Man In The Mist

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A heavy weight rested on his chest, forcing him to push hard to get air into his lungs.

He coughed and a sharp pain shot through his chest.

Something was wrong with him.

The painful coughing continued, stealing what little breath he managed to get.

A voice murmured nearby. Soft hands cooled his body with a moist cloth that caused him to shiver.

“Jill?” he whispered hoarsely.

“It’s Fiona. Drink this…it will help.”

A soothing liquid trickled into his mouth and down his parched throat. He relaxed and allowed the moisture to ease his dry throat.

Fiona. He’d heard that name before. Did he know a Fiona? He couldn’t recall.

Oh. He remembered now. He was looking for a Fiona. He couldn’t remember why, but he knew finding her was important.

He must have found her. That was good because he had to get home.

Tina needed him.

Jill needed him.

No. It was too late to help Jill. He couldn’t do anything to save her.

Jill was dead. It was his fault.

Now he paid the price for not saving her. He’d been doomed to the fiery flames of hell for all eternity. He could feel the flames singeing him, sucking the air from his lungs.

He’d sometimes wondered if hell was a real place. Now he could tell the world it existed. It hurt. The heat was consuming him.

A young girl kept visiting him—offering him drinks, checking his temperature, bathing him, helping him with his personal needs.

He should be embarrassed. He didn’t know this girl but somehow it didn’t matter. What had she done to be consigned to hell? Must have been bad to have to experience this. Poor thing.

He was tired, much too tired to ask her why she was there.

Images of a strange bedroom flitted periodically through his world. At times the room would be so bright the light hurt his eyes, sunlight from a nearby window filling the area. Other times—only a minute or so later, wasn’t it?—the room had no light, just shadows moving around him. The light and lack of light did nothing to stop the flames that kept licking at him.

Greg saw the gun. He signaled to Jill to get out of the store before the stupid punk with the .38 spotted her.

Where had the other gunman come from? The patrol car should be here by now.

A spray of bullets shattered the glass around him. He had to stop the shooter. He had to check on Jill.

Blood. So much blood.

“Dear God,” he whispered brokenly. “Jill.”

“You’re dreaming. You’re safe here. You’re going to be all right. Just rest.”

The voice came to him—peaceful and soothing.

“Tina?”

“Fiona. I won’t leave you. Allow the medications to work on you. You’re doing fine. You’re safe,” she repeated.

Of course he was safe. It was Jill he’d left unguarded.

Fiona knew that tonight would be the crisis. Three nights had passed since her visitor had arrived. She had stayed with him ’round the clock except for short breaks to eat and bathe. When he was quiet, she managed to nap in the chair in his room. There were times when he would have lucid moments before falling back all too often into some nightmarish scene that haunted him.

She lost track of time. She measured her hours by bathing him with cool water to bring his fever down. Was his cough sounding less congested? Were his lungs taking in more air? She wasn’t certain. All she knew was that she couldn’t leave him to fight his battle alone.

His fever broke somewhere between four and five o’clock the morning of the fourth day, and Greg slipped into a deep, healing sleep.

Fiona was exhausted.

She forced herself to climb the stairs to her room, pulling herself up each step by hanging on to the handrail. With the last of her reserves, Fiona stumbled into her room, found her nightgown and dropped into bed.

She immediately slept.

Chapter Three

A steady rapping caused Fiona to stir. As she finally surfaced from exhausted sleep, she realized she had been hearing the noise for some time. Disoriented, she opened her eyes and looked around. Sunlight poured through the windows. She blinked. She didn’t usually sleep past sunup.

Then she remembered Greg and the past few days and nights. She hadn’t heard him cough in the past few hours. She hoped it was because he’d been resting better and not because she’d been too tired to hear him.

Fiona looked at the clock and groaned. It was after three o’clock in the afternoon and someone was at the door.

McTavish hadn’t barked, which meant it was someone they knew.

She went to the bedroom window and peered out just as she heard a feminine voice saying, “Fiona, dear, please answer the door. I really must speak with you.”

Mrs. Cavendish.

Oh, dear. Sarah Cavendish was an absolute dear without a hint of malice in her soul. Unfortunately she was also the biggest gossip in the entire glen. Fiona had no compunction about explaining to anyone how she had spent the past few days and nights, but she would prefer to do so once she had caught up on her sleep and her thinking processes were more clear.

Well, it couldn’t be helped. Mrs. Cavendish was here now. The rental car gave mute evidence of the presence of a visitor. Before dark the entire village would know that Fiona had company. There was no need for newspapers and television with Mrs. Cavendish around.

“Just a moment, Mrs. Cavendish,” she called from her window. “I’ll be right with you.” She turned away and spotted McTavish, who watched her from where he lay sprawled on the braided rug beside her bed.

“Fine watchdog you are,” she scolded, grabbing the first clothes she could find. “You could have given me some warning, you know.” Dressed in a sweater and trousers but still in her slippers, Fiona hurried downstairs to let Mrs. Cavendish in.

She paused to take a couple of deep breaths before she opened the door with what she hoped was a serene smile.

Mrs. Cavendish stood there looking bewildered by the delay, holding a large, obviously heavy basket. “Oh, Mrs. Cavendish,” Fiona said contritely, feeling convicted for leaving the poor woman standing at the door for so long. “I didn’t hear you right away.” She stepped back so that Sarah could come inside. “Let me take your basket.”

“Oh, thank you,” Sarah replied with heartfelt relief. “I was so afraid I would drop it. I had the mister drop me off at the beginning of your lane, thinking I wouldn’t mind a good walk. I swear the basket took on an ounce or more with each step.”

Because her hands were full, Fiona bumped her hip against the door until it closed. “You must be chilled,” she said. “Let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll make us some tea.”

Once in the kitchen, Sarah sat at the small table before asking, “Did I catch you at a bad time, dear?”

Fiona continued to measure out tea while waiting for the kettle to boil. She didn’t look around. “Why, no. This is fine.”

“Oh.” There was silence. “Well. I just wondered. Your hair is a little tumbled and you have your sweater on wrong side out.”

Fiona closed her eyes, wondering if she should explain why she looked as if she’d just gotten up. Was it really anyone’s business?

She wouldn’t be feeling so guilty if she hadn’t shared such an intimate moment with Greg the night he arrived. She needed to place what happened into perspective. He was ill and had been out of his head with fever. The matter was simple when looked at from that perspective. Unfortunately her emotions weren’t rational at the moment.

She forced a laugh that sounded exactly that—forced. She turned and ran her fingers through her hair, wincing at a tangle.

“I hadn’t realized,” she finally muttered. “How silly of me. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll set myself to rights while the tea steeps.”

Not waiting for a response, Fiona hurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs once again. She closed her bedroom door and sighed. From there she could see her reflection in her dresser mirror. Her hair looked as though it had been styled by an electric mixer.

She hauled her sweater over her head, grabbed a bra from her lingerie drawer and put it on, and then she carefully turned the sweater right side out before slipping it back over her shoulders. She hurried into the bathroom, brushed her hair, pulled it back with a couple of combs, splashed water on her face, dried it and returned downstairs.

Sarah was pouring their tea. She had set out a pound cake and sliced off a couple of pieces. After setting the cups and saucers on the table, she put the slices on Fiona’s dessert plates and beamed at her.

“I baked a couple of these this morning and thought you might like to have one of them,” she said, motioning Fiona to sit. “Plus I brought you some fresh eggs and some homemade loaves of bread. I always make too much and I figured you don’t have much time for baking with all that you do.”

Fiona picked up her cup and drank, needing something in her stomach. She couldn’t remember when she last ate. Cake wouldn’t have been her first choice for nourishment, but it was better than nothing. She suddenly realized that she was starved.

“Thank you for finishing making the tea. I appreciate your bringing me the eggs and baked goods. It was very kind of you.”

Sarah flushed with pleasure. “Well, you do so much for all of us, dear, that I felt it was only fair to give something back.”

Fiona smiled. “I’m amply paid for my services, Mrs. Cavendish.”

Sarah waved that comment away. “Nonsense. You don’t charge nearly enough for the hours you put in. Why, Terese mentioned just the other day how you stayed with her two boys until whatever they had released its grip on them. I don’t know how you do it. You perform miracles every day.”

“Not at all. Remember my father was a physician and I’ve had training in the medical field.”

Sarah raised her brows. “He didn’t teach you about all those things you grow in the garden that you turn into tea and ointments, now, did he?”

“No, he didn’t,” Fiona admitted with a smile.

“I attended additional classes to learn the medicinal qualities of the herbs I use. I find natural remedies to be a great help in healing.” She rose and brought the teapot to the table. She filled both cups once more before she reseated herself and tasted the pound cake. It absolutely melted in her mouth. Why not, she thought, with all the sugar and butter used in it. She could feel her arteries clogging with each bite.

The two chatted for several minutes before Sarah glanced at her watch. “Oh, my, I hadn’t realized the time. I need to start back while there’s still some light.”

They both stood. “Thank you again for all the goodies,” Fiona said. “I can already see the weight I’ll gain, but I must admit it will be worth it.”

Sarah laughed. “Nonsense. You’re a skinny little thing and you know it. It would do you no harm to put on a few pounds.” With an arch look, she added, “The laddies do enjoy a curvaceous lass, you know.”

Not that again. Every woman in the village was determined to play matchmaker for her, whether she wanted one or not.

She walked Mrs. Cavendish to the front door. When Fiona opened it, Sarah took a step forward and paused. “I’m getting more and more forgetful in my old age, I declare. I meant to ask you when I first arrived. Whose car is that? As soon as you opened the door, I completely forgot.”

“Well,” she began, “I…uh—”

She was interrupted by the sound of coughing coming from the guest bedroom. Despite being flustered by the need to explain Greg’s presence, she was relieved to hear his cough sounding much better.

Sarah’s eyes rounded. “My goodness. Someone sounds really sick in there. I didn’t realize you had a patient or I wouldn’t have kept you so long.”

Fiona smiled. “Yes, as a matter of fact I do need to prepare more tea for that cough.”

Sarah nodded. “Well, I won’t keep you. Is your patient from the village? I don’t recognize the car.”

“Um, no. No, he’s not. He’s from—”

“He? You have a man in your house? Oh, my, Fiona, do you think that’s wise? You should have called one of us and we could have come to stay here with you.”

“That wasn’t necessary, Mrs. Cavendish. He has been much too sick to be a threat to anyone.” It was unfortunate that she should recall at that particular moment his hand caressing her breast. She knew her face turned red at the memory.

Mrs. Cavendish never missed a thing. She nodded her head with a knowing smile. “Oooh, it’s that way, is it? Well, I won’t keep you.” She turned away and strode rapidly toward the lane.

Fiona closed the door. McTavish stood in front of the stairwell with a plaintive expression. “Yes, I know you’re starving to death as we speak. Let me check on our patient first, then I’ll feed you while I’m making more tea for him.”

She peeked into the bedroom and saw that Greg was still asleep. She walked to the bed and studied him. His color was much better than it had been, his fever had come down and his breathing no longer sounded labored.

Greg was officially on the mend. It was time for a light meal to help him regain his strength.

McTavish followed her into the kitchen. She fed him and let him outside before quickly preparing some porridge and dry toast. Before she finished, McTavish scratched at the door to return inside. “Oh, so you’re back on guard duty, are you?” she asked in a low voice.

McTavish gave her a doggy smile and lifted his paw.

She shook her head ruefully. She wasn’t certain who was in charge of whom in this household. She glanced up in time to see Tiger sashay through the doorway. No doubt the timing of his entrance was staged as a reminder that he was king of this particular castle.

He sniffed his bowl and looked around, his expression speaking volumes. “All right! But you’re a long way from starving, mister.”

After feeding Tiger, she placed Greg’s meal on a tray and went down the hallway. Fiona balanced the tray with one hand and tapped on the door with the other.