MacFarlane's Ridge (5 page)

Mollie heard something crash to the floor. She thought it might be the brown crock she kept on the mantle.

“Damn it all, Ian! How can ye say that? You wouldn’t take her back if she were to walk in that door right now?” Rob was so angry he was shaking.

Ian said with a sigh, “Robbie, would ye have wanted Meggie back after she whored herself with that wool merchant?”

That did it. Rob launched himself at his younger brother and pushed him into the wall with lightning speed.

“That’s not the same at all, you little bastard,” he hissed.

Ian looked up at him scornfully, “Oh, and why’s it not?”

Rob leaned in close to Ian. “Ian, I’d have let Meg take the whole royal army to her bed, and with my blessing, if I thought it would have kept her alive just one more day.” There were tears in his dark eyes. “I didn’t need Meg to love me. I just needed to be allowed to love her.”

With that, he turned and stormed out of the house, nearly ripping the door from its hinges as he exited. Mollie jumped out of the way. Hamish followed his uncle down the hill.

“Woppy!” the little boy called. “Woppy!”

Rob paused. Mollie could see him take a deep breath and try to compose himself. When he turned to scoop up his nephew, he was smiling, although she noticed that it did not reach his eyes.

“What will you do, Robbie?” Mollie asked softly.

Rob bounced the boy on his shoulders. “I shall have to look, you know. I canna let it go. I have to know if she lives or not. For the laddie, if not for Ian.”

She nodded. “Will ye be bringin’ her back?”

“If she chooses to come. She may not want to.”

Mollie glanced towards the cabin. No sign of Ian. “What if he willna have her?”

Rob thought for a while. “Then I’ll take her away somewhere. He can tell everyone his wife is dead. He can marry again, although why any sensible woman would want him I don’t know. I could run the blockades and take her to our uncle Andrew in Jamaica. He has a son in need of a wife.”

Mollie looked at him sadly. “Then either way, I’ve lost her.”

“Aye.”

She waited a few moments before speaking again. “Ye never knew Sarah. She married Ian on her sixteenth birthday. He loved her, but he was never strong enough. When she had wee Jamie and lost him the same day, Ian spent a week out in the barn. He never came out to help us bury the poor thing. He’d never fight for Sarah. When she was carryin’ Hamish, she started bleedin’ one day. I was sure she’d die. I told Ian to go in and hold his wife’s hand, for it might well be the last chance he’d get. Do ye know what he said to me? He asked what good it would do to hold her hand, for if she was meant to die she would do so whether he held her hand or not.”

Rob said nothing. Hamish was twirling his uncle’s hair around his fingers, and munching on the black tendrils.

“Ian’s no’ strong enough,” Mollie repeated, looking into his eyes, “but you are, I think. If ye find her, and she be alive, if Ian won’t have her, don’t bring her back here. Ye just take her and go. Ye marry her yourself. D’ye hear me, Robbie MacFarlane? Ye marry her and treat her like a wife needs to be treated!” She was in tears now, nearly hysterical, and pounding furiously on his chest.

Hamish had fallen asleep on his high perch. Rob set him down gently on the ground. “Mollie, wee Mollie,” he murmured. “I’ll take her away, but I canna marry her. I can only find her someone who will treat her well.”

She glared up at him. “An’ why not? Ye said ye’d have taken your Meg back in a moment, no matter what a whore she’d been! Why no’ my sister, too?”

Rob shook his head. “You don’t understand, Mollie. I couldn’t marry a woman I didn’t love. It might seem just a small matter now, but there would come a time when she’d hate me for it, and I’d hate myself for it as well. Maybe not right away, but some day. And once you’ve decided to hate someone, ye can’t ever be happy with them.”

He pushed her away gently. “I’ll find your Sarah. And Ian be damned. If she lives, I will bring her back here to see her son, and to you. You both deserve that much, at least.”

November 10, 1775 –

Robert will leave in the morning. I have begged him to be careful. He knows only the most vague direction of the Faeries’ Gate, and the countryside has been in turmoil lately. We have learned that Lord Dunmore has fled to a British Ship, following the demands of Mr. Patrick Henry that Dunmore pay for the Powder Supply which he stole from the Colony. Some of the Kerrs have joined the Continental Army of Virginia, and the McGregor and Murray boys as well. I fear the loss of many of the men here on the Ridge, as most families here will cheerfully take up arms against the English. They will, of course, fight to the death if need be, that is certain. It is our way. It would be most unfortunate if we were to lose Robert as well. I am not speaking to Ian at all for he vexes me. He is a Coward and a Fool. I think I shall spit in his supper.

November 13, 1775-

Hamish has been ill, and I am very afraid. I remember hearing once that a poultice of warmed onions and lard is good for congestion in the chest. Although it seems like it would smell most horrifying, it can certainly do no harm.

Also, I shall pray.

Haver Springs, VA

The Present

The rest of Antique Week passed quickly but uneventfully for Cameron Clark. She kept so busy that, although she thought about Mollie Duncan and the journal frequently, she had no time to read any further. She saw very little of Troy, who was using the week to become acquainted with some of the other residents of his new jurisdiction. By Friday afternoon, when he stopped by with sandwiches and iced tea, Cam was exhausted.

“Hey, there, lady,” grinned Troy. “Do you have time for a chicken salad sandwich?”

Cam took the plastic-wrapped plate eagerly. “You know, if it wasn’t for you, I would completely forget to eat most of the time. Thank you. Mmm. I love Alice’s bread.” She chewed contentedly, hoping she could finish her lunch before the next group of customers wandered in. Antique Week was winding down, and the crowds were thinner now, but there were still a few diehard hopefuls who came in occasionally, trying to get that end-of-the-week bargain.

Troy sat down on an old washtub. “So have you gotten any further with Mollie’s journal?”

Cam shook her head, swallowing a mouthful of potato chips. “Not really. I’m up to the fall of 1775, which is actually near the end. Up until then it’s mostly day-to-day things, like crops and illnesses and such. Hamish is running a fever, and Robert MacFarlane is getting ready to leave to go look for Sarah, but Ian doesn’t want him to bother. He doesn’t want her back if she’s been “dishonored” by the Shawnee. What a weasel.”

“Now, hang on. Don’t give the guy too much grief over it. It was a pretty common reaction back then,” pointed out Troy.

Cam wiped her hands on her jeans. “You know, I can’t stop thinking about what Wanda said the other night. Her whole theory about disappearances.”

Troy snorted in response.

“No, I mean it. I can’t get it out of my head,” she continued. “Let’s go look for it next week.”

“What? Go look for what?”

“The Faeries’ Gate! Come on, it’ll be fun. And besides, I need a break after this week,” pressed Cam.

Troy rolled his eyes. “You are ridiculous. You want to drive down to Fairy Stone and hunt for something when we have no idea where or what it is?”

“Okay, well, then think of it as a camping trip. I have a tent. Besides, you look like you could use some hiking after all those donuts you’ve been eating at Alice’s.”

“That is a stereotype,” he argued good-naturedly. “Not all cops eat donuts. I personally prefer cookies. Macadamia chocolate chip, to be specific.”

Cam glanced up as the sleigh bells jangled. Wayne Sinclair strolled in nonchalantly. He glanced around, wiped a finger on a shelf, and examined it for dust. Cam expected he probably found quite a bit.

“Cameron. How are you?” he began, pointedly ignoring Troy.

“Great, Wayne. What can I do for you?” Cam decided she would be polite, even though the man made her thoroughly uncomfortable. It was a shame, really, she thought. He was tall and lean, with dark hair and odd eyes, one blue and one brown. If he wasn’t such a jerk, he’d actually be rather handsome.

“I’ll get right to the point. How much do you want for Mollie Duncan’s journal?”

Cam felt her mouth drop open, and closed it quickly. “Umm, who told you I have Mollie Duncan’s journal?”

Sinclair leaned forward on the counter. “I overheard Deputy Dawg here talking to Alice about it next door. You do have it, don’t you? I don’t see it in the window any more.”

He was so close Cam could smell his expensive cologne. Remembering Wanda Mabry’s warning, she murmured, “Well, I don’t exactly have it here…”

“But you can get it? I mean, it does presently belong to you,” he persisted.

Troy cleared his throat. “What do you need, Mr. Sinclair?”

Sinclair pulled away from Cam, and she noticed that his blue eye was exceptionally bright today. “I simply would like to make an offer. A journal from the Revolutionary War era would be quite valuable today. Not only in terms of cash, but of course the historical value would be immense. I am prepared to pay quite a bit for Mollie’s journals.”

“Journals?” asked Cam. “How many are there?”

“I’m not sure, you understand, but apparently she kept a diary throughout most of her life, according to her letters. I would expect a couple of dozen,” Sinclair informed her. “If anyone were to acquire them all, they would be worth a fortune.”

“Well,” Cam said politely, as a group of college students entered the shop, “I will certainly keep your offer in mind, Wayne.”

“Yes,” he smiled. “You probably should.”

As the door swung shut behind him, Cam shivered.

“You okay?” Troy asked.

“Brrr. He just gives me the creeps, that’s all.”

Troy laughed. “You and everyone else. I need to get back to work.”

“Think about the camping trip,” she called as he left. He waved in acknowledgement. “Can I help you folks with anything?”

By the time the students left, Cam had sold them all of her petticoats, most of the bloomers, a box of old rusty buttons and two carpetbags. The rest of the afternoon passed rapidly, and at six, when Antique Week officially ended, Cam flipped around the “closed” sign and locked the front door with relief. She slid down and sat on the floor behind it. She was exhausted but happy. She had survived her first Antique Week! She ambled to the counter and pulled out a piece of posterboard she had been saving for just this occasion. Grabbing a black marker, she wrote “Closed Till Next Wednesday!” in fat bubble letters. As she hung the sign on her window, she glanced up with a start. Wayne Sinclair was in the park across the street, sitting on a bench. As soon as he saw her look up, he jumped to his feet and strode off down Meador. She shrieked when the phone rang behind her.

“Granny’s Goodies,” she panted into the receiver.

“Am I interrupting something?” purred Wanda Mabry.

Cam laughed. “No, I just spooked myself. The phone startled me. Phew! How are you, Wanda?”

“I’m at one with my karma. Well, actually I’m at a pay phone. Listen, are you busy right now?”

“Not especially,” shrugged Cam. “I just need to finish my paperwork, and then I’m free. What’s up?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Um. Well, I have heard that Wayne Sinclair is interested in Mollie’s journal. That is what we would call a bad thing. Anyway, I have something I need to show you, and I think you need to see it before you sell the journal to asshole Wayne.”

“Hang on, Wanda,” Cam protested. “I haven’t even thought about selling it to Wayne. The man’s a leech. A leech with lots of money, to be sure, but a leech nonetheless. Don’t worry, I’m not letting him get his hands on it.”

Wanda sighed audibly. “Good. He is truly a parasite. But I still want you to come over. Remember the way out here?”

“I think so. Or should I just have Troy bring me?”

“No, no. I need to speak with you privately.”

Cam wrote down the directions to Wanda’s, just to be sure she had them right, and then finished up her closing paperwork. She had done a booming business over the past seven days, more than enough to allow her a few days off. She popped in a CD and sang to herself as she steered the little Honda through the countryside. The sun was going down, so she flipped on her headlights. As she rounded a sharp curve, she noticed in her mirrors a maroon van coming up behind her alarmingly fast.

“Okay, dummy. There is no way you’re going to be able to pass me up here,” she muttered. The road was narrow and curved, and along the left side was a fairly steep drop-off. The van continued to advance on her, its high beams glaring into her mirror. Cam squinted and held her hand up to block the reflection. Suddenly there was a crunching sound as the van rear-ended her, and her Civic shot forward, across the yellow line. Terrified, Cam yanked the wheel, trying desperately to get back in her own lane, out of oncoming traffic. The van loomed in her mirror again, but this time she was ready. The road was just beginning to straighten when the van hit her again, harder than the last time. As soon as she felt the impact, she accelerated as hard as she could. If she couldn’t outmaneuver the van, maybe she could outrun it.