Dawns Everlastin' (former title: Dusk Before Dawn) Book 2 (31 page)

Roan remained motionless,
but for a muscle ticking at his jawline. He glowered into Arnold's
beefy face, waiting, just waiting for the man to make the wrong
move.

"You side wi' the devil, you
bed the devil. No friend o' Borgie's will have anythin' to do wi'
you."

The bloody
hypocrites.
"I didn't know Borgie had any
friends," Roan quipped, his gaze sweeping the room, daring anyone
to contradict him. Then he looked Arnold straight in the eye and
offered a lopsided grin. "Ye're in yer cups, Arnie, but because I'm
a mon o' principles, I'm goin' to deck you anyway."

Arnold guffawed in Roan's
face. As calm as could be, Roan drove his right fist upward,
catching the bigger man beneath the chin. A sharp clack of teeth
rang out. Arnold's eyes rolled into his head as he keeled over
backward and hit the floor in a dead faint.

Pandemonium
ensued.

Weeks of frustration found
an outlet through Roan's swinging fists. Faceless bodies converged
on him. His ears were deaf to the expletives detonating around him,
deaf to the several patrons goading the brawlers to draw
blood.

From behind the counter,
Silas scratched his balding pate. Chairs and tables were being
broken. Glass mugs. The floor was slick with ale. But he enjoyed a
good fight, and he'd known for a long time that Roan was operating
on a full head of steam.

Tempers had been building
since Borgie's accident, although, very few spoke to the man, let
alone cared what happened to him. The outrage stemmed from the fact
that it had occurred at Baird House. Folks in Crossmichael were a
wee touchy when it came to that place.

Two men dragged Roan across
the center of a table, punching him as he dropped to the floor and
attempted to roll away.

Silas frowned then shook his
head when Roan jumped to his feet, both fists flying and nailing
fleshy targets. In the far left corner, Remmy O'Hallary danced an
Irish jig on the center of a round table, his mug held
shoulder-high, ale sloshing over the rim.

A fist rammed Roan in the
midriff, prompting a grunt that the onlookers cheered.

It was Roan against four
now, and Silas wasn't sure who was getting the worse end of the
deal. Roan possessed a high tolerance to pain.

One of the four, Willy
Canabra, released a high-pitched howl when Roan ducked, and James
McKenna's fist popped the wrong man in the nose. Blood spurted from
Canabra's nostrils and through his fingers as he tried to stop the
flow. With a triumphant laugh, Roan elbowed Canabra in the gut.
Canabra fell hard on his butt. Swinging with the same arm, Roan
rammed his fist up under McKenna's chin.

McKenna hit the floor with
the grace of a sack of potatoes.

Silas winced as the last two
men grabbed Roan from behind by his coat, lifted him off the floor,
and sent him sailing over one of the few standing oblong tables.
Then Silas' own temper flared when three more men hauled Roan to
his feet, and another drove his fist into Roan's
midriff.

"Hold it, now lads!" he
boomed, hurrying around the counter.

"Just gettin' started," one
large man snarled, then turned to have a shot at Roan.

"I said hold it!"

The pub became quiet but for
the heavy panting of the participants. Closing in, Silas shoved his
way to Roan, his fierce look prompting the men who were confining
Roan's arms, to release him.

Roan fell to his knees, the
back of a trembling hand swiping across his bloodied
mouth.

"Hollan, Arnold—and you two
by the window," Silas began heatedly, one balled fist resting on a
hip, "lend a hand in cleanin' up the place." He targeted the man
who'd been about to punch Roan. "Jack, fetch me the mop. C'mon you
pack o' hooligans! You had yer fun, now's the time to pay wi' a bit
o' sweat!"

"I'll take care o' it," Roan
rasped, unsteadily getting on his feet. He cast those around him a
scornful look, then met Silas' gaze. "And I'll pay for the
damages."

"Get yerself home, lad,"
Silas said kindly, clapping Roan on his upper arm.

"Kist House," one
middle-aged woman sneered, pointing an accusing finger at Roan.
"That's where you belong!"

"Old Lannie went too far
this time," Arnold spat from his slouched position on one of the
stools.

"Borgie better pull
through," the elderly man who had been dancing the jig, piped up.
"Orwise, we plan to raze tha' bloody house, once and for
all."

Roan numbly regarded the
hostile faces around him. "If you all know wha's good for you,
you'll stay away from tha' place," he warned.

"Who you worried abou'?"
another woman asked, contempt marring her wrinkled face. "Lannie or
yer cousin?"

Roan swayed on his
feet.

Who was he trying to
protect?

He didn't know any
more.

Releasing a sound of
disgust, he staggered through the gawkers, to the door, and stepped
out into the cold, bitter night. He slammed the door shut,
dislodging soft snow from a small overhang above him. The stuff
plopped on top of his head, working its way down the back of his
coat. In a taunting ballet, snow flurries swirled around
him.

Ignoring the sting of the
open wounds on his hands and face, he limped across the parking lot
to his van, and climbed in behind the wheel.

Pain thundered in his head.
His vision was blurry. He briefly contemplated walking to his
aunt's rather than to risk driving, but the idea of forcing his
stiff leg muscles to carry him, prompted him to start the engine
and pull out onto the narrow road.

He couldn't think. The
headlights' glare off the snow smarted his eyes.

Who am I
protecting?

Borgie's greed had brought
about the confrontation, but Lachlan could have backed
off.

Viola Cooke had told him of
Lachlan's visit to his aunt's house.
Damn
the mon's audacity!
To his knowledge, Aggie
didn't know of the laird's intrusion into her home. That was all
she needed. She'd aged ten years in one week. He was sure her heart
wouldn't take much more stress.

So Lachlan can’t remember
exactly what had happened that night? Convenient.

Why couldn't he focus his
anger at the laird?

His world was again falling
to pieces, and he couldn't do a thing to stop it.

He slammed on the brake. The
blood rushing from his head, he dazedly gaped at the desolate
building looming off to his left.

Reflexively, he switched off
the ignition.

It wasn't possible, he tried
to rationalize.

Baird House?

Aggie lived in the opposite
direction.

What am I doing in the
parking area by the carriage house?

Anger energized his
protesting muscles. Climbing out of the car, he took a long look at
the mansion, then swung his gaze to the dwelling he'd used when
he'd first come to work for the laird. Soft light could be seen
through the window. Someone was inside. How he was sure it was
Lachlan, he didn't know.

The door was unlocked.
Breathing heavily, he entered the carriage house, immediately
spying Lachlan, who was sitting on the cot across the room. Roan
slowly approached. Several candles were lit atop a crate by the
pillowed end of the cot. The laird not once looked up. His
attention was on the piece of wood he was whittling.

"You bring me here?" Roan
asked testily, stopping a few feet away.

Lachlan gave a low shake of
his head. He turned the nearly completed lion he'd been working on,
over on his palm, and frowned.

"Stay away from
Aggie's."

Now the laird's gaze rolled
up to look at Roan. "How's yer cousin farin'?"

"Wha' do you
care?"

Lachlan's eyebrows peaked
above his dark eyes. "I care tha' I canna remember wha'
happened."

Despite his raw, bloodied
knuckles, Roan clenched his hands at his sides. "No," he sneered.
"You only care tha' you lost yer temper in front o'
Beth!"

"Tha', too. But you have
also had yer doubts tha' I tossed him ou' the window."

Roan quaked with anger. "I
know
I
didn't do
it, and I'm bloody damn sure Laura and Beth didn't,
either!"

Diligently adding the
finishing touches to the wooden piece, Lachlan shrugged. "I know
how it looks. And, granted, when I think back, it seems verra
possible tha' I...." His brooding gaze nailed Roan for a moment
before lowering to the lion. "...unwittingly sent yer cousin
through the window."

"You were ou' o'
control!"

"Aye." Setting his carving
tool by the candles, he reached down for a burlap sack and lifted
it onto his lap. He was about to place the wooden lion inside when
he became pensively quiet, his gaze locked onto the finished
piece.

"Ma brither Ian was a fine
whittler. He used to make the maist wonderful puppets for the tent
shows when they came to town. 'Lachlan,' he'd say, 'Tis a thinkin'
mon's skill. The hands keep busy, but yer mind is free to ponder
the ways o' the world.' I think o’ ma brithers this time o'
year."

Placing the lion into the
sack, he stood and held it out to Roan, who remained motionless,
glaring at it.

"For the laddies," Lachlan
explained. "Christmas is nearly here. I wanted to give them
somethin'."

Roan's anger plummeted. Torn
with indecision once again, he went to the window and buried his
face into his hands.

Lowering the sack to his
side, Lachlan closed half the distance. "Roan, wha's troublin'
you?"

A bitter laugh burst from
Roan as he whirled to face his family's tormentor. "Wha' could
possibly be wrong?" he laughed theatrically, his hands gesturing
wide. "Borgie's in a coma. Aggie's no' sleepin' or eatin' worth a
bloody damn. Now I'm to bear anither burden on these shoulders o'
mine?"

Lachlan silently waited for
him to continue.

"Wha' you ask?" Roan flung
snidely. "I'll tell you wha'! Who will be yer next victim? You see,
old mon, some o' the same folks who were here helpin' to work on
yer house, are now talkin' o' levelin' the place to the
ground."

Lachlan's face remained
expressionless.

"How many o' them will you
vent yer rage on?"

In lieu of a response, the
laird shoved the sack into Roan's hands. Roan stared down at it for
a long time. When he again met the near-black eyes, his expression
was one of bewilderment. "I don't understand you."

"You never did," Lachlan
said sadly.

He faded from sight, leaving
Roan to stare dazedly into space.

* * *

The homey sound of a rocking
chair moving to and fro on the wooden floor, greeted him when he
entered his aunt's house. A weary smile tugged at his sore lips
when he saw Laura sitting in front of the hearth, her head bent,
her hands nimbly working a set of knitting needles. He softly
closed the door, and placed the sack of wooden toys on the couch.
An arm pressed to his aching middle, he walked to the rocker, bent
over, and planted a kiss on her cheek.

She smiled.

"Wha' are you
makin’?"

"Scarves and hats for the
boys."

A flicker of puzzlement
creased Roan's brow. Had he only imagined she'd spoken with a
Scottish accent?

"Aggie knits a storm every
winter," he said absently, his gaze falling on the sack of toys.
"Ah, I saw Lannie at the carriage house. He's carved some toys for
the lads. Maistly animals."

"How nice."

Nice?

"Any coffee on?"

Laura looked up. She blinked
then whitened when she noticed his face. "What happened?" she
cried, dropping the ball of yarn and needles to the floor, and
jumping to her feet.

"Don't touch," he grimaced,
staying her outstretched hand in midair.

"Roan!"

"I was in a wee fight at the
pub."

"A
wee
fight?"

He smiled ruefully. "You
should see the ither men."

"You were fighting with more
than one?"

He opened his arms. With a
groan, she stepped into his embrace and laid her head against his
shoulder.

"You've got to get a grip on
your temper," she chided in a small voice.

"Aye. Where are the
lads?"

"Liza took them again." She
looked up and woefully inspected his face. "She claims the boys are
absolute angels at her house."

Roan chuckled. "Her own can
be a handful." He glanced down at the yarn on the floor.
"Maybe
I
should
take up knittin'."

Glancing down over her
shoulder, Laura said, "My grandmother used to make the most
beautiful afghans." She sighed. "I definitely don't take after
her."