearly escaped Winston, but he managed to suppress it. He was happy. Happier than in all his adult life. "You're observant."

  "Sometimes," Roan grinned then he sighed. "Ither times I'm a bonafide idiot."

  Winston chuckled. "You're no idiot. Remember the first night we met?"

  "At Shortby's? Aye."

  "You were in your cups, babbling abou' being the reincarnation o' Robert Ingliss." Winston set his glass on the table and ran his hands down his face. "I thought you were one crazy drunk. Little did I know then how much you would change ma life. You're a generous mon, Roan. There aren’t many people who would open up their home to a virtual stranger."

  "The credit's no' mine to take."

  Despair carved its way into Roan's expression. Lowering his right foot to the floor, he leaned forward and braced his forearms atop his knees. "I was a bitter, unforgivin’ mon no' tha' long ago. I guess, like you, Winston, I was lookin’ to see ma way through each day and no' carin’ a fig abou' anythin’. The first couple o' days you were here, I saw a lot o' ma old self in you, and I didn't like it much. I wanted to shake you till yer teeth rattled in yer head, but I knew you needed space."

  Abruptly standing, Roan went to the fireplace. He gripped the mantel and peered solemnly into the flames, conscious of Winston's troubled gaze on his back. "There is magic in the house. In this land. Many have seen it. Felt it melt the wintery corners o' our hearts."

  He turned just enough to regard his guest, his left hand remaining on the mantel. "But the true magic for me was—is—Lannie, the mon. You think me generous?" He chuckled low and shook his head. "I'm no', really. When I discovered who you were the ither night, ma first thought was you could tell me how Lannie and Beth are farin’."

  "Roan—"

  "Let me finish," Roan said huskily. "Guilt is a mighty heavy burden, ma friend, and I've never been good at carryin’ it on ma shoulders."

  Winston nodded, and Roan sighed deeply before continuing, "This isn't ma house. It was handed over to me by a mon who rightfully should have incarcerated ma sorry arse in the wall in the tower. The same wall I entombed him in—alive—mair'n a century ago! Aye, aye, I know tha’ wasn't this me, but Robert and I share the same soul, we do, and I remember every pathetic wrong he—we—did."

  He sighed again, obviously agitated. He chuffed a bitter laugh and gestured his wariness with a wave of his right hand. "I tend to run off at the mouth when I'm drinkin’, in case you haven't noticed."

  Winston grinned in understanding.

  "Winston, can I ask you somethin’?"

  "O' course."

  Roan took several seconds to mull over his words. "How is it a mon can feel so blessed, and yet so empty?"

  Winton didn't need to scan Roan's psyche. He already knew the answer. "You're still connected to Lachlan Baird."

  "Through this house, our history, or wha'?" Roan asked, perplexed.

  "Do you know wha’ a contrail looks like?"

  Roan's bafflement deepened. "You mean the vapor trail that's seen in the wake o' a plane?"

  Nodding, Winston went on, "Wha' I'm talking abou' now is a psychic contrail. It's a phenomenon I've witnessed when someone loses someone they love—a link tha' remains between the living and the departed during the grieving period. As time passes, it fades away."

  "You see a vapor trail between this world and the ither?" Roan asked incredulously.

  "It's morer o' a filament o' light connected to each mourner, linking them to the heavens. The hotter white it is, the stronger the love."

  "Do I have a psychic contrail?"

  Winston nodded. "But I've never encountered one like yours. It's blue."

  "Meaning wha'?"

  "I'm no' sure."

  "Wha' abou' Laura? Does she have one?"

  "She has come to terms wi' Lachlan and Beth's departure."

  "Psychic contrails," Roan murmured, staring off into space. Then he looked at Winston through an expression of desperation. "If you ventured a guess, wha' would you say the blue means?"

  "I generally work wi' facts, no' conjectures."

  "Dammit, right now I'd be happy wi' even a bad guess!" Roan reseated himself sideways, facing Winston, his left forearm braced on the back of the sofa. "Lannie forgave us."

  To Winston's amazement, Roan switched to fluent Gaelic. For a time, too stunned to react, he listened to the man's passionate voice and observed the myriad of expressions flitting over his features. Finally, he said, cutting Roan off, "I don't understand Gaelic enough to follow wha' you're saying."

  Roan jerked back, shocked. "Gaelic?"

  "You were just speaking it."

  Paling, Roan swallowed. "Was I? Ah. Tha' was Robert. I never learned the language, maself. He comes ou' now and then, Robert does."

  "How often?"

  "No' verra." Roan shrugged. "Sometimes I think I'm trapped between the past and the present. Verra disconcertin’, to say the least."

  "Do you remember wha' you were saying?"

  "Aye. I said I know I shouldn't be feeling guilty, but I do. It interferes wi' how I respond to Laura and the lads. And I said I keep gettin’ this notion there's too much unfinished business in ma life, but wha' tha' is, I don't know."

  Roan cast his guest a deeply penetrating, measuring look. "So, will you tell me wha' you believe the blue contrail suggests?"

  Winston frowned then nodded. "In ma opinion, it's no' a natural link between you and Lachlan."

  "No' natural?" Roan made a crude sound that should have been a laugh. "Nothin’ between us has ever been exactly normal."

  "Wha' I mean is, I believe the link was thrust upon the two o' you."

  A skeptical, wary expression masked Roan's face. He arched an eyebrow and asked in a raspy voice, "So...somethin’...is keepin’ us linked togither?"

  "I believe so."

  Roan grimaced. "Any idea wha'?"

  "No' a clue."

  "Damn me," Roan muttered, glancing off in the direction of the fireplace.

  "I've never dealt wi' an actual ghost," said Winston humorously. "It could be, wha' exists between you and Lachlan is perfectly normal under the circumstances."

  "Perfectly normal?" Roan parroted, his gaze cutting to Winston.

  "Possibly."

  "Wha' abou’ ma Aunt Aggie? Does she have a psychic contrail connectin’ her to her son, Borgie?"

  "She does." Winston pondered hers for a short time. "Her's is bright white. It hasn't dimmed since I first saw her Christmas Eve."

  "White, no' blue. She's a ghost."

  "An unusually alive ghost," Winston corrected.

  "Normal for Baird House."

  Winston agreed, although a bit in awe of it all, himself.

  Roan thoughtfully rubbed his chin. "So, even from yer standpoint, things here are a wee different. Aye?"

  "Definitely different."

  "And this blue psychic contrail which could have been possibly thrust upon me and old Lannie, isn't anythin’ I should worry abou'?"

  Winston offered a look of uncertainty.

  "Wha' would you say if I told you I've been dreamin’ Mary Blossom Ingliss was comin’ home?"

  "Who is she?"

  "Robert and Tessa's daughter," Roan said solemnly. "She vanished shortly efter her sixteenth birthday."

  "She's dead?"

  Roan laughed. "Tha' or verra old! In the dreams she's young, though. Abou' the age when she disappeared."

  Winston sighed. "Lack o’ disclosure?"

  A sly gleam brightened Roan's eyes. "Are you tellin’ or askin’?"

  "Suggesting."

  "Ah." Roan grinned then did a brief drum roll on his chest with the undersides of his hands. "Weel, I'm so glad we had this chat, Winston. But why do I now have this notion to throw maself off the tower?"

  Winston laughed and clapped Roan on the shoulder. Roan settled back against the sofa and stared whimsically up at the ceiling. "I
think it's time I stop thinkin’ in retrospect and get on wi' ma life. All I really need to do is no' think abou' Lannie and Beth, Robert, psychic contrails and—"

  "Roan!"

  Both men jumped up from the sofa when Laura burst into the room. She ran directly to Roan and gripped the front of his shirt. Gulping in air, her widened eyes cast Winston a brief glance. "It's the...."

  Roan gripped her upper arms and worriedly searched her flushed face. "Calm down, Laura."

  "She's on the tower...." Laura sucked in a great breath and forced the rest of the words out. "She took her clothes off and is dancing in the snow!"

  "Deliah?" Winston asked sharply.

  Laura gave a rapid nod. "I couldn't get her to come back down."

  "I'll handle it," Winston bit out, and lit into a run.

  He ascended to the second floor and turned left, not slowing down until he reached the heavy red velvet drapes which covered the entrance to the tower. Beyond the threshold, he entered what had been the servants' quarters, and went up a steep and narrow stone staircase that hugged the wall. He was blind to the plain furnishings as he made his way to the fourth level, where he stopped and regarded the open door in the ceiling. A pale grey sky loomed above. Snowflakes drifted through the opening. The cold seemed more bone chilling than when he was outside earlier, and he shuddered before continuing on. But halfway up this last stretch of steps, something popped into the opening and he nearly pitched backward. He braced his spine against the cold exterior rock wall, a hand over his thundering heart. A snow-sprinkled brown peahen peered down at him, craning its neck from side to side as if questioning his intrusion.

  Angry that a bird had given him such a fright, he flagged his right hand at it and forcefully ascended the few remaining steps. He heard a flutter of wings. As soon as his head breached the door frame, he saw peahens and peacocks flying off in all directions from the crenellations. Then he spied Deliah and his heart seemed to rise into his throat and cut off his oxygen. She was indeed naked, and dancing in circles with her arms lifted to the pale heavens. A heavy dusting of snowflakes covered her. A look of ecstasy masked her face and, at that moment, Winston thought her stark-raving mad.