Dallas Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Dallas

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Book 48

  by Cassidy Cayman

  Copyright © 2019 Cassidy Cayman

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor Series © 2015 Lesli Muir Lytle

  All rights reserved

  About the series…

  The Ghosts of Culloden Moor series can be read in any order, but they will make much more sense if you first read the novella, The Gathering.

  The names of Culloden’s 79 are historically accurate in that we have only used the clan or surnames of those who actually died on that fateful day. The given names have been changed out of respect for those brave men and their descendants. If a ghost happens to share the entire name of a fallen warrior, it is purely coincidental.

  Dallas

  Miranda Clark has been working her whole life toward one goal, certain she can change the world for the better. The only problem is, she hasn’t done much to better her own life.

  Toren Dallas has no interest in moving on, but it’s his turn to complete Soni’s quest. He’s very interested in perhaps finding love, even if it may only last the few precious days he’s allowed to be human. Can he keep Miranda alive long enough to find out what her feelings for him might be?

  Chapter 1

  “Number 65!”

  The wee voice rang out past the circle of fire, clear and strong. But it went past him on the wind, unheeded. It felt like he’d been standing at the outskirts of the witch’s fire for as long as he’d been out on this moor. As long as he’d been in this wavering form, neither here nor there. It was comfortable now, almost. He was used to it at any rate.

  “Number 65, come to me now! It’s yer turn.”

  One of his comrades waved a tattered sleeve in front of his face. “Toren, d’ye not hear the lass? It’s your turn,” he urged. Go and and dinna keep her waiting. I’d like my turn as weel, as would the rest of us.” He clenched and unclenched his fists and grinned.

  Toren shook his head. Ah, that was his name, wasn’t it? And sixty-five was his number. He knew his dear mother had given him his name, but as for why he’d got that particular number, he had no idea anymore. He often forgot both of them. It wasn’t as if his mother, or any of his long-lost loved ones for that matter, ever called him by name these days. And the number? Well, this was the first time he’d heard it in a long while. It filled him with a slow dread.

  “Get on wi’ ye,” another of his fallen warrior brethren hissed. He tried to shove Toren but his arm went right through his plaid and his chest beneath.

  What was he waiting for? He wouldn’t miss any of this lot, no matter they’d been his only companions for closing in on three hundred years. They were fine men, brave and fearless. Every one of them good and worthy. Yet they all mostly kept to themselves, stuck in their own remembrances. It wasn’t any kind of life, for sure. But it was what he knew and almost comfortable now.

  “Toren Dallas!” Soncerae called, done with shouting his number. His name on the wee witch’s lips made him stand. The serious look on her small, upturned face and a few more futile swipes from the others made him move forward. “Dinna ye want yer go at the Bonnie Prince?” she asked.

  He shrugged. A bit of time alone to show Prince Charles Stuart what his ill-fated grab at the throne had cost was to be his reward for completing a heroic act set forth by their beloved Soni. He was certain it was to be no mean feat, not with such a rich payout. And he had no fear of danger. Hadn’t he already rushed into the worst kind of danger? Been felled by a lead ball to the chest, trampled by a horse, and then to add insult to injury, after hours of watching and listening to the horrors of battle, run through by an English scoundrel’s sword as if his last breath wasn’t near enough anyway? Nay, it wasn’t as if he could be killed again and worse. He’d been dead too long to fear that.

  What he rather did fear was moving on. What came after? He’d roamed this consecrated land safely for ages. He was hardly a shimmer in the sunlight to those who had the sight. They barely blinked, most of them certain it was only a trick of their imaginations he was so wispy now. Part of the air and the land. Almost neither here nor there.

  But Soni could see him just fine and as he looked down at his hands they seemed more solid. He clenched his fist and wondered what it might be like to land a good one on the Prince’s jaw. The thought didn’t move him the way it might have a hundred or more years ago. Still, Soni clearly expected something from him.

  “Since none of the others have returned, I’d imagine our heroic leader has taken quite enough pummeling, aye? Where would be the sport in kicking a man when he’s down?”

  “Didna that English soldier kick ye when ye were down?” one of his more observant brethren called out from behind him. “Kicked ye quite a bit before he ran his sword through yer lung. Where was Charlie when that was happenin’?”

  Well, bloody hell. Toren would have turned and glared if he hadn’t been caught in Soni’s earnest gaze.

  “I promised ye all a whole and hearty prince to do with as ye please,” she said. “Do ye not trust me to keep my word?”

  “Of course I trust ye,” he said quietly, wanting no more interference from the peanut gallery behind. “I just dinna see the point of it anymore. I’m fine where I am, thank ye. Take the next one in line, if ye please.” He raised what he hoped would be an intimidating brow at her. She was only a lass of sixteen, after all.

  She rolled her eyes at him, not intimidated. “If ye dinna care for your rightful revenge, then what might make ye want to live again?”

  “Live again?” he asked, stunned.

  “Aye. Two days. As alive as ye were before this accursed battle took place. No holes in ye, and nothing to harm ye. Complete yer quest and then make yer decision.”

  He studied her narrowly. “Make my decision? I may come back here if I please?”

  With a deep sigh, she placed her hands on his shoulders. He was even more stunned to find he could feel the gentle weight there. And though it was raining and cold to chill those who still had blood in their veins, her hands felt warm to him.

  “Ye must move on, with or without yer revenge,” she told him. “It’s how it is and I’m not sorry for it. Surely there’s something that calls ye? Something left undone while ye were alive?”

  The warmth of her hands seeped into bones he’d forgotten were there. Was there something that could tempt him from the droning, safe monotony of this place? He closed his eyes and tried to recall what it felt like to believe in something so much he’d marched to his death for it. His very painful death. Was it only love of Scotland that made him come to this place? Or had he wanted something more?

  Hadn’t he wanted a future with someone? Not a particular someone. No one other than his family had mourned him. But he’d wanted to have a bonny lass to call his own, to warm his hearth and his heart and his body. He’d wanted to feel the kind of love that spurred so many of his brethren to give up their lives.

  Two days wasn’t much, not compared to the thousands that were already behind him. Suddenly the thought of thousands more days stretching out ahead of him, sitting on a rock or traipsing back and forth over the place he’d been killed, didn’t seem quite so comfortable anymore. Perhaps it might be worth it to try to complete Soni’s quest. Perhaps he might turn the head of a charming lass and feel a kiss or two before he had to move on. Smas
hing his fist into Charlie’s face a few times might not be so bad, either. He could go into that mysterious hereafter knowing both love and the sweet taste of revenge.

  He opened his eyes to a rather smug look from Soni, as if she’d read all his thoughts. “Have ye decided, then?” she asked.

  “Have I a choice?” he grumbled.

  She winked at him, and with that, Culloden Moor was gone.

  In a flash, he found himself leaning against a stark white wall. Leaning against it, not wafting through it. That was different, and a bit thrilling. He patted his chest where his bullet hole was, then slightly lower where he’d been stabbed through. His heart beat so strongly he had to lean over and grab his knees. His legs didn’t seem as if they’d ever been trampled by a horse and after a second to reclaim his breath, he paced vigorously in the hallway he found himself in. The feel of his feet firmly connecting with the thin gray carpet gave him a surge of joy that buoyed him to the task ahead, whatever it may be. Several closed doors faced him on either side of the long hall. With no pictures on the walls and only brass name plates on the doors, the place was rather grim. One end boasted a high window, showing that it was dark outside. The other end of the hall had a lit exit sign over the door.

  Was he put here to stay or to go? It seemed an odd place to end up, an odder place to have to perform an heroic deed. He headed for the exit. That door was firmly locked, with a little box containing a number pad set into the wall next to it. He randomly punched in some numbers. Nothing but a disconcerting beeping noise. Looking around sheepishly to make sure no one was about, he tried floating through the door, flattening his nose. Ah, he should have known that wouldn’t have worked, not after he could lean against the wall. He was good and solid now. Still trapped in the hallway, he peered through the small glass window to another hall on the outside declaring he was on Floor 3, Research.

  Research, eh? He’d do some research of his own since he clearly wasn’t going to leave that way. The first door he came to was locked as well, and labeled Dr. Bergen Harrold. Another attempt to guess that door code turned up futile. The next door was a well-stocked janitorial closet, which he had to duck into to avoid being seen by a young woman scurrying down the hall carrying a bright red duffle bag. Peeking around the doorway he watched her leave through the locked exit. He tried to follow her fingers as they flew over the number pad, but he didn’t feel confident he’d be able to recreate what she’d entered.

  When he was alone in the hallway again, he hurried to try anyway. After the third failed attempt, he gave up in disgust.

  “What in blazes am I doing here, Soni?” he muttered, along with some curses.

  Should he have let the young lady see him? Getting escorted out by security guards was one way of leaving. He had to be here for a reason, though. Surely Soni wouldn’t waste what precious little time he had as a living man again.

  Alive. To think he’d forgotten the glory of it. He flexed all his muscles in turn and examined his reflection in the small window. It was almost shameful how full of color his cheeks were, how bright his blue eyes. Nary a bruise, cut, or smudge of ghostly dirt. He ran his fingers through his shoulder length hair and grinned at himself. He cleaned up quite well, thanks to the wee witch.

  There was still another door at the far end of the hallway to investigate. It was most likely going to be locked as well, but he headed toward it. The name on the brass plaque read Dr. Miranda Clark. As he reached to try the handle, he heard a voice call out from the other side, sending his newly beating heart slamming against his ribs once more.

  “Number 65!”

  Chapter 2

  Dr. Miranda Clark looked up from her paperwork and squinted blearily at the door leading from her office to the small reception area. It was open, but she couldn’t see Eloise’s desk from her own, something she was positive her assistant/sister had engineered on purpose.

  “Eloise, go ahead and send the last one in,” she called, wanting more than anything to put her head down and rest her eyes for a moment.

  If she had found even one worthwhile candidate she would have sent this last applicant home. It felt like she’d been interviewing people forever, not just the past five days. If she didn’t find someone soon, she wouldn’t be able to start human trials, which would put her newly acquired grant money on the line. That was not an option.

  She shot up from her chair and did a few quick stretches, straightening the papers on her desk while she bounced up and down on her toes to get her circulation going. She was on the very precipice of a major breakthrough in her life’s work and she wasn’t going to give up because she was tired and hungry and couldn’t find someone qualified to take part in her experiment. Yes, it was late on a Friday and she’d been stuck in this office since early Monday scouring the city for healthy, open-minded people willing to be part of one of the biggest scientific breakthroughs in the history of humanity, not to mention the last three years of her life putting it all together. It gave her chills knowing how close she was. She let herself have one beautiful second to let her eyes drift shut to imagine how much better people’s lives would be if her research worked.

  Not to mention proving all the naysayers wrong. And there were plenty of naysayers. All her life she’d been the golden child, soaring ahead of her peers. She’d graduated high school at sixteen and got her bachelor’s degree in two years, raring to rip through medical school. Finding chemistry miles more interesting than the idea of treating sick people, she’d had a tiny setback when she switched majors halfway through. But even then she’d got her doctorate at the impressively young age of twenty-two. She took a moment to remember those sweet days, when people had been impressed by her accomplishments. She’d had her pick of jobs— pharmaceutical companies were falling over themselves to make her a jewel in their crowns. She’d picked the one who’d promised her the most support and freedom, though much to her mother’s chagrin, they were also the lowest paying.

  The support and freedom fizzled away when she revealed what she’d been cooking up in her remarkable brain since she first started working on her advanced degree. Her first pitch meeting had been met with something far less enthusiastic than what she was used to and she’d been stuck in a group working on a new antidepressant. That was fine for a year because she actually learned a lot that would help with her own research. Anything that had to do with brain chemistry fascinated her. That and relationships. Not love, not romance. Nothing that involved the heart or, God forbid, one’s nether regions. Those never worked. People were always quick to say they wanted a life partner who was kind, generous, hardworking, fun loving, and who shared their interests. Then they ended up with a hot, unemployed tattoo artist with a bad temper who’d rather be dead than go to a garden show with them. Or go to the garden show blitzed and get chucked out for peeing on some prize azaleas.

  Miranda had seen way too many of her friends fall into misery thanks to charmingly handsome losers, all because they were biologically incapable of thinking with their brains when said losers flashed a dimple or a firm pec. Men were equally susceptible and just as unable to think rationally when flooded with brain altering hormones. It all led to anguish and ugly divorces. She couldn’t name a single person she knew who hadn’t been directly affected by a relationship gone wrong. Which was why she was so shocked to find her ideas not just shot down but laughed at. Heartily laughed at. And so very misunderstood.

  No drug can make a person fall in love with someone they’re not attracted to.

  You can’t change thousands of years of evolution.

  That kind of chemistry can’t be tinkered with.

  And on and on. But Miranda disagreed with all of them. She believed that if those pesky hormones that made people think they were in love could be regulated enough to keep them thinking with their minds instead of their pants, then everyone would be a whole lot happier. And she’d get a Nobel prize. No one would be laughing then…

  She felt her head tipping forward and s
he swayed on her feet. Quickly, she slapped her cheeks and took a big swill of the warm energy drink on her desk. No time for daydreams. The clock was ticking on making the dream a reality.

  It wouldn’t be so dire if the pharmaceutical company that had recently started funding her hadn’t gotten an anonymous tip from some heinous, lying jerk saying she was treading water and nowhere near results. She’d been perfectly ready to start human trials the following year, but her sponsors wanted something sooner now. Much sooner. And the one and only candidate who’d even remotely been qualified had admitted at the last minute she was pregnant. Miranda was desperate but not that desperate. She’d almost been as tearful as the poor woman she’d had to send away, swearing it wasn’t worth the six hundred dollars the study would pay to possibly risk her unborn baby. Maybe Bergen had had better luck than her.

  Without much hope, she dialled his extension, too tired to walk to the other side of the building where her research partner worked. She could tell by the number of rings that he wasn’t at his desk. Which meant he wasn’t working.

  “Bergen, what are you up to?” she demanded into the phone just as he stuck his head in from the lab behind her office.

  “I’m about to go get some food,” he said. “You know food. It’s one of the things we need to stay alive.”

  “That’s hilarious, but did you forget we’re about to lose our funding, which means no money? You know money, the thing we use to buy food?”

  She turned around to offer him a smile that she was sure looked more like a grimace. His jovial behavior also seemed forced and there were lines of tiredness around his mouth and eyes. He seemed thinner as well. He was only about eight years older than her, and ruggedly handsome with a bit of lightly graying scruff around his cheeks. Now he looked almost gaunt.