The House on the Shore (16 page)

Keep checking the ground.
Got to keep checking…

His fingers wrapped around a sp
ent brass shell.
Then another.

T
he jerk had been using a rifle.

Sitting
back on his heels,
he
toss
ed
the shells up and down in his hand.
He didn’t need a ballistics expert to tell him the make, he
recognize
d them instantly.
Lynx
Game King
.
Originally made for shooting gazelles and deer, they were mainly sold in Africa.
He hadn’t seen that make i
n years, not since…he shuddered. T
he shells were powerful enough to bring down a large animal.
In the wrong hands
they
could easily maim or kill a man
,
or a woman.
H
ow in God’s name had someone in Scotland
managed to get
hold of
that particular brand?

Any good sportsman always
en
sure
d
he took away the ejected shells.
The moron was
careless
,
a rank amateur, or
something darker.
Luke closed his eyes and remembered the time he and his partner had cornered a guy suspected of counterfeiting.
He’d been holed up in his granddaddy’s shack in the wilds of Kentucky and
had
taken pot shots at them with a twelve bore.
He’d kept
them
pinned do
wn for the best part of an hour,
before finally running out of
shells
and giving himself up.

Luke shook his head.
He didn’t like the direction his thoughts were taking.
He stood, and pocketed the shells.
One thing was certain, when he caught up with the owner of the cartridges, he wouldn’t be polite when he asked his questions.

***

While Luke scoured the hillside, Anna put a match
to the fire
, and sat on the floor next to Ensay, stroking the black and white head.
Every now and again the dog whimpered, its body trembling under her hand.
She swore silently.
How could anyone hurt such a loving creature?
Despite what
Luke
said, there was no way she was going to let the incident go.
She’d find out who was responsible and see them punished.
As the dog drifted off into a fitful sleep, Anna eased her hand away and tiptoed into the kitchen.

She listened to the news on the old radio
while she
sat down at the table with a cup of coffee.
The events of the afternoon would have to find some other place to go
.
S
he banished them from her thoughts, opened her laptop
,
and concentrated on the next chapter.

Two days a
fter the stranger’s visit, Coll, my youngest brother, came to me
with a message from our mother -
I was to return home immediately
.
When I entered the croft, mother greeted me with tears in her eyes.
Fear gripped me.
I felt the ‘Sight
,
’
my future suddenly vague and shadowy.
I stared into her dark, unfathomable eyes, but saw nothing except emptiness and pain.
She wrapped her arm
s around me and stroked my hair
as she had often done when I was a small child.
I was told t
o bathe, put on the clothes she ha
d laid out on the box bed
.
I looked at mother questioningly.
Where had such finery come from?
She did not answer, but merely handed me a small
cup of uisage beatha
, the water of life,
or whisky as the Sassenachs call it.
It made my eyes water, burnt my throat, and put fire in my belly, but I felt stronger for it.

Then, in an instant, I knew.
This was something to do with the str
anger’s visit and the evictions, the violence and cruelty that
was clearing folk from their homes in the glens to make way for sheep.
My mother
recognize
d my understanding and nodded.
The sadness I saw in her eyes was beyond my comprehension.

I knew if I disobeyed
,
the fate that had befallen other families would be ours too.
With a heavy heart, I bathe
d
and wash
ed
my hair.
When it was dry, mother braided and pinned it into a coil at the nape of my neck.
The clothes were new, fine lawn under-garments, and a corset, the first I had worn.
When tightly laced, it pulled at my waist, making it difficult for me to breathe.
W
hen I begged to take it off, mother refused, saying it was necessary.
My breasts were barely contained by the stiff fabric, and rose and fell with every breath I took.
I felt myself blushing at their exposure, and wrapped my arms around my chest to cover my embarrassment.

Finally
,
mother helped me put on the riding habit.
It was similar to those I’d seen worn by the Laird’s daughter.
The skirt was full, the jade green velvet falling in heavy folds at my feet.
The narrow waist and tight bodice, with its tiny pearl buttons, would not have fastened but for the corset.
The neck was low cut and trimmed with delicate lace, the sleeves long, tapered at my wrist and fastened with pearl buttons, like those on the bodice.
I felt strangely excited, yet vulnerable.
My breath came in shallow, quick gasps, a shiver of panic knotting my stomach.

There came a quiet cough at the door, and then my father entered.
He nodded his head in approval when he saw me, took my hands in his, kissed them, and gave me his blessing.
A tense silence enveloped us.
Minutes later the door opened
,
and the man who’d visited my parents but two days earlier entered.
My small hand was placed in his, and the ferocity of the passion I observed in his eyes made me shake, as fearful images built in my mind.

Anna stretched and rolled her
head from side to side
, trying to ease the knot that had settled
in her neck
.
She studied the screen.
It had taken her two hours to write three pages.
If this had been a student’s work, she would have
said it was stilted and forced, b
ut she was no longer a student
, and knew she could do better.

Her determination to make it as a writer faltered.
Perhaps Mark had been right
all
along and she should have stuck to
teaching, b
ut the mere thought of him made her defiant.
She woul
d finish her book and sell her no
vel if only to prove him wrong.

She highlighted
the
offending section, hit the delete button, and watched the words vanish into the ether
.
She tried to
re-draft the
paragraph, but it was no use
.

What was the matter with her?
She had
been
plann
ing
this chapter for days.
She even had pages of notes filled with snippets of dialogue, yet the words refused to flow.
She didn’t have writers’ block, but something was stifling her progress, and that something was six feet of dark-haired, brown-eyed American male.

Chastising herself, she saved the file and switched off the laptop.
There was no point in trying to write, not when she couldn’t concentrate.
She glanced at her watch
, seven in the evening,
still early enough to drive to Morag’s house, but somehow listening to her friend drone on about Lachlan or
question her
about Luke, held no appeal.
W
orse still, she feared what she woul
d say if Morag asked how the book was going.

S
elect
ing
a CD from the rack in the sitting room,
she
slotted it into the player, and turned up the volume.
The sound of a jazz guitar filled the air.
She settled back into the cushions of the sofa, but was startled by a knock at the door.
Her heart hammered in her chest as she felt her nerves tense.
She wasn’t expecting visitors.
She went into the hall, but didn’t open the door.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Luke Tallantyre.
Remember me?
The brilliant sailor who can’t get out of the
l
och?”

She drew back the bolt, opened the door, and
offered him a welcoming smile.

He held out a
carrier
bag and grinned broadly.
“Hey.
Had dinner yet?”

“
I haven’t eaten since I had a
salad
sandwich at work.
Why?”

“Do you like sea trout?”

“Do mice like cheese?”

He grinned and reached into the bag and pulled out two fish.
“I guess that means yes.
I caught these two beauties this morning.
I thought I’d cook you dinner.
What do you say?”

Anna hesitated, but his smile had a way of making her forget she didn’t really want him here.
“It’s very kind of you
, but really, there’s no need.”

“
I know I’ve been a general pain in the butt,
but
after all the excitement this afternoon, I wanted to make sure you and the dogs were
okay
.”

“I’m fine.
Ensay and Rhona are asleep on the rug in front of the fire.”
She paused for a moment.
“Do…do you think this a
fternoon was just an accident?”

“Yes,” he said smoothly.
“Now,
are
we going to stand here until these fish rot, or can I come in and make the best dinner you’ve had in years?”

Anna stepped aside to let him pass.
“The kitchen is
on
the left, but you already know that.
Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Yeah, you can tell me where you
keep the frying pan, a
nd you could make a salad.
You got any bread?
Oh, and how about a lemon?”

“Coming right up.
Would you like some wine to go with the fish?” she asked,
and
passed him the skillet.

“Sure, why not?
Wait a minute; I think I
recognize
th
is CD.
Is that Chris Camozzi?”

“
Yes,
his ‘Windows of the Soul’ al
bum.
Do you like jazz guitar?”

“Yeah, and sax.
I like classical too, and o
pera, but only in small doses.”

“Something we have in common, then.”
She leaned against the dresser and watched
him
sq
ueeze the lemon, and season
the fish in the pan.
He looked at ease in the kitchen, and she wondered why that woman back home hadn’t taken off his shoes and socks, and chained him to her stove.

“Ensay and
Rhona
are pretty unusual names for dogs.”
He said, breaking into her thoughts.
“How did you come up with them?”

Anna hadn’t been paying attention.
She blinked and tried to recall what he’d said.
When she couldn’t, she pulled open the cutlery drawer and started to la
y the table
in an effort to hide her embarrassme
nt at being caught daydreaming.

He winked at her.
“You were a thousand miles away.
What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing important.
You were saying?”

“Ensay and Rhona…not the usual names people give their
dogs.
”

“They are out here.
Sandy, the ghillie on
the e
state who gave them to me, named them after Hebridean Islands.”