Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The wind was finally dying down. The snow waned and strengthened, like it didn’t want to give up the fight just yet. But I knew it was getting warmer outside, if only a little, because the icicles hanging a few feet out from the windows had turned clear and began to drip.
One thing about having a shaggy roof was getting hundreds of long, thin icicles that sparkled, no matter what time of day, and made it feel like it was Christmas again.
I would have gone out to grab some and eat them, but that would wake the patient. So to take my mind off food, I went back to the trunk of Yeti-man treasures and started snooping again.
Beneath the delicate folds of plaid cloth, I found two tall stacks of books and wondered why he didn’t keep them on the shelf with the others.
There was a thick math book from simple equations up to trigonometry, but the instructions must have been Gaelic because I couldn’t read a word.
A Scottish history book, same language. And a world history book.
Larger books at the bottom of the stack included fine art, science, agriculture, and social studies.
It looked like he’d kept everything from high school. Maybe college.
So, he hasn’t always lived here.
I compared the textbooks to the titles on the shelf, and it took me forever to catch on.
He’d packed away the things he’d learned and kept the others out because he still read them. Family heirloom or second-hand find, he read The Bible often enough he didn’t want to lock it away in his trunk every time.
Same with the poetry and classic novels. They were his entertainment. And no one kept their television in the bottom of a trunk.
Wow, did he need to get out of Dodge.
I put all the books back the way I found them, covered them with the old plaid, and searched the other end of the box.
A few pair of thick socks were rolled into balls and so were some very large boxer briefs.
I had to unroll one to see what it was, then I couldn’t get it back into a ball again, so I hid it in the bottom.
A high pile of various fabrics were folded neatly with small square rags on the top.
Beyond that pile, propped on its side, was a fat, leather-bound journal, but when I flicked it open, there were no lines.
Only a few scribbles and a lot of sketches.
I didn’t know what kind of art class he’d taken, but I did see that his skill had steadily improved.
The first entries were of cars, trucks, and bicycles.
A map with place names I didn’t know. Then came a few airplanes, though they were small and had little detail, like he’d only seen them from the ground and not close up.
The train engine was just the opposite—it had every possible detail, perfect proportions, and artful shading.
And after the train, an intricate drawing of a bridge from three different angles.
A few pages of stags were followed by close studies of horns, and then some sketches of knife hilts like the ones he’d collected in the trunk. A picture of a man, maybe sixty, identified as John. A laughing smile and beauty mark by his eye. Minimal hair, short and spiked on the top of his head.
After that, there were a dozen different drawings of an old woman, practiced over and over again. Slightly different each time, but always wearing the same scarf on her head, always lots of curls trying to escape. Like mine. Her skirt was plaid, and she sometimes wore a shawl over her blouse.
The final drawing of her filled a page. Her laughing eyes were so realistic, I felt like she was looking at me. Seeing me.
“Hello,” I said quietly, then tried to make out the handwriting at the bottom. H. A. N. N. A. H. “Hello, Hannah.”
Hannah!
The name in the bible. The name carved into the table. The name in the book of poetry.
Don’t freak out.
In the olden days, names were repeated all the time. Could be three different Hannahs all in the same family, or each one a hundred years apart. The Hannah in the bible in the 1700’s couldn’t be the same one in the drawings because there were pictures of cars in that book. And airplanes.
Kee-un would know who they all were. I just had to wait for him to wake up. And in the meantime, I would take every vegetable I could find and put them on to boil. When he woke up, I’d dash out to the barn and grab that salt.
I obviously couldn’t leave until tomorrow, so…might as well cook.
Tap tap, t’ tap tap tap.
In the fearsome wind, a stalk of heather had come loose from the roof and now dangled beside the window above Cian’s bed. No doubt a hundred more had done the same, and once the storm was well and gone, he’d need to replace them before the next rain came.
There was nothing he hated more than being rained upon inside his own home.
The aggressive roil of boiling water was a sound that had him bolting upright and throwing his legs off the side of the bed. He’d left the kettle on the stove? It wasn’t like him in the least!
He was on his feet before his eyes were fully open. In fact, they wouldn’t open far a’tall! It took the shock of pain to remind him why a woman stood at his stove. No need to panic. He hadn’t left the kettle on. Nothing was amiss but his face. And Matty lass was fixing a meal, bless her.
He seemed to recall promising to feed her. “Forgive me, lass. I promised to address yer hunger.”
She sent a brief smile over her shoulder. “You’re up!” She slid a pan off the stovetop, then hurried to the door, donned her boots and coat, and reached for the latch.
“Ye’re in a hurry to leave, then?”
She laughed and shook her head. “I’m going to get the salt from the barn. I need it for the soup. Don’t shoot me, but I’ve used all the vegetables in the cabinet, and it’s still not much. If there is anything lse you have to throw in the pot…”
“Auch, aye. Plenty. The wind has stopped. I’ll put a log on and come w’ ye.”
She bit her lips and pointed at his chest.
He laughed and reached over the foot of the bed to snatch up his thick knitted jumper, which he pulled over his head.
“My friend’s wife made it for me. Fine, isn’t it?
” He smelled something far less sweet than the soup on the boil and ducked his nose to sniff the jumper.
Looking back, he remembered only washing it once or twice since she’d given it to him—two years before.
He sent Matty a weak smile. “Apologies. But ye’d best keep upwind when ye can.”
“You have a coat?”
He grimaced. “My furs hang in the stables—”
“We should bring them in here to dry—”
“Never. They’ll smell to High Heaven. The jumper will have to do for the moment.” He dug the largest piece of wood from the basket and tossed it into the fire. “I’ll chop wood whilst you finish the soup.”
“You sure you feel up to that?”
“The rest did me good. Havenae slept so soundly in a long while.”
The comment seemed to please her immensely.
First, Cian made a path to the stables with the help of his spade shovel and his precious house boots. She snatched up the salt and the wee bottle of hot sauce, promising not to use much.
From there, he led her to the greenhouse, which was simply the next house down the row.
She glanced about nervously until they were inside, then squealed with joy when she saw what awaited.
Cian had removed half the roof to let in sunlight, then used panes of glass he’d purchased from John to complete it again.
“So close to the mountain, it only gets sun so many oors in the dee. Looks like the storm didnae do any harm here. Lucky, that.”
“Onions! And carrots!” She hopped around the rows like she’d never seen a garden before. She was content to gather just a handful of each vegetable, and a pinch from a few of the herbs. “I thought the things in the cabinet were all you had.”
“Rather the dregs, ye ken?”
“Should I start over?”
“Waste not want not. It’ll be grand. But there’s more.”
“You have another garden?”
“Auch, aye. But this is better.”
He stepped aside and held the door open for her, hoping she held her breath as she passed within inches of him.
Then he led her to the next house down the lane.
They had to push through snow that was hip-high in some places.
He should have taken the time to strap snowshoes on them both, but he’d been in a rush to impress her.
“At least the trail back will be easy,” she said, reading his mind.
Nervous again, but less so, she watched wide-eyed while he dug between two stones to fetch the key and unlock the door. When he pulled the oft-repaired plank-door open, she gifted him with another delighted squeal.
“A smoke house! You’ve got meat!”
“Alas, a vegetarian I shall ne’er be.”
He offered her a knife and free reign whilst he held the door open for light. After she chose a cut of venison, she removed a modest slab of ham from the last of his winter pig and held it up as she returned to the doorway. “We’ll need some breakfast in the morning, right? Before we go?”
Cian was caught by surprise. So much so that he decided not to show her the other buildings and allowed her to lead the way back to the house while he chewed on her words.
Before we go.
Naturally, she would expect him to lead her out of the mountains. After all, he wasn’t lost and would know the way. And only a cad would send the woman off alone to get lost all over again, and likely perish. Certainly, he would see her to safety.
But so soon? It had only been hours since they’d stopped trying to capture each other. Could they not rest and enjoy a few days of peace before it had to end?
He remembered the witches and their mention of his happiness. And damned if they hadn’t been right. For these past hours, even in pain, he’d been as happy as the day John had befriended him outside Aviemore and promised to help him, to trade with him, and to keep his secrets.
Cian had lived in hiding for over a year at that time without speaking to another human. His relief, and that joy of rediscovering his own humanity had lasted a good long while. And then, once a month, that joy was renewed.
And now, that joy had been upstaged by a few hours with a bonny woman.
Could a man change so quickly?
Impossible. And yet…after she was gone, he knew this Matty lass would become a ghost that would haunt him relentlessly.
It was a pity the storm was weakening, for there was no honorable way to keep her in Balnacoorie. And if he came out of hiding to pursue her, the traveler would find him, and he’d be sent back to Culloden to die.
“Joost enjoy the time ye have left,” he grumbled quietly. “And be grateful for that wee blue light that led her to ye.”