Page 73 of Highlander’s Hope

It was the last thing she’d ever have from Konnor.

“All right, son. Where shall we have the goal?”

Colin pumped his fist excitedly and picked a large rock from the shore. “Over there, look.” He pointed with his chin about ten feet farther up the shore. “That bush can be one part of the goal, and the boulder can be the other.”

“Aye, good,” Marjorie said and walked with him towards there.

She was the goalkeeper, again, and Colin turned out to be an excellent shot, it was also easier to kick the ball rather than the cluster of hazelnuts. They played for a while, until Colin suddenly stilled, his foot frozen mid-air over the ball as he stared at something behind Marjorie.

An icy shiver went through her, panic going through her in a paralyzing wave. Thoughts flashed through her mind like angry wasps.

She was alone outside the castle with her son.

If the MacDougalls had sent someone to kidnap them, the watchmen wouldn’t see them right away.

She’d rather die than let anyone take Colin.

Her hand shot to the dagger on her belt, and she pivoted to face whoever was behind her while unsheathing the dagger at the same time.

She pointed it at a man who sat on the horse and stared at her with wide eyes. He was giant. Tall, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, and red-haired. He was dressed in a weathered tunic, his breeches dirty in places and with patched holes.

Where had she seen him? before His face was blank in astonishment as he watched her and Colin.

“Marjorie?” His deep voice cracked in wonder and relief.

She blinked. He dismounted and took a step towards her.

“Stop!” she cried, still pointing her dagger at him.

The men held his hands up and stilled. Why did he look so familiar? Those high cheekbones, the almond-shaped eyes of a warm-brown color… He had a long, almost shaggy beard and his hair looked like it hadn’t had a woman’s touch for a very long time. And his eyes… There was pain in them, and sadness, and a desperate, desperate hope.

She’d seen those eyes before, but the man they belonged to was dead.

“’Tis me, Ian,” he said.

The ground lurched under her feet and slipped away. She waved her free hand in the air, looking for something to lean on but found nothing. She stepped back and found her balance again.

“Ian…” she whispered.

She looked to her right, to where the small Cambel cemetery was, to where Ian’s grave was with a headstone dedicated to him.

But if time travel was real, there was more magic possible. She turned to Colin, who kept staring at Ian with a frown. She gestured to him, and he hurried into her arms. Once he was in the security of her hug, she looked at the apparition before her.

“Are ye Ian’s ghost?” she said.

His eyes clouded with an inner turmoil, and he pressed his lips tightly together in his beard. “In a sense, I am. The Ian ye kent died, Marjorie. But I’m flesh and blood.”

Her vision blurred with tears, and her hand holding the dagger shook violently. “Ye didna die?”

“Nae.”

She released the air in her lungs, but something in her refused to completely believe him, and she still held the dagger.

“Where have ye been?”

He swallowed. “The MacDougalls sold me into slavery to Caliphate. I’ve been a slave over there all these years.”

Her arm fell. A slave! Ian had been a slave… A tear left a burning trail down her cheek. Her dagger fell in the soft grass, and she left Colin and marched towards Ian.