Page 50 of Lochlan

We've been strolling for about twenty minutes when Granda and Kenzie pause. From a distance, it appears they're in serious conversation, then Kenzie dislodges her arm and positions herself directly in front of him. I don't approach; I'm curious to see how this will play out. I fold my arms, watching them intently. From what I can observe, it doesn't appear that Kenzie needs saving. There's a long back and forth as Kenzie paces in front of him. I was certain Granda would be the interrogator—he's more comfortable with that role—yet it appears that she has taken that position.

They talk for a while longer until they reach a consensus. Granda signals to me, as well as Geordie and Fiona, to join them. We form a small cluster around him.

“I think it's time for us to walk as a group. Lochlan, I'll give you back your enchanting companion. I will walk in the middle, surrounded by my family. It will be easier to talk to all of you at the same time.”

I formally offer my arm to Kenzie as a gallant gesture. She gives me a wink as her arm encircles mine.

This new configuration has left us silent, and only the sound of our footfalls on the ground cuts through the air. Kenzie and I walk behind the group, Granda in the middle, while Geordie and Fiona lead us down the path. I search my mind for conversation to avoid the walk turning into a meditation, when Granda's baritone rumbles from his throat. “Hark, when the night is falling. Hear! Hear the pipes are calling,” he sings out a strong interpretation ofScotland the Braveusing his stick to tap the beat of the song. I've heard him sing this old unofficial anthem of Scotland many times over the years. The words invoke pride in my home, and the hopes of a people for freedom are etched in my soul.

When he's finished the first verse, Geordie picks up the song in his deep bass and it reminds me of past holidays. His delivery is more animated, walking backwards, arms outstretched like an opera star on stage. I'm torn between laughing and crying, listening to his heartfelt rendition. Geordie finishes singing with the words “Land of my heart forever, Scotland the brave” with a flourish.

His last words ring in our ears for only a heartbeat before my blood chills to hear Fiona's sweet soprano voice pick up the third verse. As the words flow in a beautiful recital, we stop to listen in reverence. Her face glows like an angel singing her prayer to the open sky. The wilderness is a fitting cathedral for her clear voice as it soars in patriotic fervor. As she ends her verse, their collective gazes rest on me, challenging me not to break the musical thread.

I'm not a singer, at least not a confident one, so I begin to recite the last verse. Before I've stumbled through the first line, something unexpected happens.

Kenzie sings in a mezzo-soprano voice, not as high as Fiona, but every bit as beautiful. I attempt to sing as she leads me through the melody. She clutches my arm, urging me to look at her to get into the theatrics of a duet. I keep up with her until the last line, when I'm mesmerized by her face, remembering Granda's words that a pretty face might kill the last of your demons. The moment is broken when we receive enthusiastic gloved applause for our performance. We bow to our audience like the well-trained vocalists we are.

The impromptu concert awakens feelings of acceptance and maybe a washing away of my past sins that I've committed against each of them, but what about the sins of the future? Will they be absolved as well?

Everyone talks at once about the song, and of the past when we sang together. Fiona stands just outside, watching me. Tonight, her voice brought back the past as vividly as if I'd never left Scotland. She looks so much like the woman I left, that it appears nothing has changed and we were never apart. Is it true Fiona came back for me and, if that's why she's here, do I still want her?

Kenzie's grip tightens on my arm. I must be too deep in my thoughts if she needs to claim my attention. I return my gaze to the woman by my side. The way she slipped into our circle without hesitation, it felt like she was the missing part of our family. The thought of having Kenzie back in my arms is strong, but even stronger is that it should be in my bed. I can't tell if this is what she wants or if this is another staged performance to get the proof she needs to win her challenge.

Kenzie stands on tiptoes, leaning heavily on my arm, trying to whisper something. “You really should sing more. Your voice was every bit as good as your family's.”

I want to laugh at that because, as singing goes, I'm the weakest of these outrageous posers; they'll do anything for an audience's attention…and they have. “It's a bit intimidating when talented singers surround you,” I reply. “But I hold my own.”

We resume our walk with a lighter spirit. Even Granda appears to move with more grace, judging by the way his stick strikes the earth at a jaunty angle as he walks.

Ian MacTavish is many things. Above managing us and the company, his most cherished role is the historian of the MacTavish clan. He has spent untold hours poring over historical accounts to glean information about our ancestors. The natural outlet of this hobby is that he's become a storyteller in the oral tradition. His stories were the lullabies of my childhood. During our hunts, when he told stories at our campfire, I'd imagine him as an ancient chronicler two hundred years ago beside the fires of a clan meeting, weaving his tales to a rapt audience.

We hike, listening to Granda's narration while we watch our step and observe the vistas. Winters here are mild in this part of California. The cool, crisp weather allows us a chance to see wildlife from birds to deer roaming undisturbed.

We stroll in twos or threes, sometimes single file, when the path narrows. Whatever formation we take, Granda is careful to stay in the middle of the group so we can listen instead of talking. Today, he's chosen to enchant us with the history of the MacTavish females, heroic women who supported their husbands in battle. Women who sacrificed themselves for the clan and those who made a quiet difference in moving us ahead as a family. I stay close to Kenzie, making sure I'm a buffer, as if I have to fight to defend her. It isn't necessary; she's captivated by the stories about us as we were growing up.

There is a lull after the end of the last story. Granda halts, tapping the ground with his stick for our attention. “We've traveled enough for one outing. It's time to head back,” Granda announces. “The sun will set soon. We should have time to relax before dinner. Lochlan, do you have your phone?”

“Aye, Granda.”

“I want you to be the photographer. Please take some now and when we are back at the house.”

* * *

We're headingto the conservatory door, Granda in the lead. I allow Kenzie to go in front of me. Granda asks her a question when she steps through. Geordie is next to me when I feel a tugging at my sleeve. “Wait,” Fiona says, “Can you spare a moment to talk?”

I turn to face her as Geordie walks past me to join the others inside. This is the first time Fiona and I have been alone, although the rest can see us, if they care to look. “What is this about?” I ask.

“Ian suggested I look over the numbers for Catriona. We have some time before dinner; maybe we can discuss them now. Ian and I will be gone soon, so this might be the only time we have to meet.”

“Is there a place where we can talk?” I ask.

“Come to my room if you don't want to disturb your girlfriend.”

“I'd rather the conference room where we met earlier.”

This isn't what she’d hoped for. I don't care. It's not my intention to be in her room alone. “I'll tell Kenzie, then I'll meet you there after I find my laptop.”

She nods her agreement but doesn't enter the conservatory; instead, she walks further down the path to another entrance and disappears. The rest are inside, waiting. Granda and Geordie are at the drinks cart, while Kenzie turns away from the view. By the look on her face, she watched me talk to Fiona.

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