What Lies Between Read Free Page B

He’s away but will be back next week. Couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid. His sister took ill. You’ll meet him soon enough. For now, it’s safe to wander about in the hills. Stalkers won’t be out.”
    Stalkers. Hunters. Growing up in Oklahoma I had known several people who hunted. I ate meat, though not much, but I was a soft, modern person not sold on the idea of killing my own food. I fished occasionally and was fairly hypocritical about it all, but the image of a dead fish just didn’t have the same effect on me as the image of a dead Bambi.
    The car followed an arched stone bridge over a narrow river. As the road curved I caught a glimpse of a large stone house through the trees edging the long drive. I recognized it even though I hadn’t seen any pictures.
    Glenbroch. Home. Bigger than I thought it would be from Calum’s “small by Highland standards” description. Old. Not run-down but stately, been-here-forever old. Rooted. The two ends of the house jutted forward, thick ivy clinging to the upper façade of an impressive two-story stone house with a large octagonal center. Glenbroch might be a small country house in Scotland, but it looked like a mansion to me.
    My fatigue swirled off into the wind blowing through the open window and I jumped out of the car before the tires crunched to a full stop.
    “Welcome to Glenbroch,” Calum called after me, the roll of his Scottish brogue marking the moment with an emphatic reminder that I was in another world.
    “Glenbroch,” I mimicked his accent. Pushing open the massive front door, I stepped into the closest thing to the fairytales I’d read about in books . . . but this was better. This was real.

 
     
     
     
     
     
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    My impression from the outside led me to assume the entry would be grand and sweeping. The entry was large with a fireplace and sitting area, but more intimate than the impressively styled foyer I’d expected. Doorways led off in five directions; the center one offered a clean line of sight through the house to the glen beyond. With the ceiling’s painted beams and the rustic wood floor, the space was homey, lived-in. Caught up in the moment, I think I floated through the arched doorway straight ahead and found myself in a room shaped by the back half of the octagon.
    “That ceiling is eighteen feet high,” Calum said, coming up behind me.
    I slowly made my way around the massive room, touching everything and running my hand across the black marble of the fireplace, which looked to be original. Paintings hung on the wall; one was a portrait of a boy in a kilt, formally dressed like the photo in Gerard’s house of my grandfather. I moved close enough to read the inscription: James Gerard Philip MacKinnon, dated 1884. A woman’s portrait hung on the opposite side of the fireplace. Eleanor Isabella MacKinnon, 1902. The woman wore a yellow dress with a plaid scarf draped over the shoulder.
    “Eleanor married James in 1895. She was twenty-four and he was twenty-two. They would be your great-great-grandparents.”
    I searched their faces for a shared feature but only saw a general resemblance, enough to conclude that it was possible we were related.
    My glance fell on a grand piano in the corner of the room. I wanted to place my hands on its keys and see if I could remember any tunes. I’d only had one year of lessons before my parents died, but I could probably still peck out a tune or two.
    Before I could sit down and give it a try, my attention was drawn away by the landscape visible through the large windows. The room’s octagonal shape extended beyond the main wall of the house, giving the room an expansive view down the glen. The gardens to the rear were well maintained and tall trees edged the sides of the grounds, with a few close to the house. The builder must not have wanted to cut down those trees and formed the patio around them instead.
    “I’ll get the rest of your bags and bring them in. Your quarters are off