Man In The Mist. Annette Broadrick
lead and had returned home, instead. He could have told his client there wasn’t a chance of finding her roots in Scotland.
However, in good conscience, Greg couldn’t do that because there was a chance, even though it was slight. Perhaps the daughter, Fiona MacDonald, would remember something that would open up his search. If she couldn’t? Well, so be it. Until he had a chance to talk with her, she was a lead he refused to ignore.
Another wracking cough took over his body and forced Greg once more to slow the car. At least he didn’t have to worry about someone coming along and rear-ending him before he or she saw him through the fog.
No intelligent being would be out on a night like this, which said a great deal about him, he thought sourly.
Some time later Greg knew he was hallucinating when he thought the mist formed into wings and a long wisp pointed to the right. Another ten feet and he spotted a small lane, smaller than the one he was on. Despite the poor visibility, Greg could see that the road appeared to lead to a higher elevation. There was no sign to tell him where it led, but he had the strongest urge to follow it. Maybe he would find a farmhouse where he could get directions to the nearest town.
Without questioning the wisdom of his decision, Greg turned in to the single-track lane. A stone fence on either side of the road made him wonder what a person would do if he were to meet another vehicle along the way. There was no room to pass or turn around. He supposed if he met someone, one of them would have to back up. From the lack of lights or directional signs, he had a hunch he wouldn’t have to worry about that particular problem this late at night.
Fiona MacDonald sat beside the fireplace of her snug cottage, curled up with the latest novel by one of her favorite authors. Engrossed in the imaginary world portrayed in its pages, she’d lost track of time. A warm, knitted afghan on her lap had become a bed for Tiger, her striped yellow cat, who was sprawled on his back with paws extended in the air, asleep in total bliss.
Next to the chair, her mastiff, McTavish, soaked up the warmth radiating from the peat fire.
Fiona had spent most of the day visiting several villagers in the glen who’d needed her services as a healer. Once she’d returned home she’d been physically tired, but not ready for sleep. Rather than go upstairs to bed, she’d decided to indulge herself in her favorite pastime—reading—before retiring.
Although she heard nothing more than the sounds of the fire and the soft snores emanating from Tiger, McTavish lifted his head and stared toward the front window. Fiona put down her book and listened. She still heard nothing. Mac’s hearing was almost supernatural, so she waited to detect the sound that he had heard.
Eventually, a weak light appeared, barely piercing the thick fog, and Fiona realized someone was driving up her lane. She sighed and reluctantly moved Tiger off her lap. She glanced at her watch. It was past midnight. If there was an emergency, why hadn’t someone phoned her instead of driving out here in such weather at this time of night?
Thankful she still wore her heavy sweater and woolen pants instead of her nightgown and robe, Fiona slipped her stocking feet into her shoes and went to the front door, McTavish by her side. She grabbed her heavy jacket from the coat tree beside the door and pulled it on, making sure the hood came snugly over her head. Only when she opened the door did she realize that the earlier rain she’d been absently hearing had turned into stinging pellets of sleet.
She and McTavish stepped outside and stood in the shelter of her porch waiting for the car—which crept forward—to reach the house. McTavish had not barked as yet. However, his alert stance would make it clear to anyone venturing near his mistress that if he perceived her to be in danger, he was ferociously prepared to fend off any would-be attacker.
The car inched into the yard and stopped near the garage, which was unattached to the house. Fiona turned on the yard light, thinking she might recognize her late-night visitor. Whoever was in the car left the headlights on and she couldn’t see inside.
She watched as a man wearing a jacket inadequate for the current weather conditions stepped out of the car. He stood with the door open and looked around the area, pulling his collar up around his ears. Mist floated between them and the sleet further obscured him from view.
McTavish rumbled deep in his chest, but didn’t move. She rested her hand lightly on his head. The man spotted her in the shadows and without moving away from the car spoke to her.
“I’m sorry to bother you so late,” he said with an American accent, his voice hoarse, “but I’m afraid I’m lost.” He began to cough—a horrible, deep paroxysm that must have been painful. “I was hoping for some directions to a town nearby where I might find a place to stay overnight.”
Fiona knew that her visitor—whoever he was—was ill. She could never turn away someone in need of healing.
She stepped forward so that he could better see her and spoke clearly so that he might hear her. “Come in, please. You don’t sound at all well.”
He shook his head. “No, but thanks. I’m all right. I just need some directions.”
The yard light shone down on his thick, dark hair and emphasized his high cheekbones and a strong jaw that reflected the stubbornness she could hear in his voice.
Fiona stared at him without speaking, a tingle of sensation reverberating through her body. She began to receive myriad sensations about this man—a long-harbored and deep grief…depleted energy…frustration…physical pain. Most immediate to her, though, was the instinctive knowledge that he was on the verge of pneumonia.
At least he’d come to the right place for healing. He probably didn’t know he’d found a medical person, of sorts. Well, tonight was his lucky night, she thought with wry humor.
“Please come inside and we’ll discuss your situation,” she said. “You need to get out of this weather.”
He glanced around as though only now aware of the sleet stinging his face. With a shrug of resignation, the man reached inside the car, turned off the engine and lights and slammed the door behind him.
He strode across the driveway toward the front door.
As soon as he stepped onto the porch, she opened the door and motioned for him to enter. Now that she was closer to him, Fiona knew her sensory impressions had been correct. Her unexpected visitor was far from well. She felt certain he had a fever. That, together with his croupy cough, informed her that if he didn’t already have pneumonia, he was close to succumbing.
McTavish followed her visitor into the house, staying between the stranger and Fiona, totally focused on the man who had entered their home. Fiona smiled to see how seriously McTavish took his role as her protector whenever a stranger appeared. She rarely had visitors whom she didn’t know. She found this one to be particularly intriguing, whether from a healer’s point of view or as a woman aware of a very attractive man, she wasn’t certain.
However, she intended to find out. She closed the door behind them and moved toward him with a smile.
Greg looked around the hallway, then back to her as though bewildered. She held out her hand. “I’m Fiona MacDonald…and you are…?”
He blinked. “You’re Fiona MacDonald? I don’t believe it! You’re the woman I’ve been looking for. I’m Greg Dumas,” he said, and shook her hand.
The contact shook her. Or maybe her reaction was due to his comment.
She was the woman he’d been looking for, was she? Quite a startling revelation, if he were to be believed. Had he had the same reaction to her as she had to him?
Somehow she doubted it. Her own true love arriving at midnight on a stormy night proclaiming—with an American accent!—that he had been searching for her and at last had found her was a little much, even for her romantic soul.
His stare tended to unnerve her. If he hadn’t known her before, he would certainly know her after this, she decided, slipping out of her heavy jacket.
She