Gray appreciated Colum saying what he could not. He shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “That’ll do, Colum. Thank ye.”
The tips of Fearghal’s huge ears darkened to a deep red. Gray would not be surprised if the fool’s head burst into flames.
Aileas growled and surged forward, squaring her stout body in front of Fearghal like a lioness defending her young. Her meaty fists trembled against the dark folds of her skirts. “Will ye just sit there then? Will ye not demand respect toward my Fearghal? Toward yer own brother—the chieftain’strueson, no less?” Aileas’s mouth snapped shut and her eyes widened as she realized what she had just said.
“Take care, Stepmother,” Gray warned in a low voice. “I am chosen chief to Clan MacKenna.” He had always defended Aileas and her worthless son to the elders, insisting his father’s widow and her son be treated with honor and respect. But if Aileas decided to publicly challenge him, the two would be stripped of his protection immediately.
“Give the order,” Colum hissed. The slightest wave of his hand caused every warrior seated across the room to rise and step forward. “Give the order, my chieftain,” Colum repeated. “And we shall relieve your presence of this offensiveness. Permanently.”
Aileas’s trembling jowls and watery eyes resurrected what little compassion Gray still possessed for the two. He raised a hand and spoke to the men without taking his unblinking gaze from his stepmother’s face. “Nay.” He barely shook his head. “I feel sure the Lady Aileas realizes the rashness of her words. I am certain she claims a mother’s concern for her child as the reason she forgets herself.”
“Aye.” Aileas bobbed her head and stood taller while her cold, proud gaze swept across those standing in the room. “I dare say any of ye would not do any less if yer child’s honor had been so sullied.”
Gray slowly rose from his seat. For some strange reason, the tender healing flesh of the burns across his shoulders had suddenly begun to tingle. A warning, perhaps? Gray shrugged away the feeling and motioned toward Fearghal where he stood trembling behind his mother. “No more horses, Fearghal. If ye must travel, ye will go by wagon until ye learn to better stay astride.”
Aileas emitted a strained groaning noise from deep within her throat.
“Ye would say something, Lady Aileas?” Gray waited. It was Aileas’s move. He would not have his authority questioned further.
“Nay,” Aileas snapped.
“Nay?” Gray repeated sharply.
“Nay.” Aileas’s voice softened and she respectfully lowered her gaze in as humble a bow as she could manage. “I would say nothing more,mychieftain.”
* * *
“I don’t understandwhy you don’t want to go. You’ve always loved time-jumping and enjoy exploring different centuries even more. How many history books did old Mr. Brown make you copy to the blackboard because you argued they were wrong? Granny taught us more in all our jumps than Mr. Brown could ever imagine.” An impatienttappity-tap-tapbounced against the loose plank flooring of the outside shed attached to the old barn.
Kenna. Even if the girl hadn’t spoken, Trulie would know it was her from the rabbit-kicking thump against the wood floor. Whenever Kenna didn’t or couldn’t control the outcome of a situation, the tapping and jiggling of her right foot transmitted her frustration better than Morse code. Trulie didn’t bother turning around. Instead, she slid on the heavy gloves, clicked the striker, and lit the propane torch. Maybe if she ignored Kenna, her sister would go away.
“I am not going away. You know better.” Rusted springs squeaking in protest told Trulie that Kenna had just planted herself in the lean-to’s only chair.
Trulie settled the safety glasses more comfortably on her nose, touched the solder to the joint of copper tubing, and carefully applied the heat of the torch. “I’m busy, Kenna. I’m behind a full month in orders since I lost that truckload of oils and I won’t be able to restock the shelves in the store if I fill all the website orders first. If you’re not going to help me get this second distiller going, then go check the drying racks and see if they’re ready to be rotated. I don’t have time for idle chatter. Either make yourself useful or go away.”
The worn springs of the chair groaned again and the old wood comprising the frame of it crackled and popped as though about to disintegrate. Trulie gritted her teeth and leaned in closer to the expensive coils of copper pipe. If Kenna would get off Granny’s meddling team and help, they could get this second distiller built in no time and replace the lost stock. Trulie clicked off the torch, pushed the safety glasses to the top of her head, and scrutinized her work. Not too shabby. This one would be producing essential oils in no time. Now, if she could just resolve the uneasiness gnawing at the back of her mind just as smoothly. A growing restlessness, a sense of opportunities slipping away, stirred deep inside her. She felt like she was perched on a rickety footbridge over a bottomless pit. One wrong move in either direction and it would all be over. What the devil should she do?
“I am still here. You ready to talk or do you still think this is all just going to go away?” Now both of Kenna’s feet thumped an impatient tap-tapping against the floor.
Trulie rolled from her knees to her heels and carefully rose from the corner where the metallic monster promising to double production stood. Edging sideways out from behind it, she returned the torch to the work crate along with her gloves and safety glasses. “I am ignoring you. Now go away.” She flexed and stretched, working out the kinks that had knotted her muscles during the overlong squat.
Kenna snorted and drummed her fingers on the weathered frame of the chair. She shifted to sit with her legs crossed, her right foot still bouncing. “Be honest, Trulie. Don’t you really think it’s past time”—Kenna winked and folded her hands into a fidgeting knot in her lap—“you gave Granny the benefit of the doubt and took her up on an extended visit to the past? What’s a few months—give or take a year or two—to a time runner?” Kenna jiggled her foot faster and grinned. “Think of it as a vacation. You’ve never had a real vacation.”
Trulie ignored Kenna’s flippant attitude. Thirteenth-century Scotland was not at the top of her list of perfect vacation spots. “Since when do you side with Granny? You two usually mix like oil and water.” Kneading the small of her back, Trulie made her way to the open end of the three-sided shed and looked out into the trees. Great. She smelled rain. The muddy ruts of the road were never going to dry out if the spring rains didn’t let up.
“Why are you so determined not to give an inch this time? Aren’t you ready for a change? Just the other day you were complaining about how life had gotten so predictable.” Kenna rose from the chair and joined Trulie. She wrinkled her nose as she squinted up into the treetops. “The leaves are blowing inside out. It’s fixin’ to storm.”
“Yeah, it is. In more ways than one.” Trulie trudged across the springy moss of the clearing and yanked open the truck door. She was so sick of this conversation. As soon as she cranked one turn of the window crank, the corroded piece of metal fell off in her hand. A fat raindrop plopped into her palm beside the broken window handle. The drop of water was soon joined by another and another. Trulie glared up into the clouds as the gently pattering droplets increased to a pouring deluge.
She tossed the broken bit of metal to the ground. Everything was falling apart all at once. Nothing seemed to be going right. Maybe she did need a break from this time. “Are you trying to tell me something?” She scowled at the stormy sky, squinting at the raindrops.
Kenna swooped toward her with a tattered quilt held over her head. “Get in the truck. I know you’ve got enough sense to know when to come in out of the rain.”
Trulie slid beneath the steering wheel and scooted over to the passenger side. Kenna could drive. With her run of bad luck, she trusted Kenna’s driving better than her own.
Kenna shoved the quilt between them and slammed the truck door shut. Grabbing the edge of the lowered window, she jiggled and cursed at the piece of glass until it finally inched upward. Glancing back over her shoulder, Kenna feigned a stern expression. “If I break a nail, Trulie Elizabeth, you are paying for my next manicure.”
Trulie rolled her eyes as she grabbed the quilt and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Take it out of the money you owe me. I think you’ve built up a pretty good-sized tab over the past few years.”
