Elaine Coffman - [Mackinnons 06] (11 page)

In the end, he decided he couldn’t leave her, at least not
until he found out what it was about her, what strange thing had occurred in
her life that made her so afraid. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Want to talk about something else?”

“No.”

“Want to talk about anything?”

“No. I… Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“Cathleen,” he said, taking her by the shoulders. “When are
you going to realize that I only want to help you?”

“When are you going to realize I don’t want your help?” she
asked, turning her head away and looking off.

“What happened out there? What did you see that upset you?”

She picked a leaf that clung to her skirts and tossed it
into the water. “I didn’t see anything.”

“You don’t lie very well, I’ll say that much for you.” He
smiled. “I would suppose that is because you haven’t had much practice, but you
saw something.” He knew it was something about that ewe, and not the flock of
sheep, that had upset her.

“Was it because you thought the ewe was sick? Did you think
she was going to die?” he asked. Perhaps the thought of death reminded her of
the deaths of her parents. Was that why she was so protective of her
grandfather? Because she was terrified that he might die?

“The ewe wasna sick.” She gave him an irritated look. “I
know the difference between sick and… I am no idiot. I k-know what was
happening.”

He noticed the way her voice broke. Was her fear related to
the fact that the ewe was giving birth?

“How did your mother die, Cathleen? Was it an accident?
Illness?”

He knew how shaken she was now, for her breathing was rapid,
and her eyes kept darting around, as if she was considering her chances of
bolting from him.

“You wouldn’t get very far,” he said. “I am bigger than you
and I can run faster.”

“Aye, I ken you would run as fast as it took.”

“I
ken
you are right. There will be no escaping now.
If I have to toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to the house to
confront your grandfather, I will. Or we can stay out here in this field until
the sun has roasted both our hides. What’s it to be? Talk or bake?”

“Why does everything with you end up in talking?”

He grinned. “There are
other
alternatives. Would you
like to try one?”

A flush spread across her cheeks. “Put that way, I prefer
talking.”

“I thought you’d see it that way.”

“Are all Americans so prone to…to speech?”

“Probably. But we’ll discuss that to your heart’s content at
another time. How did your mother die?”

She turned her head and stared out over the water, pushing
her hair back from where it had fallen about her face. She did not answer him
for a long time. At last, when she glanced back at him, she must have seen the
resolve in his eyes, for she sighed and looked off again. “My mother…died in
childbirth.”

“I see,” he said.

She scrambled to her feet. “No, you don’t see!” she
screamed, her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Who do you think you are,
some magician who can cure my poor, sick mind? Well, if you want a challenge,
I’ll give you one. Aye, my mother died in childbirth when I was six, and my
stepfather almost beat me to death because of it. And there is nothing…
nothing
,
do you hear, that you can do about it. Now are you satisfied?”

He came to his feet beside her, noticing how her hands were
now locked around her waist. She rocked back and forth, her eyes wild, as if
she were not really standing here on this rock with him. Her eyes were fixed on
the field beyond him, on some mysterious, dark point in her past, visible only
to her.

No, she was not here. She was a child of six, reliving the
horror that had left her shattered and so afraid.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s walk. Sometimes walking helps
when you need to talk.” He was careful not to touch her.

“I dinna need to talk and I dinna need to walk.”

“Yes, you do,” he said.

She did not say anything, nor did she look at him, but he
had expected that. At least she did not run away from him.

“Our home in California was on the coast—a place very much
like Scotland—where the trees grew right down to the cliffs that ran along the
water’s edge. My mother was a walker, and you could always see her in the
evenings walking along the cliffs with a big yellow dog at her side. It’s what
she always did when she was upset or needed to think, and if there was a
problem with one of us, she would take us down to the cliffs with her and make
us walk.”

He shook his head, remembering. “Walk and talk, we did,
until we had talked out the things that bothered us.”

Silent, she simply stood there, staring off in the distance
as she had done before, but his words seemed to have a calming effect upon her,
so he went on talking.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and, standing
beside her, stared out over the pool of water to the fields beyond. “I could
always tell what kind of mood my mother was in just by watching her walk. When
she was happy, her walk was moderately fast, her steps light and lively. When
she was upset about something, her steps were slower and more ponderous. I
suppose my favorite was her angry walk, fast and furious it was, and she would
be talking to herself, waving her arms this way and that. I was always curious
to know just what sort of things she said to herself when she was out there
walking off her anger.”

He started walking then, slowly, with his hands still in his
pockets.

She started walking, not at his side, but trailing a bit
behind.

“When she first came to California,” Fletcher continued, “my
mother was the only one who walked along the cliffs regularly, but before long
she had all of us out there stomping along the path, pounding out our anger,
our frustrations. And a good cure it was, too.” He paused and glanced back at
her.

She stopped, giving him a skeptical look. “You ken that
walking
will help? When nothing else has?”

“I know it will.” He smiled at her, then turned and resumed
his pace. “Besides, what have you tried, besides keeping it bottled up inside
you?”

She did not answer, but he was pleased when she fell in step
beside him. “I ken you miss your family verra much.”

“Yes, more than I would have thought possible.”

“You said you have two sisters?”

“Barrie and Ainsley. They are both married now and living
near the Mackinnon side of the family in Texas.”

“No brothers?”

“I have three half-brothers. They are a bit younger than I,
but we are very close. I was always the big brother and their idol. My mother
said her first four gray hairs were for the four of us.”

She smiled shyly then. “Will you go back?”

“Not to live. This is my home now. It is where I want to
be.”

“I think it would be nice to have the choice…to be able to
live anywhere you wanted.”

“Where would you live, if you had the choice?”

She thought about that for a moment, then laughed. “Here, I
suppose.”

“Why did your father beat you?” he asked without looking lit
her.

“He was my stepfather. My father was killed in the Crimean
war. My mother married again three years after my father’s death.”

“You didn’t like him?”

“No, I didn’t. He was always hitting my mother.”

“Did he hit her the night she lost the baby?”

“Aye, several times. Then he left, and I knew he was going I
to get drunk.”

“He drank a lot?”

“He never stopped drinking. He was drunk that night. He was
always drunk.”

“And while he was gone, your mother gave birth?”

“She was crying when he left, but soon she was crying harder
and calling for me. When I went to her, she said the baby was coming, that she
needed my help. I helped her to bed, but I didn’t know what to do. There was so
much blood. I tried to boil water like she said, but I couldna get the fire
going. Then she kept saying the baby was coming, but it never did. There was
nothing but blood and more blood. It was everywhere…soaking the bed, all over
the floor, all over me. I didn’t know what to do, so I sat on the bed beside
her and held her hand. I didn’t even know she was dead until my stepfather came
home. When he saw her, he pulled off his belt and began whipping me. He kept on
beating me, the buckle cutting into my skin. Pretty soon I couldn’t tell if it
was my blood or my mother’s that soaked my clothes. I don’t remember much after
that. I remember crying and curling into a ball in the corner while he kept on
hitting me. I don’t remember when he stopped.”

“And afterward, he just left?”

“Grandpa said one of the neighbors came by and found my
mother dead and me unconscious in the corner. My father had passed out on the
floor. By the time he was sober, Grandpa was there, and the village folk set
upon my stepfather, chasing him away and telling him they would kill him if he
ever set foot in the Highlands again.”

“And you never heard from him again?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She turned to look at him.

“Would you mind if I held you?” he asked.

“Why? Do you think it would make me feel better?”

“No, I think it would make me feel better.”

They stood there in the middle of the field, looking at each
other as if they were both trying to figure out what the other was thinking.
She probably thought him an idiot, asking if he could hold her, when there were
a dozen other things he could have said, all of them more poetic or romantic.
But somehow he could not put what he was feeling into words right now. The need
to put his arms around her and comfort her was strong. He sensed that the
silent, caring touch of another human being would carry the healing power
Cathleen needed then.

“I don’t understand you,” she said.

“What is there to understand? I want to share with you the
warmth of my affection, to give food to that aching emptiness inside you. My
heart is too swollen with feeling to explain, but sometimes we can tell more by
a look, a touch, than we ever can with words.”

“But why hold me?”

“Because you are no longer a child and I cannot take you in
my lap to ease the torment you have suffered, nor can I bathe your wounds with
lavender water and kiss them away. What else is left?”

She had an almost winsome look about her as she asked, “Is
that what your mother did?”

“Always…” He smiled at her. “At least until I was too big to
hold on her lap and too manly to suffer the likes of lavender water, but even
then, she was always there with a loving caress and words of understanding and
encouragement. It was a love that guided, yet encouraged me to grow away from
her and become independent.”

She looked terribly sad. “I have never met anyone like you.
You have feelings and insight most men could never realize. How I envy you. You
must have a wonderful mother.”

“I do.”

“Can we walk more? I would like to hear about her.”

“She was the most important person in my life for a long,
long time. Whenever one of us hurt, she was there. She loved us when we needed
it, and pushed us away when it was necessary for us to stand alone. Her kitchen
was a remarkable place and each illness had its own special foods. I did most
of my studying at the big table in the kitchen while my mother baked. Even now,
there are times when I am working with figures and I find myself remembering
the smell of Linzer slices and hazelnut pastry, or the exact aroma of cinnamon
stars. If it had not been for my mother’s conviction and determination, I might
have come to Scotland to kill Adair Ramsay, instead of take his title away.”

“You hated him that much?”

“Oh yes. I still do. He took something from me that can
never be replaced.”

“Your father?”

“Yes.”

“Well, at least you had your mother, and a loving
stepfather…something I never had.”

“Do you remember your mother at all?”

“I try, but it seems the more I do, the more the memory of
her eludes me. When I ask my grandfather about her, he tells me she was a
loving, gentle person and that she loved me more than anything in the world,
but it is difficult to pin a face on such a description. There are no pictures
of her, only her name written in her Bible, and a small figure of her cut from
black paper—a silhouette made when she was eight or ten. Often I would sit and
stare at that silhouette, trying to breathe life into it, willing it to speak
to me, to tell me things about herself. I remember trying to see if I had some
resemblance to that small nose and round forehead. It’s all so strange, really,
for as the years have passed, I have grown up and become a woman, but my mother
will always be a child.”

He saw the path of tears down her face.

Her pain reached out and engulfed him. The admiration he
felt overwhelmed his compassion. He was understanding her more now, and he came
to a conclusion. She would never trust a man who felt sorry for her or who
showed his pity. She would remain stubborn, aloof, and very private, neither
relinquishing her privacy nor giving her trust without putting him to the test.
And so he was considerate, understanding, and careful, determined not to
humiliate her by his sympathy. She was like no one he had ever met. She was
simply herself, a being who existed alone, abandoned, defeated, bruised, and
shaken, but fortified by energy and incredible strength.

For a while, he forgot about Adair Ramsay and why he had
come to Scotland. For a while, all he could think about was how much he wanted
to touch her. But he dared not.

“It seems we both understand loss,” he said, feeling that
the words were a poor second to the comforting he wanted to give her.

Cathleen stopped suddenly and turned to him. “Will you hold
me now?” she asked in a quiet little voice.