The Legend Mackinnon (20 page)

The man didn’t move or do anything to reveal himself or his motives to her in any way. Yet she felt … threatened.

Not physically, but …

Damn this! She hated feeling so powerless, so victimized, so … inadequate. This man meant her harm, but not physically. So that meant, what? Emotionally?

She was yanked from her musings when another piece of information popped into her mind, knowledge that wasn’t there one second and an instant later it was as if she’d always known it.

He was the guide.

The guide to what?

Then it struck her. Would he be the one to take her to the key Lachlan believed existed? She knew better than to expect an answer to that. Heaven forbid she be given any practical information.
Just step out of the shadow
, she urged silently.
Let me see who you are
.

He remained where he was, frustratingly silent.

Without warning, the vision ended as abruptly as it had begun. She was standing in the cemetery, holding on to the headstone. She turned, scraping back the wisps of hair that had come loose from her braid, and froze.

The stone she’d gripped for support had blackened with time, the rounded shape worn down so much so that the top part of the first name was gone. The letters were shallow and some had eroded altogether, but still she could read what it said.

Calum MacKinnon.

She rubbed her hand over the corroded stone, as if that would clean the blackened surface. The dates had worn down to the point where they were impossible to read. She traced her fingers over the lettering several times, but nothing. No feelings, no more visions. Just more unanswered questions.

She stood and brushed her hands against her pants. There was nothing left to do but head back to town and wait for her morning appointment with the solicitor.

And think about the man in her vision.

She did take the time to wander around the remaining stones. Of the ones she could read, there were none older than the early 1800s. Some of the names looked similar to the ones she’d read about in the journals, but no exact matches that rang a bell. There were too many Williams, Johns, Marys and Sarahs to place a particular name to a particular story. And yet Lachlan had chosen this place for a reason. And there was the matter of Calum’s headstone triggering her vision.

She rubbed her temples, knowing from experience that
the splitting headache coming on would turn into a migraine if she badgered herself with this. Experience had taught her it was best to leave it alone, let it simmer until something came forward to guide her once again. There was that word again. Guide.

She climbed into her car, only now noticing how deep the shadows had grown. Had she really been here for hours?

She’d just started the car when the sky opened up and rain thundered down like a waterfall. She wasn’t certain about the flash flooding statistics of the area, but it didn’t take a meteorologist to see the rutted dirt track was rapidly becoming a river.

The tiny Citroen would likely wash right down the mountainside, along with God knew what else. How did the sheep stand it up here? she thought crossly.

Thankfully it wasn’t all that cold, so she turned off the engine and decided to wait it out. She was on a relatively flat piece of ground next to the narrow cemetery, so she’d be safe enough. This couldn’t last that long. She’d be fine once she’d negotiated the dirt track back to the paved single track that lead to the main road. All she had to do was wait. And think.

H
e emerged from the mist of rain as if formed by the forces of nature. He was tall, with angular cheekbones and a strong jaw, both made all the more formidable by the hard slashes of his eyebrows and the even harder slash of his mouth. Rivulets of rain ran off the cape of his ankle-length brown duster, his heavy boots sunk into the mud as he walked toward her.

Cailean sat in her car, gaze locked on his, unable to move. He was the man from her vision.

He was the guide.

Her
guide.

Heaven help her.

There was no use running. She was here to rid herself of her demons. Better to confront him right here, right now.

She climbed out of the car and yanked up the hood of her mountain jacket. She braced her feet against the wind and stood her ground. She waited until he cleared the corner of the iron fencing before she spoke. “Who are you?”

He stopped. It was only when the relief washed over her that she realized just how afraid she’d actually been.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked.

His voice was rough, though it might have been a trick of the wind. He didn’t have to shout to be heard, though. In fact, his tone was calm rather than angry.

“Waiting for the storm to end,” she responded at length. She looked uneasily at the graveyard, a cold chill snaking down her spine. “Where did you come from?”

“Here.”

Not the answer she wanted to hear. “I didn’t notice any crofts back this way.”

“Are you stuck?” he asked.

Cailean shook her head, very aware that he hadn’t answered her query. “I didn’t want to chance the dirt track until the rain let up.”

“I’m not too sure it will matter now.”

Cailean didn’t appreciate the way her skin prickled in warning. He wasn’t supposed to be a physical threat to her, she reminded herself yet again. “I’ve waited out worse than this,” she said, trying to sound confident. “I’ll be fine.”

He nodded toward the Citroen. “Not in that you won’t. The ruts will be boggy now. Suck those tires in like rain on the desert sand.”

“So what are you saying? That I’m stuck up here?” And what did this mountain man know of desert rains?

“The rain will end shortly,” he said. “But you need to wait for the track to firm up. It’ll take several more hours.
If you’re smart, you’ll wait until closer to morning to leave.”

He was a good ten yards from where she stood, yet his voice carried almost eerily over the howl of the wind.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” he replied easily, like a casual stranger making conversation.

On the side of a desolate mountain next to an old, all but forgotten family cemetery, in the rain, in the dark.

This was anything but casual.

“Now that we’ve established that I’m neither stuck nor foolish,” she said, careful to keep her tone as moderate as his. “There’s no reason for you to be out in the rain.”

“But it’s not raining.” And it wasn’t. The wind still whipped furiously around them, whistling through the dagger-like peaks and rocky spears that towered above them, but the rain had stopped.

“Then you don’t have to worry about me. You can go back home, wherever home is.”

“You’re wet.”

She raised her eyebrows at the obvious comment. “So are you.”

“What is it that you do that gives you such experience in poor conditions?”

“What is it that you do that brings you out to the wilderness on rainy nights to rescue damsels in distress?”

Could he be a caretaker of some kind? He didn’t fit any definition of graveyard caretaker she’d ever imagined. He wasn’t even a Scot. At least, he had no discernable accent.

A sick feeling assailed her. She strove to keep her eyes on his and not glance over to the graveyard again. He was not a ghost. Was he? And just how crazy had she become that this was actually the most plausible explanation she’d managed to come up with yet?

“I tend sheep,” he said.

His answer startled her. “You’re a shepherd?”

“Does that seem so surprising? You can hardly be in Scotland for more than an hour and not notice we have more than a few of the wee beasties. Did you think they tended themselves? We keep track of them.”

“Even in the rain? In the dark?”

“It was neither when I left.”

Left where? she wanted to demand. “So what am I then, a lost sheep?”

“There are many lost souls that need tending to.”

She shivered under her coat. “Well, rest assured I am not one of them.”

She thought about simply climbing back in her car and locking the doors. She thought about asking him if he was man or ghost. Neither seemed an entirely smart course of action.

And then it didn’t matter. He was gone.

She hadn’t even seen him leave, or disappear. Had she been so lost in her thoughts? Cailean shook her head slowly, resisting the urge to rub her eyes. Had he really been there? Or had he been some manifestation of her vision?

No. He’d been real. Well, maybe not flesh and blood real, but she hadn’t been standing there talking to herself.

She walked to where he’d stood but it was too dark to make out any footprints. She’d check again before she left. She’d find those footprints, she’d find her proof. She needed proof.

V
ery early the next morning, Cailean pulled gratefully into a space in front of her hotel. The road had been a challenge, but more because of the fog than the mud. Her night visitor had been right about the track firming up.

She pushed the bizarre night from her weary mind and hurried upstairs. She needed a long hot bath, a big breakfast, and a nice nap. A quick shower and a change of clothes
was all she was going to get, however. Her meeting with the solicitor was in less than an hour.

T
hree hours later Cailean pushed open the door to her room and collapsed on the bed, so tired she could barely keep her eyes open.

Donald Chisholm had been more than happy to talk with her. And talk, and talk, and talk. Unfortunately, for all that the man had stories to tell, none of them answered the questions she’d most wanted answered. She sighed and rolled onto her back, staring at the headboard curtains that jutted out from the wall above her bed.

Mr. Chisholm had been Lachlan’s attorney for ten years, taking over when his previous solicitor had passed on. He felt he knew Lachlan as well as anyone, which was, as she was quick to discover, not all that well. She’d pretty much pegged Lachlan correctly.

“We Scots tend to embrace our eccentricities, and auld Lachlan was one of our better ones,” Donald had said, laughing and offering her more tea.

She had found out little information of significance. When it came to Lachlan’s property, his will, or anything related to it, Donald tended to wave off her questions and change the topic to some local story she’d be certain to find amusing. When she’d pressed, asking specifically if there had been anyone else besides. Maggie and herself involved in the disbursement of the will, Donald had finally said he couldn’t answer those questions other than to say that the will had been fully executed now and the matter was closed.

Frustrated, she pushed a bit more on her questions regarding Lachlan’s choice of cemetery and Donald had relented enough to tell her that the cemetery plot was Lachlan’s right and proper, but beyond that he felt it wasn’t his place to speak of his former client’s estate.

He did share the details of the funeral itself with her. Donald had been present at the service, along with several of the locals who knew Lachlan, including several personal friends, the librarian, a few ladies from the church he rarely visited, along with the clergyman who gave the brief eulogy. Cailean had pressed him for the names of Lachlan’s personal friends and those to whom he’d left his personal property, but Donald had demurred once again, couching his refusal with a kind smile and a pat on the hand.

It seemed the locals liked her great uncle well enough, but no one really knew him. “Mostly just to tip their hat to as he went on his way in and out of the local library.”

Cailean had more or less pieced together that the people Lachlan was most likely to have left anything to were his housekeeper and the older gentleman who’d rented the other half of his small home. There had been no mention or even hint of a third cousin.

Cailean left Donald’s office and followed his directions to what had been Lachlan’s home. It was a white, two-story building, typical of the croft-like architecture on the island, with a neat yard ringed with a white stone fence and a tidy but very small garden.

Mr. Mackay was a kind enough old man and had poured more tea into her, along with a few biscuits and some cheese that the housekeeper put together. Mrs. Robbie was almost as old as her employer, both of them easily contemporaries of Lachlan’s.

They’d talked of Lachlan openly enough with what might pass for reserved affection. Mr. Mackay had inherited the deed to the cottage and planned to turn it into another of the many bed and breakfast establishments that dotted the countryside. His niece would be coming in the summer to help him manage the place, he said with a warm smile. Mrs. Robbie had received a six month stipend to find herself another job. But since she’d been kept on by Mr. Mackay, she’d been able to save her inheritance. She planned to
use it to pay a visit to her grandchildren in Glasgow. She couldn’t have been more tickled.

But for all that they were fond of Lachlan, it was obvious that he had been an intensely private man who had shared little conversation beyond the basic social niceties, and even lesser of his thoughts.

Cailean had felt an odd twist of emotions. Lachlan had been consumed with curiosity about the lives and histories of his ancestors and Cailean easily understood how seductive it was to get lost in the history of a people and their culture. She liked thinking that she might have been someone who mattered to the old man, had they ever met. They’d have had something in common—a shared passion for the past.

From there Cailean had headed to the library, the only other place that Lachlan had spent a good amount of time. The librarian was friendly with a soft, delightful accent and a ready smile. She’d talked fondly of Lachlan and given Cailean a more vivid visual description of the man. He’d been short but stoutly built, with flowing white hair and bright blue eyes and a brown cap perched at the same jaunty angle when he arrived and again when he left.

But the librarian knew little of the man himself, other than his reading habits. He’d scoured every historical document in the building, with particular attention to information pertaining to the Clarens and MacKinnons.