And if I’m right, and Jem’s not here—where is he? Has he gone to another time—or did he not travel at all? As though the word “logical” had triggered it, a whole array of horrifying possibilities opened out before him.
“What I’m thinking—we were both concentrating on the name ‘Jeremiah’ when we came through, aye?”
“Aye, we were.”
“Well . . .” He twirled the cord between his fingers, making the disks spin slowly. “What if we got the wrong Jeremiah? That was my father’s name, too. And—and if Rob Cameron didn’t take Jem through the stones—”
“Why would he not?” Buck interrupted sharply. He transferred the glower to Roger. “His truck was there at Craigh na Dun. He wasn’t.”
“Plainly he wanted us to think he’d gone through. As to why—” He choked on the thought. Before he could clear his throat, Buck finished it for him.
“To get us away, so he’d have your missus to himself.” His face darkened with anger—part of it aimed at Roger. “I told her yon man had a hot eye for her.”
“Maybe he does,” he said shortly. “But think, aye? Beyond whatever he may have had in mind with regard to Brianna—” The mere words conjured up pictures that made the blood shoot up into his head. “Whatever he had in mind,” he repeated, as calmly as he could, “he likely also wanted to see whether it was true. About the stones. About whether we—or anyone—really could go through. Seeing’s believing, after all.”
Buck blew out his cheeks, considering.
“Ye think he was there, maybe? Watching to see if we disappeared?”
Roger shrugged, momentarily unable to speak for the thoughts clotting his brain.
Buck’s fists were clenched on his knees. He looked down at the house, then behind him at the rising mountains, and Roger knew exactly what he was thinking. He cleared his throat with a hacking growl.
“We’ve been gone for two weeks,” Roger said. “If he meant Brianna harm . . . he’ll have tried.” Jesus. If he—no. “She’ll not have let him harm her or the kids,” he went on, as steadily as he could. “If he tried anything, he’ll either be in jail or buried under the broch.” He lifted his chin toward the tower below, and Buck snorted in reluctant amusement.
“So, then. Aye, I want to rush straight back to Craigh na Dun, too. But think, man. We ken Cameron went to the stones after he took Jem. Would he not make Jem touch them, to see? And if he did . . . what if Cameron can’t travel but Jem did—to get away from him?”
“Mmphm.” Buck thought that one over and gave a reluctant nod. “So ye’re maybe thinkin’ that if the lad was scairt of Cameron and popped through accidental, he maybe wouldn’t try to come straight back?”
“He maybe couldn’t.” Roger was dry-mouthed and swallowed hard to generate enough saliva to speak. “He didn’t have a gemstone. And even with one . . .” He nodded at Buck. “Ken what happened to you, even with one. It does get worse each time. Jemmy might have been too scared to try.” And he might have tried, not made it, and now he’s lost for good . . . NO!
Buck nodded.
“So. Ye think he’s maybe with your da, after all?” He sounded dubious in the extreme.
Roger couldn’t bear sitting any longer. He stood up abruptly, thrusting the dog tags into the breast pocket of his coat.
“I don’t know. But this is the only solid bit of evidence we have. I have to go and see.”
THE CURE OF SOULS
“YE’RE OUT OF YOUR wee pink mind, ye ken that, aye?” Roger looked at Buck in amazement.
“Where the devil did you get that expression?”
“From your wife,” Buck replied. “Who’s a verra bonnie lass and a well-spoken one, forbye. And if ye mean to get back to her bed one of these days, ye’ll think better of what ye mean to do.”
“I’ve thought,” Roger said briefly. “And I’m doing it.” The entrance to Fort William looked much as it had when he’d come here with Brian Fraser nearly two weeks earlier, but this time with only a few people hastening in, shawls over their heads, and hats pulled down against the rain. The fort itself now seemed to have a sinister aspect, the gray stones bleak and streaked black with wet.
Buck reined up, grimacing as the horse shook its head and sprayed him with drops from its soaking mane.
“Aye, fine. I’m no going in there. If we have to kill him, it’s best if he doesna ken me, so I can get behind him. I’ll wait at yonder tavern.” He lifted his chin, indicating an establishment called the Peartree, a few hundred feet down the road from the fort, then kicked his horse into motion. Ten feet on, he turned and called over his shoulder, “One hour! If ye’re not with me by then, I’m comin’ in after ye!”
Roger smiled, despite his apprehension. He waved briefly to Buck and swung off his horse.
Bless me, Lord, he prayed. Help me to do the right thing—for everyone. Including Buck. And him.
He hadn’t actually stopped praying at any time since Jem had disappeared, though most of it was just the frantic, reflexive Dear Lord, let it be all right of everyone facing crisis. Over time, either the crisis or the petitioner wears down, and prayer either ceases or . . . the person praying starts to listen.
He knew that. And he was listening. But he was still taken aback to get an answer.
He had enough experience in the business of prayer to recognize an answer when it showed up, though, however unwelcome. And the pointed reminder, arriving as a random thought in the middle of their mud-spattered, rain-sodden journey—that Jack Randall’s soul was in as much danger as Brian Fraser’s life—was damned unwelcome.