Even so, he hadn’t made it a rule that no one was allowed to speak about family or friends back inthe Highlands. He’d merely requested—on several occasions—that they do their reminiscing and letter-reading out of his presence. “It’s more a guideline,” he said, as he returned to stacking wood for charring the inside of the barrels. “But aye, ye’ve work to do. Without these barrels, by Wednesday we’ll risk fouling the balance of the whisky before it even has time to settle.”
The chatty lad—Rob or Raymond, as he recalled—bobbed his head. “I ken, Mr. MacCreath. It willnae happen again.”
“Good.”
Once they’d finished overturning the half-finished casks, Arnold began stuffing pine needles and old newspapers into the bases of the wood piles, then lit them one by one. With two remaining though, he paused, looking down at the worn, torn newspaper page in his good hand. He looked at it for a good minute, in fact, his expression as frozen as the rest of him.
“Arnold MacKenzie,” Callum commented, grabbing a handful of tinder to prime the next fire over, “if ye’re nae dead, ye might consider blinking.”
The old cooper did blink, looking up to stare at Callum with an expression of… dread? “Lads,” he said, “go get someaught to eat.”
“We cannae leave the barrels untended,” Rob or Raymond countered.
“I’ve been seeing to charring casks since before ye da’ was a twinkle in yerseanair’s eye,” Arnold retorted. “Now git with ye!” The entire time he spoke, his gaze remained on his employer.
An uneasy shiver went down Callum’s spine. Arnold MacKenzie had all the grace and subtlety of a newborn moose, and something clearly troubled him. Newspapers, news, never brought an ounce of good. That was why he hadn’t read one in ten years. He glanced at thelads running off to the kitchen, wishing for a moment he could join them.
It had been a very long time since he’d run from anything, however. “What’s got yer tongue tied, then?” Callum asked brusquely. “We’ve work to do.”
“I, uh… I happened to glance doon here, and I might’ve—I think I did, that is—spy the word ‘Geiry.’”
“And I should never have told ye or Rory a thing about it,” Callum retorted. “Throw it in the fire. We’ve casks to ready.” If his… If Ian MacCreath and his lovely wife had ten strapping bairns and had donated funds for a statue or a library or something, he didn’t want to know about it.
Arnold rocked from one foot to the other, but kept the paper clenched in his one good ash-stained hand. “I cannae toss it away, lad,” he finally said. “It’s but a few words left here. I can read it to ye or ye can read it for yerself, but ye need to know what it says.”
The cold settled deeper, pinching at his lungs. “Tell me, then,” he snapped. “And make it quick. I’m beginning to find ye annoying.”
The old man looked down at the paper again. “Aye,” he said, lowering his voice still further, and cleared his throat. “This paper’s from New York, dated last December, though I cannae make oot the precise date. It’s—”
“I dunnae care where or when it’s from,” Callum interrupted. “What does the fucking thing say?”
“It’s a headline. Part of one, anyway. ‘—rd Geiry, Drowned in Loch Brenan, Mourned b…,’” the cooper read, sounding out the letters of the partial words as he went. “And there’re two words below I can make oot—‘accident’ and either ‘weather’ or ‘heather.’” He took a breath. “Lad, I’m sorr—”
“Stop,” Callum interrupted. Sound roared around him, filling his abruptly hollow chest. Men talking, thering and snap of chopping wood, birds, the wind in the trees up the hillside. He wanted to cover his ears, but his limbs had frozen. And through it all, one thought pierced him, cold as winter, and sharp as a knife.
The news didn’t surprise him. Aye, he’d thought he’d be avoiding news of family and friends and acquisitions, of Ian further entangling the family business with Dunncraigh and clan Maxwell. But the second Arnold MacKenzie had looked at him, that paper in his one good hand, Callum had known.
Making himself pull in a breath, he put the firewood back in its stack and straightened. “See to the casks,” he ordered, and turned on his heel.
Boyd sat in the office, bills of lading, orders, invoices, and shipping schedules spread out before him on the desk. “The two new lads fled past the window a moment ago. They werenae on fire, though, so I reckoned…” The Kentucky Hills foreman trailed off as he looked up. As his gaze found Callum the half smile dropped from his face, and he stood. “What the devil’s happened?”
Did he look different? He felt different. He couldn’t even put a name to the thoughts rumbling through his mind, except that he wanted to hit something. Badly. “That letter fromBsomething. Did ye burn it?”
“Nae. I’ll do it now if ye want, b—”
“Give it to me.”
Without another word Boyd dug it out from the desk and handed it over. His jaw clenched so hard he was surprised the bones didn’t crack, Callum looked down at it. Addressed to him, aye, from one Bartholomew Harvey, Esq. A solicitor. A very English one, from the name.
Slicing his finger through the wax seal, he unfolded it. “Dear sir,” he read to himself. “This is my fourth attempt at reaching you. As I noted in my previous correspondence, I have been charged with informing youof the unfortunate death of Ian MacCreath, Earl Geiry. I will not discuss matters of inheritance, etc., herein, but request that you contact me immediately so we may conclude this business. I shall make one more attempt hereafter, but be aware that if unsuccessful, I will be forced to report to the Crown that you also are deceased, and the Geiry title will pass to your cousin, James Sturgeon. Respectfully, Bartholomew Harvey, Esq.”
Every word pounded like a hammer into his soul. “‘Conclude this business,’” he growled. “Aye, we bloody well will.”
“Callum?” Boyd asked, his brow furrowed.
“Ye’ll see to the business, Rory,” he said, moving to shove the missive into his coat pocket and then remembering he’d left the garment in the barrel tent. He would need it, and a few other things he could throw into his saddlebags. A trunk or two could follow.
“Aye, of course I will. What’s afoot?”
