Chisholm Read online

  Chisholm

  Ghosts of Culloden Moor Book 47

  Jo Jones

  Contents

  A note about the series

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  MORE BOOKS BY JO JONES

  GHOST SERIES LIST

  About the Author

  License notes…

  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.

  FOR THE ANCESTORS

  For all those who’ve gone before to pave the way, thank you for your sacrifices, strength and dedication to family, that led to…us.

  Prologue

  April 13, 1746

  “Think of it, lads. We’ll be heroes!”

  Darach Chisholm whispered low to his two friends, still hunkered on a bench near the fire as his ma waved goodnight to his uncles, friends and neighbors, from the door.

  “I’ll take care o’ that, ma,” Darach offered when she turned to clear the remnants of their evening repast. “Go and rest, now. Ye’ve worked far tae hard today.”

  ’Twas hardly a night that someone dinnae stop by to see what his mither had stewing in the pot, and before long a small group usually gathered to share neighborhood news and retell the old tales of daring feats of heroism in defense of Scotland. Those treasured stories, and others from his ma, were all Darach had ever kenned of his da.

  “Did ye no’ hear my uncle say the Jacobite armies are gathering somewhere near Inverness?” he pressed his friends, once his mither retired. “The battle tae drive the vile British out o’ Scotland for good is about tae happen, lads, and if what uncle says is true, ’twill likely happen no farther than a brisk day’s walk from our doorsteps. ’Tis our chance tae be part o’ it!”

  “Och!” his friend Reade chided. “ ’Tis a daft notion ye’re proposin’, and ye well know it. It doesnae matter if we wish tae go, or no’. We cannae leave our mither any more than ye can leave yers. Widows, both, and no one tae see tae their needs. What if we dinnae come back? What would become of ’em?”

  Darach leaned in, a sense of urgency pulsing in his veins. “Now that the army has brought the battle tae us, we’d no’ be gone more than two days! Three at most. I ken my uncle could see tae my mither, and mayhap yers, for that short time. His crippled leg keeps him from the battle, but no’ from keepin’ a watchful eye tae home.”

  After a hard look at each of the brothers, he reared back, squared his shoulders and pressed his fists to his hips. “I tell ye, lads, we’ll have those Hanoverian’s arses whipped and be back before the porridge cools.”

  His two best friends sat silently, their twin shapes haloed in the light of the peat fire. Darach sighed and added more enticement. “Ye’ll have tales tae spin of yer valor and patriotism, for years tae come.”

  Ewart shook his head. “Much as it pains me tae say it, I have tae agree with my brother. We cannae leave with our mither lyin’ weak in her sick bed. It’s been takin’ the both of us tae see tae our place and tend tae her.” He shrugged. “We’ve no choice in the matter. We cannae go.”

  “Ye must!” Darach pressed. “For Scotland. The Jacobites willnae lose this battle, I’m certain of it, but if such a horror were tae take place, we’ll have neither farms tae toil over, nor homes tae shelter our mithers in!”

  The two brothers glanced at each other.

  “Two days,” Darach repeated. “Just two days tae free Scotland from the bloody British, forever. ’Tis yer birthright and the legacy ye’ll leave tae yer own bairns. Scotland needs ye! I need ye! Come with me lads. I promise, ye’ll no’ regret it.”

  Chapter One

  Present day

  Like a siren’s call, Darach Chisholm followed those of The 79 still tethered to the moor, toward Soncerae’s fire. The wee witch’s white blaze glowed bright in the darkness, lending an eerie radiance to the fat flakes of falling snow.

  More than half of his fellow warriors had already moved on, and tonight Soni would grant another ghost the opportunity to find a more meaningful existence.

  ’Twas a long-awaited blessing. For them.

  Darach ignored the hum of speculation and listened instead to the moaning wind as he waited with mild curiosity to see who she would choose.

  No’ him, certainly.

  He’d merely come to observe her selection, out of boredom. Though he was happy for those who’d gone on to whatever destinies they’d earned, he neither sought nor desired Soni’s gift.

  In a few more hours, he’d watch another cold, gray November dawn spread across the moor, as empty and bleak as all the days before it, and all that would come after.

  He raised his face to the falling snow and tried to remember the tantalizing feel of snowflakes melting on his skin, but too much time had passed. He couldnae quite grasp the sensation.

  The barrier between his mortal life and his lengthy existence on the moor grew thicker every day, blocking out who he’d been as deftly as the dense, snow-sky blocked the stars. Like a shield, the gray cloud-cover hung low and dark. As impenetrable as his wretched soul.

  There could be no redemption for him, no matter how many boons he might win in the two days of mortality Soni offered. Being shackled to the moor, eternally cloaked in his sins, was little enough penance for what he’d done.

  The low murmurs turned to loud conjecture, drawing Darach’s attention as the ghostly assemblage reached Soncerae’s fire. She was there, as always, in her pretty cloak, her lovely face glowing with excitement, presumably for the next ghost’s liberation from the moor.

  She dinnae come alone anymore, as she used to. Two ladies of indeterminable age accompanied her, cloaked similarly to Soni. So alike they were, ’twas impossible to tell one from the other. Their smiles were soft, benevolent, and a little secretive as they perused the ghostly assemblage, and all that surrounded them.

  Witches as well? Muirs, surely, since they appeared to be advanced versions of Soncerae. Darach had to admit the duo piqued his curiosity. Little enough did, anymore.

  The snow, much lighter now, was swept away by the wind as the ghosts crowded closer, waiting to be called. ’Twas no question each deserved Soni’s generosity.

  All but the one called 74. Naught but a number now, the name Chisholm hadna been spoken by his fellow warriors in nearly three centuries. And likely, wouldnae be, again.

  Over the endless years on the moor, several of his ghostly companions had tried to befriend him. Of them, Gregor Mitchell had come closest to breaching Darach’s self-imposed isolation. But even he hadna fully penetrated the tainted Chisholm armor. No matter, now. Gregor was gone, and soon the others would take their leave, as well.

  ’Twas as it should be. There’d be no friends, no ties, no opportunities or expectations for him. And that too, was as it should be.

  Folding his arms over his broad chest, Darach felt secure in the knowledge he’d never be a friend to anyone, again. ’Twas too costly, by far. A
nd if ever a day dawned that he might somehow forget the price of friendship, he had only to look out at the stones, where the bones were buried.

  Though the two brothers hadna escaped a painful, bloody death, they’d thankfully evaded whatever force had chosen, and tethered, The 79 to the moor. Hopefully, they’d rejoined their mither and made their peace. ’Twas a festering knot in Darach’s chest that he would never have the same reunion with his own ma, or the chance to ask her forgiveness. Nor ever know his da.

  ’Twas fitting, he supposed, for coaxing two innocents to their deaths.

  “74!” Soni’s voice sang out above the wind and conjectures.

  Heads turned as glances and low murmurs floated among the ghosts. A few seemed disappointed, some even irritated. All, surprised. But none as astonished as he. He took a step back. Then another.

  “Darach Chisholm,” Soncerae’s voice, light and airy as a chime, contrasted with the sharp look she gave him. “ ’Tis no use pretendin’ ye dinnae hear yer number called.”

  He shook his head. Nae! She couldnae mean to take him.

  As if on cue, the assembled ghosts parted, creating a long, empty aisle to where Darach stood frozen, at the other end.

  As the familiar green mist encircled Soni’s robe, ’twas as if he felt her power, somehow building inside him.

  “ ’Tis yer time, 74,” Soncerae crooned, as if coercing a child to an early bedtime. She held out her hand. “Come.”

  “But…I dinnae wish tae go,” he argued.

  “Aye,” she smiled. “But I wish that ye do.” She folded her arms over her tiny waist, as the circling mist brightened and glowed. “Ye do ken that I cannae hold the world at bay forever, until ye see fit tae fall back intae it, do ye no’?”

  When he dinnae respond, she raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow and held her hand out, once more. “Come, Chisholm. The right…circumstances, are already in play. We’ve no time tae waste.”

  He shook his head. “Ye dinnae understand,” he maintained, desperate to make her grasp his need to stay without having to bare his dark deeds to everyone watching. “ ’Tis imperative that I remain here.”

  “ ’Tis yer fate that ye go.” Her voice was soft but her tone, firm, as she came to him down the makeshift aisle.

  “Fate?” he almost laughed. “Then ’tis surely eternal purgatory that ye’re sendin’ me tae.”

  Soncerae shrugged. “That’s up tae ye. The two days of mortality are yers tae make of them what ye will. When and where ye go from here, is of my choosin’, my gift tae ye, but once there, no one can make yer choices for ye. The consequences are for ye tae create.”

  “I’ve yer solemn word on that?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Aye,” Soni nodded.

  “Fine, then,” Darach snorted. “ ’Tis hell I’m choosin’, and hell that’s chosen me.” He reached for her outstretched hand. “So, we might as well get on w’it.”

  Chapter Two

  Tessa Lochridge eased her rental car to a stop in front of a low, crumbling wall and took her first long look at the ancestral estate of her Scottish predecessors.

  It was worse than she thought.

  Far worse!

  “Gosh, Aunt Tess,” nine-year-old Emily Davis opened her door and climbed out of the back seat. “It’s really big. And old!”

  “Button up, and put your gloves on, please,” Tessa reminded her, slipping on her own coat to ward off the chill as she joined her niece in the light snowfall. A breeze lifted most of the flakes and carried them away, leaving only a thin dusting on the ground.

  Together, they took a couple of cautious steps toward the weed-choked gate hanging askew from a rusted hinge. A long, overgrown walk between two rows of ancient Scots pines, led to the once stately house, thirty-or-so yards distant.

  “How long since anyone lived here?” The tentative note in Emily’s voice matched Tessa’s growing trepidation.

  “Coming up on three centuries since our ancestors left it,” Tess repeated the information given her by the estate administrator. “But apparently, it’s been leased out over time. The most recent, a decade or so ago, so I know there’ve been some renovations. Hopefully, the inside is in better shape than the outside.”

  Determined to disguise her misgivings, Tessa tried to put a smile in her voice. “We said we needed a change and wanted an adventure, right?” Her forced laugh didn’t sound nearly as convincing as she’d hoped. “We might find them both, right here.”

  Abruptly thrust into the role of both mother and father to Emily after her parents’ deaths, Tess was still reeling somewhere between disbelief and pure terror over her ability to fill their shoes.

  She hadn’t yet considered how to adjust to the loss of Em’s grandparents—Tessa’s parents. Losing all four in one horrific accident, still had her stumbling blindly through the process of picking up the pieces. Tess knew it clearly wasn’t a matter of if she messed up, but when and how bad.

  Despite both she and Emily agreeing they needed a new start away from all the sad memories, this old, decaying manor was not what she’d intended to bring Emily to. In the pictures Tessa had seen, the estate looked nostalgic. Even a little romantic. Like a stately lady in period costume. But now that they were here the morning light clearly revealed the grim truth. The old girl was tired and showed all her wrinkles, sags, and age spots.

  Tess sighed. What had she been thinking? Even with zero parenting skills, she was astute enough to realize her niece needed a place full of light and life for the new beginning Tessa had promised her. She’d hoped they could both rebuild their lives here. That someplace new, with old roots, might help them both begin to heal.

  But it appeared this place would not only drain her energy, but her bank account as well, when both should be dedicated to securing Em’s future.

  “Maybe…it’s like you said? The inside might be better?” Emily suggested.

  A little chagrined, and grateful for the child’s optimism, Tessa hugged her. “Have I told you how amazing you are? I guess we shouldn’t judge this tattered old book by its cover. Maybe, if the grounds were cleaned up and the boards taken off the windows, it might be…”

  “Pretty?” Emily offered.

  Tessa laughed. “Well, better, at least.” She tried to give the place the benefit of the doubt, but it took some courage. “I imagine this estate was quite lovely, in its day, so we might be pleasantly surprised. But remember our deal, Em. We’re here to check things out. If it doesn’t work for our plans, or even if we just don’t like it, we’ll sell the property and pick someplace else. Like I keep saying, opening a bed and breakfast inn, isn’t the only option we should consider.”

  “But I like that option,” Emily countered.

  “I know, sweetie, but since I can pretty much work from anywhere, the whole world is our oyster. Let’s not limit ourselves. We’ll continue homeschooling until we find the right place. Our possibilities are endless.”

  She patted Emily’s back, trying to sound upbeat and convincing, as much for herself as for her niece. “Come on,” Tessa urged, taking the child’s hand. “Let’s check out the inside.”

  “What about all our stuff?” Em asked. “Shouldn’t we take some in, with us?”

  “Let’s leave it in the car until we know if we’re staying or heading back to town for another night.”

  Emily turned a cajoling look on Tess. “Can’t we stay at least one night? You know, just to be sure? Besides, you said we could try out the sleeping bags and inflatable mattresses we bought. Like an inside campout. Part of our Scotland adventure.”

  Tessa gave her, her best ‘we’ll see’ look and kept the notion of centuries old cobwebs and cracked stone walls where mice may have taken up residence, to herself.

  There’d better not be rats. Or, heaven forbid, snakes!

  “Watch your step,” Tessa warned as they moved cautiously down the uneven stone walk. Years of neglect had pushed some stones up, let others sink, and some had disappeared altogether.<
br />
  Closer to the house, the wide side yards, defined by the decaying wall, revealed what must once have been lovely grounds. Vague mounds and shapes suggested extensive gardens and beneath an ancient sprawling oak, a mostly intact stone bench alluded to a favorite spot of peace and beauty. Tessa could almost see herself sitting there, enjoying the tranquil end of a fruitful day.

  What a silly notion, she grunted, stepping through the home’s recessed entry to a wide, wooden door. The decorative metal strapping, though heavily rusted, gave the door a sense of substance, as if you were arriving at a place of significance. A large metal knocker in the shape of a thistle still adorned the upper portion.

  “Would you like to do the honors?” she asked Em, turning to hand her the old, oversized key she’d picked up from the estate administrator. But the girl stood back, her attention riveted on something in the side-yard.

  “Em? I thought you wanted to go in?”

  “That man’s holding his head,” Emily whispered. “Do you think he’s hurt?”

  “What man?” Tessa asked.

  “The one sitting on that bench.” Emily pointed toward the big tree. “He just appeared there. Like magic.”

  “Magic, huh? It’s been mere seconds since I looked at that bench, Em. No one was there. If you’re pretending this place is haunted to tease me, nice try. But I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “That’s okay,” Emily shrugged. “ ’Cuz, I don’t think he is one.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Tess stepped out of the enclosure and turned toward the bench. “I know there isn’t a…” She gasped, grabbed Em’s arm and shoved her into the niche. “Stay there until I tell you otherwise!”