Page 20 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 20

A lasdair's fingers itched for the familiar weight of his sword as he watched Conall's neighbor, Hank, climb out of his truck. The metallic clang of the vehicle's door echoed across the yard, a jarring reminder of how far from home they truly were. The scent of lavender drifted on the morning breeze, mingling with the earthy aroma of horses and hay—scents both familiar and foreign.

In his time, the approach of a stranger would have warranted immediate caution, if not outright hostility. Yet here, Conall seemed untroubled by this man's arrival. Another sign of how different this place was—peaceful in ways Alasdair could scarcely comprehend.

"Conall!" Hank called out, his weathered face creased with worry. "You won't believe what I found in my south pasture."

Alasdair watched as Conall greeted his friend, noting the easy familiarity between them. It stirred a longing in his chest, a reminder of the acceptance he and his brothers had always sought but rarely found.

He caught Hank's gaze taking in their clothing—the rough-spun tunics and leather bracers that marked them as men from another era. Alasdair straightened, unconsciously adjusting the belt at his waist, aware of how strange they must appear.

"What's the trouble, Hank?" Conall asked, his voice carrying a hint of tension that Alasdair recognized all too well.

Hank's eyes darted to Alasdair and his brothers, curiosity evident in his gaze. "Who're your guests? Don't think I've seen them around before."

Alasdair stiffened, preparing for the usual vague explanation, the careful distance that had always been maintained between them and ordinary folk.

Conall's response made Alasdair's heart skip a beat. "Family," he said simply, with a nod that seemed to encompass all of them.

A warmth spread through Alasdair's chest, unexpected and overwhelming. Family. One simple word, yet it held everything they had ever sought. He glanced at his brothers, seeing his own emotion mirrored in their faces. Fergus's eyes widened, while Cillian's seemed dangerously close to tears. Even Macrath's perpetual scowl softened momentarily.

"Dinnae yer dare make a fuss of it," Macrath muttered in Gaelic, though the gruffness in his voice couldn't hide his own touched reaction.

Hank's face brightened. "Well, ain't that something! You boys coming to the fair next week? Whole town'll be there."

Alasdair's mind reeled at the thought of a town gathering. He opened his mouth to respond, but Jill stepped out from the porch, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.

"They'll be there," she said, her voice warm with amusement. "Can't keep them hidden forever, can we?"

Alasdair's gaze was drawn to her, as it always was. The way she stood her ground, the directness in her eyes as she spoke—it resonated within him. Women in his time were rarely so forthright. Jill seemed to make her own path, respected by the men around her simply for herself.

Hank nodded approvingly, then his expression grew serious once more. "Listen, Conall. About that trouble I mentioned. Found one of my cows dead this morning. Torn apart something fierce.

The air around them seemed to chill. Alasdair straightened, every warrior instinct on alert. His hand reflexively moved to where his sword would have hung, finding only empty air. "What manner of beast did this?" he asked, his accent still thick despite the day's lessons in modern speech.

Hank shook his head, bewilderment clear in his eyes. "That's just it. Never seen anything like it. Wasn't no wolf or mountain lion, I can tell you that."

Alasdair exchanged a glance with Conall, a silent understanding passing between them. The Brollachan. It had emerged from the cave with them—he'd sensed its malevolent presence in the forest since their arrival. Guilt coiled in his stomach—they had brought this evil here.

"I'd like to see it," Alasdair said, his voice firm with resolve. This was something he understood, a task he could accomplish in this bewildering place. Fighting monsters—that, at least, was familiar territory.

Conall nodded. "We'll come take a look, Hank. Give us a minute to get ready."

As Hank returned to his truck, Alasdair turned to his brothers. "I'll go with Conall," he said in their native Gaelic, keeping his voice low. "The rest of you, guard the farm. It's likely the Brollachan. It'll grow stronger if it's hunting cattle."

"We've faced it before," Tavish said grimly. "And barely escaped with our lives."

"Aye," Alasdair replied. "But this time we're prepared. It thrives on fear and darkness. Remember that."

They nodded, hands instinctively reaching for the daggers at their sides.

"Lads, see if ye can fashion some makeshift weapons—even just sharpened sticks would be better than nothing."

"Aye, brother," Lachlan agreed. "We'll see what we can do."

Jill's brow furrowed with concern. "Be careful," she said softly, her eyes meeting Alasdair's.

There was worry in her gaze, genuine concern that warmed him even as it surprised him. When had anyone last worried for his safety? The realization struck him suddenly—he wanted to be worthy of that concern, to prove himself to her not as a warrior, but as a man deserving of her regard.

"We've faced worse, lass," he said, his voice gentler than intended. "We'll return soon. Lock the doors until we do."

The flash of indignation in her eyes told him he'd misspoken.

"I'm quite capable of looking after myself and the house," she replied, though there was no real anger in her tone. "But...thanks for the concern."

Their eyes held for a moment longer than necessary, and Alasdair found himself wishing to explain that his instinct to protect her wasn't born from doubt in her abilities, but from something far more personal—a need to keep her safe that went beyond duty. The intensity of the feeling caught him off guard.

Conall waved him forward and he climbed into the back of Hank's truck, the unfamiliar vehicle humming to life beneath him. This morning, the simple act of taking a shower had been a miracle. Now he was riding in a horseless carriage to hunt a monster. Even for a man who had traveled through time, it was a bewildering turn of events.

But for the first time since arriving in this unfamiliar land, he felt a glimmer of hope. They were finding acceptance here, a chance at the life they'd always wanted. Family, Conall had called them. The word echoed in his mind, sweet as mead.

The truck lurched forward, and Alasdair's stomach flip-flopped with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. He gripped the edge of his seat, both terrified and thrilled by the sensation of speed.

Conall turned around to look at him and smiled. "Ye can relax your grip. The truck won't throw ye."

"Aye, well, forgive me if I'm not entirely convinced," Alasdair replied, though he did loosen his white-knuckled grasp slightly. "Where I'm from, moving this fast usually involved falling off a cliff."

As they pulled onto the main road, and the lush green landscape unfurled before them. Towering evergreens stretched towards the sky, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. The road itself was a marvel—smooth and black, nothing like the rutted dirt paths of his time.

"By all the saints," Alasdair breathed, unable to contain his awe as the truck picked up speed. The world blurred past at a dizzying rate. "How fast are we moving?"

"About fifty-five miles per hour," Conall replied. "That's not even fast by modern standards."

Alasdair tried to make sense of the measurement. "A day's hard march would cover perhaps fifteen of your miles," he said, working it out. "Ye're telling me we're moving faster than a man could walk in three days?"

"Aye," Conall replied in Gaelic. "And we'll reach Hank's farm in minutes, not days."

"Ye're taking this in stride," Conall said. "Better than I did, when I first arrived.”

Alasdair chuckled, feeling for a moment like a lad experiencing his first hunt. Then he sobered as he remembered their grim errand. "Though I wish the circumstances were different. If the Brollachan has followed us here, the blame lies with me and my brothers."

"Nonsense," Conall said firmly. "Ye didn't ask to be thrown through time. The druids who cast ye out bear the responsibility for whatever came through with ye."

"McKinnie," Alasdair growled, the name like poison on his tongue. "And his pet druid. I swore vengeance on them both."

"Vengeance is a cold comfort when those ye seek it from have been dust for a millennium," Conall replied softly. "Trust me on that."

As they drove, Alasdair's mind turned to the task ahead. The Brollachan had followed them through time, and they bore the responsibility of dealing with it. It was a familiar burden, one that settled heavily on his shoulders even as the marvels of this world unfolded around him.

The truck slowed as they approached Hank's property, and Alasdair steeled himself for what they might find. He had faced the shapeless terror before, had felt its cold touch as it sought to draw out his deepest fears. But he had survived, had driven it back.

"Whatever horrors await us in that field," he said quietly, "I will face them. I'll not let this creature harm any in your care."

And if he was being honest with himself, it was Jill's face that came to mind—the thought of her in danger from this ancient evil was unbearable. His need to protect her wasn't just duty or honor; it was something deeper, more personal than he was ready to acknowledge.

Conall gave him an appraising look. "I believe ye mean that."

"Aye," Alasdair replied simply. "In this life or the one we came from, I am still a warrior. And warriors protect their own."

And they were his own now—Conall's family had shown them nothing but kindness. They were worth fighting for, worth protecting. Perhaps in doing so, they might finally find the belonging that had eluded them for so long.