Page 40 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

CHAPTER 40

J ill traced her fingers along the embossed lettering on her doctoral thesis, the leather binding cool beneath her touch. Outside her bedroom window, late afternoon sunlight filtered through the pine trees, casting dappled shadows across her desk. Her wound had healed enough that she could sit comfortably now, though any sudden movements still brought a sharp twinge—a visceral reminder of the Brollachan's attack.

“The Evolution of Berserker Mythology in 9th Century Scottish Highlands: Historical Evidence versus Folkloric Exaggeration,” she read aloud, an ironic smile tugging at her lips. Two years of exhaustive research, countless hours spent in dusty archives, painstaking analysis of primary sources—all to conclude that berserkers were likely exaggerated figures, more legend than reality.

And now six of them lived in her bunkhouse, ate at her family's table, and helped with the harvest.

A laugh bubbled up in her throat. So much for academic certainty.

A soft knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. "Come in," she called, quickly closing the thesis and sliding it into her desk drawer, feeling oddly embarrassed by its presence.

Mom entered, bearing a steaming mug and a sly smile. Jill felt a rush of gratitude at the sight of her—cheeks flushed with healthy color, eyes bright and clear. The combination of Dad's druid remedies and Cillian's healing knowledge had worked wonders these past weeks. The special tea they brewed from lavender and the crushed leaves of rare medicinal plants grown from seeds Cillian had carried through time—seeds Dad had been searching for during all his years in this century—had her mother moving with more energy than Jill had seen in months.

"Hiding the evidence?" Mom asked, nodding toward the drawer.

Jill accepted the tea gratefully. "Just putting away some of my academic arrogance. It's humbling to realize how wrong I was."

"Not wrong," Mom corrected, perching on the edge of the bed with an ease that would have been impossible a month ago. "You worked with the evidence available to you. Science adjusts its views based on new information. That's its strength, not its weakness."

"I don't think my dissertation committee had 'actual time-traveling berserkers' in mind when they talked about new evidence," Jill replied dryly.

They shared a laugh, the simple moment of normalcy precious in a world that had become decidedly abnormal. Outside, hammering drifted from the direction of the forge, where Alasdair and Macrath had spent much of the afternoon. The rhythmic clanging sent a flutter through her chest that had nothing to do with her healing wound.

"How are you feeling?" Mom asked, her eyes assessing her daughter with maternal precision. "And I mean all of you, not just the wound."

Jill sipped her tea, buying time as she sorted through the tangle of emotions within her. "Physically, I'm on the mend. Cillian's poultices work better than anything modern medicine could have offered." She paused. "As for the rest...I'm still processing, I guess. It all happened so fast—the Brollachan, the battle, Alasdair and I..."

"Love often does," Mom observed. "Especially in extraordinary circumstances."

"That's what worries me," Jill admitted. "What if it's just the circumstances? The drama, the danger—what if once things settle down, we realize we don't actually make sense together?"

Mom's smile was gentle. "That's the risk everyone takes, honey. Love always starts in extraordinary circumstances—maybe not time travel and monster battles, but the beginning of love always feels a bit like magic, doesn't it? The question is, what happens when the magic becomes everyday?"

Jill considered this, thinking of Alasdair's face across the breakfast table each morning, the way he listened intently when she explained modern concepts, his patience with technology that must seem like sorcery to him. The small, quiet moments between the chaos and danger. There was magic in those moments too, quieter but no less powerful.

"I think..." she began slowly, "I think I'd like to find out."

"You look well, Mom," Jill said after a comfortable silence. "Better than I've seen you in months."

Mom touched her cheek, smiling. "It's remarkable what can happen when druid magic meets ancient Highland healing. Those medicinal plants from Cillian's seeds—your father nearly wept when he saw them. Said he'd been searching for that particular variety for decades." She took another sip of her own tea. "The way they prepare it together—crushing the leaves at exactly the right phase of the moon, brewing it with specific lavender buds—it's like watching a dance between two healers from different worlds."

"Dad's been amazing with the brothers," Jill said, gazing out the window. "I overheard him talking with Macrath about turning the forge into a real business. And Cillian mentioned something about Dad helping him create healing products with the lavender."

Mom smiled. "Your father has always been good at seeing people's strengths. He spent half the morning with Tavish discussing honey fermentation and lavender mead. Those wolf brands they wear—your father thinks they could make a perfect logo."

"They've lost so much," Jill said softly. "Their time, their world. But they still have their knowledge, their skills. That doesn't have to be wasted."

Mom joined her at the window. Below, they could see Joe and Tavish walking from the barn, deep in conversation. Further away, near the eastern field, Cillian knelt tending to a small patch of plants with distinctive silver-edged leaves—the second crop already, harvested regularly for Mom's healing regimen.

Before Jill could continue, her father's voice called up the stairs. "Sarah? Jill? Could you come down? We have a visitor."

The abrupt summons sent a jolt of alarm through Jill. Mom's expression turned serious, the playfulness evaporating. They made their way downstairs, Jill moving carefully to avoid jarring her healing wound.

In the living room stood Sheriff Maddox, his weathered face serious beneath his official hat. Alasdair and Fergus had come in as well, both standing with the careful stillness of men prepared for trouble. The sudden tension in the air made Jill's skin prickle with unease.

"Sheriff," she greeted him, fighting to keep her voice casual. "What brings you by?"

"Miss Greenwood," he nodded, his keen eyes taking in her careful movements. "Heard you had an accident out by the east field. Wanted to check in."

"Very kind of you," Jill replied, the rehearsed story falling from her lips even as her mind raced. "Just took a fall on some broken equipment. I'm healing nicely."

The sheriff nodded, though his expression remained unconvinced. "Been a strange few weeks around these parts. Livestock attacks, strange tracks out by Miller's Creek, and now I hear reports of gunfire from your property a few nights back."

Dad stepped forward, his presence calm and authoritative despite the tension in the room. "Target practice, Sheriff. The boys were helping clear some vermin from the south field. Should have given you a courtesy call."

Sheriff Maddox's gaze shifted to Alasdair and Fergus, studying them with professional assessment. "You boys related to the Greenwoods? Don't recall seeing you around town before recently."

"Old friends," Alasdair replied smoothly. "From the old country. Here to help with the farm and learn American ways."

"Immigration paperwork all in order?" the sheriff asked, the question seemingly casual but charged with meaning.

"Of course," Dad interjected. "I can have copies sent to your office if needed."

The lie hung in the air between them. Jill's mouth went dry. She held her breath, acutely aware that one thread pulled could unravel their entire fragile arrangement.

After what felt like an eternity, the sheriff nodded. "That won't be necessary, Conall. Just doing my due diligence." He adjusted his hat. "Strange things happen from time to time, but this is a small community. Folk notice when something's...off."

"We appreciate your concern, Sheriff," Mom said, stepping forward with the gracious hostility of a mother bear. "Would you like to stay for dinner? I've made more than enough."

Sheriff Maddox hesitated, then shook his head. "Another time, perhaps." His gaze swept the room once more. "You folks take care now. And if you see anything...unusual, you know where to find me."

As the door closed behind him, the collective tension in the room released like air from a balloon. Jill realized she'd been holding her breath and let it out in a shaky laugh.

"That was close," she murmured, her knees suddenly weak.

Alasdair moved to her side, his hand finding hers with easy familiarity that still sent a thrill through her. "Will he be a problem?"

Dad shook his head. "Maddox is a good man. Cautious, observant, but fair. And not particularly interested in matters that might complicate his paperwork." A wry smile touched his lips. "We've had an understanding for years."

"Still," Fergus observed, "he's right that people are noticing. We cannot remain indefinitely as 'friends from Scotland' without raising questions."

"Which is why we need to make it official," Jill said, seizing the moment. "The brothers need legitimate work tied to the farm. Dad's ideas about Macrath's forge crafts, Cillian's healing remedies, Tavish's mead—we could build something real here."

"It has potential," Dad agreed, stroking his beard. "We'd need permits, a legitimate business structure."

"And legal identities for the men," Mom added. "Which, as I was telling Jill, can be arranged through your...connections."

Alasdair's fingers tightened around Jill's. "Ye would do this for us? Create a place for us to belong, to share what we know?"

Jill nodded. “Of course.”

A slow smile spread across Alasdair's face. "Then I believe we have much to discuss," he said. "But first..." He reached into his pocket, his hand trembling slightly as he withdrew something small. His eyes, usually steady and sure, now held a vulnerability she'd never seen before. "I have something for ye."

Curious, Jill extended her hand. Her breath caught as Alasdair placed a small silver object on her palm—a delicately crafted lavender sprig, each tiny leaf and bud rendered with painstaking detail. The metal was still warm from his pocket, its weight somehow both substantial and delicate at once. Her vision blurred with unexpected tears.

"I made it," he said, his voice breaking with emotion, deep and rough like stones shifting beneath water. His fingers lingered near hers, not quite touching. "For ye. In my time, such a gift would be...would signify..." His throat worked as he swallowed hard, the stoic warrior suddenly stripped bare.

"Intentions," Jill finished softly, her heart thundering so loudly she was certain he must hear it. The word hung between them, heavy with meaning.

Alasdair nodded, his eyes never leaving hers, their green depths filled with a fierce, terrified hope. "Aye. Intentions."

The silver sprig caught the late afternoon light, glinting with possibilities. Jill closed her fingers around it, feeling its surprising weight—carrying as it did promises, and futures yet to be written. Something ancient and nameless bloomed in her chest, a certainty beyond words.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, her voice trembling with feeling, the simple words wholly inadequate for the tide of emotion washing through her. Her fingers tightened around the silver as if it might anchor her to this moment, this impossible, miraculous reality. "Thank you."

Dad cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should give these two a moment," he said, ushering Mom and Fergus toward the kitchen.

Alone in the golden light, Jill asked softly, "In your time, what would happen next? After such a gift was accepted?"

Alasdair's smile was gentle. "The families would begin discussions. Arrangements would be made." He shook his head. "But we are not in my time anymore."

"No," Jill agreed, stepping closer. "We're not. We're making our own path now."

His hand cupped her cheek, his touch reverent. "And what does that path look like to ye, Jill Greenwood?"

She leaned into him. "It looks like this farm. Like your brothers finding their places in this world. Like writing new histories together."

"And us?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper, the question carrying the weight of a thousand years and countless impossible chances.

She rose on her toes, her heart racing wildly beneath her ribs. When their lips met, it wasn't just a kiss—it was a sealing of fates, a promise written in breath and touch. His arms encircled her waist, drawing her against him as if she might dissolve like mist if he didn't hold her close enough. Her fingers threaded through his hair, anchoring them both to this impossible moment where past and present melded into something entirely new.

When they finally parted, breathless and shaken, she rested her forehead against his, feeling the slight tremor in his powerful frame. "Us most of all," she whispered against his lips, tasting the future on them. "Whatever comes next, we face it together."

His eyes, luminous in the fading light, held a universe of emotion—wonder, devotion, fierce protectiveness, and something deeper still that made her soul recognize its other half.

The wolf-marked warrior and the modern scholar, bound by something neither history nor science could fully explain.

The day was ending, but something new was just beginning—a future forged across centuries, written not in history books, but in the beating hearts of those brave enough to believe in impossible things.