Page 1 of Edge of Yesterday

Chapter One

The Beginning

Near the village of Heatheredge

Scottish Highlands

Heatheredge.

It had taken thirty-two years, but he was home.

Cailean breathed deep of the chill dawn air, ripe with pine, morning dew…and promise. A hint of heather teased his senses. Deep in the wilds of Sutherland, Scotland’s most rugged and remote region, he stood in an empty moorland field. Hands resting on the hilt of the sword he’d driven into the peaty soil, he watched the April morning break in blue-grays above the mist-covered treetops. Soon, the rich golden blooms of gorse and broom would glisten in the sunlight. The village on the far side of the woods would waken and the ancient road that curved through its heart would prove scarcely wide enough to accommodate the throng of visitors. Visitors like him.

Cailean tracked his gaze along the breeze-swayed heather. A tiny whirlwind leapt to life near the trees, then jolted toward him. He watched in amusement as the whirlwind batted the pink heather then jumped away. Its breeze reached him and he tensed in anticipation when the cooling mist danced across his bare flesh between kilt and boots. The wind abruptly softened and swirled around him as if in a lover’s embrace. Cailean smiled. Even the cold Highland air welcomed him home.

“Heatheredge,” he murmured, “I am yours.”

He glanced at the path that led to the village and watched swirling mist rise in thick folds along the field’s edge. Within the murk, a dark line of near impenetrable pines obscured all but the trail’s beginning. Above the fog, Clan Mackay’s impressive seat, Heatheredge Tower, speared the mist, rising from the trees like a citadel that pierced the clouds. At gloaming, he would stride through the stronghold’s gates, welcomed as a friend and ally.

Cailean pulled his sword from the earth, then whipped the blade high, slicing air and invisible foes.

“To the Edge!” he roared the Heatheredge war cry, swinging his sword again and again…and again.

The blade flashed silver as he thrust and swiped. Cailean dipped and spun, lunged and leapt aside, then back, relentless—and fast. He counted the seconds, the minutes, until lost in Triumph’s beauty. At last, his arm ached and he paused, breathing hard as dawn’s fingers brightened the sky over the trees.

Cailean brought the flat of the sword to his lips, kissed the tip for luck. “Triumph,” he whispered.

He carefully traced a finger along the sword edge. Her blade gleamed in the morning mist as if lit from within. No finer sword could be found in all of Scotland. A low rumble drew his attention to the right. Once again, he thrust Triumph into the ground, rested his hands on her leather-wrapped hilt and waited as the noise grew louder. The lighter blue-gray that spread across the eastern sky illuminated the tractor chugging through the wall of mist. Donnie Bain, the crofter who owned Bain’s Highland Farm and Guesthouse, steered the tractor in Cailean’s direction. He cut the motor before he reached Cailean.

“A good morning to ye, laddie. ’Tis an early riser you are.”

Cailean grinned. “Life is too short to spend it in bed.”

“No’ all of it is a waste.” The older man winked, then his eyes twinkled as he wriggled the paper bag he held. “Still, we dinnae see many folk up from the Central Belt willing to skip breakfast. Figured you’d appreciate something to fill your belly.” He held out the bag.

“I would. Thank you.” Cailean stepped forward and accepted the bag. Warm and bulky, it gave off the mouthwatering scent of bacon. His stomach growled. “This smells delicious.”

Donnie set his hands back on the wheel. “The wife buttered two of her Ben Nevis-sized cheesy scones and filled them with bacon for you. There’s also a slice of fried clootie dumpling and a thermos of tea. Or” –he glanced back over his shoulder toward the mist that hid the farm-and-guesthouse from view– “would you rather have coffee? We have both as our American visitors dinnae much care for tea.” He shook his head. “They have some odd taste, the Yanks.”

Cailean bit back a chuckle. “Tea will do.”

Donnie nodded. “Swinging a sword is hard work, eh?”

“It is.”

“But you were born to it.” The farmer’s gaze flicked over Triumph.

“My family hails from Skye, giving me Highland and Viking genes,” Cailean said. “That’s where I get my dedication to swording.” That and his ancestor Broc Mackay, the famed Mackay the Bear.

The farmer nodded. “We knew your name and reputation long before you applied to join us this year.”

“I’m honored,” Cailean said. More than his host would ever know.

“I’ll leave you to eat your breakfast.” The farmer restarted his tractor and lifted a hand in salute, then swung around and chugged off across the field, back into the thinning mist.

Cailean strode to Triumph, pulled her from the ground and slid her into the sheath attached to his belt. Then he crossed to a large, flat-topped boulder, lowered himself onto its cold surface, opened his breakfast bag, and withdrew one of the bacon-laden scones. He took a hearty bite of the crusty wheat and salty bacon. Never had a cheesy bacon scone tasted so good. He wiped his mouth with a napkin then removed the thermos cup and twisted the top loose. Steam wafted upwards as he poured the sweet, milk-laced tea. Cailean replaced the thermos lid and sipped the tea. This was heaven.

The wind kicked up. While today wouldn’t be a day of blue skies and sunshine, rain wasn’t forecast and he welcomed the brisk air. Warmth and fair weather hadn’t drawn him here. If he’d wanted either, he’d have flown to the Caribbean.