by Allison Shaw
Some went another route and harassed non-Scots. There was a rowdy group of those present at the Gathering who had honed in on the blessed blend group like hounds on a fox den. Yelling out curses and insults, the hooligans tried to incite a response to justify a fight.
“Go oon back tae yer ain kind!”
“Ye insult oor blood wha’ wi’ wearin’ our colors! Tak’ ‘em ooff!”
“Get oot o’ our land ye bloody savages!”
As a crowd gathered, the blessed blend had quietly stood their ground, which only made the insults worse. Elders from several Clans watched to see how the drama would play out before passing judgment on either side. The police were there but could do nothing until someone made a move.
And then Callie had stepped forward.
“What’s your problem?” she had asked of the adversary with the loudest mouth, who was wearing a MacLaughlin tartan kilt. “Scots blood is Scots blood, isn’t it? I don’t see y’all having a problem with other Scots Diaspora folks. This is as much a part of us as it is all y’all.”
“What’s oor problem?” shouted the young man, his pale skin flushed with rage. “Oor problem is a’ ye bloody rag heads an’ blacks an’ bloody fookin’ foreigners! Get oot o’ our land an’ go back tae yer ain!”
Euan had watched as one of the men from the blessed blend, whose chestnut hair contrasted with his dark eyes and brown skin, came up beside Callie and tried to get her to step back for her own protection. “The warriors protect the women,” he had advised.
“And our women are warriors,” she had replied tightly as she handed him her shawl, fan, and bandolier. When she pulled a knife with a heavy hand-forged blade out of the beaded sheath tucked into her belt even Euan had felt a tingle of apprehension.
“Och, I’m afeart!” the MacLaughlin ruffian snorted as Callie had handed the knife to the man holding her other belongings before stepping up toe-to-toe with him. “Wha’ are ye guine tae do? Scalp me? I’m nae afeart o’ nae bloody red savage whore!”
“I doubt you’ve got anything worth cutting off,” she had replied flatly, prompting several onlookers to laugh out loud.
Her opponent nearly choked with rage. “Why, ye bloody wee bitch! I’ll…”
He had hardly had the words out of his mouth when Callie leapt up and socked him in the jaw with one hell of a right cross. She spun and landed with her moccasin-clad heels grinding into the tops of his feet as she elbowed him in the groin. As he doubled over she had hooked a foot behind one of his legs, pivoted as she gave him a mighty shove, and sent him sprawling backwards. He had landed with a grunt and she planted a foot on his throat while grabbing one of his arms and bending his wrist back in a submission hold with his elbow across her knee.
“Alright asshole,” she had said in a husky drawl. “I’m Scottish and Cherokee on my granddaddy’s side, Melungeon on my grandmother’s, and Southern born-and-bred, which means I have a triple dose of I-don’t-take-shit-off-anyone in my blood! When I let you up from here I’d advise you to be a bit more respectful before I really hurt you.”
When he had fallen, the ruffian’s kilt had flown up to reveal that he was wearing no undergarments. Giving it the barest of glances, Callie raised an eyebrow and gave the man a smirking look. “Dude, seriously,” she mocked. “You should be wearing a pair of drawers if that’s all you’ve got to show.”
The crowd roared with laughter. She released her hold on him and stepped back in a fighter’s stance, ready for any reaction. He jumped up and glared at her, but before he could do anything the tannist of Clan Stewart and two police officers had stepped in to halt things. The Clan elders had nodded approvingly and a murmur ran through the crowd.
“Och, a lass after m’ ain heart!” Donald MacKinnon had sighed. “Aye but she’d gi’e a lad a braw tumble atween the sheets, eh?”
Several of the lads had nodded their agreement and voiced their admiration.
Euan had been enchanted.
He had sought her out, introduced himself, and invited her to a ceilidh that night. She wasn’t a great dancer and didn’t know any of the dances but threw herself into the spirit of the event with gusto. In conversation, her well-above-average intelligence and warped sense of humor were delightfully apparent. She was spirited, fearless, and dignified without being stuffy. Although not a great beauty, her personality alone outshone all of the other lasses.
In the days and weeks that followed it hadn’t taken long for Euan to discover that Callie was a tomboy who loved the outdoors, spoke her mind plainly, and was refreshingly if tactlessly honest. She didn’t style her hair or wear make-up, saw no point in flirting or acting coy, and eschewed small talk. Her hobbies included hunting, fishing, camping, hiking, and riding horses. She loved sports, was well-read, and possessed an amazingly broad base of knowledge. Her singing voice, a rich contralto, had an edgy if untrained power to it that reminded one of deep places full of secrets hidden right in plain sight. She could tell old stories with a skill that brought them to life and put listeners right in the middle of the action.
And she was funny, with a considerable repertoire of jokes covering almost every conceivable topic. Callie delivered observations on life that were both hilariously warped and bitingly blunt. She wasn’t afraid to be the butt of some of her own jokes or get caught in someone else’s. It never seemed to offend her and she laughed right along with everyone else.
Euan had thought himself undeservingly blessed to have met such a down-to-earth lass. He disliked the bubble-headed, materialistic, self-engrossed, haughty debutantes who comprised the majority of his female peers. Sure, many of them were real lookers but outside of being eye candy or a roll in the sheets there wasn’t much else there to interest a man.
Or at least of interest to him. Euan gunned the motor and sped on. Callie had bewitched him, alright. He still couldn’t take a woman to bed without thinking about her. After four years he could still recall the day he’d taken her virginity like it was yesterday. Could still recall every time he’d taken her to bed thereafter - the taste and scent of her, the feel of her skin next to his, the way their joining had felt so incredibly right. His own blood still burned with the passion and fire he had set free in her. He’d fooled himself into thinking that he hated her but couldn’t escape the fact that he still wanted her. And only her.
Then John had dropped this bombshell on him.
He had to admit that it was possible that he had impregnated her as he hadn’t always bothered to stop and put a condom on. Neither had he thought at the time to ask if she was on birth control. The explosive chemistry between them had their brains in places other than between their ears.
Despite her inexperience, Callie’s passionate nature had made their lovemaking a pleasure more intense than any he had enjoyed before or since. She had loved him freely and held nothing back, and he had given her more of himself than he had ever given any woman even if he hadn’t yet resolved how deeply he had felt for her at the time.
She’d had no idea that Euan’s family was wealthy until the night he took her to dinner at his grandfather’s townhome in Edinburg. They had spent most of the summer hiking, fishing, and camping when they hadn’t been working on the croft or visiting archaeological and historical sights. She had thought him a crofter and been content with that, loving him for himself.
Used to Euan’s humble cottage, Callie had been rather surprised at the opulence of the Wallaces’ house and had seemed a bit uncomfortable at first. Nonetheless, she had engaged in pleasant and intelligent conversation and had been very honest as to her family origins and history. Her manners had been impeccable and her demeanor respectful and gracious.
His grandparents, although polite, had not approved of her because she came from a family of American backwoods mixed-bloods with no wealth beyond their land. She didn’t have the right connections or bloodlines for their class, hadn’t attended the right schools. His grandmother had noted that while Callie was pretty, as a working-class commoner sh
e wasn’t beautiful or accomplished enough to warrant acceptance as the wife of a member of an old, notable, and wealthy Scottish family. They reminded Euan of his place and his duty to his family.
A lass like Callie simply could not fit in.
His parents had not approved of her, either, and for the same reasons. They claimed that Callie was only after a rich husband because that’s how Yank women were. His father had even stated that he might find himself without support if he chose to pursue marriage with her. “You just watch, my lad,” Niall Wallace had warned. “She’ll turn up pregnant and you’ll find yerself in a snare.”
A couple of weeks later she had told him she might be pregnant. Still unsure of his feelings, his mind reeling with the counsel of his family and the threat of disenfranchisement, he had not dealt well with the shock that kind of news would naturally have had on a young man not yet ready to settle down. Instead of owning up to his responsibilities as a man he had taken the coward’s route and turned on her with anger and harsh words, driving her away.
Except that she hadn’t truly left and no amount of drinking or womanizing had banished her ghost. At thirty years of age, his frame fully matured and in his prime, he could get just about any woman he wanted when he needed sexual release. But the sex was hollow, his heart was restless, and his life was lacking. Nothing satisfied him anymore except throwing one-night-stands with the most inappropriate lasses he could find in the faces of his family every time they nagged at him to settle down with a proper wife.
Even that had gotten old.
When day broke, he was stone-cold sober as he sat above a cliff along the coast and looked westward across the Irish Sea, his innards alternatively freezing up and seething. His ego warred with his heart, leaving him somewhat confused. Not that he would admit it even to himself, he was also afraid. Afraid that what John had told him was true, afraid it wasn’t, and afraid that he had made the biggest mistake of his life four years ago.
Euan tried to imagine the faces of Callie’s children but kept seeing hers. John had said they had his dark red hair. Was their hair wavy like his or straight like Callie’s? What color were their eyes? Were they fair like him or darker like her? What were their names?
If she hadn’t told her kinfolk anything about him, it was likely that she hadn’t told her children anything either. Were they asking about their father yet? If they were, what was she telling them?
The Callie he had known was tough, resourceful, and more than capable of handling whatever life threw at her. He had no doubt that she was a fiercely protective and genuinely good mother who would always put her children first.
From what she had told him there were few jobs at home outside of working for the county or local family-owned businesses, and most people were self-employed as craftsmen or farmers or they traveled out-of-county to work. There was a hospital and medical center, but those requiring a specialist were usually sent to the nearest big city. The tiny public library had closed the year before she had visited Scotland and she had not given the school system high marks.
Used to the abundant choices that came with privilege, he wondered what such a place could offer any child.
Certainly more than he was at the present.
He knocked at John’s door an hour later. Chrissie sat at the table in the breakfast nook wearing one of John’s shirts and sipping a cup of coffee. “Hello, luv!” she cooed at him.
Dressed in a pair of gym shorts and a tee shirt, John addressed Euan coolly. “Ye look like hell.”
Euan accepted a cup of coffee as he sat down at the table and replied, “Wish tae God I felt as braw.”
“Och, were ye up a’ the night, then?” John chided.
“Aye,” Euan admitted. “Couldna sleep a wink. Too much on m’ mind.” He looked at John. Obviously his friend had had a bit of a romp in the wee hours if John’s disheveled blond hair was any indication. That and the fact that John and Chrissie both smelled of sex and sweat.
Euan recalled the scent of his and Callie’s lovemaking and the longing wrenched his heart and twisted his gut.
John eyed him and asked, “Are ye straightened oot aboot what ye’ll do yet?”
Euan flicked a glance sideways to Chrissie and then looked back at John. There was no way he was going to discuss something this personal in front of her. Such juicy gossip would be all over town before noon and in his parents’ ears by dinner time.
John understood and said to Chrissie, “Ye should be goin’, lass. I hae t’ get ready for work, ye ken.”
Chrissie got up from the chair and put her arms around John’s neck, giving him a lusty kiss. “Aye, an’ me mum’s sure tae be wonderin’ where I’ve been. I’ll see ye later, lover.” She went back into the bedroom and put her clothes on. Kissing John again as she left, she waved at Euan and shut the door.
“Well?” John asked. He could tell from the circles under Euan’s eyes that the man had fought himself all night. Euan could act like a randy stag all he wanted, there was but one woman he held in his heart. The woman he damned every time she crossed his mind and cried over when he was too drunk to keep it buried down deep anymore. Maybe this bit of news would motivate him to do what he should have done four years ago. Otherwise John considered that he might have to knock the hard-headed bastard over the noggin and drag him to Tennessee himself.
Euan took a long sip of his coffee. He was adrift, a feeling he hated. He had spent most of his life trying to prove that no one and nothing could control him or tell him what to do. He was the master of his own life, his own destiny. That illusion was quickly fading and he was beginning to see that he was master of nothing.
Especially his own life.
John retrieved his laptop computer and put it on the kitchen table. Booting it up, he clicked on a particular file before turning the computer to face Euan. “Thought ye’d like tae see these,” he said.
Euan saw a collection of photo shots and clicked on the first one to enlarge it. There was Callie, looking the same as the day he had first set eyes on her but wearing different regalia. Standing to one side of her and holding each other’s hands were two small children, a boy and a girl, with long hair the same color as his. The boy looked to have dark eyes while the girl’s eyes were lighter. Both wore Native regalia and Robertson tartan sashes. Callie had the boy’s hand in hers.
As he clicked on each image in turn there was no doubt that these were his children. No denying it at all. His son was the very image of himself and his daughter had her mother’s eyes and face. He felt as if he had been sucker-punched.
“Are ye satisfied, then?” John asked.
Euan nodded and said quietly, “Aye.”
“Are ye needin’ somethin’ a bit stronger tae drink?” John queried solicitously.
Euan thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. “I canna deny it, lad, and drinkin’s nae guine tae help me oot o’ this.”
He fiddled with his coffee cup as he pondered the situation. “I nae ken hoo tae contact her an’ I doona want tae bring m’ parents o’ grandparents intae this. I’ll hae t’ hire a detective tae find her so I can a’ least try tae offer an apology. I owe her tha’ a’ the verra least.”
John poured more coffee into his cup. “Or,” he offered, “Ye could ask yer auld friend John MacQueen for the information.”
Euan’s eyebrows rose. “Ye ken where she’s at?”
“Aye,” John replied. “Her family runs a hunting retreat up in the Appalachian Mountains. I picked up a couple o’ pamphlets which hae the contacts right on ‘em. Bookmarked the website, I did.”
He pulled the computer back around, clicked on favorites, and opened up the site. “Here we go,” John said. “Take a looksee a’ this, lad,” John advised as he turned the screen back to Euan. “I thought maybe I’d like t’ go hae a look for m’self. The huntin’ sounds braw. Aye but I wonder what it’d be like to hunt a bear or lion. Then again, we could just go hill-walking or fishing.”
Euan loo
ked the website over. Broken Bone Hunting Lodge was emblazoned across the home page with a photo of the lodge itself. The following pages advertised guided hunting, primitive camping and wilderness excursions, and Appalachian cultural experiences.
That sounded just like Callie.
“Says here that hunting season begins in September for bow an’ cross bow, October for black powder rifle, an’ November for regular rifle,” Euan noted. “The fees are private treaty, which means they cater tae those o’ means, or at least for the most part they do. But here it advises that it takes several weeks tae secure the proper licenses wi’ the Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency, an’ permits an’ proper identification an’ proof o’ eligibility are required. We’d be fair pressed t’ get a’ that in on time.”
John shrugged. “I’d say the kind o’ huntin’ yer needin’ tae do has no season limits, and there’s nae a price ye could put on what ye hae t’ gain,” he said. “But I’d advise ye not to book it under yer ain name, lad. No point givin’ yer quarry the head’s up.”
Euan pondered that for a moment. Facing Callie on her home turf would not be a task for the faint of heart. He had seen enough of her woodsman’s skills to know he would fare better facing off with a pack of wolves. “Aye, ‘tis stealth I’ll be needin’,” he said. “That an’ some bloody exceptional gude luck.”
Chapter 2:
Broken Bone Lodge
Callie tightened the girth on her buckskin mare. Chick had a habit of sucking in air when saddled and a loose saddle was not safe on flat ground let alone in the steep terrain of the mountains. Bracing a foot against the mare’s side, she gave the latigo strap a hard pull. Chick grunted, laid her ears back, and gave Callie the evil eye.
Pulling the strap a bit tighter as Chick let out some air, Callie chided, “I wouldn’t be sticking a boot in your ribs if you wouldn’t bloat up like this every time someone saddles you up. You can save that look for someone who cares.”
She stepped back to let the mare think on things and relax enough to let out the rest of the wind she’d sucked in. Callie’s saddle was an 1853 McBride harness saddle passed down through the family from her great-great-great grandfather and had been a gift from her grandfather, Daniel Robertson, when she got old enough to ride a horse on her own.
