Promises to Keep
Chapter 4
"You married, MacLeod," Sara asked, as they walked along the shore of the lake.
Duncan's foot slipped off a rock and landed ankle deep in icy water. "No. Why do you ask?"
"Just making conversation. I went through your wallet when I was trying to find out who you were. I saw a picture of a pretty blonde woman. I thought maybe she was your wife."
Tessa. Even after two years, deep abiding sadness rested heavily on his heart. He couldn't talk about Tessa. Not now. Not today. "No, she's not my wife. How much further is that clearing?"
Sara stopped. Her ponytail twitched as she turned her head. She stared at him for a moment with narrowed eyes and a masked expression, then she turned and began walking again. "It's just ahead."
Duncan squeezed between a large boulder and a tree, then followed Sara into the clearing. Sandy black dirt, littered here and there with rocks and small plants, skirted the lake and stretched about twenty feet along the shore. It extended back into the woods about the same distance. It suited his purpose, nicely.
A tree at the far edge offered a convenient perch for the target Sara had dug out from under the sails. Duncan walked across the clearing, then attempted to wedge the bright yellow, red and blue ringed disk in the "V" where branch met trunk. It tilted, falling out of place. He reached out to adjust it again, but a faint whistle, brought the hair at the base of his neck to attention. Something brushed his arm, and a vibrating twang shook his ears. He tried to move his arm, but an arrow had pinned his sleeve to the tree.
"What the hell!" He continued to swear in Gaelic, as he pulled the arrow from the tree, then spun around in one fluid motion.
Sara stood at the other side of the clearing, bow in hand, satisfied expression on her face.
Duncan covered the space in three long strides. "Are you crazy?" he shouted waving the arrow wrapped in his clenched fist.
Sara stepped back, lowered the bow in the space between them, wound her fingers around the top, then she smiled. "You asked if I could hit a moving target. The answer is in your hand."
"I didn't mean me. You could have killed me!"
"Possibly," Sara said, watching him with a look that was sharper than the arrow he held in his hand. "But you told me you can't die." She broke off her stare, turned and sat down on a rock at the edge of the clearing. Holding the bow across her lap, she examined it.
Duncan stood with his hands on his hips. Just when he thought he had her figured out, she did or said something that left him astounded. The woman sitting before him appeared as cold and calculating as any he'd ever met, yet he'd seen her soft and tender, as well. He shook his head, as he fitted the arrow to the string of the other bow.
"Well, this is not the time to test my Immortality," he said turning back to face the target. "Having an arrow pierce my back, and dying as a result, is not my idea of a fun way to pass the time." As he pulled back the string, then released the arrow, he remembered a time when he had died from just such a shot. A time when he was living with Little Deer and the Sioux, but he had no time for such memories now. He shook them off.
His shot missed the bull's eye by about three inches. He swore softly as he positioned another arrow on the bowstring. "Besides, you missed," he said, but he didn't. This time the arrow landed in the center of the black spot. He turned to find Sara watching him.
"No I didn't," she said, rising. "I was aiming for this spot of blood on your sleeve."
Duncan tugged at the blue chambray and examined the hole in his sleeve. It lay exactly in the center of a patch of dried blood about two inches across. She could be lying, but he didn't think so. He didn't really believe she would shoot him deliberately, so he had to believe his sleeve had indeed, been her target. He hoped she would be that good when he needed her to be.
Mesmerized, Sara watched the muscles of Duncan MacLeod's back and shoulders ripple under his shirt as he sorted through the contents of her backpack. Muttering something about seeing what else she had in her bag of tricks, he had spilled everything out on the ground a few minutes before. From a distance of about two feet above her head, her mind watched as well, and methodically recorded every detail. So this is what an out-of-the-body experience feels like.
How else could she explain this bizarre sense of separation, and the chilling numbness that blocked rational thought? Her world had taken on a surreal quality the moment a dead man sat up by the stream. When the razor edge of his sword missed her head by millimeters, her mind immediately shut down all feeling, then sought refuge in that safe spot where it now floated. All other body functions ran strictly on autopilot. Any sense of conscious movement, conscious decision-making had vanished. Logic and order had evaporated like a morning mist under the heat of the midday sun. Nothing of substance remained - nothing to hold on to, save courage. The tide of events flowed too strongly for resistance; she quit fighting and drifted with the current.
A wet sounding crunch, caught her attention and held it. She blinked to focus her eyes. Less than a foot away, MacLeod rested his arm across one bent knee as he bit into the apple again. A dead man eating an apple. Such a common ordinary act raised to an eerie level by extraordinary circumstances.
"Help yourself to my lunch, MacLeod," she said. Her voice echoed strangely, yet the tone sound perfectly normal, almost playful. Who was this person? No one she knew, and certainly not Sara MacKensie.
His smile triggered a rush of warmth that spread up from the pit of her abdomen. "I like a woman who plans ahead." He held the apple out to her, offering to share.
She shook her head, then propped her elbows on her knees. Her head drooped to rest in the cradle of her palms. "I was an Explorer Scout. Our troop leader taught us to be prepared at all times for all things."
"He taught you well, but you forgot the kitchen sink," MacLeod replied with a chuckle, setting the apple down on top of the binoculars.
He picked up a Swiss army knife, checked out a few of the attachments, then he dropped it onto the growing assortment of items piled near her feet. He had already selected the Bowie knife that had been her father's favorite, a coil of nylon rope, a roll of electrical tape that had been in the bag for so long she forgot why she had it, and a small high-powered flashlight. He threw the remaining items, including the rest of her lunch back into the bag, then set it alongside her.
He sat back on his heels and studied her for a moment while he finished the rest of the apple. "I want you to understand something," he said, his voice low and steady. "Before this is over, people are going to get hurt. Some may even die. I'll do my best to make sure the bad guys are the only ones doing the dying, but I can't offer any guarantees."
Two Saras listened to the sensual, resonant voice of a dead man. One Sara accepted the inescapable truth of this unimaginable situation, coldly and with full knowledge that she would do what needed to be done. Kill, or be killed. And you're right smack dab in the middle of it, Sara. You can't go back, and you can't run from the inevitable.
The other Sara recoiled at this casual speaking of violence and of death. She wondered what had become of the writer Sara who could form such scenes in her imagination, then paint those pictures with words for others to read. She saw no recourse but retreat, and crept deeper into the corners of her dark sanctuary to let the other Sara get on with the harsh business of killing.
As the gap between them widened, both Saras wondered whether even all the kings horses and all the kings men could make her whole again. "We've been over this ground before," the cold steel Sara said. "Why go over it again?"
"Because this is not one of your novels we'll be writing. It's reality, and I thought I should remind you, that for mortals, death is permanent."
Sara rubbed her palms along her thighs. The sun-browned backs of her hands wore a coat of smeared dirt and dried blood. The normally short nails were broken and split. The yoke of cold steel chafed as it sat heavily on her shoulders. She sighed. "You think I don't know that?"
She looked up and gazed deep into his soft brown eyes - except the softness had formed a hard edge. They now glinted with his own brand of steel. An electric thrum traced her nerves as they continued to measure one another. No matter what the future held, circumstances had joined her with this man in a way that she had never been joined with anyone before. What consequences waited in the path ahead, she knew not. She just knew they must face them together.
He leaned closer, and took her hands in his. Strong hands grasping her slender hands. His thumbs moved over her knuckles, caressing them with soothing tenderness. "I need you to be absolutely sure," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "If I take you with me, I need to know that you can do what needs to be done.
Once we have begun, you can't change your mind or get squeamish on me at the last minute."
"You want to know if I can ... kill."
He lowered his eyes to glance at their joined hands. "Yes," he answered, meeting her gaze again.
"I don't know."
His eyes twinkled as his mouth twitched into a smile. "At least, you're honest."
"I won't let you down, MacLeod. My Dad taught me that life is full of things you don't think you can do, but when they need to be done, somehow you find the strength to do them."
He studied her again for a long moment, then gazed down at the ground as he pushed the equipment to one side. With a twig, he drew a rough outline of her house in the dirt. "Here's what I thought we could do ... " he said, as he began to lay out his plan of attack.