by L. L. Muir
Forbes held the shirt closer and pointed to the wide pink stripe between the blue and green ones. “Tell me what color ye see here.”
Wyn gave him a glower. “I care nothing for the color. I care that it fits me.”
The Highlander made a face, then held it up to his own chest again. “Perhaps it fits me just as well.” He tilted his head from side to side and peered at his reflection in the mirror on the wall at Wyn’s back.
“Ye’d best go hang it up in the next room,” Wyn warned.
“The next room? Why?”
“Because I doona wish to find yer blood on it later, when I’m off to the moor.”
“My blood?”
“Aye.” Wyn did three things at once—he stood, plucked the shirt from Forbes’ fingers with one hand, and struck him across the jaw with the other.
Forbes flew back, but stopped before his head struck the third bench behind him, for his toes had caught beneath the first bench and held. And with those toes, he pulled himself upright again and jumped to his feet, fists at the ready.
Wyn held up a single finger to stop him. “Tut, tut, tut. If this shirt is ruined, I’ll hold ye responsible. If I have to meet my lass with a bloodied lip, a black eye, a swollen nose, I’ll hold ye responsible. In fact, I worry my mood is about to sour—and ye ken who I’ll hold responsible for that, aye?”
Forbes grunted. “No doubt it will help yer mood if I apologized for striking my jaw on yer fist?”
“Apology accepted.” Wyn slipped the shirt over his shoulders but didn’t bother fastening the buttons before he bent to tie his boots to his feet.
“I hear ye believe this woman ye go to meet has already fallen madly in love with ye, even while ye were a ghost. And all ye need do is show yer face and she’ll run into yer arms. Is that about it, then?”
“As a matter of information,” Wyn began. Forbes moved his ears closer. “I prefer my eggs scrambled.”
If the other man had come to the bathhouse to shower that morning, he’d forgotten what he was about, for he wandered through the building and out the door, chuckling as he went. Even after the door had closed behind him, Wyn heard the man snorting across the yard. It was only when he’d been left alone with his thoughts that he appreciated the distraction Forbes had been, for his stomach was already jumping about with anticipation.
Soon, he’d be headed back to Culloden Moor, to stand once again on the battlefield as a living man. But this time, he wouldn’t be facing a dozen villains, he’d be facing Bronagh, the Irishwoman with owls on her scarf—the woman who’d haunted him for half a year, in mortal terms.
Facing the villains who’d kidnapped Soncerae had been much less daunting.
Two hours later, Wyn joined Wickham in the pickup truck. His yellow steel-toed boots did a fine job of keeping out the cold, as did the large but lightweight blue parka, thanks to a bit of wool in the lining. He had a monkey cap in his pocket, but he didn’t wish to muss his hair if he could avoid it.
“Saw Forbes in the garage this morning,” Wickham said. “I didnae ken he could cook.”
“Auch, believe me, he cannot. I shall be picking eggshells from my teeth all the day, see if I don’t.”
Every year, on the first day of March, the opening hour at Culloden’s Vistor’s Center changes from 10 a.m. to 9 a.m., and because of this, Wickham warned Wyn that the woman might not come as early as he hoped.
“It only matters that she will come,” Wyn said. “She’s as reliable as the sun.”
“Would ye like me to stay, in case the sun doesnae rise today?” His expression was as serious as the dead.
Wyn shook his head. “I can manage.”
“I’ll return at six o’clock unless I hear differently.” The man dug into his pockets and produced a wee black mobile phone. “Take this. Ye’ll find three numbers taped to the back. Call me first. Then ye can try Ivy. If it’s dire and neither of us answers, call the last.”
“Who will answer?”
“My sisters. They’ve got a talent for trouble. Getting in it or out of it. But they’re in Edinburgh, so they’re the last resort.”
“I hope to trouble no one.”
Wickham shrugged. “I expect that, for a while, all of ye will overestimate yer ability to get along in the twenty-first century. Ye can only have learned so much over the years, without ever leaving the place. But I will hold a good thought and hope for the best.” He pulled money from his breast pocket. “Take this. There’s a café inside, but I guess ye know that.” He frowned and looked out at the nearly empty car park. “This is it, sir. Real life. There are no rules. Ye’re not bound to this place. And I can come collect ye from anywhere.”
“I understand.”
Wickham bunched his lips together and nodded. “I just don’t want ye to fall back into the habit of thinking ye have to stay put, aye?”
“Aye. But what will be will be.” He then slapped the man’s shoulder. “Ye worry like a woman,” he chided, then climbed out of the truck before Wickham might sense how his hands were shaking.
Wickham chuckled. “If ye make it through the day, we must arrange for a wee bit of sensitivity training. Meantime, I suggest ye tread carefully when speaking of womankind.”
Wyn pulled his coat open briefly to reveal his shirt. “Here’s hoping my lass will show mercy to a man wearing pink, aye?” When he pushed the door closed, Wickham was still laughing.
Chapter Five
Wyn stepped over the curb and onto the pathway only fifty feet from where he and his comrades had stepped off just over a week before, to board the massive carriage that took them to the ranch. Though his attention was focused on finding his woman, he couldn't help but notice that the latest storms hadn't erased the disturbed patches of snow where he'd fought Soni's kidnappers.
The bloodied patches were gone, however, where the one man had bled out. At the time, Wyn hadn’t thought much about the skirmish. But now, breathing in and out meant something new to him and he regretted the loss of life, even if the man had been a brigand.
In the distance, he noted that it was James, the manager, who unlocked the door for the day's business. He caught sight of Wyn and held both the door and a smile...until he drew near. Then he frowned.
"I know ye," James said. "From where do I know ye?" He shook his head. "My tea must have been weak this morn if I cannae place yer name."
Wyn said nothing, but paused, in case James might have second thoughts about allowing him to enter.
"Come now, ye must help me," he teased. "I ken yer face like the back of my hand, like the lay of the battlefield--" His eyes widened. "The rabbit woman!"
Wyn glanced behind him, but no one joined them.
"Ye must ken the rabbit woman!"
"Rabbit woman?"
James rolled his eyes. "Ye ken the tradition--ye must--of saying "Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit," when ye first wake, on the first morning of the month? Or perhaps ye say "White Rabbit, aye?"
Wyn nodded, pretending to ken what the man was referring to, but the truth was, he did not.
"The woman who always comes on the first--I call her the Rabbit Woman simply because I've yet to learn her name. But ye’d know it..." He lifted a brow and waited for the name to be supplied, but if James was referring to his lass, he was out of luck. Wyn knew it, but it wasn’t his place to be sharing it.
"Sorry," he said, then glanced toward the warm interior.
"Auch, dinnae mind me," James said, then stood aside. "Welcome to Culloden."
It was a strange moment indeed to acknowledge that it hadn’t all been a dream, that he must have truly left the battlefield in order to be welcomed back to it. And here was James, whom he'd seen hundreds of times, treating him like a tourist. The only way James had ever seen Wyn's face, however, had been because of the woman...
Since Wyn couldn't guess what hour the lass usually arrived, he had no ken whether or not she was late. But when the day was half gone, with the sun past middling, he began to worry that Wick
ham might have been right. Had it truly been a different year, a different decade when he’d last seen her? Was he waiting in vain? Could his memory be that muddy?
Sitting at his carefully chosen table in the café, he shook his head in denial, then closed his eyes for a moment and tried to remember details. He compared what she usually wore with the styles he’d seen in the past ten days. Had her coat been so different than others? Her shoes? Her hair? Her mobile—
Her mobile!
He'd noted the date on her mobile phone each time she'd come, for she'd looked at it often enough herself, as if she were forced to keep a strict schedule. The last date had been the first of February. And January before that. He’d read the year clearly both times—2016—as hard as it was to believe he’d lingered long enough to see such a date. And the calendar on Wickham's table clearly indicated March of the same year.
He shook his head again. Fear had muddled his thoughts and stolen his confidence, that was all. The sun had risen, and the lass would come.
"Why does she dally?"
A woman at the next table raised her brows in question. He looked away and she did the same, though he felt her attention on him many times afterward. He'd seen many a kilt-wearing Scot garner female attention on the moor, but he was wearing denims, for pity's sake. Where was the interest? Perhaps she thought him mad for speaking to himself.
He stood, tugged on his coat to ward off the feeling of being exposed, and strolled over to the window for the tenth time that hour. His heart leapt when he recognized the telltale wooden case in the grip of a woman so well-bundled against the cold she couldn't be recognized by her own mother. Long black coat, red plaid skirt, and boots up to her knees with thick black stockings covering everything in between. Her head was bent against the wind, but he knew it was her.
As nervous as a bride, his hands fidgeted at his sides while he deliberated where best to wait for her. Did he speak first? Or should he sit quietly at his table and wait for her to recognize him?
Surely, she would recognize him. His hair had been trimmed only up to his shoulders. Most of the beard was gone, but at least he still had one. She'd be able to see his eyes easily enough what with the careful ministrations of the wee barber. He was but offering her a better-kempt version of the original.
To keep his heart from jumping out of his chest, he chose to return to his table with his back to the side wall. After a few seconds, he jumped to his feet to pull off his coat on the chance that the colors of his shirt might attract her attention all the sooner. He lowered himself onto the uncomfortable chair once again and took up the plastic-encased menu to occupy his hands. The server headed his way, but he waved her off, lest she block his woman's view.
Once she unwrapped herself, would she be wearing the scarf with the wee yellow owls?
Finally, she came into sight, nose red and cheeks blushing. Hurried and harried, his Irishwoman stepped into the café.
His Irishwoman. His. And now they would be together…as perhaps God Himself intended.
Come now, Bronagh. Look us in the eye. Give us that smile.
She went straight to the counter to place her order. Irish coffee and three biscuits, if she stayed true to form. And the table she typically chose was still empty, situated just across the aisle. He would wait patiently until she got settled and noticed him.
A middle-aged couple in matching red coats finished at the counter and turned his way. The gentleman carried their tray toward the lass' table, and with each step, Wyndham's heart beat harder. Without intending to, he jumped to his feet and pointed at the fancied table. The motion was erratic enough to get the man's attention. Embarrassed, Wyn had no words. He simply shook his head.
The gentleman nodded as if he understood, though he couldn't have, then turned to set his tray on the table behind. He looked to Wyn for approval. Wyn nodded, grateful, and the older man moved around to pull out a chair for his wife.
Wyn inhaled deeply to make up for the long moment he'd held his breath. Back at the counter, Bronagh fussed with her wallet, then took her tray in one hand and headed for the tables. She noted where others were sitting, then pivoted away. She put two empty tables between them and chose to sit closer to the window instead of the usual.
She took her thin brown gloves from her tray, stuffed them in a coat pocket, then removed her coat and draped it around her chair. Her green jumper included a rolled cowl at her neck, so no scarf, no wee owls.
Wyn glanced at the other man, who was watching closely. He shrugged, and the fellow gave him a wink, a nod, and a grimace of sympathy. He’d understood after all.
“Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit!” James appeared out of nowhere, laughing and weaving between tables to reach Wyn’s side and slap him on the shoulder. “I kenned ye’d come today,” he shouted in Bronagh’s direction. The man tended to be more boisterous when decked out in his Highland kit, as if it were part of his duty as entertainer. “Looks like our boyo here was counting on it as well.”
Wyn could feel his red face giving him away. She should have noticed him sooner, without someone else drawing her attention to him.
“When he poked his head in early this mornin’, I knew I’d seen his face many a time, but it took me a wee to remember yer drawings of ‘im. Though he’s cleaned up well today, aye?”
Her eyes finally met Wyn’s. There was no recognition. Her mouth dropped open, but only because she didn’t understand what James was trying to say.
As for James, he didn’t seem to notice what with his attention bouncing back and forth between them. But finally, he sensed the awkwardness of the moment, wished them a good afternoon, and excused himself as he was needed elsewhere.
Forced to acknowledge him, she offered him a sympathetic smile. “Emm… The bloke’s mistaken, that’s all, yeah?”
He held her attention a moment longer, opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated another second or two while he hoped for recognition to register. But she saw nothing familiar about him. Nothing at all.
Wyn’s heart fairly cracked, but he managed a brave face. “Mistaken, aye.” He pointed to her case. “But a peek at yer drawings will prove it, I reckon.”
She nodded, but placed a protective hand over the large, shallow box. They both stared at her splayed fingers. “No need, though, is there?” Her smile tightened. “I know what’s in here. If I’d have drawn yer portrait, I’d remember it, wouldn’t I?”
Wyn suddenly realized the precarious situation James’ comments had put him in. He’d never intended to argue with her. He’d expected her to recognize him immediately and then sit patiently while he explained himself. Now he was lost.
He blamed it all on his vanity, of course. He should have settled for clean and unshaven. He knew that now. But it was too late. She was already defensive with her wee lovely hand protecting her drawings from a nosey stranger. The threat had to be removed, that was all there was to it.
“Forgive me,” he said, then stood up, took a step back, and peeled his coat from the chair. “For all his patter, I reckon the man was teasing us--an attempt at matchmaking perhaps. I hope ye won’t hold it against him. He’s a good sort.”
The protective hand relaxed at least. A wee furrow remained on her brow, but she forced a kinder smile and a nod. Those dark, penetrating eyes would have him confessing all if he didn’t take his leave.
He smiled in vague farewell, then from simple habit, gave her a wink before he turned and strode out of the café. He’d been such a fool that the only appropriate punishment for himself was just down the hall…
Chapter Six
Bronagh couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She was losing her mind for good this time, not that Elizabeth, her therapist, would be surprised.
The very human bloke pulling his powder blue coat over his shoulders and walking away from her was somehow an incarnation of her muse! Flesh and blood. A complete stranger that hadn’t seemed familiar at all until…
That wink.
And suddenly she
’d seen it—the face she adored, the smile that was usually half hidden beneath the beard of her imaginary friend. Holy night, but Elizabeth was going to have her committed! It was bad enough she’d been in love with a man from her imagination. But it was quite another matter to believe he’d come to life. Surely she’d crossed some line and gone completely mental.
To sound rational to Elizabeth, she’d always called him her muse. After all, that was the way it had started. She’d pictured him, imagined conversations with him, she’d even given him a name—though she’d imagined he’d picked it himself. He was Wyndham McLeish, a Highlander she could never see quite clearly enough. And Wyndham McLeish was a winker.
For the past half year, she’d sort of lived for those wee winks…
She shook her head. This was pure silly. Just because a man winked didn’t mean he had anything to do with another winker—one who didn’t really exist. But still, her mind scrambled to make them the same man.
At the moment, with mental alarms sounding in her head, it was difficult to remember exactly what Wyndham looked like, even though she thought about him all the time. But it was now easy to image what he looked like with a trim…
Ridiculous. She’d noted the others gawking as he passed them. So, yeah, this one was real enough.
She waited until he’d disappeared before grabbing the latch and opening her art case which also functioned as an easel. Laid open, it more than covered her table. A few scraps of paper fell out, but she couldn’t worry about them. She had to see that face, had to find the page with Wyn winking.
Her fingers fumbled through empty sheets, then finally brushed them out of the way to reveal the sketch she’d worked on the last time she’d come to Culloden. Each line was as familiar to her as her own body. And yet, beneath all that hair…
“Feckin’ impossible.”
Her stomach flipped over and sort of squelched to the left. She giggled for only a second, then had a hard time getting air back into her lungs. This was madness. Her Highland muse was a specter conjured from her own imagination for a real purpose, then conjured again on the first of every month because she’d become addicted to him. But conjuring up a real man?
