Page 3 of Highlander Unraveled
We’d vacationed in the summer. August I thought, but I couldn’t quite remember. I’d worked so hard to forget my past. My life with Steven. I didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to relive it. He’d been emotionally abusive to me. Crushing me from the inside. I’d sunk inside myself and become a shell of a human being. A stranger, even to me.
I clutched at my chest, feeling my heart race and ache.
It must be November now. Or close to it. In the U.S., families would be preparing to celebrate Thanksgiving. Buying turkeys, vegetables, looking up recipes and booking flights.
I never liked Thanksgiving. Not because I didn’t like turkey or cranberry sauce. The holiday had always been oppressive in Steven’s house. Not my house. His. And I had no family to celebrate with.
My mother-in-law would come over, a few of his other distant family members and business partners. Everyone would be kissing Steven’s arse (God I miss Logan) hoping he’d cut them a slice of his multi-million dollar pie.
I shivered. A chill filled me all the way to the bone. An icy feeling that I knew wouldn’t go away until I was in Logan’s arms.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Not Steven. Nothing about him was soft, and he’d not knock anyway.
I didn’t turn away from the window. Didn’t beckon whomever it was to come in. I stood still, silent, hoping I could wish my way out of this room. Pinching myself and praying this was just a nightmare I’d wake from.
But I knew, deep down, that this was real. I was awake. I was back in present day.
My life with Logan had been real, why else would my full breasts ache with the need to feed my child?
“Mrs. Gordon?” Mrs. Lamb said from the other side of the door. Her voice sounded far off. Older.
I still didn’t answer, but I could hear the handle jiggle and the creak of the door as she pushed it open.
I looked down to my feet, muddy and barefoot. Where had Steven found me? Or had I just appeared here? I didn’t remember walking through the mud.
“Are ye all right, dear?” she asked, also staring at my muddy feet.
I pressed my lips together, gritted my teeth. Shook my head, and water droplets pinged against my face. Mrs. Lamb had helped me to escape the last time. I owed my new life to her.
“I brought ye a tea.”
I didn’t want tea. Iwantedmy husband. My child.
“No, thank you.” The words came out harsh, bitter, and I was immediately contrite. She didn’t deserve my anger. It wasn’t her fault that Fate had brought me back.
She pressed forward, her feet skimming softly over the rug I’d muddied.
“Drink, dear. It’ll make ye feel better.”
I glanced down at the older woman; her arthritic fingers curled on my shoulder, a teacup and saucer jiggling in her other hand. I took the cup, not because I wanted to drink it, but because I was afraid she’d drop it.
“If ye want to talk…” she started, but I cut her off.
“I’ll be fine. And I never got to thank you—before.”
She shook her head. “I can’t help feeling…”
“It’s not your fault I’m back,” I said, my voice sounding hollow without emotion. “I have no idea why I’m back.”
I was flat. Numb.
Mrs. Lamb shook her head again. “But if I’d—”
“You set me free,” I whispered. I felt my womb lurch and the tears that I’d managed to quiet, once more stirred behind my eyes.
“And yet ye are back.” She sounded confused.
I nodded, though in my head, I swore, I was not going to be back for long. “Not of my choosing,” I said softly.
