Kilty Pack One

by Amy Vansant

  He reached out and she dropped it into his hand.

  “Oh...thanks.”

  Amber scowled. “You don’t use ear buds.”

  He shrugged. “Sure I do.”

  “No you—ohmygod. She was here, wasn’t she?”

  Owen’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

  Catriona could see from his overtly guileless expression that Amber had hit upon the truth. Owen never had been much of an actor.

  Amber shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest. “Unbelievable.”

  “Who else was here?” asked Sean.

  Owen caved, shoulders slumping. “My girlfriend was here earlier. But she was gone by the time Toby went missing.”

  “I knew it,” hissed Amber. “You left Toby alone while you were plowing that old tramp.”

  “Amber, I told you. I was alone and in the shower. Fiona had been gone an hour or more and Toby was watching cartoons. What, am I supposed to tie him to the toilet every time I take a shower?”

  “He’s eight.”

  Owen took a step towards her, his fists clenching. “You left him with your mother and forgot where he was when he was three.”

  “I knew he was safe.”

  “Was he? Your mother is a—”

  “All right,” said Sean, stepping between them. “Blaming each other isn’t going to help anything.”

  There was a knock on the door and Catriona turned to see a woman standing behind the screen door, peering in.

  “Who’s that?” she asked, moving to the door.

  Owen glanced at the door and then closed his eyes, waiting a beat before answering. “That’s Fiona.”

  Catriona saw Broch’s head swivel. He took a step forward as if to get a better view of the visitor, nearly bumping into her as she made her way to the door. Her own curiosity piqued by his, Catriona studied the woman. A tall, lithe and ravishing woman of about thirty-five, Fiona’s dark hair was cut short and sassy.

  Owen’s squeeze seemed familiar, but Catriona couldn’t fathom the reason why until she realized Fiona was the woman whose face had been splashed across the tabloids around the time the Cranes’ marriage fell apart.

  Fiona Duffy.

  She realized Fiona was staring back at her.

  No one had said a word.

  “Come in, Fee,” said Owen.

  Like a hypnotist had snapped his fingers, the two dark-haired women both leapt into action. Catriona took a step back and Fiona entered to brush past her.

  “I came as fast as I could,” said Fiona taking her place beside Owen. She wrapped her hand around his.

  Owen glanced at Amber and slid his hand from Fiona’s, under the guise of needing to scratch his chin.

  Amber tossed her auburn hair, her expression twisted tight as a knot.

  Catriona noticed Broch’s attention hadn’t left the new woman. She was striking, with large blue eyes, high cheekbones and a playful smirk that never seemed to leave her lips. Catriona mused that Fiona felt a little like a 2.0 version of herself, similar in hair color, shape and stature, but with all the extra time and planning it took to represent as an actor in Hollywood. After all, she might be photographed by paparazzi at any moment.

  Catriona was more of a throw-on-jeans-and-go sort of girl.

  Broch’s brow furrowed. Fiona glanced at him, noticed him staring, and smiled. The side of Broch’s mouth twitched in response.

  Catriona took a step toward him, but before she could say anything, there was another knock on the door and two uniformed policemen entered. Amber ran to them, begging them to find her son.

  Sean nodded to Catriona, indicating that it was time to go. He shared some final thoughts with Owen and one of the officers as she and Broch headed outside.

  Catriona glanced one last time at Fiona. The woman watched her leave without showing the slightest reaction to her stare.

  Catriona and Broch didn’t get far before one of the officers outside asked them to identify themselves. Before she could answer, another officer hit the first on the arm with the back of his hand.

  “It’s Cat. She works for the studio. She’s okay,” he told his partner.

  Catriona smiled and nodded, thanking him for saving her the trouble of explaining herself.

  “He’s with me,” she said, jerking a thumb towards Broch.

  The officers eyed the Highlander’s kilt and smirked at each other before heading up the stairs to the Cranes’ home.

  Another police car arrived and a young woman with brown hair, gripping a note book to her chest, appeared. Looking determined and stressed, she pushed past them and headed for Owen’s door. Her head swiveled, her long silver earring swinging against her head, to gawk at Broch’s kilt before she entered.

  Moving about town with Broch was starting to feel like traveling with an alien by her side.

  Maybe it was.

  “You’re really going to have to learn to love jeans. Maybe we could try some shorts,” said Catriona as they wandered toward the car.

  He didn’t respond. She looked up at him, finding his silence unusual.

  “Hey, what was up with that woman?” she asked.

  He snapped out of his trance. “Whit?”

  “That woman, Fiona. You were staring at her.”

  “Och, was ah?” He shook his head. “Ah was thinkin’—the boy—it’s someone they ken.”

  Something about Broch’s expression gave her the impression he was hiding something, but his opinion on the kidnapping rang true. She’d been thinking the same thing.

  “I agree. Let me ask you—why do you think so?”

  “Na yin broke in. They walked in.”

  Catriona nodded, impressed. “Good observation. Though, he told Sean the doors were unlocked. It could have been anyone.”

  “Brave tae donder in lik’ that, dinnae ye think? Thay knew na yin was in the hoose except the da. They knew he was in the shower.”

  “So it was someone he knows, or someone who’s been watching.”

  Broch squinted, searching the street. “Aye. Mibbiee watching.”

  She heard Sean saying his good-byes to the officers and he soon joined them by the curb.

  “Broch says it’s an inside job,” said Catriona.

  “Agreed,” said Sean as they entered the Jag.

  Catriona slapped her hands on her thighs. “Well, we should probably pop back through time, huh? We can stand outside Owen’s door and stop whoever took Toby.”

  Sean rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “A lot of good that does us.”

  She glanced back at Broch and found him staring back at Owen’s house.

  Chapter Eleven

  Broch didn’t know how to describe the feeling that came over him upon meeting Owen Crane’s girlfriend.

  Elated. Tingly. Confused.

  Embarrassed.

  The moment he heard the dark-haired woman’s name, his dream came rushing back to him. The girl on a horse, the two of them galloping across the glen.

  The love he’d felt for that girl was undeniable. He could feel his excited expectation at the prospect of spending time with her, as sure as he could feel his steed rising and falling beneath him.

  Fiona.

  Could Owen’s girlfriend be his Fiona? Had he traveled through time to be reunited with his lost love?

  He dropped his head into his hands.

  “Are you okay?” asked Catriona.

  He looked up to find Catriona peering at him from her place in the front passenger seat.

  “Aye.”

  She smiled “You were quiet for nearly three minutes. I thought maybe you’d died.”

  “Ah’m well.”

  It was a lie. His heart ached. His feelings for Catriona were undeniable, but now—he wondered if his feelings had been misplaced.

  Who is Fiona?

  Broch heard a jingle and Catriona retrieved her phone to read a message.

  She huffed. “I can’t believe this. All I want to do is ge
t back to our conversation—not to mention our dinner—and Jimmy Faxon needs me. Something about a dog bite.”

  Broch recalled Faxon’s name from the book Catriona had made for him. She’d written a few words on all the studio’s actors to help him learn his job more quickly. Jimmy Faxon was a musician turned actor currently starring in what Fiona had called an evening cop-drama/soap-opera called Detroit Blues.

  Sean pulled onto the highway. “What can you do about a dog bite? Call Noseeum.”

  Catriona slipped her phone back into her pocket. “Faxon’s not the one who was bitten. His dog bit the neighbor, who threatened to have the dog taken away and destroyed. Jimmy proceeded to then hit the neighbor with his guitar.”

  Sean groaned. “Please tell me it wasn’t the guitar the studio loaned him. The one signed by Prince that they used in last week’s episode?”

  “He didn’t say. But he did call it the purple guitar.”

  Sean’s chin dropped to his chest. “That boy never fails to confirm everything I suspect about him.”

  “When are we going to get back to our meeting?” asked Catriona.

  Sean glanced at Catriona. “I didn’t have anything else to share, anyway.”

  “Oh, yes you do. I’m not out of questions, so you’re not out of answers.”

  Sean changed lanes. “We’re an exit away from Jimmy’s. I’ll drop you off.”

  “Dae ye need me?” asked Broch.

  Catriona twisted to face him. “Not technically. Are you sure you’re okay? You look pale.”

  He squinted one eye. “Ah suppose ah’m nae feeling well.”

  “Might be the week-old lava cake. It’s okay. I’ll take this one. I did do this without you for years after all.”

  Catriona stared pointedly at Sean as she said her last sentence, and Broch felt even worse. Catriona hadn’t ask for him, and now he worried the romance he’d felt blossoming between them might be built upon his own confused recollections.

  He sighed. He was nothing but a nuisance to her. She didn’t deserve to be saddled with him.

  Sean pulled off the freeway and delivered Catriona to Jimmy Faxon’s house. A man with blond hair and a square patch of black hair on his chin stood outside arguing with a heavy-set brown-skinned man. In the blonde man’s arms, a tiny, white dog yapped endlessly.

  “Wish me luck,” said Catriona hopping out of the car.

  Sean turned to Broch. “Why don’t you come up front? Sometimes riding in a back seat can make a person sick.”

  Broch switched places and Sean headed for the studio.

  “While we’re alone, do you have any questions? Catriona has a way of being heard. I hope she didn’t keep you from asking something you wanted to know,” said Sean.

  It took Broch a moment to register what Sean had said. “Whit? Ah—no...”

  “Are you sure? You keep looking at me like you’re working up the nerve to ask me something.”

  Broch sighed. “Och. Aye, ah dae hae somethin’ tae ask.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Broch took a moment to run his tongue over his teeth as he tried to find a way to pose his inquiry.

  Best tae say it.

  He blurted out his thoughts before he could second guess them. “Dae ye ever hae dreams aboot yer past?”

  “You mean about being in the past?”

  “Aye.”

  Sean nodded. “All the time.”

  “Dae ye dream aboot things ye forgot?”

  “Sure.”

  “And all yer dreams...they’re true?”

  “You mean did my dreams really happen?”

  “Aye. Are they fantasies? Or memories come at nicht?”

  Sean frowned. “I don’t know. I imagine they’re like any other dream. Sometimes they’re true memories and sometimes they’re a collection of things...memories, fantasies, wishes. The truth lies somewhere in between.”

  Broch considered this. His head believed his dreams were fantasy, but his heart told him otherwise.

  “Did you dream about something specific?” asked Sean.

  Broch shrugged. “A few things.”

  “But something in particular is bothering you?”

  “Aye. A lassie. Someone ah may have loved.”

  Sean grimaced. “Oh. I could see how that might be upsetting.”

  Broch knew Sean had lost his wife in another time. He decided there remained no reason to hold back the full breadth of his concerns.

  “Ah’ll be honest, Sean. Ah hae feelin’s fer Catriona. Ah dae. But the lassie in mah dreams... Ah’m worried...”

  “That somewhere your wife is waiting for you?” finished Sean.

  Broch sighed. “Aye. My Fiona.”

  Sean chuckled “Fiona? Like Owen’s girlfriend?”

  “Very much like Owen’s girlfriend,” said Broch.

  His tone must have conveyed his meaning. Sean turned to look at him.

  “Oh,” he said. “Oh.”

  “Dae ye know if she’s one of us?”

  Sean shook his head. “No. Are you sure you dreamt about her? Maybe you’re just attracted to her? She’s a beautiful woman.”

  Broch dropped his head into his hands with a great expelling of breath.

  “Ah dinnae ken.”

  Sean patted him on the arm. “Keep the heid, son.”

  Broch nodded. “Keep the heid.”

  Chapter Twelve

  1833 - Edinburgh, Scotland

  “Aff tae find Gavin, Da,” called Brochan, splashing water from a barrel across his sweaty torso.

  After rinsing the soot from his face and body, he changed into his best kilt and donned a clean shirt. The fabric strained against his biceps. Working as an apprentice blacksmith for his father had encouraged his arms to outgrow his sleeves. He’d been meaning to buy a new one, but there was never enough time in a day.

  “Da?”

  Broch checked to be sure his father wasn’t lurking nearby. Finding himself alone in their small establishment, he pulled a sword from behind a stack of hay. Forbidden to forge a sword until deemed ready, he’d been crafting the weapon on the sly, whenever his father left the shop.

  Unsure of his own exact age, Broch guessed he was somewhere past twenty. His father had found him, unconscious and abandoned as a boy. He remembered nothing about his life before awakening beside the kindly blacksmith’s fire. They declared the day he was found, his birthday—age unknown.

  He spent most days pounding out nails, pot hooks, spatulas, horseshoes and other mundane hardware, while his adopted father spent countless hours creating the finest blades in Edinburgh.

  As a full-grown man, he deserved to create something more interesting than a pot hook.

  He suspected he knew why his father restricted sword-making. He didn’t want Broch to fall in love with the trade. No one would remain a blacksmith if faced with a lifetime of horseshoe bending. But crafting a sword—that inspired a man to obsess on the ways he might improve his blades.

  Making a sword would make him a blacksmith.

  His father didn’t want him to be a blacksmith. It was good, honest work, but made for a hard life. His father’s friend, Gregor Logan, was a landed man whose son Gavin was, almost by default, Broch’s best friend. Laird Logan allowed Broch to school with his son’s private tutors. Thanks to Laird Logan, the blacksmith was able to dream of a better life for Broch.

  Out of necessity, his father trained Broch how to run the forge. He needed the help. But Broch spent much of his time studying with Gavin.

  He was a gentleman in training, as his father liked to say.

  Thanks to the Logan family’s generosity, Brochan could read and write, spoke a little French and knew how to act in polite company.

  In return, Broch kept wild Gavin grounded and watched his back.

  He’d see Gavin tonight, but it wasn’t a time to study. Tonight, Broch planned to meet Gavin at The Sheep Heid Inn and unveil his masterpiece.

  Broch wrapped a cloth around the sword and, calling out
a quick good-bye to the empty house behind the shop, slipped away.

  The inn wasn’t far. Tonight, it boasted a crowd, but he spotted Gavin already sitting at a table, draining his mug. Broch ordered a pint at the bar and joined his friend.

  “Howfur far ahead of me are ye,” he asked, sitting.

  Gavin grinned. “This is mah first. Kin ye ever be on time, man?”

  “Sorry. We cannae all spend our days roamin’ aroond our da's mansion. Some of us hae tae work.”

  Gavin leaned forward and tried to smack Brochan on the head. The bigger man easily dodged the attempt, and slapped his friend on the ear before he could retreat.

  “Ye'll be sorry if ye huv a go at that again.”

  Unafraid, Gavin grinned and rolled his eyes.

  Broch pulled the covered sword from beneath the table and opened the cloth.

  “Keek whit ah brought tae show ye.”

  Gavin gaped at the weapon. “Yer da made it?”

  “Ah made it. Whit dae ye think?”

  Gavin examined the blade, lifting it to feel its heft and balance. “She’s bonny fer certain.”

  “She better be. Ah’ve been workin’ on her a year.” Beaming, he tilted back his pint and caught the stare of a young woman sitting with an older man on the opposite side of the room. He nodded and she looked away, but soon glanced back, long enough for him to detect a smile on her lips.

  Gavin slapped him on his arm. “She has eyes on ye.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Ah dinnae ken her. Ah ken him, though. Mah da spoke tae him about some transaction. He’s an American. Mr. Jones ah think his name was. Mebbe she’s his daughter?”

  “Or his young wife.”

  Gavin laughed. “No wonder her eyes are roamin’ —she’s in need of a young buck.”

  Broch grunted and looked down at his beer. “She’s bonny ah suppose.”

  “Aye. Ah think she was keekin’ at me. Ah lik’ me a restless young bride nae and again.”

  Broch arched an eyebrow. “Ye would hae better luck with a restless young sheep.”

  Gavin burst into ale-fueled laughter. Looking past Broch, the grin melted from his face.

  “Ludo is here,” he said.

  Broch heard a voice behind him.

  “Och, the fancy boys are here.”