Bruar's Rest

windswept laddie to walk again on northern soil. Yet she knew that was only a fleeting dream. Reality might prove a far more demanding master in the days that lay ahead.

     
    While filling the kettle and cutting bread for toast the next morning, she glanced from the kitchen window at the handsome Michael already risen with the cockerel. Shirtsleeves rolled up over elbows, he strode about the yard scattering corn to a regiment of hungry hens. His thick mop of brown hair was already combed to perfection. She’d not noticed before, but a thin line of hair was growing above his top lip. He wore green tweed breeches held by two leather braces buttoned at either side, rubber boots already covered in horse-dung and straw. Lifting the boiling kettle off the hot stove, she slipped out to join him. ‘What are you planning to do with the hairy lip you’ve on yourself, laddie?’ she teased.
    ‘I’m going to grow a handlebar moustache like that police sergeant back in the station in York; sure I am.’
    ‘Well, I hope you haven’t plans to go kissing me, only clean-shaven men will have the privilege.’
    ‘Is that the way of it?’ He laughed and lifted her clean off the ground and rubbed his unshaven mouth into her face.
    ‘You big brute, I’ll get you back for that.’ He let her go before turning on his heels. Breathlessly she chased him through the yard then back into the barn where he caught her in a firm embrace and began kissing her neck. Gently he rolled her onto the hay, but this time however she did not respond to passion’s temptations; quickly she rose and dusted the hay from her clothes. ‘I can’t, Michael, not this time, not until I know of Bruar. He will always be there, try to be patient. If you want me, then I can only be yours when totally sure.’ There was no need for an answer; the disappointment on his face said it all.
    Within a week, Michael began to pack for his trip home to Ireland. She watched him carefully roll socks and gloves in balls, before slipping them into the side-pockets of a brown leather suitcase. Feeling slightly awkward and at a loose end, she asked, ‘Do you need a hand?’
    ‘If my mother was here she’d tell you I always pack things myself. Never mind that, me lovely colleen. Can I ask you to promise me that you will you stay indoors unless my sister or brother-in-law goes out with you?’
    ‘But what have I to worry about, with Buckley locked up in jail and in chains?’
    ‘Sure, it’s not him that bothers me, it’s some other fella stealing you.’
    ‘Don’t be so silly! Two men are quite enough, you know.’
    They laughed and talked until, his packing finished, he stood on the back step. He’d bought a car, one with wipers to flick off rain and a loud horn. ‘I never was in favour of these blasted tin horses,’ he said, ‘I’d much rather have my bicycle or a good thick-rumped horse to get to the nearest train station. But it’s a long way to Liverpool to catch the ferry to the old country, so this boyo with its four wheels can do the job faster. Modern toys, eh, Megan?’
    Just as he was about to say his farewell, another car was heard braking on the driveway; it was Inspector Martin.
    ‘Wonder what he wants?’ Her heart murmured low and questions teemed wildly in her mind. Both waited as the policeman dropped his hunched shoulders and stepped from the ominous black vehicle. ‘Nice day, folks,’ he said. ‘Can we go into the house?’ He was leading the way; without a word they followed.
    ‘I won’t beat about the bush,’ he said seriously, ‘but last night, while being transported to the main courthouse for trial, that slimy eel escaped. Bull Buckley has managed to evade capture since. I’m sorry to tell you, but he’s slipped right through our fingers.’
    Michael wrapped his strong arms around her to no avail. She felt only the beating of her terrified heart. Martin offered protection in a safe house, yet she failed to hear him. Bridget and Stephen’s horses clattered loudly on the cobbled yard, and still not the slightest sound did she hear. Her vulnerability put a cloak around her, she was helpless. Seeing the police car, Bridget quickly came in to see what was wrong, while Stephen stabled the horses. ‘What manner of man is he, and shame on a useless police force,’ Stephen said, on hearing the awful news.
    Bridget strode to a drinks cabinet, poured a stiff whisky and asked, ‘Anyone else want one?’ Emptying the glass she added,