The Legend Mackinnon Page 15

  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.

  He 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.

  Very 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.

  Three 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.

  “Faith, but the auld man must have had them all memorized as many times as he’d read the dusty volumes,” the librarian had whispered as she’d pointed out the shelves he’d frequented.

  Cailean had stopped into several of the stores and eaten lunch in one of the town pubs, asking questions and making casual conversation as she went. She’d spoken to more human beings that day than she had in the past year.

  The Scots as a whole were a friendly lot. If she hadn’t been there chasing demons, she might actually have enjoyed herself. They knew their history well, both personal and national, though they disagreed readily and heartily on many of the exact facts. Even the vaguest question usually elicited a spirited, jovial debate.

  She’d found herself drawn to the colorful history of the isle and its inhabitants and wanted to know more, and not all of her curiosity was based exclusively on her reasons for coming to Skye in the first place.

  For a self-proclaimed happy loner, it had been a bit unsettling to realize she felt a direct link. First to Maggie, now to her ancestors, her family history … herself.

  But Lachlan hadn’t been her only subject of discussion. As casually as she could, she’d brought up her awe of the Trotternish area, especially the Quiraing and surrounding mountains. As it was a popular tourist spot, it was easy to engage almost anyone in a conversation of the place, complete with stories and personal anecdotes.

  She frowned, the slight pressure in her temples warning her that another headache was looming.

  She’d asked about the sheep, making appropriate tourist noises about their cute black faces and the amazing number of them. She’d even managed to cleverly wind the discussion around to shepherding and how difficult it must be, especially in a place as remote as say, the Quiraing.

  And that’s when she’d hit pay dirt.

  That was when she’d heard her first tale of the man known as The Remote.

  SEVENTEEN

  He sat on a small tumble of stones and brooded. He wasn’t used to brooding since there was little in life left for him to ponder at any length or with any real emotion.

  That ceased to be true the moment he’d spied the woman standing in the middle of the cemetery, blonde wisps of hair blowing on the wind, transfixed as if by some unknown force.

  She had disturbed him. Enough to make an appearance, to actually engage her in conversation, somethi
ng he rarely did anymore. Who the devil was she?

  She meant trouble for him, even if he couldn’t say why, or how. Maybe it had been the shocked expression when she’d read the name on the stone she’d gripped.

  Calum MacKinnon, clan chief, Laird of Stonelachen. He shook his head, surprised to find himself fighting a smile. Still turning ladies’ heads after three hundred years. The old man would have liked knowing that, he would.

  His mouth tightened as he stood and surveyed the small cemetery below. He’d returned to this spot on occasion, yet this was the first time he’d stayed. He’d followed the siren call of the earth until there was naught but a few wee notes left in her horn. Something had called him home. Maybe he would find peace here.

  An odd supposition given how many men had found only death on the rocky ground beneath his feet. But then, that was the one thing he was assured of. He’d never find death … no matter how long and hard he searched for it.

  Cailean took her time, driving slowly as she headed into the jagged pinnacles and cliffs of the Quiraing. She told herself the leisurely pace was so she could appreciate the view. But that was bull and she knew it. She was taking her time because she wasn’t in any hurry to find what she’d set out this morning to look for.

  The Remote.

  Cailean swallowed hard as the looming pinnacles of the Quiraing came into view. The sky was cloudless today, a stunning vivid blue. The sun highlighted the grass, which clung like velvet to the harsh landscape that looked too rocky and unforgiving to grow anything so bright. The brilliance of the green was muted by the patches of heather, brown and twisted now that fall was turning to winter.

  She turned up the single track road that twisted through the Quiraing to the graveyard … and perhaps to proof of The Remote’s existence as something more than a hallucination or night specter.

  She had always liked secluded places, feeling more at ease in areas where the only people around were the fossilized remains of the ones being dug up for analysis under her microscope. They were safer than people. She didn’t have visions about fossils.