An’ tae you, Kylie.
Saints! What are all those?
Kylie set the crate on the dining room table with a grunt. “Reference volumes from the university library. I’m hoping to find what you’re looking for in one of them. But I’ll warn you, it may take a while. These are quite old, and I had to sneak them past—”
Thank you.
That sexy brogue wrapped around her, enveloped her, and she grabbed the back of the chair to steady herself. Just the way he spoke to her set her insides afire.
You feel it, too. Dunna you, Kylie?
A breeze drifted in through the screen door, like warm breath against her skin. She closed her eyes and inhaled, exhaled. She didn’t want to feel it. But she did.
She opened her eyes and started unpacking the volumes. “I’d better get started on these, Rory. It’s a lot of material to read through.”
Several hours later, she’d managed to get through the first book. With a heavy sigh, Kylie pushed her glasses on to her head and closed the volume. “This is insane. It could take a year to go through all this information, and I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.” The bones in her knees popped as she stood and stretched. The blades of the ceiling fan sent a feathery breeze across her skin, and the scent of jasmine drifted in through the porch screen.
Come outside with me. The gloaming draws near, and I want every second o’ it wi’ you.
Kylie sucked in a breath. “I thought you wanted my help.”
It’s you I want.
She gulped. It was one thing to be with a ghost you couldn’t see. Quite a different story, though, when said ghost solidified, regaining all mortal senses.
Lifting the heavy volume, she moved to the cool shade of the verandah. The sturdy rocking chair creaked as she sat down. Stretching her legs out, she propped them on the railing and crossed them at the ankles. The soft, gauzy sundress slipped aboveher knees as she rocked, but she barely noticed. Memories of her childhood flooded back, and she welcomed the deluge.
What are you thinking aboot, girl?
He sat beside her, close. She sighed. “God, I spent hours shelling peas with Grandma and Grandpa on this very porch. It seems so . . . long ago. Another lifetime even.” Every scent, every sound encompassed a cherished memory. When had she allowed them to fade? When had she forgotten the scent of lilac her granny used to wear? Or how her grandpa’s hands were gnarled and calloused from a hard-working life at the railroad, and prior to that, having survived Omaha Beach? Now, flashes of her as a child sitting on her grandpa’s lap, holding one of his large hands in two of hers, battered her. God, how she missed them.
Cicadas tweaked and chirped, and songbirds settled in for the night. The ever-present bubbling of the outgoing tide filled the air. And a barrage of high-pitched croaks emerged from the canopy of Georgia pines and magnolias.
Just as she moved to open the volume in her lap, a heavy hand rested on her bare shoulder. Her skin heated under it.
“Walk wi’ me.”
She lifted her gaze and met his light grey stare. He looked so real, from the sun lines at the corners of his eyes to the muscle ticking at his jaw, to the dark auburn hair pulled into a queue. Butterflies beat madly within her, setting her nerves on edge. To think a Scotsman from the Revolutionary War, who had centuries before slipped through a crack in time, made her react in such a silly way. Oh, how Granny would roar with laughter.
She stood and he took her hand, placing it in the crook of his arm. They walked and talked, he of his life and she of hers.
It was a comfortable walk with Rory; a familiar ease that Kylie admired in wonderment. To think he’d been at Granny’s on the Vernon River all these years, and she’d been . . . elsewhere. So much had happened in those years she’d been gone. God, how she regretted them all.
Rory’s gloved hand reached out, and a long finger traced the scar down her left arm. Reflexively, Kylie flinched.
“What happened?” Rory asked, his voice so quiet Kylie barely heard the question above the song of the cicadas.
Kylie’s stomach tightened at the jarring, unwanted memory, and without her permission, her breathing became rapid. She swallowed several times. “I . . . don’t like to talk about it,” she said quietly. “It’s something I’ve put behind me.”
Rory stopped, pulling her to a halt. Gently, he turned her to face him. Kylie refused to look at him.
“I dunna think you’ve put it behind you, lass.” He lifted her chin with his knuckle, traced the scar on her face. “Look at me.”
Kylie forced herself to meet his pewter gaze. Her insides shook.
“You can trust me.”
Kylie fought back tears, not wanting to relive the events that nearly ended her life. But when she looked into the kind, trusting eyes of Rory MacMillan, her fears began to fade. Then, a feeling of certainty washed over her, and suddenly it felt right to trust him.
