Page 55 of Highlander’s Dangerous Gambler

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Scott's brow was fevered and cold, but inside his dream, he burned with heat. Mopping his brow, he hurtled on horseback after the men who had chased her.

The brigands after them were too many to count. And they took on every size, every shape imaginable; their barely lit eyes, hooded with ill-intent, stared blankly at him.

Now, at the front of the group, one squared up to him. His thick mousey hair fell in greasy lockets across his face. Scott had to work hard at not spitting on him.

"If yer wee strumpet o' a sister cannae pay, I can take the worth in kind!"

The man sneered, a distasteful grin that snaked across his face. Scott instantly wanted to put him into a deadlock but just fought against it.

"Ye'll nae lay a finger on her if ye value yer life!" Scott warned. The man just scoffed, and Scott raised his fist to strike him, but just as he did, another man took his place. This time he was darker, more truculent, and taller.

Every time Scott moved to fight them, another man pushed to the fore. When he glanced about, there was even more of them than before. Perturbed, Scott pushed his way through.

He had to get to Sheelagh before they did.

Inside the dream, Scott's heart started beating fast. He was here again; he always was. Locked into the past, with no way out. Putting his hands around his head, Scott despaired. Whatever he did, he had to think fast.

Next, he was running hard, pushing his way through the undergrowth, pleading to get to her. There, in the distance, was his sister Sheelagh.

"Scott!" She waved at him in a total panic. There were men all around her, dragging and pulling her away.

"Sheelagh!" Scott shouted so loud he cried in his sleep. But it was too late. Sheelagh was in their grip.

Urgently he struggled, but his assailant had him close. Battling to get free. Scott fought hard.

Finally, he pushed them back, stopping them from entering the crumbling cottage.

But even in the end, when they had gone, what remained was bleak. They had ripped out and taken every item from the tiny house.

And in their midst, Sheelagh, her long blonde hair falling softly around her ears, sat weeping.

"Thank ye," she said, her tear-stained face creasing with gratitude. Beside her, a boy sat playing in the dirt. As he entered, he raised his blond head up to smile.

"Uncle!" he leaped up to run to Scott, hoping for a cuddle. But Scott could not disguise his dismay. The place was in ruins. Even more than before.

Picking up his nephew, Scott fought away the tears. "Hoo there, Jamesie," he said, as cheerfully as his voice would let him. "What ha ye been up to, ye wee loon?"

But the lad just stopped and looked at him, his eyes wide with tears.

Scott choked; they had no one and nothing, and he was the only one who could keep the wolf from their door. Rummaging around in his pockets, he pulled out a coin.

"Noo," he said, placing the coin in the boy's sticky palm. "Why dinnae ye gi' that to yer mammy an' she can buy ye summat for yer tea?"

The lad snatched the coin and excitedly ran off as Scott surveyed the mess. The place was devastated—holes in the walls letting in the rain, moss seeping in through the cracks, and looking above, a very clear hole in the ceiling.

And despite his victory over the brigands, Scott was all too aware that they would come back. Already, he could hear the sounds of their horses advancing.

Scott turned fitfully in his sleep. There must be some way of helping her. But it would take more than the odd coin here and there to fix it. Glancing at Sheelagh, he smiled sadly.

"Dinnae fash, wee lass," he said to his sister. "I've got a few tips about the races in Strathnaver. I'll see what I can win!"

His sister smiled but uncertainly. Scott could see in her face she was unsure of his ability to win. And in the distance, the backdrop of men and shouting could be heard, their footsteps coming nearer all the time.

Bang, bang, bang!

But there and then, Scott had resolved to make sure he did. There were not many things he excelled at, but betting was one of them. Blessed with an almost clairvoyant ability to spot a winner, he was just beginning to make some small profit from his pastime.