Annie And The Cowboy (Western Night Series 3) (44 page)

A small group of the clan's shepherds had gathered around a young girl no more than fifteen years old. As they took notice of Angus's approach, Liam, a tall man with a broad, honest face, walked away from the group to fill Angus in on what had happened. 

"Mary found it this morning," Liam explained in a hushed, nervous tone. "First we thought it was a wolf, but once we got closer..." He trailed off nervously, looking over at the poor creature.

There was something strange about the other shepherds, a tight lipped anger that seemed to resonate from them, was it him? It couldn't be, they had called for him.

Angus kept calm. "Let me take a look, then."

Liam nodded and led the way, walking with him across the path to where the sheep lay. Angus could feel the harsh stares on the back of his neck and it still confused him. Liam, however, remained kind.

As soon as Angus laid eyes on the animal up close, he knew that they we're right to summon him. There was something unnatural about the death, that was plain to see. He knelt down beside the poor animal to take a closer look.

"It wasn't eaten," Angus said with something that sounded like wonder. "And these marks..."

"They look like they're from a knife, sir."

Angus nodded and stood. "You were right to send for me, this is truly unnatural, as though..."

He cut himself off as bile rose to the back of his throat.

"How many of these have there been?"

Liam looked at the others, who nodded.

"This is the third, my lord."

Three times. Angus was shocked. Three times this had happened and not one had sent for m? The rest of the shepherds had moved over to them by then, and he heard a derisive snort from the back of the crowd.

"Why didn't you call for me until now?" He asked. It was a task to keep the fear from his voice.

"We thought you might already know, given your company." A voice sneered. Angus craned his neck to see who may be the one talking. The disrespectful voice made Angus's stomach clench in anger, but bravely maintained his temper in order to be civil.

"Pardon me?"

Liam looked embarrassed at the outburst, his eyes flicking desperately back and forth between his chieftain and the angry shepherds. Angus was utterly baffled by this response, and because of it, he was unsure of what to say.

"The animal was killed all magic-like," one of the shepherds said. "With a fancy knife, and some organs are gone."

              "They use it to see the future," someone else said. None of this particularly helped to explain to Angus why they were turning their ire towards him.

"Yes, I have heard of such things," he said cautiously.

"Of course you have," Liam replied. "Everyone knows that your daughter is a witch."

#

"Well, that's certainly not the first time someone has called me that," Fiona said matter-of-factly once her father had angrily stormed back to the house. Artair, having heard something similar, had also returned. Fiona didn't want to admit it, but she was sure that it was out of some concern for her safety that he did so. Fiona herself had spent the morning cheerfully mending some of her brother's more destroyed shirts, and she hadn't spoken to a single soul. She had no idea what the whispers could have been around the village, and had no idea how bad they might possibly become.             

"It's disrespectful, that's what it is," Artair said gloomily. Fiona often wondered how she could be from the same stock as Artair. He was large and broad, taking much more after their father than she did, with laughing blue eyes and long dark blonde hair. He had never allowed her so-called oddness to bother him, and she loved him for that.

"Well the two of you know that I did not do it, right?"

"I would not even consider it," Angus said firmly. Artair nodded. Fiona could not help but smile at them both. No matter what happened, she took great comfort in her father and brother.

"But what sort of creature would do such a thing, and for magic?" Artair asked with a frown in his voice. "What if they move on from sheep? To cattle? What if they..." His voice trailed off ominously, but Fiona and her father knew what he meant.

“There’s more,” Angus continued. “Some of the shepherds tell of a beautiful woman dressed all in green by the edge of the meadow, but when they draw close the woman disappears.”

“And they think that that beautiful woman may be Fiona?”

“Well, they certainly believe in the possibility.”

“That’s ludicrous!” Fiona exclaimed. “It could be any number of things, why it could be…”
              “Don’t start,” Artair hissed. “That’s why they think it’s you in the first place.”

“She might not be wrong,” Angus said slowly. Fiona turned to look at him with a face full of surprise. He seemed embarrassed to admit that she may be correct this entire time. But what faerie would do such a thing, especially given the fact that she had worked so hard to keep them happy?

“Perhaps it is a ghost,” she ventured in an attempt to be helpful.

"I am not wise in the ways of such things," Angus replied. "I don't believe any of us are."

"Of course not," Fiona huffed.

"Luckily, I know some who may be."

Fiona was confused for a moment before she caught the disgusted look on her brother's face.

"You must be in jest, father," he said.

              "No, I'm quite serious. I may have to call upon the Sheehy clan for their aid."

Fiona had heard of the Sheehy clan, she was sure of it, but not a single member of the clan came to mind. They were distant friends of Fiona's father, shrouded in mystery, but she knew little else about them. However what she lacked in knowledge, her brother seemed to more than make up for it. He seemed to know moths Sheehy clan well.

Angus turned to his daughter. "The Sheehy clan is a great ally to us," he explained. "Fearsome friends in battle. They know certain things that others do not."

"Witches, the lot of them," Artair said harshly. Fiona started in surprise at her brother's casually cruel words, and Angus sent him a corrective glare.

"They are friends to the earth," he said. "It's not for us to understand."

Artair snorted in disregard, and Angus pressed further.

"It has been too long since I have extended an invitation to them, and now seems like the perfect time."

"I suppose you may be right," Artair replied bitterly. "At least with the Sheehy's around, Fiona will look like a dull nursemaid in comparison."

Chapter 2

One week later, Fiona discovered that there had been another killing on her way to the market to sell some of her eggs, The first stone has whizzed past her ear and landed somewhere in the meadow grass before her. She looked at it curiously, before she felt something hit the back of her knees. It wasn't hard enough to make her fall, but she stumbled and whirled around to face her assailants. It was a group of boys no older than twelve; they all stared at her with dark, hateful eyes.

“You did it again,” one of them said with the simple cruelty of a child. Fiona stared at them in confusion, and because of that she missed the quick movement of the child’s wrist, and felt a burst of pain enflame her right cheek. She brought her hands up to her face, feeling something wet beneath her fingertips. She didn’t know whether or not the liquid was blood or tears.

“I didn’t do anything,” Fiona said, although she knew that it was pointless to say otherwise. She could recognize one of the boys as being a shepherd’s son, while another belonged to one of the cattle drivers. The cattle driver’s son’s face told her all she needed to know, that this most recent killing had not happened to the sheep.

“Why can’t you just leave the animals alone?” Another boy asked. “We don’t like witches around here, and my da says that you’re one.”

“He’s wrong,” Fiona heard herself say. She regretted it almost instantly as she saw the look on the children’s face change from something casually cruel to something much much darker. Upon seeing the tide change, she took a step back in fear. 

“Witch!” One of the boys cried, and threw another stone her way. It hit her hard in her shin, hard enough to make her stumble, the eggs cracking against the gravel of the path. She looked at the broken yokes, a bright orange red like spilled sunshine.  She lay there for a moment, desperately hoping that they wouldn’t advance, desperately hating herself for being too scared to run.

              She could feel their angry stares on the back of her neck, could hear the angry whispers of “witch”, although she wasn’t fully sure if they were saying it out loud, or if she was repeating their taunts in her head. It could have been either. She heard the quiet sound of a stone rubbing against the earth as it was picked up. She heard their footprints. She closed her eyes against the violence that was to come.

              “Hey! Lads! What are you doing to that lady?” A voice that she didn’t recognize sang through the air, biting in its authority. She listened to the crunch of the gravel beneath his boots as he approached before finding the courage to lift her head.

              The first thing she noticed was that he was tall, taller than her brother, and lean. He stood with a confidence that, on any other person, might be construed as arrogance. The stranger wore his belief in himself too well for that, however. His hair was a long reddish blond, with little braids adorning his hair. He placed himself between Fiona and the angry boys with firm feet. The boys just stared.

              “That’s no way to treat a lady,” the stranger said. One boy who had his arm wound back, prepare to throw, lowered his arm and nodded dumbly at the man.

              “Now get out of here, you devils, before I find each and every one of your fathers and insist that they tan all of your hides!”

              She should have felt relief as the boys turned and ran, but instead something else, something fluttery and terrifying gripped her heart as she realized that they had left her alone with the mysterious stranger. He knelt down to her level, gently placing a hand on her arm.

              “Are you alright, lass?”

              It took a moment for her to realize that the stranger was talking to her, although she was staring directly into his eyes. Such strange eyes they were, a golden brown more gold than brown. She took a deep breath and moved her leg. Her shin hurt plenty when she moved it, but it was nothing more than a bruise and she thought she was otherwise intact. The stranger winced as he reached over and touched her cheek.

              Pain exploded along her cheekbone as though someone had thrust a red hot poker into her eye. She hissed in pain and he drew his hand back.

              “I’m sorry, m’lady, but your cheek...looks like one of those boys is an expert marksman.”

              “They always seem to be when they have hatred on her side.” She moved to her knees and began to struggle to rise, and the mysterious stranger had moved to her side and helped her, something she both appreciated and loathed.

              “But who could hate you?” The stranger asked. He sounded genuinely confused at such hatred,and Fiona tried not to laugh out loud. How had he not heard about the strange witch girl of clan MacCaig? Who else would be found in the middle of a road, nearly getting stoned to death by children by her?

              “Plenty,” was all she could respond. “Everyone thinks I’m a witch.”

              If this surprised or terrified the man, it didn’t show, instead he smiled and helped her along the path. “I hardly think that’s any reason to throw rocks at a person.”

              “I’m
not
a witch,” she said through gritted teeth.

              “Either way,” the man replied. “It’s rude.”

              She turned to study his face again, trying not to be taken in by how handsome he was. Was this one of the members of Clan Sheehy? They were not due to arrive to the village until tomorrow, but this mysterious highland warrior could not have come out of the blue for no reason.

              “You must be one of our visitors,” she said after a moment. He smiled at her.

              “You would be correct,” he replied. “And you must be the very flower of Clan MacCaig?’

              “Not particularly,” she replied. “A wilted flower more like.”

              “Not at all.” He smiled at her and part of her felt incredible relief. This man, this warrior of another clan, had no idea who she was. Her mind raced with the possibility of being whoever she wanted at that very moment.

              “Well, my wilted flower, do you have a name?”

              “Moira,” she said, saying her mother’s name. “Of Clan MacCaig, of course. And what is yours?’

              He smiled and took her hand. “Callum, of Clan Sheehy.”

              Slowly, he raised her hand to his lips, and as they touched the delicate skin of the back of her hand, it felt as though fire shot through her. She let out a little gasp in surprise, and he laughed.