Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

W here the ranch was located north and west of Inverness, Wyndham's house was on the opposite side of town. And though Alex wanted nothing more than to be alone with Spreag and talk until she couldn’t keep her eyes open, there was nothing quite as cheery as a large driveway packed with the cars of good friends.

She parked behind Duncan Houser's truck and took a deep breath.

"Ready?" Spreag asked from the passenger seat.

"As I'll ever be." She glanced at him. "You're sure we want to do this? It might be…awkward."

"Ye need to face the world again, love. Only now, you won’t have to face a house full of former ghosts and their wives entirely on yer own." His eyes crinkled. "Besides, I’d like a gander at their ugly mugs myself."

"What if it takes too much energy?”

“Then I will disappear from sight, but I’ll still be with ye.”

“But you can’t move something to let me know?—”

“Speaking takes energy, aye. But not as much. Dinnae fash, lass. There is every reason to believe I’ll be visible the entire evening as long as I keep my hands off ye.”

They exchanged a long, wistful look that spoke volumes. And though touch was no longer possible, it was a gift to know that he missed their physical connection as much as she did. As a ghost, she had assumed he no longer cared about such things. Now, it was nice knowing he was still the same man he used to be.

"Right. It’s time." She opened her own door, something he wouldn’t have stomached before.

"Let’s go see what these chancers have been up to.”

“I’ll settle for a night where no one makes me cry.”

The front door opened before she reached it and a cloud of yummy smells floated out to greet them. Bronagh McLeish's welcoming smile made Alexandra's chest ache--she hadn't realized how much she'd missed these people.

"There she is!" Bronagh pulled her in for a fierce hug that made her bones protest. "Come in, come in. Everyone's dying to see you."

Spreag snorted at the unfortunate word choice. “Care to make bets on who will be the first to make ye greet?”

Alex ignored him.

The rich aroma of lamb stew wrapped around her like a warm plaid as she moved into the heart of the house. The living room buzzed with conversation and laughter and hovering above it all was Bronagh's enormous painting. The subject was a clearly 18 th century Wyndham resplendent in red tartan, the vivid color a perfect contrast to his tanned complexion.

Bronagh had painted it back when she thought she was only imagining her husband’s ghost.

As if drawn by the power of his own image, Wyndham stood beneath it now, unconsciously mirroring the pose.

"Third time tonight," Bronagh whispered, while they waited for others to notice her arrival. "He does it without even knowing."

"I heard that," Wyndham called out, quickly dropping his arms to his sides before heading over.

"Caught again," Spreag murmured near Alexandra's ear. "Poor sod can't help himself. Picture's too flatterin’ by half."

She bit her lips together to keep from laughing.

Meg Houser and Wren Buchanan waved from the sofa where they were browsing a scrapbook. Their husbands stood on the far side of the room, caught up in a common debate over brands of whisky.

"Alexandra!" Wyndham scooped her up and spun her in a circle. "I wasnae sure ye'd come."

"Neither was I," she admitted.

"Well, we're glad ye did." His brows lifted and his face lightened. "Ye look...better."

"Amazing what a good lunch can do."

Spreag positioned himself near the fireplace, close enough that she could see him clearly but not so near that she'd be tempted to acknowledge him. Smart man.

The evening progressed pleasantly. The food was excellent, the table conversation light. Alexandra found herself genuinely laughing at Duncan's stories about adjusting to modern life after centuries as a ghost.

"--so there I am," Duncan was saying, "trying to walk through the automatic door at Tesco like I always did, and bam!" He smacked the table. "Broke my nose."

"Served ye right," Meg said, but she squeezed his hand affectionately.

"Watch yerself," Spreag murmured from his spot behind Alexandra's chair. "Wren’s about to knock over yer coke."

The woman’s arm nudged the glass, but Alex caught it before it could spill.

"Nice save," Wren said.

Shug watched her closely. Too closely. Had he noticed something?

Wyndham cleared his throat. "Alexandra, ye never did tell us what ye plan to do about the university. Will ye be returnin’ to teach?"

She shrugged and pushed food around her plate. "Everything's still up in the air."

"Ye should go back," Spreag said. "Ye love teaching. And it’s not like money will ever be an issue again. Ye’ll find I’ve set up an account for ye…with a little help from Wickham and some of the King’s Treasure."

"Are you kidding--" She caught herself just as the words left her mouth.

The table went quiet.

Bronagh and Wren exchanged glances. Duncan bounced in his seat, fit to be tied, dying to accuse her of something.

"Who were ye talkin’ to, lass?" Wyndham asked carefully.

"I was just thinking out loud." Alexandra forced a smile. "Bad habit I've developed lately."

"Nothing wrong with that," Bronagh said quickly. "I talked to Wyndham all the time, before I ever knew he was real."

"Sure," Wren agreed with a laugh. "We all do it. I talk to Shug more when he’s out of the house then when he’s with me. Cursing him, mostly, but still."

But Shug hadn’t seemed to hear the joke aimed at him. His expression made her wonder if he knew more than he was letting on. He'd been nearby when she’d gone out into the fog, keeping an eye on her. Had he followed? Had he heard anything?

"Careful, love," Spreag whispered. "He smells a rat."

She smiled and nodded, as if in response to Wren’s confession. Everyone else was doing the same.

The moment passed and the men began clearing the table. The women returned to the living room, but seated alone on the couch, Alexandra caught snippets of whispered conversation from the kitchen.

"--just grief--"

"--still so fresh--"

"--needs more time--"

Spreag sat on the edge of a chair off to her right. "They mean well."

She gave a slow nod while pretending to be absorbed in the scrapbook, but she didn’t recognize any faces and continued turning pages.

"I’ve made it too difficult for ye. I must cease speaking to ye with others about.”

"Alexandra?"

She jumped at Shug's voice behind her.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle ye."

"It's fine. I was just..." She tapped the scrapbook. “I guess I don’t know any of these people.”

He glanced at the others chatting on the other side of the room, then took a seat beside her. “T’is none of my business, sure, but I was wonderin’…what might have happened last night, in that fog, that has wrought such a change in ye?” His voice was gentle, but his tone was clear—he expected her to be honest with him.

She met his eyes, saw the concern there, and something else. Understanding? Before she could respond, he was roped into the other conversation and invited to retell the saga of Duncan’s first encounter with a microwave.

"Which ended in flames," Shug blurted, breaking the tension. He patted Alex’s knee, then muttered. “We'll talk later, lass."

Spreag had positioned himself near the window, his form solid and reassuring. The other men came in from the kitchen and the chairs were quickly arranged in what she recognized as a casual intervention formation--all facing the couch.

Spreag must have recognized it too. "Maybe we should go."

She squared her shoulders and slowly, indiscernibly shook her head. To Shug, she said, “Maybe you’d better tell it from the beginning.”

Alexandra sat contentedly on the couch and watched the interplay between her new and dearest friends. She chalked up their bond to having gone through the terrifying ordeal together-- of the wedding and Tulloch’s death--which they all took nearly as hard as she had. After all, it could have been any one of the men to have run off to Simon’s aid, any one of the former ghosts who could have been the first to die a second time.

The banter between the men was akin to close brothers who knew just how to push each other’s buttons. But the better teasers were definitely their wives who knew them best.

Duncan was in the best shape. His fit body would have drawn plenty of attention even without his attachment to his ancient kilt. He was funny, yes, but he was no match for his wife, Meg, who constantly surprised him and made him laugh himself silly. Her short dark hair and knowing dark eyes made her impossible to ignore, but even more so for him. When the room grew quiet, his attention always returned to her.

Like newlyweds. Like they all were.

It was difficult not to be jealous of Shug and his red-haired wife. Wren came with a ready-made family. Three children, Charlie, Isobelle, and Maddox. Though the couple were complete opposites—Shug the tallest of this bunch, and the largest, and Wren a delicate thing who didn’t seem sturdy enough for farm life. His colorful Buchanan plaid of yellow, red and green suited his outspoken personality.

Alex didn’t know if they were even aware of how often they touched each other in passing. It was like watching two blind people always reaching out to ground themselves in their surroundings—if their surroundings were each other.

A brief brush of fingertips to fingertips, the quick squeeze of a hand. A loving stroke down her arm as he headed into the kitchen. The way they leaned against each other if they happened to be standing still in the same vicinity. It was precious. And it broke her heart each time she saw those magic sparks ignite between their touchpoints.

Because she used to have that.

For a year, she and Spreag had that.

Then there was Wyndham and Bronagh. If anyone was going to appreciate Alex’s dilemma, it was always going to be Bronagh. The woman had nearly gone crazy trying to reconcile the fact that the mortal hottie she called Wyn was actually her ghost muse from Culloden’s battlefield come to life. Maybe if he hadn’t cut his dark blond hair or shaved off his grizzled beard, she would have recognized him right away.

Bronagh had the same coloring as Meg, but her black hair was longer, and she wore bangs. She was as practical as Wyndham was Idealistic. If you needed someone to indulge in an idea, it was the man in the portrait.

It was Wyndham who would support the idea of her taking Spreag home to Arizona, if only she were sure his spirit could leave Scotland…

The strain of trying to ignore the handsome but ghostly man she loved finally grew to be too much for Alexandra. "Excuse me," she said, and rose to her feet. "Just need to use the loo."

She felt their concerned gazes follow her down the hall. As soon as she closed the bathroom door, Spreag materialized beside her. She turned on the faucet to cover her voice.

"That was getting uncomfortable," she said.

"Aye. Though ye handled it well enough."

"Did I?" She leaned against the sink. "It was killing me not to look at you. I didn’t want you wasting all that energy for nothing."

"I noticed." His eyes crinkled. "I thought I might bite my tongue clean off trying to keep my comments to myself. Though I have to say, it was lovely hearin’ ye laugh again."

"It felt good too.” Then her smile faltered. "What are we going to do? I can't keep pretending you're not here. And I can't stay in Scotland forever, hiding in my hotel room."

"What do ye want to do?"

She straightened. "I want to go home. Back to teaching, back to our house in Arizona." She met his eyes in the mirror. "With you."

"Even if I'm just a ghost?"

"Even if."

A whisper outside the door made her jump. "Alexandra?" Bronagh called. "Are you alright in there?"

She took a deep breath, opened the door, and found not just Bronagh, but the entire dinner party gathered in the hallway with serious concern on every face.

They'd heard every word.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Alexandra lifted her chin. "You know what? I've made a decision. I'm going home." She looked at each of them in turn. "Back to Arizona, back to teaching."

Wyndham lifted his hands to interrupt her. "Alexandra--"

"That is," she continued, "if you all can help me figure out how to get a ghost on an airplane."