Highlander for the Holidays (13 page)

No wonder Ian acted so casual about her condition; his mom was just as scarred as she was, possibly even more. And that gave Jessie hope that if Sadie MacKeage had found thirty-odd years of happily-ever-after in the arms of a handsome man, then there wasn’t any reason she couldn’t, too.

Oh yeah, she was going to help market the children’s camp all right, if only to spend more time with Ian’s mom on the chance the woman’s quiet confidence and strong sense of purpose was contagious. She was not, however, helping Megan and Katy take the young girls skinny-dipping, no matter how fun they’d made it sound at lunch yesterday. But she had volunteered to help with the less risqué activities.

“We’ve been in town four days,” she told Toby, “and I’ve danced, been kissed twice, and become an honorary member of a clan of amazing women. And you, you big lug, conquered your fear of water and found some new buddies.” She laughed softly. “And everyone thought I was crazy for wanting to move here.”

Jessie continued down the narrow peninsula, breathing in the crisp December air as she marveled at the beauty around her. She passed several seasonal camps tucked in amongst the towering trees on her left, with Pine Lake on her right, which, according to the map the Stones had thoughtfully left hanging in the downstairs hallway, stretched nearly forty miles north toward Canada. Toby suddenly stopped when they rounded a curve just as Jessie also spotted the man sitting on a stool by the side of the road, in front of what looked like one of TarStone Mountain’s giant trail groomers.

The man saw her and Toby and stood up. “Morn’n,” he called out, giving a wave as he strode toward them. “You out enjoying this fine day by walking to town?”

Jessie shortened her hold on Toby’s leash, although the dog seemed more curious than defensive. “We’re only going to the main road,” she said, finding the man’s smile endearing. At least, she thought he was smiling behind that scruffy white beard.

He stopped two paces away and wiggled his fur-lined hat back and forth on his head, which only served to further mess up the tangle of wild white hair all but hiding his sparkling green eyes. “Well, you keep on your toes then, missy. A car just went screaming out of here a short while ago, kicking up a terrible dust that covered all my wares,” he said with a scowl as he dropped into a squat. “What’s the big fella’s name?” he asked, extending his hand.

“It’s Toby,” Jessie said, loosening her hold on the leash.

“Hey there, Toby,” he murmured, waggling his fingers. “Come on and give me a taste, then, so you can decide for yourself that I’m harmless.”

Toby stepped toward him and did indeed lick the man’s fingers, and was quickly rewarded with a scratch under the chin.

The man stood up and extended the same hand to Jessie. “Name’s Roger, but I’ll answer to most anything said with respect.” His beard spread into a smile again as his large, calloused fingers wrapped around hers. “You be the lady who bought missy Megan’s house?” But then he scowled before she could answer. “I don’t know what that girl was think’n marrying that pagan Canadian Jack Stone.” He finally let go of her hand to resettle his hat again. “I swear that quiet bastard is gonna be the death of me. What’s your name, anyway?”

Good Lord, who was this colorful character? “Jessie Pringle.”

His bushy eyebrows rose into his hat. “What in tarnation kind of name is
Pringle
? You from one of them foreign countries?”

Jessie bit back a smile. “No, I’m originally from New York City, but most recently from Atlanta.
Georgia
,” she clarified when he frowned. “And my great-greatgrandfather chose the name Pringle when he immigrated to America so no one would know where he was from.” Jessie leaned forward and lowered her voice. “But rumor has it, he was from Russia.”

Up went those brows into his hat again. “You consider fun’n an old man to be entertaining, missy?”

Jessie glanced right and left and then behind her before looking back at him. “What old man? I don’t see anyone here but you and me and Toby.”

Roger blinked at her, then suddenly gave a bark of laughter. “I’ve decided I like you, Jessie Pringle. So come on, then,” he said, pivoting on his heel and starting off down the road. “I do believe I got some stuff you need.”

“What kind of stuff?” she asked, following as Toby fell into step beside him.

Roger stopped again, his vaguely familiar eyes locking on hers as he motioned at her hand. “How come you got that cane? I swear ye don’t look a day over forty.”

“I’m
twenty-eight
,” she blurted out, uncertain if he was teasing or not. “And I carry a cane because my legs are . . . they get weak sometimes.”

He snorted and started walking again. “I still say it makes ye look old.” He rubbed his beard, eyeing her speculatively. “Now, if’n you were to carry a proper stick instead of that old-lady cane, nobody around here would pay it no mind.” His beard parted with his smile, and he nodded. “Lucky for you, I got just the walking stick you be needing.” He went back to eyeing her again. “And what’s up with your scarf, anyway? Is that what all them ladies is wearing down in
Georgia
? ’Cause I gotta tell ye, that flimsy thing ain’t gonna keep you warm once the weather finally turns.” He stopped beside his folding canvas stool and faced her. “What you’re needing is a fine tartan scarf.” He looked down at Toby. “And maybe a matching scarf for the big fella, too, if’n he’s also most recently from Georgia.”

“Thank you, but I’m good. And Ian said Toby will grow a winter coat soon.”

Roger whipped his head around to look up the road, and then turned his narrowed eyes on Jessie. “You talking about Ian MacKeage?” He scowled when she nodded. “You belong to that big bastard, do you?”

“No, I don’t
belong
to him,” Jessie said with a laugh. “I just met him four days ago. You . . . um . . . you don’t like Ian?”

Roger apparently had to think about that as he gave his hat another wiggle, which ended with his eyebrows scrunched into a frown. “Well now, I can’t say I outright
dislike
the guy,” he said slowly, as if picking his words. “But he ain’t exactly one of my favorite people, either.” He pointed a short distance up the road, at what appeared to be a narrow driveway hidden in a stand of young evergreens. “It was right nice around here before that big bastard came back from his war and bought himself that rickety old camp. Now I can’t hock my wares here no more.” He walked to the groomer. “Only reason I dared set up here today is because he’s hunting up on the mountain with his brother and cousins.”

Jessie finally noticed all the . . . wares displayed on top of the groomer’s rubber track: a dented old teakettle, a large cast-iron pot, several neatly folded plaid scarves, a stack of positively ancient books, an overflowing basket of mittens, at least a dozen pie tins, and several tall sticks. She also noticed the faded emblem on the door that said the machine was indeed from the TarStone Mountain Ski Resort—except that its paint looked more orange than red under a good deal of dust, one of the lamps on the roof was dangling by a wire, and there was a small crack in the windshield.

She looked at Roger. “Why isn’t Ian one of your favorite people?” she asked, although she suspected the old goat placed most everyone in that category.

“No particular reason,” he said with a shrug. “Other than all them MacKeages are sneaky bastards, just like them MacBains and Gregors and that pagan Jack Stone.” He suddenly grinned. “But I suppose being sneaky is a fine quality to have, if’n a fella was needing one of them to guard his back.” He turned to face the groomer again, folding his arms on his chest to rest his chin on a fist, and began studying the walking sticks. “You ever find yourself in trouble,” he said somewhat absently, “you send yourself running straight to one of them highlanders. What exactly is the problem with your legs, anyway?” He looked over his shoulder when she didn’t immediately answer, and frowned. “You born that way or did you have an accident? It’s important you tell me,” he said when she still didn’t answer, “so I can decide which one of these fine sticks I’m needing to give you.”

“I’m sorry, Roger, but I didn’t bring my wallet with me.”

“I’m willing to barter.” He turned to fully face her. “In fact, I’ll trade you one of my magical sticks for that puny cane of yours, and . . .” He eyed her up and down, then pointed at her neck. “And that flimsy scarf, I suppose. I ought to be able to find some crippled old lady willing to bake me a pie in exchange for them. So, were you born carrying that cane or not? I need to know to match you up proper.”

Uncertain how to turn him down without hurting his feelings, Jessie stepped up beside Roger to also study the sticks leaning against the groomer, only to discover they were really quite lovely. Actually, they were works of art. Varying slightly in length but all nearly as tall as she was, they’d been peeled clean of their bark and sanded smooth to a natural patina. They each had unique characteristics; one was quite stout and riddled with burls that made it appear almost grotesque, several had only a few smaller burls, and two had dark vertical indents that looked like elongated, sunken eyes.

Jessie hadn’t given much thought to the cane she’d been using ever since her new physical therapist had handed it to her, asking Jessie if she intended to ride her butt around in a wheelchair for the rest of her life or if she wanted to start using the legs God had given her instead. “I . . . My back was injured four years ago,” she finally admitted when she noticed Roger glaring at her again.

“Well then, which one of these catches your fancy?” he asked, plucking two of the more delicate sticks away from the track and holding them up in front of her.

“I think I prefer one of those,” she said, pointing to the sunken-eyed sticks. “I like how they’re not perfectly straight and the dark brown eyes show off the rich yellow of the wood.”

“Forget those,” he muttered, moving to block her view. “Diamond willow ain’t near potent enough.” He thrust the two sticks he was holding toward her again as he nodded over his shoulder. “And don’t even think about asking for that big gnarly one; its magic is way too powerful for a woman to handle.”

Jessie had started to reach for one of the sticks he was holding but pulled her hand back and arched a brow. “Too powerful for a
woman
?”

He dropped his arms to rest the ends of the sticks on the ground and sighed. “It be common knowledge that women are physically weaker, missy
gràineag
, so don’t you go raising your quills at me none.”

Jessie caught her breath at the realization that she’d completely forgotten to ask Ian’s mother what that meant yesterday. “What’s a
gra-neeg
?”

Roger went back to frowning at her. “Everyone knows it be Gaelic for
hedgehog
. And it’s spelled
g
-
r
-
à
-
i
-
n
-
e
-
a
-
g
, and ye got to
spit
the
g
at the end to sound like a true highlander.” His beard parted with his smile when she glowered at him. “Prickly little hedgehogs are cute little beasties, you know. And if’n ye treat them right, they get all cuddly on ye.”

Ian had called her a
hedgehog
?

Roger held up the sticks again. “Ye gonna choose before the sun sets, missy, or you gonna make me risk my neck coming back here?”

“What do you mean about the sticks having different . . . magical powers?”

He rested the tips of them on the ground again, this time sighing so hard, it was a wonder his chest didn’t implode. “It be common knowledge that trees gather the energy of the sun and moon and stars, and hold on to it until it be needed,” he explained impatiently. “And some woods are better than others at transferring that energy to us.”

“Then I want that one,” she said, pointing past his shoulder. “The big gnarly one that you said has the most energy.”

“Well, ye ain’t getting it,” he snapped. “I’ll not be responsible for you blowing yourself and anyone nearby to kingdom come.” He thrust the stick in his left hand at her. “You take this one. And when you get used to its magic, maybe then I’ll consider giving you a more powerful one.” He arched one of his bushy brows. “Or ain’t you ever heard of something called baby steps?”

Okay, this conversation was getting weird. How could Roger possibly know her personal litany of taking baby steps? And of all things to call her, why
gràineag
? And magical walking sticks? Really?

Jessie wondered if there wasn’t a retirement home nearby that he’d wandered away from, or maybe even a mental hospital. “Do you live around here, Roger?” she asked as she finally took the stick from him—only to gasp in surprise when a spark of static electricity shot through her glove and up her arm. “What was that?” she whispered, carefully closing her fist around it again only to feel a gentle hum.

“That was the magic aligning itself with you; energy that’s traveled clear across the universe to take up residence in the wood.” He tapped the stick while staring directly into her eyes, his own deep green gaze appearing old and wise and as solid as the mountains surrounding them. “Powerful, ageless energy destined for you alone, Jessie, that’s patiently been waiting for you to come here and finally claim it.”

Clutching the still-humming stick to her chest, Jessie looked down to see Toby sitting at her feet with his nose pressed up against the smooth wood, and she wondered if this wasn’t the same powerful magic she’d felt looking at that brochure.

“Okay, that’s done,” Roger said, setting the other stick on the track before turning back to her. He thrust out his empty hand and waggled his fingers. “Our deal was your old-lady cane and that scarf in trade, so give them up, missy,” he said, the soft-spoken man disappearing and the colorful, bartering character effectively snapping Jessie out of her fanciful daze.

Still holding her new walking stick to her chest, Jessie dropped Toby’s leash to unknot her scarf and slipped it off, then handed both it and her cane to Roger.