Page 3 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 3

T he soft beeping of the security monitor pulled Jill Greenwood from her textbook-induced stupor. She blinked, realizing dusk had fallen while she'd been lost in the intricacies of 18th-century European politics. The clock on her laptop blinked 9:30 PM.

Another night lost to dead men's squabbles , she thought wryly.

Stretching, she winced—hours hunched over her desk had left her sore and stiff. The lavender-scented breeze wafting through the open window did little to clear the fog of historical dates from her mind. She'd been hoping for a quiet night of study, especially with Dad and the twins out catching a movie in Aberdeen.

The persistent beeping drew her attention back to the security screens. Jill sighed, expecting to see the usual beach partiers wandering onto their property. But as she peered at the grainy black-and-white footage, her eyebrows shot up. These weren't lanky college kids stumbling through their woods. No, these men were massive. Linebacker massive.

"What in the name of Boudica's battle axe?" she muttered, leaning closer.

Her jaw dropped as one figure moved into clearer view. The man wore honest-to-goodness medieval garb—a sodden tunic clinging to his muscled frame, a heavy cloak, and was that a wolf pelt draped over his shoulders? His leather boots were caked in mud as if he'd tramped through a bog to reach their Washington farm.

That's ninth-century Highland clothing , her historian brain noted. Not English knights—Scottish warriors.

After years of college followed by a museum internship, she'd seen her fair share of medieval reenactors. But what were they doing out here, miles from any historical site or festival?

The largest of them paused, as if sensing her scrutiny through the camera. He turned, and even through the grain and static, his gaze cut straight through her. Impossible—but she felt it.

"Now that's not your average lost tourist," she whispered to herself, a strange fluttering sensation rising in her chest. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, oddly self-conscious despite being alone.

She glanced at her phone, considering calling her dad. But then she pictured his face, relaxed for the first time in weeks, probably munching popcorn at the multiplex right now. And hadn't he always said a Greenwood doesn't back down from a challenge?

A soft cough drifted down from upstairs, reminding Jill of her mom's fragile state. Whatever was happening outside, she had to keep her mother safe. But surely a group of overzealous history buffs posed no real threat?

"Mom?" she called softly up the stairs. "Everything okay up there?"

"Just fine, dear," came Sarah's gentle reply. "Is something wrong?"

Jill hesitated. "No, nothing to worry about. Just going to check something outside. I'll be back soon."

Decision made, Jill grabbed her trusty backpack. She did a mental inventory—flashlight, check. Pocket knife, check. After a moment's consideration, she retrieved her father's rifle from the gun safe. Not that she expected trouble, but the weight of it was reassuring.

After double-checking all the locks Jill slipped out to the barn. The cool, misty air of the Olympic Peninsula enveloped her, carrying the mingled scents of hay, horse, and the distant Pacific.

Chestnut greeted her with a soft nicker, as if sensing the strange tension in the air. "Just us tonight, girl," Jill murmured, stroking the horse's velvety nose. "Ready for an adventure?"

The mare nudged Jill's shoulder with surprising gentleness for such a large animal, her warm breath fogging in the cool night air.

"I know, I know. Dad would say I'm being impulsive again." She reached for the saddle hanging on the wall, the leather cool and smooth under her fingers. "But something about these guys...I don't know. They seemed lost. Confused."

She mounted Chestnut with practiced ease, the leather saddle creaking beneath her. The rifle rested across her lap, out of caution rather than fear. She'd faced down angry bulls and territorial coyotes; a few costume enthusiasts didn't worry her.

They set out into the June twilight, the scent of lavender mixing with pine and distant sea air. Jill breathed deeply, letting the familiar smells steady her nerves. The fading light cast long shadows across the fields, turning the peaceful farm into something almost magical.

"Alright, girl," Jill said, patting the horse's neck. "What's our working theory here? Escaped Renaissance Faire performers? Method actors taking it way too far?"

Chestnut's ear twitched, which Jill chose to interpret as agreement.

"I've got about a thousand questions," she continued, curiosity stirring about their costumes, their group, and just how far they'd go to maintain historical authenticity.

The shrill ring of her phone broke the quiet night. The caller ID showed her father.

"Dad?" she answered, slowing Chestnut to a walk.

"Jill, where are you?" Her father's voice crackled through the speaker, his tone urgent in a way she'd rarely heard before.

"Checking the security alert. There are men in the woods—they're dressed in medieval clothing, of all things."

A beat of silence. Then: "Did you find them yet?"

Jill's brow furrowed. "Wait, you know about this? What's going on?"

"Listen carefully, Jilly. Find them and bring them to the ranch right away," he said, ignoring her question. "We're on our way home now."

She could hear the twins arguing in the background, William's serious tone contrasting with Joe's excited questions.

"What am I dealing with here?"

"Later, Jill. It's not safe in the open."

Not safe? From what? The questions multiplied, but the urgency in her father's voice brooked no argument. In twenty-five years, she'd never heard that particular edge in his tone.

"Dad, if you know something?—"

"Please, Jill. Trust me. Find them and bring them in."

"Fine," she sighed. "But you owe me the biggest explanation of your life when you get home."

As she hung up, a chill ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the evening air. She urged Chestnut deeper into the forest, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. Her mind raced with possibilities, each more fantastic than the last.

"Come on, Chestnut," she murmured, guiding the horse around a fallen log. "Let's find our mysterious visitors before whatever's 'not safe' finds them first."

The forest pressed in tighter around her, the trees crowding out what little comfort the twilight had offered. Jill switched on her flashlight, the beam cutting through the gloom like a sword.

Something moved in the trees ahead.

Jill's heart pounded as she raised the rifle, not aiming but ready. Her flashlight beam caught a flash of something—a glint of metal, perhaps, or the reflection of eyes.

"Hello?" she called, her voice steadier than she felt. "Can I help you?"

There was no answer, just the rustle of underbrush as whatever—or whoever—was there retreated deeper into the woods.

"Wait!" Jill urged Chestnut forward, following the shadowy figure. "Do you need help?"

The horse snorted nervously beneath her, picking her way carefully through the dense undergrowth. For a moment, Jill thought she glimpsed something—a shape—watching her from between the trees, and then it was gone, melted into the darkness like a ghost.

The wind shifted, carrying with it a scent she couldn't identify—something foul and ancient, like rotting meat mingled with sulfur and decay. Her pulse quickened and the hair on the back of her neck rose.

She was suddenly glad she'd thought to bring the rifle.

Chestnut stiffened beneath her, ears flattening against her head. The darkness between the trees seemed to thicken, to breathe with malevolent intent.

The woods fell unnaturally silent. Then a branch cracked in the distance, and Jill urged Chestnut forward, away from the shadows and toward the promise of human contact.