Page 42 of Crazy About Jill (Highland Berserkers #1)

EPILOGUE

T he late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, warming Jill’s skin in patches as she followed her father deeper into the wooded area north of the lavender fields. Pine needles cushioned her steps, releasing their sharp scent.

Alasdair walked beside her, his fingers intertwined with hers, his calloused thumb absently brushing against her wedding ring.

Even weeks after their wedding, that simple touch still sent a quiet thrill through her.

Conall stopped in a natural clearing, his weathered face thoughtful as he surveyed the space.

Tall firs and cedars created a protective circle around an open area dotted with younger saplings and wild grasses.

Jill breathed deeply, tasting the mingled scents of pine sap and distant lavender carried on the breeze.

"This is where it will begin," her father said, his voice carrying the quiet authority that had always marked him—even before she knew he was a druid from another century.

"The homes. Yours first."

Jill glanced at Alasdair, watching as he studied the space with a warrior's eye—assessing sight lines, natural protections, proximity to water.

The attentiveness in his expression made her heart swell. Just one more reason she loved him.

"I've set aside funds," Conall continued, hands in his pockets. "For cottages for each of the Highlanders. The men will help build where they can—Macrath especially—but we'll need modern contractors for most of it."

He scuffed his boot against the forest floor, a gesture that reminded Jill of her childhood, when her father would grow shy before revealing a surprise.

"I'll charge them a small rent until the final home is built.

Then eventually, the men will receive the deed to their home."

The generosity of the gesture caught in Jill’s throat.

Her father understood what these men needed in a way no one else could—he'd once been cast alone through time just like them.

He knew what it meant to build a life from nothing, to forge identity and purpose in a world never meant to be yours.

"They’ll need a place," he said simply, meeting her eyes. "For when they find their wives."

The words carried weight.

Tavish’s visions had hinted that the other warriors would indeed find love, just as her father had predicted all along.

Jill imagined each cottage filling with life and laughter, the berserkers finally receiving the families they’d been denied in their own time.

"Highlander Hollow," she said softly, the name rising from somewhere deep within her.

"That's what we should call it."

Alasdair’s hand tightened around hers, his palm warm against her skin.

"Aye," he murmured, his green eyes reflecting the dappled forest light.

"Because you named it.

And because it means we have a place in this world."

His voice was rough with emotion, the words brushing against her heart like a vow.

Jill leaned her head lightly against his shoulder, and for a moment, they simply stood there, breathing in the promise of this place.

From beside her, Alasdair spoke again, softer still.

"I can see it," he said, almost to himself. "Bairns playing among the trees. Smoke rising from our chimneys. Laughter in the air."

The quiet certainty in his voice made her chest tighten.

This warrior who had lost everything—his time, his home, his identity—now stood on land that would be his, beside a woman who was his, surrounded by possibilities that were his to shape.

And she would be there, helping to build that future alongside him.

They walked back toward the house hand in hand, the path winding between ancient trees and down the gentle slope.

The farm spread before them, the rows of lavender rippling like waves in the breeze, the white farmhouse standing sentinel beyond the fields, tucked beneath the sheltering peaks of the Olympic Mountains.

In the distance, laughter rose from the bunkhouse, carrying across the open space.

Tavish sat on the porch, head bent over a borrowed guitar, the melody both hauntingly ancient and strikingly new.

Cillian and Macrath split wood nearby, their movements synchronized from centuries of fighting side by side.

Lachlan whispered something to a chestnut mare, his quiet presence calming even the most skittish horse.

Fergus stood watching them all, his practical nature evident in the way he organized the split logs into neat stacks.

They were hers.

Warriors.

Family.

Hers now.

Jill leaned into Alasdair’s solid presence, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against her shoulder.

"Do you think they’ll all find what we have?" she asked quietly.

"Aye," he said with conviction.

"The gods have not brought us this far to abandon the others.

We six were cast through time together.

We will all find our place—together."

As they reached the edge of the field, Jill took one last look back at the clearing, her mind filling with vivid images?—

six cottages arranged in a loose circle, smoke curling from stone chimneys, children’s laughter echoing beneath the trees.

A clan reborn, not in the glens of Scotland, but here—in the heart of the farm, beside fields of fragrant lavender.

They didn't see it.

Near the treeline, hidden where the wild grasses thinned, a small patch of earth lay blackened and bare.

A circular wound in the soil where nothing grew, where life recoiled.

Beneath the surface, unseen and patient, something stirred.

The Brollachan was gone.

But deep beneath the earth, something slumbered—hungry, watchful, waiting.