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  ANGUS

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor (No. 34)

  By Jo Jones

  KINDLE EDITION

  PUBLISHED BY

  Jo Ann Jones

  http://jojonesauthor.weebly.com

  ANGUS

  Copyright © 2017 J. Jones

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Series © 2015 L.Lytle

  All rights reserved

  Amazon KDP Edition License Notes

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy. The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Interior book design by Bob Houston eBook Formatting

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  BOOKS IN THE SERIES

  A NOTE ABOUT THE SERIES

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ANGUS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  THE REAL LUCY’S CHUNKY-APPLESAUCE & APPLESAUCE-CUSTARD PIE RECIPIES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  To the real-life Angus and Lucy, who taught unconditional love by example. I’m blessed to have had you in my life, and forever grateful.

  BOOKS IN THE SERIES

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor

  1. The Gathering

  2. Lachlan

  3. Jamie

  4. Payton

  5. Gareth

  6. Fraser

  7. Rabby

  8. Duncan

  9. Aiden

  10. Macbeth

  11. Adam

  12. Dougal

  13. Kennedy

  14. Liam

  15. Gerard

  16. Malcolm

  18. Watson

  19. Iain

  20. Connor

  21. MacLeod

  22. Murdoch

  23. Brodrick

  24. The Bugler

  25. Kenrick

  26. Patrick

  27. Finlay

  28. Hamish

  29. Rory

  30. MacBean

  31. Tristan

  32. Niall

  33. Fergus

  34. Angus

  A NOTE ABOUT THE SERIES

  Although the individual stories of Culloden’s 79 need not be read in strict order, The Gathering should be read first to understand what’s going on between the Muir Witch and these Highland warriors from 1746.

  The names of Culloden’s 79 are historically accurate in that we have used only the clan or surnames of those who actually died on that fateful day. The given names have been changed out of respect for those brave men and their descendants. If a ghost happens to share the entire name of a fallen warrior, it is purely accidental.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As always, it takes a village to bring a project to fruition. My village is (thankfully) large, so it is impossible to name everyone who helped with Angus’ story. But I want to thank L.L. Muir for envisioning this series and inviting me to play among the 79 ghosts, and have a hand in their happy-ever-after.

  Thank you to the Firewalkers, and to Joelene Coleman, for your time and invaluable assistance. And thank you to my daughters, Jennifer Hall and Lonnie Webster, for kitchen testing Lucy’s applesauce pie recipes, and for the million other ways you support me. And lastly, a special thank you to my in-laws, Angus and Lucy, who brought so much more than pie into my life.

  ANGUS

  CHAPTER ONE

  Angus MacLauchlan watched the luminous green mist swirl around the lower portion of Soncerae’s cape, as she gracefully circled her fire. ’Twas a testament to the power and protection of her ancestors, she’d been heard to say. And true to her lineage, the Muir magic blazed brightly enough this night to chase the shadows from this gathering of souls – those remaining of the original 79, on Culloden Moor.

  With Soni’s help, another ghost would leave the moor this night, sent out, Angus mused, to complete an unknown quest in order to achieve an unknown destination.

  Angus knew for many of the lads it meant, at long last, they’d be released from their ghostly imprisonment to finally cross-over to their eternal rest. Others vied for the chance at retribution against Bonnie Prince Charlie for his cowardly failure to lead the Jacobite army on Culloden’s battlefield. A few even placed the blame at The Prince’s feet for the centuries long captivity of the 79 on the moor, as if his epic failure to lead had harvested far reaching and unexplainable consequences.

  As with Angus, each man carried his own private reasons to either attract the attention of the wee witch in order to hasten their departure, or to shrink from her view, to postpone their parting for some obscure purpose.

  ’Twas no’ out of fear, that he tarried, Angus reasoned, as he clung to the dimmest edge of Soni’s light. He was ready to face any challenge she placed in his path. ’Twas his duty. He’d said such to Duncan Macpherson not long before Soni chose to take the lad.

  But Angus did begrudge takin’ even one more step on a path that wasna’ of his own choosin’. He’d both wasted and lost a life already, duty-bound to someone else’s bidding. He was no’ in a hurry to spend eternity doin’ the same, no’ even for their beloved wee witch.

  “What say ye, 43?” Alistair MacDonell appeared beside Angus, his attention focused on pretty Soncerae, glowing in the light of her fire.

  “I say the moor will be a lad or two short by morning’s light.” Angus answered, turning toward Alistair. “And what of ye? Will ye seek Soni out and be after yer own questionable end?” Angus chuckled at their centuries long habit of goading one another. “ ’Tis time ye faced yer sizeable shortcomings. I ken ’twould make a fair test of even Soni’s magic tae fashion a hero from yer inadequacies.”

  Angus watched Alistair from the corner of his eye, waiting as always for the punch of verbal retaliation that would follow. When the time came for one of them to leave the moor, Angus kenned with certainty that he’d miss the man, deeply.

  “Och.” Alistair grunted. “Still jealous I see, since my worst shortcomings overshadow yer strongest assets, pitiful as they be, 43.”

  They laughed together as Angus clapped a hand to Alistair’s shoulder. “Are ye really ready, then?” Angus asked, turning serious. “Would ye go this night, if Soni calls ye?”

  “Aye. I would.” Alistair replied. “And ye?”

  Angus hesitated for a moment, unsure how much to reveal, even to this good friend. “ ’Tis no’ that I dinna appreciate the sacrifices Soni makes tae give us this chance. This gift. ’Tis only that I…”
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br />   Alistair turned to Angus, concern clouding his face. “Ye fear it, then?”

  “No!” Angus snarled. “I dinna fear it!”

  Finally, he shrugged and added softly, “But I do begrudge another portion of my—existence—coming or going, without so much as a by-your-leave from me. Every step of my life has been dictated by someone else. All of it, beyond my control. Just once, before I meet whatever end I’m movin’ toward, I wish to take a path of my own choosin’.”

  “Ye dinna trust me, then, Angus MacLauchlan?” Soni asked, appearing before him in a swirl of green mist.

  Angus shifted uncomfortably, trying to hide his shock as he nodded respectfully to the lass. “My apologies, Soncerae. I dinna mean to imply such.”

  “Glad tae hear it. Shall we see, then, what unfolds?” Her hand slipped over his, her touch like a lightning bolt.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Angus opened his eyes to a ceiling of leafy branches loaded with fat, pink-blushed apples. Had the rows of fruit-trees been freshly drilled soldiers, they could no’ have been more uniformly spaced as they marched away from him on three sides. Chirping birds rustled the leaves, and somewhere nearby a bee buzzed with early morning enthusiasm as dawn’s light slanted through the branches.

  Sitting amid lush, dew-speckled grass, his back against a tree trunk, Angus inhaled sharply, expanding his nostrils and lungs, reveling in the remembered sharp tang of tree, grass and fruit. But surprisingly, something else teased his memory. Confused, he drew another, deeper breath into his unpracticed lungs and confirmed the unexpected, heady aroma of freshly-baked bread. This time, he also picked up the scent of a rich beefy-stocked pot of something simmering somewhere nearby. His mouth watered from the onslaught of aromas, prompting his stomach muscles to clench over the emptiness inside.

  Strange how, after nearly three centuries, those cherished aromas had the power to whisk his heart and soul home again where his defiant mother had used the last of their carefully hoarded food stores to make a rare, rich stew as his farewell gift. The fragrance had filled their dreary little cottage as she’d offered comfort the only way she could while his father waited outside, impatient to trade his twelve-year-old son into bondage.

  Angus blinked the memory away, focusing instead on the rhythm of his lungs expanding and contracting, getting used to the sensation all over again as the weight of his body settled over him and he slowly tested the burden of moving bone and muscle once more.

  An odd-looking two-sided ladder, abandoned in the grass a few trees down, caught his attention. At its base, a stack of empty baskets waited to be filled, as if someone intended to return right away.

  Several fallen, half rotted apples lay scattered about him, but ’twas the perfection of those hanging on the branches above that called to him. He imagined biting through the crisp surface and feeling the sun-kissed warmth of the juice as that first bite touched his tongue. He had only to move his long unpracticed bulk to reach one.

  Eager to take advantage of every sensation, and each moment of his allotted mortal time, he shifted away from the rough bark biting through his linen shirt. Slowly and awkwardly he got to his feet, brushing bits of springy grass from his kilt, but found he needed a bit of a lean against the tree trunk to give his legs a moment to remember the weight and drag of a living, breathing body.

  As he gained his balance, he studied the well-kept orchard Soni had deposited him in. Why this spot? What sort of heroic deed might be accomplished amid a grove of apple trees?

  Reaching up, he plucked a flawless, dew laden apple from a heavily burdened branch and held it to his nose, savoring the scent before he quickly polished it on his sleeve and took that first delicious, mouth-watering bite.

  “You’re welcome to the apple, but if it’s hunger that drives you to pilfer it, I can do you one better.” A man’s deep voice resonated through the trees. “How about breakfast on me?”

  Angus dropped the apple, automatically reaching for his dirk as he crouched and spun, but his fingers grasped naught but a wad of his plaid. Blast Soni for no’ seeing fit to send him with protection beyond his own unpracticed strength.

  “Maple-pecan pancakes and a meat-lover’s omelet?” The man continued, a sly smile on his gray-stubbled face. “Fresh eggs with sausage, ham, bacon and a heavy handful of onions and local cheese.” He gave Angus a long appraisal. “No offense man, but you look like you could use it.”

  The stranger dinna seem much of a threat, Angus mused, noting how he’d tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his well-worn jeans; the type many of the tourists wore on their visits to the moor. The man, mayhap somewhere in his sixties, still stood tall and lean, his long, gray-peppered hair tied back, accentuating his sharp features. After a moment of careful evaluation, Angus judged both the man and his offer to be genuine.

  But just in case there remained any question of his ability to defend himself, Angus rose to his full height, drew back his broad shoulders and crossed his thick muscular arms. He could only hope the stranger hadn’t witnessed his wobbly rise from the ground.

  “My apologies.” Angus gave a brisk nod. “I did indeed take one of yer apples. How might I repay ye?”

  The stranger smiled as he lazily pulled a hand free and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Why don’t we discuss that over some breakfast?” With a nod, he gestured to a building Angus could barely glimpse between the trees. “My bread’s about ready to come out of the oven.” The man turned and made his way cautiously down the aisle between the trees, his right leg clearly unsteady on the irregular ground.

  Angus closed the distance quickly, puzzled by the impossible notion that this stranger felt as comfortable as a long-time friend. “I’m Angus MacLauchlan, of Clan MacLauchlan.” He withheld the hand he’d normally offer at an introduction, afraid he’d disrupt the man’s careful concentration as he picked his way across the uneven ground. “And ye are?”

  “Grif.” The stranger replied. “Folks around here just call me Grif.”

  “ ’Tis pleased I am, tae meet ye, Grif.”

  Angus studied the large, weathered building coming into view, its broad front porch sprinkled with benches separated by barrels planted with vibrant flowers. At the edge of a car-park, near a road, a large sign sprouted from neatly tended flower beds, advertising LUCY’S ORCHARD CAFÉ AND MARKET. Fresh fruit and vegetables, pies, homemade candy, gifts, antiques.

  Curious, Angus surveyed the setting. “Might I ask where we are? What land this is?” ’Twas English speaking, obviously, but that could be a lot of places.

  Grif stopped to study Angus, his appraisal intent. “You’re in the good ole’ U.S. of A., my friend.” He tilted his head as if peering into Angus’s soul. “Hey man, we get lots of vets traveling the road recovering from head wounds or PTSD. So, no worries here, okay?”

  Angus pondered the question for a moment before admitting his confusion. “I fear I dinna ken what ye asked.”

  Grif smiled sadly and clapped a hand on Angus’ shoulder. “I did my tour in Nam, but no matter where we served, all us vets come back wearing that same post-combat patina, despite how much we try to hide it.” He gestured toward Angus’ clothing. “That looks more like a warrior’s get-up than some Honor Guard dress uniform.”

  After a minute, he shrugged and shook his head. “Like I said, no worries. I’ll admit to some curiosity about how a Scot with such a heavy accent ended up here, but we’ll just let that rest. The past is behind all of us. Most of us want to keep it that way. All that matters now, is helping each other when we need it, right?”

  Angus nodded, grateful to escape a bunch of questions he couldna believably answer.

  “If you’re not already aware, this is Utah,” Grif offered, apparently going back to the previous subject. “A little rural town called Ashton. How’d you get here?”

  “Soncer…someone…dropped me here.”

  “Been hitchin’ it, huh?” Grif nodded. “Came close to traveling that way once, myself.”


  Angus liked Grif, though some of his conversation could be hard to follow. He glanced again at the sign near the road where a red-white-and-blue flag bearing stars and stripes fluttered high above, on a flagpole.

  Utah. U.S. of A. He smiled, pleased to learn where Soni had deposited him, even if he still dinna ken what sort of heroic deed he might accomplish here. “Ashton, ye say?”

  “That’s right,” Grif laughed, clapping Angus on the shoulder again. “Come on. Lucy will have my head if I let the bread burn.”

  As Grif led him around back of the building, Angus noted how much steadier he walked, now that they were on even ground. “Lucy’s Orchard, the sign says,” Angus offered. “That’s yer wife?”

  Grif’s low chuckle vibrated his shoulders, straining the seams of his white T-shirt. “Not hardly. I’m just a vagrant cook. Couple years back, I was passing through, much like yourself. Lucy helped me when I needed it and I never quite got around to leaving again.”

  They skirted stacks of baskets, wooden crates and boxes of an unfamiliar material with pictures of apples and the name Barnes Apple Orchard, as they headed to the back door.

  “The orchards and house back there belong to Lucy’s family.” Grif jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate a two-story white house nestled a hundred feet back in a circle of tall trees. “Of course, Lucy and her brother Blake are all that’s left now. But this building,” he indicated proudly, “the café and market, is all Lucy’s. She’s the brains of the outfit and most of the time she has to be the brawn, as well. Her brother didn’t seem to inherit the work-ethic that drives Lucy. Not before the accident, and certainly not now.”

  Angus wanted to ask what that meant, but as they entered the back door, Grif turned, his face set, the look in his eyes, suddenly intense. “Lucy’s got a soft spot for strays. I’m living proof. But don’t let that fool you. She isn’t blindly kind and generous. She’s purposefully kind and generous. Don’t confuse the two. You got that, Angus MacLauchlan of Clan MacLauchlan?”