“Claire—my mother-in-law—I told ye about her, did I not?”
“A bit, aye. A seer, was she?”
Roger laughed shortly. “Aye, like I am. Like you are. Easy to be a seer if what you see has already happened.”
What’s already happened . . .
“Oh, God,” he said out loud, and curled over, pressing the fist that held the dog tags hard against his forehead.
“All right, there?” Buck asked after a moment. Roger straightened up with a deep breath.
“Know the expression ‘damned if ye do, damned if ye don’t’?”
“No, though I wouldna think it was one a minister would use.” Buck’s mouth twitched into a half smile. “Are ye not dedicated to the notion that there’s always one sure way out o’ damnation?”
“A minister. Aye.” Roger breathed deep again. There was a lot of oxygen on a Scottish hilltop, but somehow there didn’t seem quite enough just this minute. “I’m not sure that religion was constructed with time travelers in mind.”
Buck’s brows rose at that.
“Constructed?” he echoed, surprised. “Who builds God?”
That actually made Roger laugh, which made him feel a little better, if only momentarily.
“We all do,” he said dryly. “If God makes man in His image, we all return the favor.”
“Mmphm.” Buck thought that one over, then nodded slowly. “Wouldna just say ye’re wrong about that. But God’s there, nonetheless, whether we ken quite what He is or not. Isn’t He?”
“Yeah.” Roger wiped his knuckles under his nose, which had begun to run with the cold wind. “Ever hear of Saint Teresa of Avila?”
“No.” Buck gave him a look. “Nor have I heard of a Protestant minister who has to do wi’ saints.”
“I take advice where I can get it. But St. Teresa once remarked to God, ‘If this is how you treat your friends, no wonder you have so few of them.’ God’s got his own ways.”
Buck smiled; it was one of his rare, unwary smiles, and it heartened Roger enough to try to come to grips with the situation.
“Well, Claire—my mother-in-law—she told Brianna and me a good bit. About the things that happened when she went through the stones in 1743, and about things that had happened before that. Things about Captain Randall.” And in sentences as brief and unemotional as he could make them, he told the story: Randall’s raid on Lallybroch while Brian Fraser was away, his attack on Jenny Murray, and how Jamie Fraser—newly returned from Paris and wondering what to do with his life—had fought for his home and his sister’s honor, been arrested and taken to Fort William, where he had been flogged nearly to death.
“Twice,” Roger said, pausing for air. He swallowed. “The second time . . . Brian was there. He thought Jamie was dead, and he had a stroke—an apoplexy—on the spot. He . . . died.” He swallowed again. “Will die.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Bride.” Buck crossed himself. His face had gone pale. “Your man in the house? He’ll be dead in a year or two?”
“Yes.” Roger looked down at Lallybroch, pale and peaceful as the sheep that browsed its pastures. “And . . . there’s more. What happened later, just before the Rising.”
Buck raised a hand.
“I say that’s more than enough. I say we go down to Fort William and do for the wicked bugger now. Preemptive action, ye might say. That’s a legal term,” he explained, with an air of kindly condescension.
“An appealing notion,” Roger said dryly. “But if we did—what would happen four years from now?”
Buck frowned, not comprehending.
“When Claire came through the stones in 1743, she met—will meet—Jamie Fraser, an outlaw with a price on his head, coming home from France. But if what happened with Captain Randall doesn’t happen—Jamie won’t be there. And if he isn’t . . . ?”
“Oh.” The frown grew deeper, comprehension dawning. “Oh, aye. I see. No Jamie, no Brianna . . .”
“No Jem or Mandy,” Roger finished. “Exactly.”
“Oh, God.” Buck bent his head and massaged the flesh between his brows with two fingers. “Damned if ye do, damned if ye don’t, did ye say? Enough to make your head spin like a top.”
“Yes, it is. But I have to do something, nonetheless.” He rubbed a thumb gently over the dog tags’ surfaces. “I’m going down to Fort William to talk to Captain Randall. I have to know where these came from.”
BUCK LOOKED squiggle-eyed at the tags, lips pressed together, then switched the look to Roger.
“D’ye think your lad’s with your father, somehow?”
“No.” That particular thought hadn’t occurred to Roger, and it shook him for a moment. He shrugged it away, though.
“No,” he repeated more firmly. “I’m beginning to think that maybe . . . maybe Jem’s not here at all.” The statement hung there in the air, revolving slowly. He glanced at Buck, who seemed to be glowering at it.
“Why not?” his kinsman asked abruptly.
“A, because we’ve found no hint of him. And B, because now there’s these.” He raised the tags, the light cardboard disks lifting in the breeze.
“Ye sound like your wife,” Buck said, half amused. “She does that, aye? Layin’ things out, A, B, C, and all.”
“That’s how Brianna’s mind works,” Roger said, feeling a brief surge of affection for her. “She’s very logical.”