Jamie glanced at the fading sky.
“It’s a good while ’til supper,” he said. “We’ve likely time for both.”
“It’s a tale for another time,” Roger said, shrugging. “But … the meat of it is that while I came in search of Jem, I found—well, my father, instead. His name was Jeremiah, too—folk called him Jerry.”
Jamie said something in Gaelic and crossed himself.
“Aye,” Roger said briefly. “As I said—another time. The thing was—when I found him, he was only twenty-two. I was the age I am now; I could have been his father, just. So I called him Jerry; thought of him that way. At the same time, I kent he was my … well. I couldn’t tell him who I was; there wasn’t time.” He felt his throat grow tight again and cleared it, with an effort.
“Well, so. It was before, that I met your father at Lallybroch. I nearly fell over with the shock when he opened the door and told me his name.” He smiled a little at the memory, rueful. “He was about my own age, maybe a few years older. We met … as men. Mr. MacKenzie. Mr. Fraser.”
Jamie gave a brief nod, his eyes curious.
“And then your sister came in, and they made me welcome, fed me. I told your father—well, not the whole of it, obviously—but that I was looking for my wee lad, who’d been kidnapped.”
Brian had given Roger a bed, then taken him next morning to all the crofts nearby, asking after Jem and Rob Cameron, without result. But the next day, he’d suggested riding all the way to Fort William, to make inquiries at the army garrison.
Roger’s eyes were fixed on a patch of moss near his knee; it grew in rounded green clumps over the rocks, looking like the heads of young broccoli. He could feel Jamie listening. His father-in-law didn’t move at all, but Roger felt the slight tension in him at mention of Fort William. Or maybe it’s my own … He thrust his fingers into the cool, wet moss; to anchor himself, maybe.
“The commander was an officer named Buncombe. Your father called him ‘a decent fellow for a Sassenach’—and he was. Brian had brought two bottles of whisky—good stuff,” he added, glancing at Jamie, and saw the flicker of a returned smile at that. “We drank with Buncombe, and he promised to have his soldiers make inquiries. That made me feel … hopeful. As though I might really have some chance of finding Jem.”
He hesitated for a moment, trying to think how to say what he wanted to, but after all, Jamie had known Brian himself.
“It wasn’t so much Buncombe’s courtesy. It was Brian Dhu,” he said, looking straight at Jamie. “He was … kind, very kind, but it was more than that.” He had a vivid memory of it, of Brian, riding in front of him up a hill, bonnet and broad shoulders dark with rain, his back straight and sure. “You felt—I felt—as though … if this man was on my side, then things would be all right.”
“Everyone felt that about him,” Jamie said softly, looking down.
Roger nodded, silent. Jamie’s auburn head was bent, his gaze fixed on his knees—but Roger saw that head turn a fraction of an inch, and tilt as though in answer to a touch, and a tiny ripple of something between awe and simple acknowledgment stirred the hairs on his own scalp.
There it is, he thought, at once surprised and not surprised at all. He’d seen it—or rather, felt it—before, but it had taken several repetitions before he’d realized fully what it was. The summoning of the dead, when those who loved them spoke of them. He could feel Brian Dhu, here beside this mountain creek, as surely as he had felt him that dreich day in the Highlands.
Roger gave a brief nod to the ghost who stood with them, thought, Forgive me, and went on.
He told of William Buccleigh MacKenzie, who’d once nearly killed Roger but now was in the way of making amends by helping to find Jem. How together they had met Dougal MacKenzie, out collecting rents with his men—
“Jesus,” Jamie said, though Roger noticed he didn’t cross himself at mention of Dougal. His mouth curved up at the corner. “Did Dougal ken the—that this man Buck was his son?”
“No,” Roger said dryly. “As Buck hadn’t been born yet. Buck kent Dougal was his father, though; that was a bit of a shock for him.” Not only for him.
“I imagine it would be,” Jamie murmured. A tinge of amusement lingered on his face, and Roger wondered—not for the first time—at the ability of Highlanders to step back and forth between this world and the next. Jamie had killed his uncle when he had to, but had made his peace postmortem; he’d heard Jamie call on Dougal for help in battle—and seen him get it, too.