Chapter Thirteen
Iona
Three days and eleven hours have elapsed since my last argument with Rafe, when I'd told him to get out of my house. I might have been hoping, just a wee bit, that he would come running back to beg my forgiveness. That hasn't happened. Rafe is far too stubborn to grovel. Aye, he isn't the only pigheaded idiot in this equation. I've been just as stubborn and combative, though I don't have a good excuse for my behavior. Rafe does.
For the entirety of the past two and half days, I've been trying to imagine what being struck by lightning might feel like and how it might affect a person's mental state in the long term. Rafe told me the details of how he'd been struck, but not how it made him feel, emotionally. His hair-trigger temper is an artifact of that, according to Rafe.
I searched the web to confirm that claim. It's not that I don't trust Rafe, though honestly, I still can't decide if I do or not. I performed that search mostly to get a better understanding of what he went through. But I still can't comprehend it.
Will Rafe ever call me? Or is he waiting for me to make the first move?
The more important question is whether either of us can cede a wee bit of ground in this battle and have a mature discussion.
I need time to think about it. So, I go for a walk down the streets of Loch Fairbairn to clear my head. Along the way, I meet friends here and there, offering them my usual greeting. "Hello, how are you," and the like. They can probably tell that I'm in no mood for a chat, though I'm not being rude.
Soon, I've fallen into my favorite type of self-hypnosis. I'm contemplating stories I might write and people I might want to interview. After seven years of being a journalist, I've found I can walk through the village without accidentally stepping out into traffic or knocking down pedestrians, even while I'm lost in my own thoughts.
Eleven minutes into my walk, according to my watch, I spot someone I recognize. I don't know his name, but I've seen him before---on that day when I'd gone to the café alone. Aye, it's the mysterious British man who had been talking to someone on his mobile while seated no more than a few feet away. I couldn't resist listening in on the gent's intriguing dialogue, wishing I could hear the other end of the call.
What sort of journalist would I be if I hadn't memorized the dialogue and later written it down? I'm here, just where you wanted me , the man had said. Now will you give me my first assignment?
To find out what that laddie's assignment is, I'll need to do a fair amount of snooping. I have him in my sight right now. It's time to test my detective skills. I sit down on a bench and pretend I'm reading a book on my mobile phone. As the mystery man wanders past me, I glance at him only via my peripheral vision. Maybe I should contact Magnus MacTaggart, the private investigator who prefers to be called a bounty hunter for reasons I don't understand. It hardly matters.
I'll ask Magnus later. Maybe.
Once my quarry has moved a decent distance away, I casually rise from my bench and slip my mobile into my purse. I keep my walking pace casual too, as if I'm simply enjoying a pleasant stroll.
The Brit hails a taxi.
I purposely drop my purse and kneel to pick it up. That should seem like nothing special. But it does obscure my face. A sideways glance tells me the Brit didn't notice. He's too busy telling the driver the address where he wants to be dropped off.
403 Baxter Caolraid.
That's my home. The British cacan wants to see me. Why? I don't know the man, but I will find out soon enough what the reason is for his visit. Fortunately, I know every hidden alley that I can cut through to reach my cottage before the taxi gets there. That means I need to run like a deer being chased by a predator. No one spots me since I'm keeping to the back areas. But when I leap over the fence into Raghnall MacCrum's cow pasture, I do cause a wee bit of a ruckus. The cows run about and moo loudly, though only for a moment or two.
They've already quietened down by the time I burst into my backyard.
I slam the sliding door of my porch shut and race to the front door, peering through the peephole.
No one is there. Yet.
Unbelievable . I outran a taxi. Maybe I shouldn't congratulate myself just yet, since the speed limit in the village is thirty miles per hour. Our local taxi driver, Erskine Melville, never exceeds the limit. It's his badge of honor. The laddie believes in adhering to the law for more than honor, but also for safety's sake.
Today, I'm grateful for that.
While I wait for the mystery man to arrive, I sit down on the sofa with my laptop computer and begin to brainstorm ideas. The man who's coming to see me might become a story, who knows. I've also heard that the school might be getting a new teacher, so I'll need to cover that if and when it happens. It isn't scintillating, but it will do for now.
Thoughts of the mystery man keep distracting me. What does he want with me? I have never interrogated anyone before, but I'm itching to do that now. Maybe I should ring Thane or Ramsay and ask one of them to come to my house. Being alone with a stranger who is clearly operating at someone else's behest isn't the safest thing to do without backup.
I do have a caman ---a stick used in shinty. Ramsay gave it to me as a souvenir after I wrote about a particularly wild match between the MacTaggarts and the Buchanans. Aye, that caman could serve as a weapon.
The soft rumble of a car engine seizes my attention.
I leap off the sofa, almost dumping my laptop on the floor in the process. Tearing the door open seems unwise. Instead, I peer through the peephole that my brothers had insisted I should have installed for safety's sake. But I don't see the stranger out there, only Erskine in his taxi with his head down, probably making a note of how much the fare was. Then he drives away.
What in the world? Where is the mystery man? Skulking around behind my house?
I suddenly wish I'd rung my brothers after all.
Rushing to the patio doors, I search the vicinity for any sign of the potential intruder. Still nothing. I wrap my arms around myself as I continue to survey the area. I have no yard fence. Never needed one.
Maybe I should go out there to get a better view.
A powerful fist bangs on my front door.
A Dhia . Is that the mystery man? If it is, he seems quite agitated. I grab the caman and peer through the peephole.
My whole body relaxes as I let out a literal sigh of relief. Then I pull the door open. "Rafe? I wasn't expecting to see you outside my door. Thank goodness it's you."
One side of his mouth kinks upward. "Thank goodness? Can't recall you ever saying that when you see me. Now, if you'd said 'Rafe, you despicable, odious arsehole, how dare you knock on my door,' then I would understand."
"Please just come inside."
"Is this some sort of trick?"
"No, of course not." I seize his arm and drag him into the house, then I shut the door. "Did you see anyone along the street just now?"
His playful smile mutates into a furrowed brow. "Should I have done?"
I shrug.
Rafe notices the caman , and he stiffens. "What's happened? I can't imagine you carrying a stick like that around inside your home just for the fun of it."
I lean the caman against the wall and hug myself. "I think someone is after me."
"What does that mean? After you?"
"Um...I shouldn't bother you with this problem, not after the way I shouted at you."
His lips curl into a gentle, playful smile. He hooks his thumb under my chin. "I did my fair share of shouting too. We can talk about that later. Right now, I want to know what has you so frightened. If my blustering on the day we met didn't unsettle you, I assumed nothing could."
"Everyone thinks I'm a tough-as-nails journalist. But I've never stumbled onto a seriously dangerous, exciting story before." I hunch my shoulders. "Raghnall MacCrum's cows are the highlight of my career so far. I've always wanted to sink my teeth into a really juicy story. Now that I seem to have stumbled onto one, I'm not sure I can handle it."
"This relates to your need for a strange-looking stick."
"A caman , aye. It's used in shinty." I release a long sigh. "This will be a rather long, complicated story. Maybe we should sit down."
Rafe sweeps me up into his arms, marches around the corner of the sofa, and carefully deposits us both on the cushions---with me on his lap. He brushes hairs away from my face. "I want every detail. Leave nothing out."
I relate everything that's happened since the first time I heard that British man talking to someone on his mobile in the café. Sitting here on Rafe's lap, I feel at ease and...safe. How I can feel that way considering his past behavior, I dinnae know. It must be because I understand him better now. His lightning strike left him with many scars, both visible and emotional.
Once I've finished talking, Rafe simply stares at me with curiosity.
That makes me feel uncomfortable. "Well, I've told you the whole story. Aren't you going to say anything?"
"Calm down, pet. I'm thinking."
"Meanwhile, that mystery man is out there. What if he's prowling around, getting the lay of the land?"
Rafe slides me off his lap. "I'm going outside."
"Why?"
"To see who or what is out there." He stands up. "Stay here."
I jump up. "What about me makes you think I'll hide in the house? This is my story."
"You don't know if there is a story. That bloke might simply be unhinged, and when he saw you in the café he became infatuated."
"A stalker? That doesn't add up. I told you the stranger is working with someone else."
"Oh, yes, I forgot. Sorry."
Because of his lightning-strike injuries, I assume. They make him forgetful sometimes. "Dinnae fash, gràidh . There's no need to apologize."
He gives me the sweetest wee smile. "Thank you, Iona. Perhaps you should come with me. We'll go out there together and see what's going on. Would you bring me the shinty stick or whatever you Scots call it?"
I retrieve the item and give it to Rafe. He slaps it against his palm as his expression grows harder. "Now we'll see what that git wants with you."
"No violence unless it's absolutely necessary."
Rafe starts toward the sliding glass doors. "Stay behind me. If you see or hear anything, tell me. But keep your voice too low for the git to hear."
"Aye."
He slides the door open slowly, careful to make as little sound as possible. We both sneak outside. When I move to shut the door, he shakes his head. Maybe he worries we'll need to escape into the house quickly. I survey the area as we inch further away from the house. I hear Raghnall's cows mooing now and then, but no audible evidence of the stranger. The further we go away from the house, the more anxious I feel. Yet I also experience a twinge of excitement.
Thane had an adventure when a former MI6 agent sought revenge against him. Several MacTaggarts have had their own adventures too. But my life has been dull and unremarkable so far. Will this be my chance at adventure?
Rafe halts abruptly. He swivels his head right and left, gradually, but I don't dare ask what he thinks he might have seen or heard. I noticed nothing. Until...
Crunch.
Someone just stepped on a twig, I'd say.
Rafe's gaze narrows, his lips flatten, and he observes the area while moving only his eyes. He tiptoes forward, and I follow him. Inch by inch, by inch, by inch. Our footfalls remain almost imperceptible. I doubt the intruder can hear them. We're approaching the tree that lies about twenty feet from my cottage.
Crack.
We both freeze. That noise had come from far too close.
Rafe whispers to me, "Stay here."