Long Haul Love (Trucker Love #1)

Sample Chapter

June 15, 1715

John David Hart stepped to the end of the line with his shoulders back and his head held high, which for a scared to his toenails thirteen-year-old was a challenge. He ignored those he passed who whispered as he worked to keep the tip of his father’s scabbard from dragging the ground though the muscles of his left arm were quivering from the effort. They, like the rest of his body and soul, were past exhausted.

He was the last man in the line of men that crossed the room, ending at the dais at the far end on the last night of the clan’s annual gathering. He was not sure if being last was good or bad, but he was here. He wore his father’s plaid, sword, and dirk, ready to swear his oath of allegiance to his mother’s clan.

The plaid wrapped around his middle twice before going up and across his narrow chest and over his left shoulder. Like the scabbard, the tail end of the plaid dragged the ground behind him. Like the sword, it was too big for him, but the plaid had been a wedding gift to his father by Evan MacGregor, the clan chieftain himself, after his father had married his mother. His mother had been cousin to, and ward of, Laird Evan MacGregor after her own parents had died when she had been just John David’s age. Funny how history repeated itself in the most painful ways. His father had only worn this plaid on special occasions—weddings, funerals, and clan gatherings. And now, John David was wearing it.

Though he was exhausted and near starved, John David refused to give in to the weakness. He held himself steady and shut out the whispers and murmurs and gossipy titters of those he passed as the line moved forward as one man after another pledged themselves to their clan. He stared ahead, focusing on the broad back of the man ahead of him. His plan was simple. Stand the line, swear his oath, and deliver the news of his parents, all without giving in to the grief that weighed him down as if the crag this castle sat upon was resting on his narrow shoulders.

The man before him stepped forward and knelt. He recited the oath of fealty before standing to share a dram of whiskey. In another minute, John David would need to recite it perfectly himself, proving himself to be a worthy man to take his father’s place even if he was half English.

The big man he had followed across the great hall one step at a time turned and walked away.

It was John David’s turn before the laird.

As he stepped forward, the crowd closest around them settled and grew silent. Though his knees were knocking together from more than stretched nerves, John David knelt, feeling even smaller than he normally did when the crowd of fully grown and battle-hardened clansmen around him took another step closer. Barely five feet tall and thin as a spike, John David knew he wasn’t much to look at, but the fire in his heart had brought him from the far border of the MacGregor clan lands through a fierce storm that had raged every foot of the way. It was all that kept him on his feet to this point, the determination to see the laird and pass along the news.

He took a moment to clear his throat as he debated which duty to fulfill first—the one to his parents, or the one to his clan. Clearing his throat again, he swallowed hard then decided direct blood outweighed distant.

Tilting his head back, he stared at Evan MacGregor through the tears that filled his eyes. The man was tall, broad in every direction, and fierce looking, with a scar that ran from the corner of his right eye down his cheek to his jaw. This was a warrior, a protector, a man to be feared and bowed to. A man who may or may not react well to the news John David brought from the South.

In a clear voice, loud enough to be heard in the near silent room, John David said, “My Laird MacGregor, as the only offspring of David John Hart and Sarah Jane MacGregor Hart, ‘tis my sad duty to inform ye they’ve been murdered, and the sheep given to their care stolen by raiders a fortnight past.”

John David closed his eyes as the tears he’d been holding back since watching his parents be killed in front of their home overflowed, burning twin trails down his cheeks. Closing his eyes, he tried to push the tears back as he took a deep breath, and then another. On the third, he opened his eyes again and met the shocked gaze of the man he had only met twice in his life. When he was five, the man had come to visit, and given him a bag of sweet biscuits. Last year, after John David had turned twelve, he had accompanied his father and mother from their home to this very spot where he had stated the oath of clan loyalty for the first time.

The MacGregor looked stunned. Shock and silence flowed across the room following a hushed murmur that Sarah MacGregor, the laird’s favorite relative, and her English husband were dead. In less than a minute, the clink of a bottle against a pewter cup at the refreshment table in the back of the hall could be heard at the dais.

Needing to complete his duty as quickly as possible before he embarrassed himself and his parents any further, John David took another breath and straightened his shoulders. Then he spoke the words of the oath, pledging his body, blood, and loyalty to the clan, even as he wondered bitterly why he bothered. What had the great Laird MacGregor done to help his family over the past thirteen years?

After he finished speaking, John David pushed to his feet. Once there, he swayed under the unaccustomed weight of his father’s sword hanging from his hip. The MacGregor still had not responded. Was his oath not good enough? He had said the same words every other man in the clan had said, so why hadn’t he been offered a dram and a handshake?

Straightening his shoulders, John David tried to turn and walk away. The only problem was that his body refused to cooperate. Four days of walking through rain and wind without food or rest had finally caught up with him. He began to burn from the inside out just before everything went fuzzy. Seconds later, a black curtain dropped around him, and he collapsed to the floor.

****

The men who had heard both his oath and the news of his parents stepped back, staring at the lad as if he were a giant creepy-crawly. When it became apparent that they were waiting for the boy to wake up on his own, eighteen-year-old Fiona MacGregor pushed her way past her father’s two closest advisors and into the center of the circle. Since her mother’s death three years earlier, Fiona had taken on the public duties her mother had fulfilled. A series of maids and kitchen wenches had stepped in to tend to the laird’s private needs.

Kneeling beside the young man, she laid a hand to his forehead and found it to be hot as Mrs. Willis’s iron kettle. “Malcolm, would you please bring the lad?”

she said, addressing the biggest, fiercest-appearing man in the circle.

She was one of the few who knew that, though he had the face and body of a giant, inside, Malcolm was as gentle as a lamb, which was why she preferred him to some of the other guards her father sent with her whenever she left the castle.

Without a word, Malcolm picked up the boy and followed in her wake as she swept through the hall. The clansmen backed away, giving them a wide path to cross toward the front hall and the main staircase.

With the many bedrooms in the place being full, she decided to put John David Hart in her own bedroom until he recovered from whatever illness he had been struck down by. From the haggard look of him as he had shared the news and taken his oath, she had a feeling he was suffering from exhaustion and extreme hunger, on top of a deep sadness at the loss of his parents.

She held the door open for Malcolm, and once the man was in the room, she waved to her bed. “Lay him down there. Then if you would be so kind, strip him.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned and placed another log on the fire. Then she lit several candles to add enough light to see by. When she turned back, she found Malcolm had laid the boy down and taken away his sword and dirk, but was now standing and staring at the boy.

“Malcolm? What’s wrong?”

she asked, crossing to stand beside the giant man.

“’Tisna right fer the boy ta be in this room.”

“And where would you have him be? He’s ill, and half-starved from the look of him. I hardly think I’m in danger from him,”

Fiona said as she studied the boy.

He might be small and slight now, but she could see the beginnings of a devilishly handsome man taking form. Another few years and he would have his pick of the ladies.

“Still ‘tisna right,”

Malcolm insisted. “Yer the laird’s daughter. Ye shouldna be giving yer bed over ta the half-breed son of an Englishman.”

Though Fiona wanted to argue further, she had a patient to tend to. With the clan gathered, the healer had been busy from daybreak until midnight so it would be up to her to take care of this brave boy who had escaped death to bring the news of raiders to them.

“If you’re not going to help me tend him then fetch some porridge and tea for the lad, and I’ll take care of him myself. And give my apologies to Father for leaving the gathering so abruptly.”

Fiona went to the armoire in the far corner of the room and pulled out several towels and washrags. The first thing the boy needed was a good cleaning. Then she would try to wake him long enough to eat something, after which she would let him rest as long as he needed.

Malcolm shook his great head and took the stack of linens from her. “I’ll clean the lad up while you go talk to cook,”

he said, gently taking her arm and pushing her out the door.

Fiona waited until he closed the door before grinning triumphantly. Then she lifted her skirts and flew down the hall to the back stairs. Once there she slowed minimally, as she had fallen more than once trying to take the steep, narrow stairs faster than she should.

In the kitchens, chaos reigned. Instead of bothering any of the cooks, she grabbed a tray. She fixed a bowl of runny porridge, throwing in some of the cut up dried fruit and nuts that were on a shelf nearby. Then she piled a plate high with bread and slices of meat and cheeses. She added several apples and all the necessaries for tea before filling a teapot full of milk and setting it on the tray as well. Finally, she filled both pockets of her dress with her favorite sweet biscuits.

Placing a clean cloth over the entire tray, Fiona headed back the way she had come with a silent prayer sent Heavenward to get out without being seen. She didn’t understand why, but her soul demanded she take care of John David, and be his guardian angel until he was able to fend for himself once more.

By the time she was back at the door to her bedroom, she was out of breath. She paused a moment to compose herself before knocking on the door. She sucked a surprised breath when her father opened the door.

“Father,”

she said, stepping in and crossing to the small table by the bed where she set the tray of food. A glance at the bed showed Malcolm had finished washing the boy down and had him tucked under the down comforter she used year-round.

“Why did you bring the lad here, lass? It isn’t proper for him to be in your room, much less sleeping in your bed.”

“The boy needs a warm, dry place to rest and heal, and unless we hang him from the rafters in the great room, there is no other place for him to recover undisturbed,”

Fiona stated simply as she met his inquisitive look with a determined one of her own.

Evan MacGregor stared at his daughter, and she stared back, refusing to give in. She knew that he knew there would be no swaying her from the decision she had made, and he might as well give in with grace. Here, alone in her room, he would give her what she wanted, which was why she had not discussed it with him while in the great hall. She got her quick-thinking, coolness under pressure from him, but he claimed her pigheaded stubbornness came from her mother, God rest her soul.

He sighed and shook his head. “All right, you may tend to the lad, until he’s recovered. But remember, he’s not a pet, he’s a man, a half-Macgregor Highlander. He will not appreciate being treated as a bairn even if that’s what he needs until he’s back on his feet again.”

“Yes, Father,”

Fiona said as she gently ushered him out of the room. “I’ll send someone for you as soon as he feels better.”

“And I don’t want you in here alone with him. Get Heather or one of the other maids to stay with you, and I’ll post Malcolm in the hall.”

Fiona tried not to laugh at her father’s orders. John David Hart would not be a threat to anyone for the next several days at least, and even as small as she was, she was bigger and stronger than the unconscious lad. “Yes, Father. We’ll be fine. And you have a house full of guests to tend to.”

Her father grunted and turned to say something else, but she closed the door on him. Turning back to her patient, she crossed to the door to the room her nanny had used and pulled the rocking chair from that room into her bedroom next to the bed.

Once it was in a place where she would be warm and still be able to watch her charge, she approached the bed. Brushing long, wild black strands of hair from his cheek, she touched his shoulder. “John David, wake up. You need to eat something.”

He frowned and shifted, but did not wake.

“John David, you need to wake up, now,”

she said, her tone a little harsher, a little louder.

“Go ‘way, wanta sleep,”

he moaned as he rolled over, giving her his back.

“You need to drink a glass of milk and then you can go back to sleep,”

she said, shaking his shoulder a little harder.

After another round of shaking and jerking, he rolled over, sat up, and held out his hand. Fortunately, Malcolm had left the boy’s shirt on as the covers fell away from his body. Moving to the tray of food by the bed, she poured him a glass of goat’s milk before turning back.

She wrapped his fingers around the glass then guided the cup until the edge touched his lip. He opened and began drinking obediently. When she tried to pull the cup away, he fought her and continued drinking until the milk was gone. His eyes still closed, and probably more asleep than awake, he burped loudly, and wiped the back of his hand across his lips before he flopped back down. In seconds, he was making soft snoring sounds as he returned to the sleep he so badly needed.

After tucking the covers around him, Fiona went to her nanny’s room and pulled the blanket off the bed. Wrapping it around herself, she settled into the rocking chair. The room was warm enough, but the fire would need tending throughout the night. Her charge would need tending throughout the night as well, and with the healer busy it would be up to her to see that John David Hart survived and carried on his family line.

The boy slept for two solid days, waking only enough to use the chamber pot, and consume the milk, or porridge, or honey-laced tea she forced on him at regular intervals. The maid, Heather, finally arrived at daybreak the first morning, taking over watch so that Fiona could fall into the bed in her nanny’s room for a few hours’ sleep. Malcolm helped the lad with the bodily functions while the women stepped out into the hall. The gathering ended, and soon the castle was empty of all except those who lived and worked within its walls on a daily basis.

Late on the morning of the third day, John David stirred, stretched, and woke up fully. Fiona was reading a book when he sat up and looked around.

“Good morning,”

she said laying her book aside and rising. “How are you feeling?”

Instead of answering, he looked at her, his blue-gray eyes sharp and assessing. Then a glowing heat filled them. Fiona had seen that look before, usually in men on their way to the tavern, the kitchens, or some other place to prowl for a woman’s gentle touch. He was so small, she had a hard time thinking of him as a man, but after pledging his fealty to the clan just days before, she knew her father would think of him as a man fully grown.

“John David?”

His eyes widened, and he shifted in the bed. His gaze cut away from hers to look around the room before it came back to meet hers once more. Clearing his throat, he stared deep into her eyes for several long, long moments.

Finally he swallowed hard and said, “Say yes, and ye’ll be the last woman I’ll ever love.”

End of sample chapter