Waterfall Glen (31 page)

Cameron nodded. He strapped himself into the passenger seat, Hamish sitting in his lap, as Finlay gunned the Land Rover into life.

Cameron wished he had a Nikon or Leica in his hands rather than a West Highland Terrier as they made their way down the dirt track, because the setting sun was turning the sky to a great flat canvas streaked by a thousand fiery shades of red and orange.

“Does this place ever stop seeming beautiful to you?” Cameron asked Finlay.

There was no answer.

Even before he turned to look at Finlay, Cameron knew something was wrong because they were approaching the first bend far too fast.

“The brakes have gone!” Finlay said. He repeatedly pressed the brake pedal, but to no avail.

They took the sharp bend much faster than was
comfortable, using every inch of the dirt road. “Sweet Jesus!” Finlay said, fighting with the wheel to get the Land Rover back into the middle of the track.

A cold trickle of sweat ran down Cameron’s back. The Westie in his lap started yelping, alarmed by the tone of his master’s voice and the increasing speed with which the crag was flashing by.

The second bend—the turn that would bring them from the side of the crag to the long, steep stretch of track that led down the sheer front face of the outcrop—was approaching at an alarming rate. Finlay was working the brake pedal so frantically now that even above the roaring engine, crunch of gravel, and Hamish’s panicked barking Cameron clearly heard the
clack-clack-clack
as the little rectangle of metal slapped uselessly against the floor.

The clacking suddenly stopped, and Cameron tore his horrified gaze away from the rapidly approaching bend and looked at Finlay, half-expecting to see that he’d had a heart attack with the shock and fear of what was happening. Instead, the old Highlander seemed completely calm. There was a steely look in his eyes, and a calmness in his voice when he said to Cameron, “Keep a tight hold on Hamish, Mr. Fraser. This is going to be a little dicey.”

Then the bend was upon them, and they were taking it so fast that Cameron thought they must surely hurtle over the edge and plummet into the glen below. His mouth was bone dry and he could feel the dog in his arms trembling, hear it barking above the roar of the engine. Too afraid
to keep looking ahead, Cameron turned again to look at Finlay McRae.

There was no sign of fear on the Highlander’s face, just total concentration and grim determination. As Finlay turned the wheel he seemed to be wrestling the vehicle rather than steering it, controlling it with force of will as well as the strength of his hands, arms, and shoulders.

For a terrible moment it appeared as though gravity and momentum had defeated him. The back of the Land Rover swung so far out that the rear offside wheel left the track, and the rest of the vehicle seemed doomed to follow.

Finlay threw his whole body into the turn and for a moment of dog-barking, engine-roaring madness their lives literally hung in the balance.

Then the sideways momentum of the skid slowed just enough for the front wheels to bite and drive forward. The rear offside wheel bumped back onto the dirt trail with a sickening jolt, and then they were hurtling down the track rather than over the side of the crag.

Cameron breathed again and gave Hamish a reassuring hug, saying to the little Westie, “Finlay’s just saved our lives.”

“Maybe not for long,” Finlay said grimly.

Looking up from Hamish, out of the windscreen, Cameron immediately saw the cause of Finlay’s concern: Kate was coming up the track, and there was barely room for them to pass her. She waved to them, but froze with her hand in mid-air when she realized something was very wrong.

Finlay only had a split second to decide whether to pass her on the right and flirt once more with the precipice, or take the safe option and steer left, towards the inner edge of the track, and leave Kate to take her chances with the drop. Without hesitation he steered the Land Rover as close as he dared to the right.

Kate flattened herself against the rock face and the Land Rover hurtled past her so fast that Cameron just got a fleeting glimpse of her horrified expression.

There was another sickening jolt as both offside wheels went over the precipice, and the dreadful scraping of metal against rock as the underside of the Land Rover ground against the edge of the track. Again their lives were in the balance, and once more it seemed to be only Finlay’s force of will that saved them, with first one bone-jarring jolt, then another, signalling that all four wheels were back on the dirt road.

The gradient flattened out as they approached the bottom of the glen, but they were travelling so fast that Finlay couldn’t take the last bend in the track. Fortunately there was no drop to plunge over, and when they were finally brought to a shuddering halt it was by the burn up ahead. Without the seatbelts they would have been catapulted through the windscreen. As it was they were flung forward with rib-bruising, whiplashing violence. One of Hamish’s legs was caught between Cameron and the dashboard, and as soon as Cameron heard the dog’s pained yelping and saw the awkward angle of its leg he knew a bone was broken.

Then he was aware of Finlay slumped over the steering wheel. For a few awful moments he feared the worst. Trying not to hurt Hamish, Cameron reached out a hand to Finlay’s shoulder. Even the slight movement was enough to make Hamish let out a little yelp and whimper. Finlay stirred at the sound of the dog rather than the touch of Cameron’s hand, and slowly straightened up with a groan. He shook his head as if trying to clear it, grimacing as he did so.

“Finlay, are you okay?” Cameron asked.

Clutching his chest with one hand and reaching up with the other to gingerly massage his neck, Finlay said, “Aye. I think so.”

Hamish let out another little whimper.

Finlay slowly turned his head to look at the little terrier. He saw the limp forepaw dangling at an unnatural angle. His own aches and pains immediately forgotten, he said, “Hamish! My wee pal!”

Kate appeared at the window, having run down the track, and said, “Cameron, Finlay! Are you okay?”

Cameron nodded. Finlay didn’t say anything—he was too busy reaching out to take Hamish from Cameron’s arms.

Kate saw the dangling leg and winced. “Broken?” she mouthed to Cameron.

He nodded.

“What happened?” she asked.

Finlay looked up from Hamish and said, “The brakes went on me, Lady Kate. I don’t understand it—they were
fine the last time I used the Land Rover.”

Kate went very quiet. Cameron guessed what she was thinking, and knew he was right moments later when she quietly said, “I’m not superstitious, but I’m starting to believe there maybe really is a curse.”

“That’s exactly what Tony Carling wants you—and anyone who might be considering getting married in the glen—to think,” Cameron told her.

“You think this wasn’t just an accident?” Finlay asked, gently cradling Hamish in his arms.

“I think it was about as much of an accident as the fire,” Cameron said.

Finlay winced as he straightened up. Seeing his pain, Kate said, “Finlay, do you want me to call an ambulance?”

“No,” Finlay said, “but I’d like you to call a vet.”

Kate nodded. “I will. And the police.”

While Kate hurried away, Finlay turned to Cameron and said, “If I find out Mr. Tony Carling was behind this, I’ll teach him what it really means to be cursed.”

“I
KNEW WHAT TO EXPECT, BUT IT LOOKS EVEN WORSE
in black and white,” Kate said. She was sitting beside Cameron in the accident and emergency area at Raigmore Hospital in Inverness, looking at the latest edition of the local newspaper while they waited for Finlay to come out of a curtained consulting area.

He’d refused to go to hospital the day before, showing more concern for Hamish than himself, but Miss Weir “insisted” after a night of listening to his groans through the wall. Kate and Cameron had driven him into town in the courtesy car left by the garage when the Land Rover was towed away.

There was a copy of the local newspaper among the pile of
National Geographic
and
Scottish Field
magazines on the coffee tables in the waiting area, and the headline leaped up at them in bold black capitals:
NEW DRAMA IN “CURSED” GLEN.
Below it was a photo of Greystane and Castle Crag.

With an air of resignation, Kate picked up the newspaper
and started reading the story aloud. “It says: ‘Two men narrowly cheated death yesterday in a dramatic accident on the troubled Glen Cranoch estate.

“‘Estate worker Finlay McRae and Cameron Fraser, close friend of American heiress Kate Brodie, were driving down Castle Crag when the brakes of Mr. McRae’s Land Rover mysteriously failed, leaving them to negotiate the sharp bends in the steep, winding road at dangerously high speeds.

“‘Skid marks on the roads and damage to the verge at each of the bends pay testament to how close the Land Rover came to a deadly plunge down the sheer face of the crag.

“‘The vehicle finally came to rest in …’” Kate turned over to an inside page, which showed a photo of the Land Rover pitched forward in the burn, and picked up where she’d left off. “ ‘… the burn at the foot of the glen’s waterfall.

“ ‘Both men were said to be shaken and bruised. Mr. McRae’s West Highland terrier was not so fortunate, however, suffering a broken leg in the accident.

“‘Coming only a day after fire destroyed the croft of a bride’s family on her wedding day, the crash is the latest misfortune to befall Glen Cranoch, whose very name is a corruption of the Gaelic for Glen of Tears.

“‘No one from the estate was available to comment on whether they believe this latest accident lends weight to the notion of a curse dating from the days of the infamous Highland clearance …’” Kate’s voice tailed away into a despairing sigh. “They go on to recount the story of Lady Carolyn and the old woman’s deathbed curse.” Looking
up from the paper, she said, “It’s difficult to imagine any worse publicity, Cameron. Doubtless the nationals’ll pick it up tomorrow. It might even make the TV news.” She gave another sigh, then said, “If only the police could have proved foul play.”

The local constabulary had sent an accident investigator to examine the Land Rover, but the severe scraping to the underside of the vehicle prevented him from saying whether the brake lines had been deliberately cut.

Kate stared at the photo, then said, “I just hope Finlay’s okay. If there’s anything wrong with him I really will start believing there’s a curse. In fact, I’m still not sure there isn’t.”

“We have to think of a way to prove there isn’t.”

“How?”

“By showing that Tony Carling is behind the run of ‘bad luck’.”

“Just how are we going to do that?”

Cameron, who’d been giving the matter some serious thought since the crash, said, “I think you might be holding the answer in your hands.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He’s been using the newspapers against us—we can use them against him.”

“I still don’t follow.”

“If we announce another plan to save the estate I’m sure Carling will try to sabotage it. When he does, we have to catch him in the act.”

“That all sounds easier said than done, Cameron. What sort of plan did you have in mind to act as bait?”

Before Cameron could confess that he hadn’t thought out the specifics, the green pull-around curtains of the consulting bay parted and Finlay walked slowly out, clutching a bottle of painkillers. Seeing the concern on the faces of Kate and Cameron, he said, “There’s no need to worry. Nothing’s broken; it’s just some bruising.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back and see how poor wee Hamish is doing.”

Cameron spent most of the drive back to Glen Cranoch thinking of how to make his plan work, but without success.

As they drove past the lochan, Finlay looked at it longingly and said, “It’ll be a while before I’m able to cast a rod again.”

“That just means there’ll be all the more fish to catch,” Kate said to cheer him up.

“That’s it!” Cameron said.

Kate and Finlay both looked at him, and then at each other …

And then they smiled as Cameron explained what he had in mind.