Page 37 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 37

T he twilight air was thick with the scent of lavender and storm, pressing down on Alasdair's chest like a physical weight. A woodpecker's distant tapping fell suddenly silent, as if the forest itself sensed something coming.

The fields stretched out before him in long purple rivers, glowing under a sky painted in deep gold and crimson. A beauty so fierce and foreign it still stole his breath.

But tonight, that beauty was off. Discordant.

He stood on the porch of the Greenwood farmhouse, silver-tipped spear in hand—Macrath's finest work since arriving in this time—the smooth wood of the railing biting into his palm. The world around him had fallen silent—no birds, no insects, no rustle of wind in the trees.

Just waiting.

"Something's coming," he muttered under his breath. His fingers tightened instinctively on the spear's shaft. The others would be joining him soon for the planned hunt, but what he sensed now might not wait for their preparations.

Beside him, Jill appeared, barefoot on the porch, her presence an anchor and a blade all at once. Her dark brown hair caught the dying light, her eyes fixed on the treeline with the same steady resolve he'd come to depend on.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice steady but low.

Alasdair shook his head, scanning the dark line of trees beyond the fields. "I dinnae ken. But ye must stay inside."

Her jaw tightened—he saw the fight in her—but after a heartbeat's hesitation, she nodded. "Alright. But you come back to me." Her fingers brushed his forearm, a gesture somehow more intimate than a kiss.

"I swear it." His voice roughened. "Ye have my heart, Jill Greenwood. I'll not leave it behind."

She turned to go, then suddenly froze. Her head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing as she scanned the treeline. "I feel it too," she whispered. "Something watching us. Something... wrong." A shiver ran through her as she backed toward the door, never taking her eyes from the darkening fields.

He watched her retreat into the house, heart twisting, before turning back to the fields.

The stillness deepened. The very ground seemed to hold its breath.

And then?—

The howl.

It ripped across the valley like a blade, ancient and terrible.

Every instinct Alasdair had honed in war screamed at him: defend. Prepare. Fight.

The bunkhouse door slammed open. His brothers poured out, steel gleaming, grim and ready. Macrath's face was set like stone, his collection of silver-tipped spears gleaming in the fading light as he distributed them among the warriors. Tavish whispered, "Like old times, eh? Except this beast doesn't offer ale before trying to kill us."

Joe and William sprinted from the barn, shotguns clutched tight, grim lines carved into their faces. Despite everything, William managed a tight smile. "Guess this counts as your official welcome to the ranch, berserker."

Conall followed close behind, his silvered sword catching the last blaze of sunlight, his blue eyes burning with a power that seemed older than the land itself.

They formed a line across the yard—Highlanders, ranchers, warriors, all standing between the farmhouse and the coming storm.

The treeline shivered.

And the Brollachan burst forth.

It was worse than before.

Fed by the Solstice, its form was more solid, more horrifying—a mass of twisting shadows, gaping maws, limbs that shifted from beast to man to nightmare with every writhing step. Its howl cracked the air, the ground seeming to ripple beneath its weight. The stench of rot and something older—something wrong—washed over them like a physical wave.

"Form up!" Alasdair shouted in Gaelic, raising his silver-tipped spear high. "Remember, brothers—we fight for those within these walls!"

The first clash was immediate, brutal, chaotic.

Alasdair hurled his spear with deadly precision, driving the silver tip into the creature's flank. The Brollachan shrieked, staggered—and reformed before his eyes, smoke and sinew knitting together faster than before, but not without cost. The silver had burned it, left a wound that struggled to heal.

Macrath swung a heavy blade into its shoulder, but the sword passed through with barely any resistance. "The blades do nothing!" he shouted, diving for one of the remaining silver spears.

Fergus darted in low, his sword slashing at the creature's legs and passing through like mist. The warriors exchanged looks of alarm—never had they faced an enemy their steel couldn't bite.

Joe and William opened fire with their shotguns, the blasts thundering across the yard. The pellets disappeared into the Brollachan's shadowed mass, then fell uselessly to the ground like metallic hail, the creature howling with what sounded like laughter.

"Only silver wounds it!" Alasdair shouted, his berserker blood rising, the ancient power surging in his veins. His vision sharpened, his muscles coiled with preternatural strength. Around him, his brothers underwent the same transformation—their eyes brightening with unholy fire, their movements blurring with impossible speed.

For a moment—just a heartbeat—they pushed it back.

But the Brollachan adapted.

It shifted again, faster this time, sprouting tendrils of smoke and claw that lashed out wildly.

A tendril slammed into Macrath, knocking him sprawling despite his berserker's strength. Another clipped William's shoulder, spinning him to the ground.

Conall darted forward, driving his sword into the beast's side, but even the druid-forged blade barely seemed to slow it. "It's drawing power from the Solstice!" he shouted over the chaos. "We must break its center!"

Alasdair roared, charging, grabbing the second silver-tipped spear from the ground and plunging it into the writhing mass. The metal burned cold in his hand, an echo of ancient magic meeting modern making.

The Brollachan shrieked in genuine pain this time, but its rage only grew.

"By all the ancient powers," Fergus gasped, "how is it still standing? Not even a berserker could withstand such wounds!"

They regrouped, breathless, battered, bleeding.

The battle had only begun.

Alasdair wiped blood—his or the beast's, he didn't know—from his brow and tightened his grip on the silver spear. The weapon felt alive in his palm, humming with energy that matched the thunder of his heartbeat.

Around him, the battle raged—shouts in Gaelic, the thunder of gunfire, the screeching, warping cries of the Brollachan.

The beast surged again, faster than before, driving them back step by step toward the farmhouse.

They couldn't hold much longer.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alasdair saw Joe stumble, his shotgun ripped from his hands by a flailing tendril.

Fergus moved to cover him but was forced back by a slash of shadow that tore the ground at his feet.

The creature pressed its advantage, lunging?—

And then a rifle cracked, sharp and bright, splitting the chaos.

The shot slammed into the Brollachan's shoulder, only to fall away like all the others.

Alasdair's head whipped around.

And his heart stopped.

Jill.

Charging out of the house with her rifle raised, Cillian guarding Sarah just behind them, both carrying more weapons—another silver spear and boxes of ammunition. Jill's amber eyes blazed with determination, her jaw set in that stubborn line he'd come to adore.

Conall shouted something, half a warning, half a curse—but Jill was already moving.

She didn't just stand and fire—she ran toward Joe, covering him with clean, precise shots. The bullets disappeared into the creature's mass, falling like pelting rain at its feet.

When Joe scrambled for his weapon, she dropped to one knee beside him, firing another blast into the Brollachan's snarling maw, buying Joe enough time to rearm.

Alasdair's heart burned with a mix of terror and awe.

She wasn't reckless.

She was brilliant. Brave. Fierce.

But she had drawn the monster's full attention now.

The Brollachan turned toward her, its shifting mass boiling with rage.

"No!" Alasdair shouted, sprinting toward her. Time seemed to slow, each footfall echoing in his bones.

Behind Jill, Cillian pushed Sarah back toward the doorway, positioning himself as a shield. "Get back!" he shouted at Jill, but she either didn't hear or chose to ignore him.

Jill saw the tendril coming—but not fast enough.

It struck her square across the ribs, lifting her off her feet and throwing her brutally across the yard. She landed hard, the rifle spinning from her hands. The sound of her body hitting the ground cut through the chaos like a knife.

A scream tore from Alasdair's throat, primal and broken.

"Mo chridhe!"

He sprinted for her, everything else—battle, enemy, fear—vanishing into a single driving need: reach her.

He dropped to his knees in the dirt beside her, gathering her into his arms. Her blood was warm against his skin, her breathing shallow and ragged.

Blood stained her shirt, vivid against the paleness of her skin.

Her eyes fluttered open, dazed, filled with pain—and stubborn determination. She clutched at his wrist, her grip surprisingly strong.

"Fight," she rasped, voice barely a whisper. "Don't you dare give up, Alasdair MacTyre."

Tears blurred his vision.

“Aye,” he swore, pressing a shaking kiss to her forehead. "For you." For us, he thought but couldn't say, the word still too fragile, too precious to speak aloud.

He laid her down gently, heart breaking—and rose.

Alasdair turned to face the Brollachan, the silver spear trembling slightly in his hand—not from fear, but from fury held too tight. A cold calm settled over him, the berserker's rage transforming into something more deadly, more primal than anything mortal men could comprehend.

The creature roared, looking for weakness.

But Alasdair had never been stronger. The berserker fury took him fully, his muscles swelling with supernatural power, his vision sharpening until he could see the patterns in the creature's shifting form, the weak point at its core.

He sprinted toward it, his brothers flanking him with the same frightening transformation, Joe and William firing in rhythm. Cillian had moved Jill to safety and now rejoined them, his healer's hands balled into warrior's fists.

They battered the beast back, blow after blow, refusing to yield an inch.

Conall moved like a storm, his silver blade a blur of deadly light, cutting through shadow and smoke. For once, Alasdair felt no suspicion toward the druid magic—only gratitude for its fierce protection.

Fergus tackled the creature low, his berserker strength shaking the very ground.

Tavish leapt in, impossibly high, swinging a silver-tipped axe with brutal force.

And Alasdair—Alasdair drove the spear into its center, into the pulsing void at its heart, with all the fury and strength of a berserker born.

The Brollachan howled, its body shuddering, black mist spewing from its form.

It fought to reform—but Conall drove his blade in deeper, Macrath cleaved a tendril free, William fired another useless blast into its core—and Alasdair twisted the spear home with a roar that shook the very air.

The creature screamed—and exploded into a sickening mixture of mist and viscous black goo that splattered across the ground, hissing where it touched the earth, leaving scorch marks in the soil.

Silence fell, broken only by harsh breathing, the crackle of distant thunder, and the dying echo of the beast's death cry.

They stood there, bloodied, battered—and victorious.

But Alasdair only had one thought.

He stumbled back to Jill's side, falling to his knees.

She was breathing—shallow, but steady.

Cillian was already there, checking her wound, issuing sharp commands to Sarah and young William. His healer's hands moved with certainty, ancient remedies flowing from memory as he worked.

Conall knelt beside them, placing his hands near the wound, murmuring words in ancient Gaelic. A soft blue light emanated from his palms, seeping into Jill's skin. The druid magic, powerful on this night of all nights, flowed into her.

"She'll live," Cillian said at last, voice rough. "You got to her in time." He clasped Alasdair's shoulder briefly. "Our Jill is stronger than any wound, brother."

Alasdair bowed his head over her, crushed by a tidal wave of relief—and guilt. Her blood stained his hands, a sight he'd never thought to see.

Hours later, the house had fallen quiet.

The storm had passed. The battle was over. What was left of the monster burned.

But the war inside Alasdair raged on.

He stood outside Jill's bedroom door, forehead resting against the cool wood, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles ached. The hallway smelled of antiseptic and herbs from Cillian's healing poultices.

He could still see it—the way she'd flown through the air.

The way blood had bloomed across her side.

The way her eyes had fluttered shut in his arms.

Because of him.

He had brought this danger here.

He had made her bleed.

He had failed her.

"I'll leave," he whispered to the empty hallway. "Before worse follows. Before I destroy what I love." The words tasted like ash and salt, but he forced them out anyway. Better his heart break than her body.

He would go. It was the only way.

The door creaked behind him.

"Ye planning to run off without saying goodbye?"

Conall's voice was quiet—but carried steel beneath it. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking for all the world like a man discussing the weather rather than a heart breaking.

Alasdair turned, shame burning hot under his skin. "I brought this down on her. On all of ye. I should never have stayed." His voice cracked on the last word.

Conall arched a brow. "Funny. I thought ye were here to take my daughter off my hands." A sly smile played at the edges of his mouth. "She's stubborn as a Highland winter and twice as fierce. This is gonna be fun to watch."

A stunned silence—and then a soft snort of laughter from the doorway.

Jill.

She stood there, pale but upright, one arm braced against the frame, eyes bright despite the shadows under them.

"You're not going anywhere," she said fiercely. "Not without me." She stood in defiance of her injury, her chin lifted in that stubborn tilt he'd come to cherish.

Alasdair stared at her, hardly daring to believe she was real. The hallway light caught in her dark brown hair, the waves falling loose around her shoulders.

"You should hate me," he said hoarsely. "I failed ye. I nearly?—"

"You saved me," she interrupted. "You saved us all." She pushed away from the doorframe, wincing slightly but refusing to show weakness. "And if you think I'm letting you walk away after that, you're sadly mistaken, Highlander."

Her words struck harder than any blow.

"You fought beside us," Conall added, stepping closer. "You fought for this house. For these people. You belong here now." He gave Alasdair a look that spoke volumes—the understanding of one man who had crossed time for love to another.

Behind him, Joe and William, Macrath, Tavish, Fergus, and Lachlan appeared, battered but smiling. Macrath's arm was bandaged, but his scowl had softened into something like contentment.

A wall of brothers, blood and bond, standing behind him without a word needing spoken.

And Jill—Jill was looking at him like he was the safest place in the world.

"You belong here," she whispered. "With us. With me." Her voice gained strength with each word, as if speaking the truth aloud made it more certain.

Alasdair dropped to one knee, overcome. The weight of centuries seemed to lift from his shoulders, replaced by something lighter, sweeter—hope.

She crossed the distance to him, sliding her good hand into his hair, drawing his forehead to hers. The clean scent of her, still there beneath antiseptic and bandages, filled his senses.

"Mo chridhe," he breathed. "Mo gràdh." The words felt ancient and new all at once.

"My heart," she whispered back. "My home." Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, warm and sure.

Around them, laughter rang out—tired, battered, victorious.

Tavish clapped Macrath on the back. "Told ye he'd end up tied to a lass with more courage than sense."

Lachlan grinned. "She'll keep him in line. Mark my words." He rubbed his bruised shoulder, wincing. "Any woman who can take on that beast can handle our fearless leader."

Conall, still leaning casually against the wall, grinned. "At least he'll make a decent son-in-law. Looks like he fights almost as stubbornly as she does."

That drew a real laugh from Jill—bright, joyous, the sweetest sound Alasdair had ever heard.

He gathered her carefully into his arms, holding her as if he could shield her from the world. "I'll never let ye go," he murmured against her hair.

"Good," she whispered, her breath warm against his neck. "Because I'm not done with you yet, Alasdair MacTyre."

Later, when the stars broke through the thinning clouds and the battered lavender fields lay quiet again, they gathered on the porch.

The men nursed bruises and bloodied knuckles. Sarah passed out bandages and muttered threats about anyone who refused them. "I've spent years patching up one stubborn Scotsman," she declared, fixing Macrath with a glare when he tried to wave her off. "Six more won't break me."

Conall poured whiskey into battered tin cups with the solemnity of a priest. "The good stuff," he said with a wink. "Been saving it for a special occasion."

Jill sat wrapped in a blanket beside Alasdair, her head resting against his shoulder, her hand curled loosely in his. The weight and warmth of her beside him felt like an answered prayer.

The night smelled of woodsmoke and damp earth.

The scent of battle was fading—but the memory would linger.

Alasdair looked around at the faces around him.

Joe and William, arguing softly about who had fired the best shot. "That last one was dead center," Joe insisted, miming the shot with his hands.

Macrath sharpening his blade with slow, careful strokes. The rasp of stone on steel was oddly comforting, a lullaby from another time.

Fergus dozing with his arms crossed, his steady breaths a counterpoint to the crackling fire.

Tavish strumming broken chords on a battered guitar someone had rescued from the bunkhouse. The ancient melody wove between them, binding past to present.

Not by blood.

Not by time.

By choice.

By heart.

He tightened his arm around Jill and dropped a kiss into her hair. The lavender scent lingered, a reminder of this place they'd made their own.

She stirred, looking up at him with a sleepy smile.

"You still thinking about leaving?" she teased, voice rough from exhaustion but rich with warmth.

Alasdair smiled slowly, the ache in his chest easing for the first time in what felt like forever.

"Never," he said. "I have everything I ever fought for. Right here." His gaze took in the farm, the brothers, the home—and finally, lingered on her face, memorizing every beloved feature.

Her fingers brushed the back of his hand, gentle, certain.

"I'm glad you're stubborn," she said softly. "I needed someone who wouldn't let me go."

He chuckled low in his chest. "Och, lass. Ye're stuck with me now. Across centuries, across battles, across whatever madness follows next." His thumb traced circles on her palm.

She leaned into him, warm and solid and real.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," she whispered.

Above them, the stars burned bright and steady.

The ancient threat was gone. The battle was won.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new mysteries, new dangers.

But tonight?—

Tonight they had peace.

They had love.

They had a home.

And they had forever.