Sparks in Scotland (13 page)

Chapter
Thirteen

E
arly the next morning, I
wanted to send a message to Corinne, since I hadn't talked to her in a while. Dad opened his computer and let me access the chat messenger. He left to probably go grab coffee, and I settled in at the tiny wooden desk in our room.

I didn't have a separate bedroom this time, but the room was so charming, I didn't mind. The wallpaper was blue-striped, and our beds were cozy with several blankets layered on. I'd slept hard and woken up refreshed.

When I got on the messenger, I saw something from Corinne, and my heart thrilled.

FoxyCori: Hey, you! I know you're in bed, dreaming about cute Scottish guys. Hope you're having fun!
Miss you like crazy. XO. *So* much to catch up on when you get home.

I could hardly believe this was my ninth day in Scotland. Just four full days left in our bus tour, then a last day in ­Edinburgh before going home. Time was flying by a little too fast, even though I missed Corinne and couldn't wait to talk to her. I typed out my reply:

AvaBee: Scotland is amazing so far. Check out these pics. Yesterday we went to the Inverness Highland Games!

I uploaded shots of the kilted men throwing cabers, the dancers, the haggis I hadn't finished. Then I did one of our entire group, which a kind stranger had taken for us with my camera.

AvaBee: Today we're going to a battlefield and then touring a glen. This country is so beautiful. I wish my pictures captured it better.

AvaBee: Okay, signing off. XO can't wait to catch up with you!

I logged out, got dressed, and popped down the hall to meet my parents for breakfast. This dining room had one long table—it was a smaller inn than where we'd stayed in Oban, but the owner
was a friendly man around my parents' age who was attentive and ran a tight ship.

We ate quickly, then made our way to the bus. I noticed the German family was missing the mom and one of the boys.

“Is everything okay with them?” I asked my mom with a nod in their direction.

“Steaphan said the other little boy wasn't feeling well, so his mom is staying here with him for the day.”

“Oh, that's a bummer. You've been doing okay, right? No more migraines?”

She beamed at me and stroked my hair. “I'm fine, honey. Sometimes I get those random flare-ups, but I've been careful to avoid triggers. Ready to do more exploring today?”

I nodded, and we got on the bus. Graham was already there, his eyes warm and inviting when they hit mine.

“Mornin', Ava,” he said in that husky, familiar way of his.

My chest tightened, and it took me a moment before I could reply. “Good morning, Graham. I'm looking forward to today's trip.”

He nodded. “We'll be leaving in a few minutes. My da is just making sure Lucas is taken care of before we go. Poor lad.”

I leaned on the seat opposite his, still standing in the aisle. Everyone else except Steaphan was on the bus, so I wasn't going to block anyone from entering. “Yeah, I heard he's not feeling well.”

“He woke up with a stomachache.”

I remembered Lucas shoveling in multiple handfuls of candy
and sweets yesterday at the Highland Games. Apparently, ­Graham remembered it too, because he chuckled with me.

“Aye, not so surprised about that, are we?”

“I can't blame the kid. When I was that age, getting to eat that much junk food was worth the cost of stomach pains.”

His dad finally boarded the bus and gave me a wink. “Mornin', Ava! Okay, group. We're leaving in just a minute. Find yer seats, please.”

I waved my fingers at Graham, then at Tilda when I passed her row, and she grinned. Then I got to my seat and tucked into the corner.

The ride to the battlefield passed in a blur of scenery outside that was over before I realized it. So much green and grass and trees and nature. It made my soul feel at peace. I could easily see why Graham liked doing the tours with his dad. What a great chance to explore your own countryside, and relax, too!

The bus pulled to a stop, and Steaphan stood and faced us. His face was serious, an unusual look for him, and the general hum of our group went silent.

“I just wanted to remind ya that this is a war grave. The brutal, bloody Battle of Culloden was fought here, and many brave Scottish warriors fell and were buried in this land while defending our country. They say around twelve hundred people died in just one hour. Please be respectful—no yelling, no running. As we stroll the battlegrounds, look for the stone grave markers that tell which clan members were buried here. We'll stay here for a bit, then go to
one of the loveliest glens you'll ever see in yer life. After that, free time back in Inverness.”

We nodded in response and followed him off the bus. The wind had picked up and blew briskly across the massive expanse of field, rippling the tall grasses. Nearby was a modern-looking building with cool arched roofs. Several clusters of people strolled the grounds here and there, and there was a respectful tone of silence throughout.

“After our tour through the battlefield, there's the visitor center if anyone would like to check it out,” Steaphan continued when we were gathered in a semicircle around him. “Or you may roam the field at your leisure. Please be back at the bus at eleven. We'll eat at the glen—trust me, it's worth the wait.”

Steaphan waved us on toward the start of our battlefield tour, and our group listened intently as he led us through the high heather and shrub-spotted grounds. He explained the background of the battle and the outcome, how the Scottish and Gaelic culture had been altered through the subsequent suppression of their way of life. Clans were impacted because of having their powers stripped. Even tartan wearing had been banned except for those in the military.

I could see stone markers poking up along a strip of old road running through the battlefield, etched with the names of fallen clans, and my heart tightened in my chest. What a tragedy. This reminded me of the same haunted feeling I'd had in Gettysburg. The sensation of thousands of battle cries echoing across the fields.
The brutal result of that fight and how it changed the landscape of the country for good.

We came upon a stone circular building about twenty feet high with a memorial marker set in the bottom, honoring those who fought in the battle in 1746. I took a photo of it and noted a small bundle of flowers beside it.

“This is called a memorial cairn,” Graham explained to us. “It was built in the late 1800s, at the same time those memorial markers along the road were installed.” He then pointed toward a charming thatched-roof farmhouse. “That building dates to the late 1800s and is on the location where they think a field hospital stood.”

His eyes locked on mine, and a small shiver ran through me. He was so intense, unlike most of the guys I knew at home. He was proud of his knowledge of history, didn't try to dumb himself down. That self-confidence drew me like a beacon.

After a moment of silence, Graham looked away from me, and I swallowed. Crammed my hands in my pockets. Peered around the field to see the tall yellow grasses swaying. The hills rolled gently. Yes, this was a place of sadness and grief, yet like Scotland itself, the land had healed and moved forward. Still proud, still noble, even after defeat.

Steaphan and Graham finished talking, and Steaphan invited us all to tour around the battlegrounds on our own. Graham took a step toward me, but the German dad flagged him down and began peppering him with questions. He shot an apologetic smile
at me, and I waved at him not to worry about it. After all, he was just doing his job.

So I strolled the grounds with my parents, and we compared the experience to Gettysburg. They felt the same as I did—the heaviness of memory lingering in the air, mingled with the modern determination to keep on keeping on.

When time was up, we got back to the bus and rode in silence for the most part to our next destination. There were a few whispers here and there, but I think we were all still sobered by the powerful experience of the battlefield.

It took us a while to get to the glen. But finally the bus stopped, and Graham stood to address us. His eyes almost caressed me for a few seconds, and then he glanced at the rest of the group. “We're here at Glen Affric. We've packed a lunch to eat in the glen, so I hope yer hungry. It seems the weather has held up, so we can have it outside.”

The German dad whispered to his son Karl, who cried out, “
Ja! Ja!
” with fierce nods, and we all laughed. Frankly, I was starving too.

Lunch consisted of sandwiches on thick, crusty bread with an assortment of cheese, crackers, fruit, cookies, and all kinds of drinks. Graham, Tilda, and I carried the food-laden bags up the crest of a hill and found a flat clearing that offered one of the most stunning views I'd ever seen in my life.

Water ran in a lazy river through the grounds below, occasionally speckled with small clusters of scrubby brush, and the
sunlight dappled across the rich expanse of green grasses. There were numerous green-coated hills and mountains, as far as the eye could see, with several tops piercing a few low-lying clouds. It was almost unreal, the scene was so idyllic.

I stopped in my tracks and just . . . stared. My breath had locked in my lungs from shock at the view. Miles and miles of sheer beauty right before me.

“This is it,” Graham said in a low whisper right beside me. He was so close his mouth had to be just an inch or so from my ear, and goose bumps broke out across my skin in reaction to his proximity. “The place I was eager to show ya.”

“I can see why,” I replied in a rush. “It's . . . just phenomenal. I can't wait to finish eating so I can explore.” I wanted to photograph everything, to draw everything. My brain scrambled to capture the various shades of green and brown and blue and yellow. So much in front of me.

We laid down several blankets, courtesy of Steaphan, and everyone got food and began to eat. My sandwich was so good I took an extra one, and Tilda, seated beside me, threw me a wide grin.

I shrugged with a chuckle. “I'm a growing girl.” I'd never been ashamed of my healthy appetite.

Her grin grew wider, and she grabbed another sandwich too. “And I am growing as well.”

After we ate, I grabbed a pen from my backpack and a fresh piece of paper and asked for all of Tilda's contact information so
we could connect when I got back home. I really liked this girl and had enjoyed getting to know her so far.

Her face flushed in pleasure, and she wrote her address, e-mail, and social media information for me, then asked for the same in return.

“So . . .” She paused and seemed to think about her words. “Have you asked him yet about talking? When you are returning to America, that is?”

I swallowed as a fresh bout of nerves swept over me. “I've just been waiting for the right moment. Probably in another day or two, once we get closer to our time being over.”

“He will be saying yes,” she replied, certainty clear in her voice. “I know this.”

We cleaned up our trash and packed it back in the bag, and then I crammed that into the corner of my backpack. Around us, the others were doing the same as they finished their lunches.

Tilda's mom waved at her, a friendly smile on her face.

“Oh, I promise my parents I will walk with them. We talk more later?”

I nodded. “Absolutely. Okay, have fun!” She headed toward them, and I saw my parents were sitting side by side on their blanket, oblivious to anything around them. Not wanting to disturb their romantic bubble, I made sure I was within viewing distance, then dug out my camera and began snapping shots. This would be another place to get a fun panoramic picture collage done.

I heard the click of a photo being taken behind me and turned
around. It was Graham. And the camera was aimed right at . . . me. My heart stuttered a beat or two, then began a furious gallop.

He started walking toward me and put the camera down, an unusually open look in his eyes. I put my camera back in the bag and flung the strap over my shoulder.

“Why did you take a picture of me?” I asked him.

He gave a casual shrug, but the look on his face was anything but easygoing. In fact, intensity like I'd never seen poured from his eyes into mine. “This is my favorite scenic spot in all of Scotland. I wanted a photo of you here.”

My breath caught in my throat, and all I could do was stare at him. I could feel myself melting into a little puddle right here in the glen.

He moved closer until he was just inches from me again, and that crackling electricity rolled between us. There might as well have been no one else in the glen right now, because we only had eyes for each other.

Pulse hammering, I scrambled for something to say. “I can see why you love this place.”

He nodded. “Once you're here, you understand.”

“It's like a dream, a fantasy,” I gushed enthusiastically. “Almost unreal, in a way. So different from anything I've ever experienced in America. I'm glad I got pictures of this, but I already know I'm never going to forget my time here. Thank you so much for being a part of that.”