The Time Traveler's Christmas - Amy Jarecki Page 0,3
spend his days in meditation, erasing Angela from his memory, overcoming his deep-seated desire to do harm to the man she’d cheated with.
He hated the sickly pain eating his heart, eating away at himself.
Where had he gone wrong? Had he been such a bad husband? Yes, they’d had their disagreements, but didn’t all couples? God dammit, he’d put the woman on a pedestal. He’d done his share of the cooking and cleaning. Hadn’t he?
Sitting up, he regarded himself in the mirror. God, he looked like shit. But who wouldn’t after spending the night in a foreign hospital, being discharged with a warning to take it easy and see his doctor as soon as he arrived home. The nursing staff had acted so goddamned chipper. How were they to know the rug had been pulled out from under his entire life? Christ, Lachlan didn’t care about a wee strike to the head.
He hissed when he touched the bruise at his temple, partially hidden by a mop of shoulder-length brown hair usually secured at the back of his crown with a band the way Angela wanted it. Maybe he should shave his head. Or maybe he should grow it even longer, travel to Alaska and become a mountain man. He certainly looked the part—thick beard, with two days of growth on his cheeks and neck where it shouldn’t be—and it itched like a bitch.
His hip knocked the gift bag over.
Lachlan shifted his gaze and stared at it for a moment. It wasn’t like Walter to leave a gift. Heaving a sigh, he reached for the bag and pulled out a note.
Dear Champ,
I presumed you would figure out that Crumpet could take care of himself for a week or two. But I also knew you’d be hurting on the inside. Believe it or not, I’ve suffered a tragedy or two in my lifetime, as well. Right, so go ahead and pull out the medallion inside. This isn’t a gift, but a loan. I lent it to your mother before you were born after she’d experienced a tragedy and it turned her life around in a miraculous way.
Go on, now. Hold it in your palm and put it around your neck. Feel the temperature of the metal against your chest.
Lachlan dug inside the bag and pulled out the medallion. It was about the size of a fifty-cent piece but round rather than being a decagon. Heavier than it looked, the worn piece was inscribed in Latin.
Lachlan turned Walter’s note over.
As you can see, this old relic is inscribed in Latin. I found it when excavating the Fail Monastery ruins eons ago.
The front reads: “Verum est quasi malis navis in nocte” and means “truth is like a beacon”.
Lachlan confirmed Walter’s statement, then flipped the medallion to the back.
On the reverse it reads: “Sed pauci volunt sequi”, translated: “but few choose to follow”.
He rubbed the hunk of bronze between his fingers. Truth is like a beacon, but few choose to follow. Indeed, his mother had always drilled into him the importance of the truth. She’d spent most of her life trying to interpret historical facts and take her findings to the world.
Honestly, Lachlan’s entire life had been a quest to seek the truth. His dedication to martial arts and kinesiology, to finding the body’s balance, energy, peace and healing all centered around the need for a man to be truthful to himself. Otherwise, Zen could not be achieved. Inner peace could not be found.
The problem?
His inner peace had been obliterated with a single phone call.
He slipped the leather thong over his head and plopped back to the pillows, staring at the paint chipping off the ceiling until sleep took the pain in his heart away.
Chapter Two
The Scottish Borders, November, 1314
Lady Christina de Moray’s horse stutter-stepped as if the gelding sensed her unease. But who in all of Christendom could remain calm at a time like this? Sitting taller and craning her neck, she searched the ranks of approaching English soldiers for any sign of her son.
She’d waited thirteen years for this day. During the duration of her purgatory, she’d spent endless hours on her knees praying this moment would come. The wind picked up her veil and blew it into her face. Batting the ugly grey wool away, she continued her search while the English rode into formation on the other side of the border. On the Scots side, she sat on the outside of the row of nobles atop a galloway pony that was far