Into the Dim (5 page)

Outside, the lowering sun shot streams of gold through heavy clouds as I trotted through the stable yard astride a sturdy gray mare named Ethel. A fragrant breeze blew past, ruffling my clothes as I stared, astounded by the brutal beauty of the land around me. Beyond the yard, the valley spread out like a rumpled green and purple quilt, with the vast moor just beyond.

Behind us, the fortress-like Christopher Manor guarded the sheep and cattle that roamed between it and the charcoal roofs of a small village. The town lay at the foot of the valley, on the opposite side, nestled between craggy, twin mountains rubbed bald by millennia of wind and rain. A river bisected the gorge and disappeared into the heather and gorse of the moors.

“The uplands look flat,” Mac warned from his perch on a wide gelding. “But 'tis full of dips and hidden burns—those are streams, mind—that cut through the heather before joining the river. Ye'll come on them sudden-like, especially once ye get closer to the big mountain, so keep our girl here to a nice, easy trot.” The lines in his weathered cheeks deepened as he smiled. “Ethel likes to run, so ye'll have to hold her back.”

I pivoted in the saddle. “I can go alone?”

The horse danced under me, eager to get moving. When I stilled her with heels and reins, Mac nodded in approval.

“Seems ye handle yourself well enough.”

Every girl of good family should sit a horse well.
My mom's approving voice spoke in my memory.

I'd adored my weekly riding lessons, the only nonacademic hobby my mother had ever allowed. At eleven, I'd never been near a horse before. Yet that very first day, my instructor, Mr. Waterman, told Mom he'd never seen a child take to riding like I did.

Look at her go. It's like she was born to it, Miz Walton.

Watching me, Mom frowned, though I'd blushed to the roots at the old man's praise. Used to feeling awkward and klutzy, from the moment I climbed in the saddle it was like my hands and feet took on a mind of their own. On the horse, I'd felt graceful for the first time in my life. The smells and the movement of the horse and leather beneath me was familiar, like returning to an old friend. It felt wonderful. It felt right.

After Mom died, Dad never mentioned the lessons. I could've said something, I suppose. But it hadn't seemed right without her. So I'd kept quiet, and the one activity I had loved slid to the wayside.

“I'm away to the south pasture to check the flock.” Mac walked his horse over to the gate and leaned down to open it. “Ye'll have but a few hours of peace, lass. I'd enjoy them if I were you. When Lu returns tomorrow, things may become . . . different.”

He frowned, as if he wanted to say more.

“Mac?” I nipped at a cuticle on my free hand. Moira's warning echoed in my head, but I had to try one last time. “When was my mother here last?” I trailed off as his eyes cut away.

He clucked to his gelding, who ambled over until our knees almost touched.

“Lass,” the word came on a sigh. “I don't pretend to understand what you've suffered. You've been through the wringer, and that's the truth of it. But I'm knowing one thing for certain.” He placed a rough, careworn hand over mine where they gripped the reins. “Our darlin' Sarah loved ye more than life itself. And she did her best by ye. And so too will all of us here. Ye can take to the bank, aye?”

My throat closed. “Yeah,” I whispered.

“Away with ye now,” he sniffed, and wheeled his horse. “But be careful, aye? And dinna be too long. Moira'll have my hide if ye miss supper.”

“Thank you, Mac.”

With a backwards wave, he moved off toward the opposite fence.

The horse responded to the barest pressure of my knees as she trotted down the long valley and out onto the magnificence of the Highland moor.

Ethel splashed through the narrow burn, which twisted and turned upon itself, growing deeper and faster the closer we got to the huge mountain range that bordered the uplands to the north. These were higher, misty and still snowcapped, even in June. Weaving through clumps of gorse and thistle with ease, the mare wended her way around the waist-high boulders that sprouted up like mushrooms.

When I loosened the reins, Ethel's powerful muscles bunched and elongated under me. Strands of hair lashed my face as the wind whipped past. The roar of the river ahead pounded and my body began to relax, to move in rhythm with the horse's gait.

A pitted boulder appeared before us. I jerked on the reins, but Ethel apparently had a different idea. She raced straight toward the rock. My mouth opened in a scream that turned to a shout of pure joy as we soared over it.

With the horse pounding beneath me, I felt alive. I felt free.

A glint of reflected sunlight caught my eye. I reined up, squinting across the brush at a figure on horseback that had emerged from behind a large clump of rock. He—pretty sure it was a he—held something to his face that winked in the weakening sun.

Binoculars? Is someone watching me?

When I clucked at Ethel and headed toward him, the man veered his horse and raced off in the opposite direction. Curious now, I nudged the mare into an easy canter. Ahead of us, the stranger galloped away. Every once in a while he glanced back, as if gauging the distance. He was looking behind him when they crested a steep hill. His horse—apparently not in the mood for a jump—planted its hoofs. The rider went flying over the animal's head, disappearing from view as the now-riderless horse shied and galloped away.

“Oh. Crap,” I said, and kicked my heels hard into Ethel's flanks.

I dismounted beside a steep riverbank. Below, the clear brown water dashed against the boulders, drowning out any other noise.

“Hey!” I yelled, but the guy had disappeared.

When I edged closer, the damp earth of an overhang crumbled beneath me. Arms pinwheeling, down the slope I went, crashing through mud and brush, before I fetched up—panting—at the pebbled edge of the surging river.

I saw him then, tangled in a patch of undergrowth at the water's edge, like a piece of driftwood. He was sprawled face-up across a flat rock, clothes splattered with mud, laces of his brown hiking boots floating in the swift current. He wasn't moving.

My jeans wicked up the frigid water as I splashed through the shallows toward him. His head lay cocked at an angle that hid his face. I couldn't tell if he was even alive.

“Oh God oh God oh God.” A crimson ribbon of blood trickled from his dark hair to stain the mossy rock.

“Hey,” I called. “Hey, can you hear me? Are you okay?”

The stranger's ripped shirt lay open beneath a crumpled camp jacket, revealing a terrible scrape across a tanned chest. His visible hand hung bruised and still, the long tapered fingers dangling in the water.

What if he's dead? What do I do?

Dread dug sharp claws into my spine as I splashed to his side. His chest moved up and down.

Thank God.

I carefully shook his shoulder. “Hey! You all right? Wake up. Can you hear me?”

Nothing.

My mind raced as I tried to decide what to do.
Stay with him so he doesn't roll off and drown? Ride back to the house and call 911? Do they even have 911 here? Dammit, why didn't I bring my phone?

An expensive-looking camera hung around his neck. The source of the glint I'd seen. The display screen had brightened to life when I shook him. When I saw the image it displayed, my mouth dropped open.

“What the hell?”

“Not bad, eh?” I nearly toppled over as he muttered in a voice creaky with pain. “Of course, it likely won't win any prizes. But you have to admit, the composition's quite lovely.”

I didn't respond as I jerked the camera toward me and scrolled through the images. He was right. The light, the setup, the arrangement of each image highlighted the stark, breathless beauty of the Scottish Highlands. It wasn't the background that freaked me out, though. It was the subject.

Every photo—more than a dozen—was a close-up of me.

My eye twitched. “Who are you? Why were you taking pictures of me?”

Dark, damp hair was plastered over his forehead, though with blood or water, I wasn't sure. I could see now that he was around my age. Sixteen. Seventeen, maybe. He gave a little groan as he scraped the hair back and turned his face toward me.

Then, he opened his eyes.

Behind a fringe of black lashes, his left eye was a soft green, like sunlight on moss. The right, the brilliant blue of an October sky. As I stared down at him, the world warped around me.

The rush of water grew muted and distant.
My nose and chest filled with the stench of . . . smoke? Yes. Wood smoke, tinged with a sickly sweetness of charred meat. Somewhere, a fire crackled and popped like bacon in a pan. Screams. The thump of hooves. A winey scent of overripe apples.

“Hello?” a voice called from far away. I clung to it like a lifeline.

The river's gurgle returned, and I suddenly realized I was standing in the middle of a swift current, gaping down at a complete stranger.

“I know what you're thinking, love.” The words came out husky, his accent more blue-blood than Highlander. “You're wondering how someone so strong, so handsome, and so obviously endowed with athletic ability could've gotten himself thrown from a bloody horse.” He winced as he sat up and swung long jean-clad legs over the side of the rock. “The answer is quite simple, really.”

His camera still in my hand, I yanked on the strap. He groaned when it jerked his head forward. I tilted it to read the brass plate bolted to the side.
PROPERTY OF BRAN CAMERON. IF FOUND, PLEASE RING . . .
When I let go, the heavy camera struck against his chest with a satisfying thwack.

Edging a few steps back, I asked through stiff lips, “Why were you taking pictures of me,
Bran Cameron
?”

At first I thought he was ignoring me as he examined the blood smeared on his fingers. “Forgive me, won't you? I'm, uh . . . feeling a bit off.”

With a moan, his head dropped into his hands.

“Crap,” I grumbled, torn between irritation and pity. “Are you okay?”

And what the hell do you do if he's not, Walton?

Bran raised his head and gave me a wobbly grin. One of his canines was crooked. Oddly, it made me feel better, because the rest of him looked as if he'd been drafted by an architect. All clean lines and straight edges. He wasn't beautiful, the nose a bit too long, the lips sculpted instead of full. Though his jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, it was his eyes I couldn't look away from. Those peculiar, mismatched eyes.

“I know you.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

“I don't think so, love.” He peered at me. “I can assure you if we'd ever met, I'd remember. I have an uncanny ability to remember pretty girls.”

Pretty? Me? Yeah. Sure.

His trim eyebrows waggled. “Unless of course you attend St. Sebastian Academy down in Kent? I admit, I've snuck past their fences a time or two. And I may have had a pint or three beforehand. So if we did, as you Americans like to say, ‘hook up,' I wish to offer my sincerest apology for my poor memory.”

Blood boiled into my face. In my sixteen years on this earth, no guy had ever,
ever
flirted with me. The redneck boys where I was from preferred girls like my cheerleader cousins. Size two. Blond. Busty. Brainless.

“As you so astutely observed”—from his seated position, he gave a comical bow—“I am Bran Cameron. And, yes. I was photographing you. Though in truth, I was out stalking.”

At my look, he chuckled. “Not in any depraved way, I assure you. I was merely hunting for the Highland stag. Some use guns to stalk. I prefer electronics.” He gave an exaggerated shudder that almost made me smile. “Less blood and entrails, that way. Then I saw a lovely vision on a horse and, well . . . I couldn't resist.” He shivered. “And now that we are properly acquainted, would you mind terribly helping me off this rock and out of this bloody cold water?”