Man In The Mist. Annette Broadrick

you’ll be comfortable enough here for the night.”

      He roused enough to realize what she was saying. “What did you give me to drink?” Delayed adrenaline kicked in, somewhat clearing his head. “You’ve caused this blurry feeling, haven’t you? Who the hell are you?” he demanded to know before the coughing took over once more.

      “We can talk in the morning, Mr. Dumas. You’re safe here. Rest,” she said softly, going to the door. She turned off the light and pulled the door closed, leaving him in darkness.

      Greg sat there, wondering how he’d ended up in this woman’s bedroom, wondering what she’d given him to make him feel so dopey. His arms felt as if invisible weights held them down. With his last ounce of energy, he removed the rest of his clothing except for his boxer shorts.

      He shivered uncontrollably from the chill in the air and curled beneath the covers, their immediate warmth comforting him. All right. The most sensible course would be to stay there for the night, but then he would insist that this woman give him the necessary directions to continue his search for the correct Fiona MacDonald.

      That was his last thought before sleep overtook him.

      Chapter Two

      Fiona woke with a start to the sound of her visitor’s breath-stealing cough echoing through the cottage. She glanced at her bedside clock and saw that it was almost five o’clock.

      The tea had given him a few hours of rest, which he needed. Not that he would have admitted it. No, sir. Mr. Greg Dumas had certainly been convinced he could continue with his journey.

      She sat up, yawning. He needed more of the herbal mixture she had given him. With that in mind, Fiona pulled on her robe and went downstairs to the kitchen, where she mixed the necessary herbs to relieve his cough and congestion, as well as bring down his fever.

      While she measured and crushed, her mind wandered into the past.

      By the time she was a teenager, she had known that she wanted to help heal people. She had worked with her dad—even though he had retired—with some of the older people who insisted on coming to him for treatment. Because of her interest, he had encouraged her to attend university and to consider medical school, which she had done.

      She had left medical school disheartened and more than a little discouraged. She’d learned little to nothing about nutritional needs, preventative medicine or natural remedies that worked as well as pharmaceuticals but with fewer side effects. She and her father had discussed the wide range of healing modalities more than once. Instead of continuing with her medical studies, she’d taken courses in nutrition and natural remedies.

      When her parents died, Fiona walked away from her studies and sought a place where she could be alone and come to terms with her loss. She’d stumbled onto Glen Cairn while exploring the Highlands, and on a whim checked to see if there were any available rentals.

      The cottage was exactly what she had needed—close enough to people if she wanted to reach out—secluded enough to allow her time to heal. She had never regretted her move.

      As word of her training and abilities spread through Glen Cairn, villagers had come to her with their ailments and she had found her grief being eased by helping others.

      She’d never told anyone why she was so good at diagnosing illnesses. First, because they wouldn’t believe her. Secondly, because she didn’t want to be considered odd, as she had been in Craigmor.

      The truth was that she saw shimmering colors around each person she met. Over the years she’d learned that certain colors represented physical problems, and certain emotions appeared to her in defining colors, as well. There was no way she could find the words to explain what she saw.

      As a child she’d thought that everyone could see those colors and knew what they meant. She’d assumed that was how her father was able to diagnose what was wrong with his patients.

      However, as she’d grown older she’d discovered that she was the only one around who witnessed what she saw. After being laughed at several times, she’d learned to keep quiet about seeing colors that no one else appeared to detect.

      Instead, she used her knowledge and skills to diagnose and treat others with her home-grown herbs, salves and her intuitive messages.

      Fiona poured the steeped herbal tea, let it cool a bit and took it to her guest bedroom. After tapping on the door and getting no response, she quietly turned the knob and walked into the bedroom. Rather than turn on the overhead light, she reached for a small lamp near the door. Once there was light, she turned and looked at her guest.

      The covers were bunched around his waist, displaying his bare chest. He lay on his back, his head turned away from her, his latest coughing spell still echoing in the room.

      “I’ve brought you some tea.”

      He slowly turned his head toward her and the light, his eyes appearing unfocused.

      She touched his arm and discovered that he was burning up. She gave his shoulder a light shake. “Can you sit up for me, please?”

      He blinked. When his eyes opened a second time, they were somewhat clearer. “What do you want?” he asked, his words slurred.

      “I want you to drink this,” she replied, sitting on the edge of the bed and offering him the cup.

      He came up on one elbow and took the cup, draining it as though he was thirsty. Without a word he handed it back to her and fell back on the bed.

      She smiled, almost amused at his change in attitude. Perhaps he was too sick to care what she gave him. Fiona went over to the tall dresser in the corner and opened one of the drawers. She pulled out a large flannel shirt and brought it back to the bed.

      “Here. Put this on…. You need to stay warm.”

      Greg opened his eyes and frowned at her. “I’m hot. I don’t need a shirt.”

      “Take my word for it. You really do need to keep your chest warm.”

      His frown grew, but he sat up and pulled the shirt over his head without another word. With a glare that spoke volumes, he rolled over so that his back was to her and said, “Turn out the light when you leave.”

      He sounded as gruff as a grizzly disturbed in his rest. She may not know much about her visitor, but he’d made it clear he would not be an easy patient to look after.

      She turned on a night-light, turned off the lamp and returned to the kitchen to find the salve she needed for his chest.

      McTavish had followed her downstairs and now sat just inside the kitchen door, giving her a disgruntled look. “Yes, I know,” she said soothingly. “I have disturbed your rest, as well. Go back upstairs. I’ll be there shortly.”

      With a muffled snort the dog went into the hallway, pausing for a moment in front of the stairs to glance at the closed bedroom door before he trotted up them. Sometimes he acted as if he understood every word she said.

      Perhaps he did, she thought.

      Fiona quietly reentered the guest bedroom with the jar and more tea. The night-light cast enough of a glow for her to see the bed and nearby table. She placed the items on the table and sat beside him on the bed.

      Once again he lay sprawled on his back, his arms thrown wide. When she brushed her hand against his forehead, she knew she had to do whatever was necessary to break his fever.

      His immune system was struggling and needed help. No doubt Mr. Dumas pushed himself beyond his physical limits on a regular basis, which made him human, she supposed, but didn’t help when an infection managed to overcome him. He had little energy in reserve to combat his illness.

      She reached for the ointment.

      He stirred, turning his face toward her. “Jill?” he murmured. “I’ve missed you so much.” He took Fiona’s hand and tugged her toward him. She managed to catch her balance enough