Chapter 22
My heart hammered under my ribs when the police vehicle pulled off the road and into a shallow parking lot. Locked in the backseat with no door handles, I had to wait for Constable Reid to open the door for me. The other one, Fletcher, got out too, despite the hard rain.
“I’m so grateful. Thank you both.” I pulled up the hood on my coat, then gave them a little wave and hoped they’d take off, so they wouldn’t catch a glimpse of Cian in his MacInnis tartan.
The armory was a wonky-shaped rock barn with a high second story and a fat black chimney sticking out of it. No smoke, though. The stone was dark with age, and a large sign was posted beside the door, thick with layers of paint. It read Closed the first Saturday of the month. No exceptions.
I was a little stunned to see more proof of Cian’s story—more proof out here in the real world, not tucked away in Balnacoorie. And it gave my heart a little zing, just like it had when I’d asked about the armory and the hotel manager had mentioned John by name.
I mean, I believed it all. It was just nice to have a little reinforcement, a little vindication for taking that leap of faith in the first place.
“No sign of John,” Reid said, pointing to the dark glass in the door.
“I’m sure he’s here somewhere.”
"We'll just wait, to be sure. Cannae lose ye again, can we?"
"You don't have to do that." I pulled my coat tighter. The mist had gone from romantic to intrusive and was seeping into my clothes. “I’ll just see if he’s around back. Give me a minute.”
"No rush.” Fletcher settled his coat-covered hip against the side of the wet car.
I knew Cian was inside. He had to be. And if he’d been able to hide from everyone but John for eight years, he would know better than to open the front door to see who had pulled up. I’d been silly to worry.
I walked along the side of the building where the ground was covered in small black gravel with mud and rain dancing between the stones.
Out back was a large yard with a fence fifty feet out and a small set of steps that led up and over it—a stile, if I remembered right.
And I wondered if that one had been built for Cian, so he could come straight from the woods beyond and get to John’s back door without being seen.
Another little zing.
There were two wide doors the size of an average garage, and a large man door in the center of the building.
The taste of hot metal and char hung low in the air, more weighty than the mist. No smell of a fire, no clanging of a hammer on metal.
Probably because two men were visiting quietly inside, waiting to see if I’d come.
I hurried to the door, imagining Cian doing the same, and knocked lightly, then tried not to dance while I waited. The door was made of heavy wood with iron fittings and a few stray flecks of old red paint, set into a frame that sagged from holding it up for years.
I counted to five, then knocked harder.
Another five seconds, then I pressed my ear to the wood, and heard nothing.
I called out as loud as I dared. “It’s me! It’s Matty!”
When no one came, I imagined the men were deeper in the building, that they couldn’t hear me. So I grabbed the handle and tried to slide the door open on its tracks. It wouldn’t budge, and not because I wasn’t strong enough. It was locked tight.
I bent and picked up the largest rock I could find and used it to pound on the door. "John?"
If Cian was inside, he'd hear my voice. He'd tell John to open the door.
But nothing.
The rain had found a gap in my collar and was working its way down my neck, and I shivered. My insides shivered too, when I finally accepted that Cian wasn’t there. He hadn’t come, or else he hadn’t waited.
If ye’d like to go on, we can say our farewells here.
That was it? When I hadn’t joined him in the woods, he’d counted that as our final goodbye?
Quick footsteps on the gravel restarted my heart, but it was just Fletcher coming to find me. He kept his hands in his pockets, his expression polite. "No one about, then?"
"Nope.” I sighed, shook my head so he didn’t notice the first tear. “Good thing you waited.”
I followed him back to the car. Reid opened the door for me. No one said I told you so.
Like an obsessed schoolgirl, I had to look back as the car pulled away. I had to make sure Cian wasn’t trying to catch me, to stop me from leaving. But the only thing staring back was a floating cloud of mist.
The party. Somehow I had to walk into a party tonight. My own party, apparently, which made the whole idea worse. I watched the buildings pass and tried to think of a plausible reason to skip it.
Nothing came.
I would just have to smile and nod until everyone was drunk enough that I could slip back to my room and make arrangements to leave Scotland, and my Yeti-man, behind.
The parking lot at the Cairngorm Hotel was nearly full, but the railroad station was just across the street, so I assumed it was overflow. I knew I was wrong before my escorts and I even reached the door.
With three hours before the party was due to start, the large lobby was filling with bodies. The hotel manager stood on a chair behind the counter and announced that they’d be opening the reception room in a few moments and thanked everyone for their patience.
When he saw me, he scowled and shook his head, then jerked it toward the stairs as if to tell me to get the hell out of there and not give myself away. I figured the king of drama wanted me to make a grand entrance at the appointed time. And I wondered just how badly I wanted to make him happy,
The officers walked me back to my room and said their goodbyes.
They had to go get their wives, apparently, for the “big do.” And when I realized just how packed the place was going to be, I cheered up a little.
After making an appearance, I could probably slip out and no one could prove I wasn’t there, somewhere.
Since my hair was sopping wet again, I dug my roller brush out of my suitcase and straightened my hair a little as I dried it. I turned off the lights and headed for the bed, but was interrupted by another knock at the door.
I suddenly remembered that Nick was in town, and maybe Tara. And if they were at my door, I didn’t plan on answering. A peek through the keyhole showed a waiter holding a tray, obviously at the wrong room. I opened the door to let him know.
“Compliments of the manager,” he said. “He reckoned ye might enjoy some proper food before the festivities.”
My stomach grumbled, warning me not to send it back. The meal I’d made of the gift basket goodies apparently hadn’t atoned for a couple of sparse days.
“Thank you. And thank him for me.” I took the tray.
“And…I was to remind ye that folks’ll be expectin’ ye at six.”
“Tell him I will be prompt.” I closed the door.
“Probably.” I took the food to the ottoman and lifted the lid.
Two little pies, one leaning against the other one, set in the center of a little moat of gravy.
A pile of frilly carrots sat at one corner of the square plate, and a pile of peas opposite.
My heart is broken. I shouldn’t have an appetite.
My stomach begged me to focus.
Inside the pies were cubes of roast beef and potatoes. I ate one and then half of the second before I stopped to catch my breath. The crust was much different from mine, but I was in no mood to dissect ingredients or wonder how they’d created the unique lines in the carrots.
None of it mattered. I no longer had a menu to worry about. Or a husband, or a house…or a Highlander from the 1700’s. But I worried about the latter anyway.
I stripped down to my underwear and slipped between the cold sheets. The blankets were heavy, but not enough to shut off my brain and knock me out.
How long before Cian would be back at the bothy? Was he already there? Had anyone seen him and followed? Was he stoking the fire, reheating what was left of the soup? And just how soon would he forget me?
Even though he said he wouldn’t…
It was almost easier to imagine that he hadn’t really cared, or that he kissed me only because I was the only female to stumble into his life for at least eight years.
Even imagining that he preferred brunettes or really, anything but strawberry blondes, was less painful than seeing the image of him sitting at the table with his head in his hands and his heart in pieces.
If he hurt as much as I did…
I eventually took a deep enough breath to fall asleep. And when I woke up, at twenty minutes to six, my pillow was even wetter than I expected. If it was possible to weep while sleeping, I obviously had.