A little Music History

Hi, there. So glad you chose to be with me today. A few days ago, while doing some research, I came across an interesting tidbit that I want to share. I don’t know if it will show up in any future books, but I just thought it was cool. Come along, as we talk about singing.

I grew up in country churches, where hymns were sung to a piano. We sang songs like, “Amazing Grace”, “Just As I Am”, “Victory in Jesus”, and “Pass Me Not Oh Gentle Saviour”. Worship music was something fancy churches sang down town or something we sang at church camp.

Fast forward several years. My family and I attend a church down town where worship music is common. Our praise and worship team do songs like, “Chain Breaker”, “Amazing Grace, My Chains are Gone”, “Revelation Song” and “Jesus Messiah”. The instruments accompanying the singing include a piano, guitars, drums, a cello, and once in a while a mandolin. Something more important has changed, though-my heart, because God is too big to fit in just one type of music.

But, lest you don’t believe me, let’s rewind time back to 1650. We’re in Scotland, and there is a new book of psalms put in metrical form. In other words, lots of somebodies rearranged the words in the book of Psalms from the Bible and put them to metre. The tunes are interchangeable, just make sure you keep the timing. Some radical things are happening here, and not everyone is convinced that God will be pleased with this type of worship. I mean, it wasn’t so long ago that the singing was done in latin. And, don’t forget, we’re not supposed to add or take away from the Scriptures. Yes, these metrical psalms are the correct words, but they are all jumbled up so that the songs rhyme. *Gasp*

Now, step ahead in time a few years into 1700’s America. Immigrants are flooding into this English conglomerate of colonies, and since we’re Scots, for now, we’re taking our Psaltery with us. There are some English writers who are coming up with their own worship songs that aren’t necessarily from the Psalms, but we’re going to be careful of them. I mean, do you know anywhere in the Bible where it says, “Alas, and did my Saviour bleed and did my Sov'reign die? Would He devote that sacred head for such a worm as I?”

When I begin writing about new characters and times and places, I like to research what type of music was popular. If possible, I like to listen to it, to try and get a better feel of what my characters felt like, what they said and what they might have thought. When I typed in “1700’s music”, though, I found that while Google and Youtube have music from that time period, my characters probably would not have heard it until much later in life. What they would have been familiar with were songs sang in church. What kind of church singing? Well, metrical psalms, of course.

The first song I found was based from Psalm 130. Check it out on Youtube. The second was Psalm 23 put to the tune of “Amazing Grace”. Beautiful. Take a listen.

What type of music brings you into His presence? What type of singing lifts your soul? We are all different, and there is no right or wrong answer. As long as it is bringing glory to God, He will love it.

Coming up soon I’ll be doing an author interview and a giveaway, so stay tuned to my Facebook page for updates. Ever heard of Heather Day Gilbert? I’ll be creating an event, so y’all won’t miss it.

Until next Tuesday, have a fantastic week, and hop on over to facebook.com/adkinsandwells/ for lots more fun stuff.

Blessings.

Some Thoughts on Research and Some Other Random Stuff

A couple of weeks ago, I told you about some updates. One thing I didn’t mention is the book I started last spring, the one I blogged about. The series on that story is all here, and each post begins with “Pondering A Story”, if you want to check them out.

The reason I haven’t mentioned Miss Mercy and Gabriel is because I’ve been busy finishing up and editing the book soon to be released, “His Yankee Wife”. Also, the end of the school year happened, and I went a little crazy trying to finish. But, now that summer is here, “His Yankee Wife” is almost ready and things have slowed down, my mind is returning to the 1700’s.

Yesterday, I was doing a little research and came across an interesting tidbit. In 1752 Britain and others changed from the Julian calendar to the Gregorian. On Wednesday, Sept. 2, folks said their goodnights and awakened the next morning to Thursday, Sept. 14. Many grew angry and blamed the British government for stealing 12 days of their lives. Another change was New Year’s. Celebrated on March 26, they had to get used to Jan. 1. Ever wondered why Orthodox Churches celebrate Easter on a different day? Blame it on that crazy change in calendars.

For the passed 3 years, I have been immersing myself in 1860’s America. I have watched documentaries on the Civil War, downloaded 2 albums of Civil War era music, studied how they dressed, what they ate, where they went, how they spoke, the lasting effects of the war between the states, and I could go on and on. A lot of useless, or rather useless for now knowledge is hid up in my brain. So, I don’t have to tell you how hard it is to get used to a different century when it comes to this new story. But, this is how it works for me.

Back when I wrote, "A Moment in Time" I had to delve into Scottish history and the Scotland of today. What they wore, what they ate, how they spoke, I even had dreams of visiting Scotland. :) But, I literally had to get as close as I could in order to get inside my characters’ heads, especially the hero, Colin. Then, when I began working on “His Yankee Wife” I had to do the same. Now, I need to know as much about this other time and place in order to become my characters.

Researching the 1700’s in America is actually pretty easy, thanks to Colonial Williamsburg and their website. There are videos and articles galore detailing what they ate, how they talked, and I’m hoping someday to go down to Virginia and visit. Listening to the type of music from back then is easy, as well, thanks to Youtube. Only problem is my heroine is rather poor and would not have had access to operas or concerts. Neither does she have a piano forte, harpsichord or violin. Her indentured servant can sing though, so she’s in for a treat. :) I’m looking forward to immersing myself in Colonial Virginia, though.

In the meantime, plans have been made for a photo shoot for the cover of “His Yankee Wife”. The hair stylist has agreed to do my model’s hair, and 2 costumes have been picked out for my model to try. We also have a location, a little, stone house a few miles away. I spoke with someone yesterday about a few braille business cards to hand out when my friend and I do our presentation at the NFB state convention in September, and my friend, Anita and I are thinking of going live on facebook.com/adkinsandwells to promote our book coming out soon, “Ducking into UEB”, a textbook that teaches unified English braille to 4-12 graders and older learners.

Yikes, it sounds like I’m busy. It’s what I love, though. But, I think I’ve been typing too much for today. So, I’m going to hop off here and play around with a shawl I started knitting this morning. Need to give my brain time to wander into the past. Take care, come back next Tuesday when I’ll tell you all about that photo shoot.

Be blessed.

Taking Out the Garbage

Last Tuesday I talked about the results of binge reading. Today, I’m going to talk about ways I get rid of the extra garbage in my brain after one of those reading binges.

Seeing as how we serve a mighty God who already has the answers to everything, I thought it best to look into the Word, first. Here’s what I found.

“Wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way? by taking heed thereto according to thy word” Psalms 119:9 KJV

After reading 7 books pretty much back to back, I can tell you there is a need for cleansing. According to the psalmist, taking heed to God’s Word is the answer. Yep, more reading, but this time, it’s the kind of reading that satisfies my soul. :)

Another way I expel the extras in my brain is to write about them. I keep a personal journal, in which I allow myself to say anything. Doesn’t matter if it makes sense or not, doesn’t matter if it matters or not. I let myself say whatever is on my mind. So, I write about the characters or how the story made me feel. I quote a passage from the book that either bothers me or sticks with me for some other reason. I make up my own version of the story, which, BTW, can lead to some very bad stories that I can’t bring myself to delete. LOL The key here is to give myself a chance to talk about what I’ve read to someone. It just happens, that someone is me and my heavenly Father. No use keeping secrets from Him, anyway. He knows all, sees all and still loves me, even when I’m being stupid.

Sometimes, if the books that I have devoured are especially clingy after reading, I stop reading completely. Except for my Bible, I don’t read anyone else’s work but my own. I listen to music or play music or crochet or knit or bake. I have gone months without reading any fiction but my own, which is probably why I go on a reading binge to start with. LOL

Books, especially the good ones with real characters and unpredictable endings are more than just something to read when I’m bored; they become part of me. I know that sounds loony, but characters stick inside my mind like real people. Usually, the only way to quiet them down is to write them out. So, as an author, understanding what makes real characters has become important to me. If an author can make a character pop off the page, then it doesn’t matter whether that character is male or female, werewolf, vampire, smoke jumper, doctor, ghost, shapeshifter, cowboy, gunfighter, beautician, soldier, police officer, preacher, time traveler, slave, pirate, Martian or whatever. Just make them real.

To add some humor and show you how my mind works, here are some story ideas from some reading binges from the past. Keep in mind, many of these  are too bad to share.

Young lady sets out on the Oregon Trail with her family and falls for the mysterious mountain man who is guiding the wagon train. (I did start this one, but can't seem to finish it.)

In 2117, a woman is given the task of teaching a man from Mars how to live on Earth and falls for him.

A blind woman’s werewolf husband changes to become her guide dog whenever she goes anywhere, scaring off anyone who would try to approach her. (This would actually come in handy) LOL

A woman travels back in time and finds not only the man of her dreams but her faith in God. (Oh, wait a minute, that one turned into a book, "A Moment in Time")

A young woman is on the run from the law and is captured by the one man who can teach her about God’s forgiveness. (Oh, wait, that turned into a book, too, "Wild Heart")

Female physician takes in a man wanted by the law and falls for him, all the while praying for his salvation. (Ok, that one is a book, too, "To Tame A Heart")

A wounded soldier comes home to heal and finds a book about her ancestors who fought in the Civil War. (Oh, dear, I think I’m starting a trend, because that one is turning into a book that hopefully will be published this year.)

To sum it all up, my way of taking out the trash in my head is to write it out. Some of these story ideas are just plain silly, but some of them work. The only way to know is to write them and see.

Thanks for spending your Tuesday with me. I hope you’ll come back often. Be blessed and remember God loves you.

Happy Mother's Day

_{Happy Mother’s Day to all moms out there! So glad you could join me. Today, I have a gift just for you, faithful readers. Excerpts. Yep, you heard me. Free excerpts of my books, all of them focusing on moms and mothering.}

_{The three ladies you are about to meet are as different as night and day, yet they have one thing in common; all of them take on the care of someone in need of a mother. Maggie Scott is a mom and an aunt. Dr. Faith Valentine takes on the responsibility of ten orphaned children who live next door. Lady Ann MacQueen Davidson is a widow living in her brother’s home with her teenager son. Now that I think of it, these ladies have something else in common; all are believers. Oh, and one more thing, all are fictional. They weren’t created with anyone special in mind, but as I read over these excerpts, I can’t help but remember what my life was like while I wrote about them and see characteristics of folks I either know or once knew.}

_{Living several miles away from her 18-year-old daughter, Maggie Scott from "Wild Heart"} is a seamstress. In the scene you are about to read, her nephew and former neighbor have just arrived unexpectedly in the night. Maggie first came West on the California trail back in 1850. In the 1860’s, she moved with her husband and daughter to Wyoming to ranch. Now, she is living in New Mexico near her ailing brother. She loves to feed people, and she makes no secret about being a matchmaker. She rather puts me in mind of my Papaw’s sister who insisted on feeding you every time you came to her house. Come with me to Maggie’s cozy kitchen.

Maggie reached into her cupboard and retrieved three mugs.  After pouring the coffee, she placed the hot mugs before her guests, and then began to slice the cinnamon cake.  When everyone was served, including herself, she sat down and asked, "So, what brings the two of you to Silver City?”

She watched with curiosity as the young people at her table looked at one another.  Shewana opened her mouth to reply, but Gage beat her to it.

"We were just passing through on our way to Cheyenne," he said.

Maggie gave him a look that said more plainly than words, "Sure you are.”

Gage met her gaze and tried to tell her with his eyes to let it alone, but apparently she either didn't understand, or she didn't care.

"Going to Cheyenne?" she asked.  "Well, that's nice.  Shewana, your brother's up there, isn't he?  Well, so if you're going to Cheyenne, where are you coming from?”

"Coming from?" Gage asked, not sure he understood her question.

"Yes, coming from," Maggie reiterated.  "Where did you two meet up?  In Texas?"  Then, as a thought struck her, she asked, incredulously, "You two aren't married, are you?”

Shewana choked on her bite of cake, and Gage's eyes grew wide.  Maggie enjoyed watching them, even though she knew it wasn't really all that funny.

After a silence that seemed to go on forever, Shewana managed, "Married?  Uh, no, Maggie, we are most definitely not married.  Whatever gave you that idea?”

"Well," Maggie said, "I've never seen the two of you together.  In fact, I didn't even know the two of you knew one another.  I just…”

"It’s ok, Maggie," said Gage, rising to his feet.  "Shewana's right.  We're not married; we're just traveling together.  I'm going to carry our bags upstairs.  I'll be back in a minute.”

Hurriedly standing to her feet, Shewana said, embarrassed, "I think I'll go up with you.  I'm sort of tired.  Thanks for the coffee and cake, Maggie.  I hope you will excuse me turning in so early.”

Knowing that there was more here than what met the eye, Maggie decided to wait until she had Gage alone to press further.  Aloud, she said, "No problem, Honey.  You sleep as long as you like.”

Faith Valentine from "To Tame A Heart" is a physician in a town where no one has ever heard of a woman doctor. The orphans who are her neighbors keep her hopping, but she wouldn’t trade them for a moment. If she could, she’d take them all in as her own. While I am eternally grateful the Lord only blessed me with two children, Faith’s busyness of always cleaning up after sick folks puts me in mind of myself when my girls were small. LOL Seems like I was always wiping up messes on the floor, changing diapers and walking the floors at night. Let’s go see what Faith and the children are into now.

When the door was opened, she stared in puzzlement at the four smallest children from the orphanage: Megan, Blake, Tracey and Kierstin.

"Good morning," she greeted.  "Is there something wrong?"

Why are they looking so serious?

Pulling her thumb out of her mouth with an audible pop, little Kierstin said, "There's a big fight down by the jail and Candace says you need to come."

"At this hour?" she asked, incredulous.  "But, who…  Why me?"

"Cause somebody beat Colbey up," the child answered before replacing her thumb in its customary place.

"Oh for pity sake!" Faith exclaimed, before slamming her door, lifting her skirts and running with the children toward the jail.

What kind of trouble has that boy caused this time?

Reaching the middle of town, all Faith could see was a crowd of people.  They were standing around something or someone, but she could not see over them, not at first.

"Let me through," she commanded, shoving shoulders aside.

The people moved apart, allowing her amidst them.

There was indeed a big fight, or rather, there had been.  Now all she saw were bloody faces and a motley group of boys and girls standing around a single figure who lay silent in the mud.

Kneeling at his side, Faith touched a finger to Colbey's neck and was glad to feel a strong, if rapid, heartbeat.  He looked awful, blood and bruises all over his face and his clothes all torn and muddy. But, he was alive.

Glancing up, she met Ruby's green eyes and commanded, "Go get me some water, Ruby.  Candace," she said to the teenager whose face was tear-streaked, go get my bag for me."

The children were not long in obeying; they knew her well and knew she meant for them to hurry.

"Colbey!" Faith called kindly, wiping away the dirt and blood from his face, "Colbey, wake up.  Come on, Son, open your eyes and talk to me."

Then, as Candace handed her the bag, she grabbed up a bottle of ammonia.  She uncorked it, passed it beneath her patient's nose and called out, "Colbey!  Come on, Colbey!"

Suddenly, his eyes flew open and he tried to sit up.

"Careful, there," she said, steadying him with a hand to his shoulder.

He turned his head and tried to meet her gaze, but his eyes were swelling shut fast.

Colbey," she began, gently, taking his hand, "Colbey, do you think you can stand up?"

He nodded, so she and Candace helping, he managed to get to his feet.  They steadied him and, glancing around at the staring faces, Faith asked, "Is anyone else injured?"

No one answered.  They just stood there like knot heads and stared wide-eyed at her.

"What?" she asked in exasperation.

"Ain't you even going to go in and check on your husband?" a male voice asked from somewhere in the crowd.

Her husband?

Glancing around, she looked for Deric, but did not see him.  Then, her eyes were drawn to the barred window near the corner of the jailhouse.  And there, looking out upon the scene in the street with troubled eyes was Deric Christy.  He was unshaven and still wearing the clothes he had worn the day before.  When their eyes met, she felt her face burn with shame and not a little anger.

"Uh, Miss…  Uh, Doctor, if you'd like, I'll help you get this young man home.  We can talk then.”

Lady Ann from "A Moment in Time" has lost her husband, and now her son is critically injured. The woman she is trusting to care for her only son has strange ways about her, but since her brother trusts this new person in their midst, Lady Ann must trust as well. I tried to think of someone who reminds me of her, but she is original, unlike anyone I know.  Come with me back to 15th century Scotland where Lady Ann’s son is being cared for by a 21st century American.

Even before my fingers touched the young man’s brow, I knew we were in trouble. I bit down on my bottom lip and ordered my face not to show any emotion.

"Mayhap he is in need of more of your wee rocks?”

The trembling voice of Lady Ann from somewhere behind me penetrated through the fear choking me and I turned to her.

She looked like she was about to cry. Twisting a handkerchief between shaking hands, her blue eyes implored me to do something.

"My lady," I said, having no idea how I managed to sound so calm and respectful, "If you could reach my hand bag over here, I’ll have your son resting quietly in no time.”

"Aye, Annie, get Mistress Bronwen her things.”

I flashed Himself a grateful glance, then turned back to the bed.

When Lady Ann handed me my bag, I tried to talk her and her brother in to leaving me to my work, but the expression in the laird’s eyes told me he knew there was reason for concern. Geordy’s mother and uncle were going nowhere.

I knew what I would find when I unwrapped the bandages, and I was right; the wounds were swollen, warm to the touch and reddened. One of the gashes was beginning to ooze yellow pus. Not taking my eyes from the affected area, I reached a hand toward my bag. This young man was going to need that codeine in order to make it through the coming ordeal.

Instead of the well-worn denim of my shoulder strap, however, my hand was grasped and a bottle placed in my palm. I glanced up only to see Colin’s somber face. He wrapped my fingers around the plastic bottle of pills and pushed it toward me.

"Nephew," he said, voice full of tenderness, "ye need to swallow more rocks, and Mistress Bronwen needs to fix up your wounds.”

"Aye, uncle, I know," came the whispered reply from the bed.

"It’s going to hurt, laddy.”

"Aye, well, she better get to it before I lose my courage.”

The difficulty was not the task of washing the wounds with whisky. No, that was the easy part. The difficult part was seeing Geordy’s pain. The codeine hadn’t had time to start working on his system, and, braw lad that he was, he had still needed his uncle to hold him down during the worst parts. Honestly, I don’t know who cried more, Lady Ann or me. By the time I had spread a thick layer of antibiotic cream on the wounds and wrapped clean bandages around them, all four of us were damp with perspiration and dragging with fatigue.

I slumped on to a stool and leaned my back against the stone wall, closing my eyes.

"Will... Will Geordy be all right?”

Clutching the shoulder strap of my bag, I wanted so much to lie to Lady Ann, but I couldn’t.

Opening my eyes, I met her gaze head on.

"Only time will tell," I said, then shut my eyes against her pain.

The sound of pouring liquid came to my ears and then Colin’s voice.

"Take a drink, Annie.”

"I dinna want it," she said.

"I dinna care what ye want. Drink it. Ye are no help to anyone if ye dinna take care of yourself.”

She must have obeyed, because the next time I heard him speak, his tone was more gentle.

I looked, and the MacQueen was lowering his sister to the pallet I had slept in the night before. He touched her cheek, told her to rest, then stepped away and faced me.

Any woman can be a mother, but it takes a real woman to be a real mom. I think it’s rather funny, sometimes when I look back at my own childhood. As a youngster, I thought my mom had it figured out. Then, I became a teenager and Mom didn’t know a thing. Now that I have girls of my own, I realize, we all have one thing in common; we are all just trying to do our best and figure it out as we go. A newborn will teach you that you don’t know anything. A busy toddler will teach you what it means to be alert. A preteen will teach you that only God can convict your child and know what and who they are talking to when you aren’t around. My oldest will be twelve in August, so I’m sure there’s more learning up around the bend, but for now, I gotta go on what I know. Only way I know to do that with any peace is to put my trust in the one who created us. He is ever faithful, and it is His will that my girls trust in Him.

I hope you have enjoyed this post, and i pray you’ll make Jesus the Lord of your life. Be sure and join me each Tuesday. I don’t always know what I’m going to say, but I post something each week. Take care, be blessed and hug your mama, if she is still living. If she isn’t, here’s a big ole hug from me. XX

Excerpt of "A Moment in Time"

ONE

"Is this the one?"

"Maybe," I breathed.

Surrounded on three sides by steep, unforgiving land, the castle perched atop a cliff overlooking the sea. It was breath taking, and I couldn’t wait to go sit at the outdoor cafe that faced the blue-green water. But, the inside of the castle was what interested me now.

Running my thumb along the tiny key in my  pocket, I silently prayed this castle was the one.

We purchased a ticket and joined a group of tourists as they entered the great hall. There was a rack near the door filled with brochures, and I grabbed one, slipping it in to my bag.

"How many does that make?"

Morgan’s question was low, only I heard it, but still I dipped my head to hide my flaming cheeks.

"Uh…today makes five?"

All collected  in three days, but thankfully she didn’t mention that part.

Instead, she nodded toward the head of the line where a man began pointing out the glass cases filled with tapestries, needle work, old dishes, swords, plaids and other sundry antiques one might find in a Scottish, Medieval castle in the highlands.

The tour guide droned on in a thick Scottish accent I was sure he was not used to speaking in, and like school children my sister and I along with several other Yanks, followed behind, oohing and aahing at everything we saw. But, when we reached the middle of the great hall my heart sank; the stairs were all wrong.

Ahead of me in line two little boys began fighting over a balloon, and as you’d expect, the helium-filled latex could not withstand the argument. With a bang that startled everyone, the carefree toy burst, causing both boys to howl in protest.

Know how you feel, lads, I thought.

A nudge on my back made me glance over my shoulder. Somehow Morgan had ended up behind me, and now she was giving me that look, the look that said, "I know, I know, you’re ready to go because this castle isn’t like the one in your dreams."

Guilt made me ashamed of the way I had been acting; dragging her around, feverishly searching for something that probably didn’t exist in real life. This trip to Scotland was a dream come true for us both, and I needed to get my act together.

Straightening my shoulders, I motioned toward the other folks in our tour group and smiled.

"Look," I said, "he’s going to tell more about that tapestry hanging on the wall. It looks interesting. Go check it out."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now, go. I’m going over here to have a closer look at the fireplace."

It was a huge affair, and I had no trouble picturing a roaring fire in it, the laird and his family sitting in chairs or on stools before it, hoping to catch some of its warmth. Maybe, nearby, a bard would have been playing a harp and singing.

Without thinking, I reached out a hand and touched the stones. They were cool and smooth from the passing of years, and they were also silent. No humming to warn of impending doom, no distant shouts of battle suggesting a passageway through time. Even so, when a cool draft of air wafted around me, I shivered.

I had heard the tales, just like everyone else. Ghosts and time travelers, Scottish stones and fairies, and like most of the population in the twenty-first century, I didn’t believe any of it.

But, if things like time travel and destiny were not possible, then why the dreams? Why was I searching for a place that, to this point, only existed in my head? Why was just being in the "old country" as my grandparents had called it, not enough?

Frustrated, I dropped my hand and stepped away.

"Bonnie," my sister hissed, "quit that and come on!"

I managed to squeeze back into my spot in line but was given the evil eye by our tour guide. I shrugged and gave him a weak smile, but he huffed at me before turning away.

Well, excuse me; I was only interested in the fireplace. Not like I’m going to come back at night and haul it away.

That was the thing about scheduled guided tours; you had to be on your best behavior, like a kid in school. Sure, they showed you all the neat stuff, and they always told you about the local folklore, any battles the family may have fought in, how loyal or not the castle’s owners had been to one king or another, and it was interesting. But, they really frowned when you asked what was beyond the solid oak doors with signs above them that read "Keep Out!" "Staff only!" "Fire Exit!". The other thing that made tour guides lower their bushy brows at you, was when you slipped beneath one of those rope things they use to corden off an area. I mean, those darkened hallways and black pits in the floor just begged to be explored. Besides, even though this castle wasn’t "the one" I might still learn something interesting.

This particular hole in the floor was square and big enough to lower a person down into. I lagged behind, pretending to study a silver platter on display. No one took notice, and I figure that was because the guide was telling a rousing tale about the time Sir Walter Scott had been a guest here.

When the last person in line made the turn in to another part of the castle, I ducked beneath the cord and got down on my knees at the edge of the opening. Someone had nailed wooden boards around it, probably hoping to keep curious folk like me from falling headlong to their death. I laid a hand on one of these boards and leaned down to try and get a better look. It was so black, I couldn’t see anything, so I took out my flashlight from the depths of my bag and shined its beam down in to the hole.

Empty! Now, how do you like that? The least they could do is leave a skeleton or two chained up down there so I could be properly horrified.

I sighed and put my flashlight away, but I wasn’t fast enough at getting free of the area before ole bushy brows found me.

"Perhaps, Madam," he said, dropping quite a bit of his Scottish accent in favor of a cultured, English one, "you would be more comfortable outside, where you will not be in danger of causing serious injury to your person."

My mouth fell open. Was he throwing me out?

Turns out my hesitation was a mistake. He took it for resistance, and I was escorted out very properly by security, who upon hearing that I planned to have tea at the outdoor caffe, left me to my own devices.

Trying to regain my dignity, I placed an order for tea and scones in Gaelic. It backfired, though, because the teenager behind the counter said, "Sorry, Miss, I dinna have the Gaelic. My granny did, but I never had an ear for it. What would ye be wantin’ today?"

I chose a table off to the side and sat down, turning my back on the castle. From here I had an uninterrupted view of the sea to my right and an open lawn just ahead. Except for the conversations, slide of flip-flops and the scraping of chair legs behind me, I was alone.

The raspberry jam and clotted cream were good, but the scones were dry and hard on the bottom. Disappointed, I scooped the toppings off, ate them and longed to be in Grandma’s kitchen, where no one thought I was crazy and where the scones were always perfect. Slumping in my chair, I picked up the paper cup, took a mouthful of hot tea and allowed it to work its magic.

I grew up on tea and scones, learning to prepare them as well as enjoy them. Scots Gaelic had been the language of our grandparents, and even though we had never been forced to learn the language, we had. Orphaned when we were small, Morgan and I had been taken in by our father’s parents who had come to America after World War II.

Pulling my keys out of my pocket, I laid them on the table and separated them until i found the one Grandma had given me just before she died two years ago. It was tiny and silver and reminded me of the diary I had kept under my pillow when I was a little girl.

"When ye go to Scotland to look for the castle in your dream, take this with ye," Grandma had whispered.

"But, what does it go to?" I had asked.

"Ye will ken it, when ye see it."

"Does it have something to do with the dream?"

"Promise me, Bronwen Catherine."

I had promised, and after Grandma's passing, Morgan and I began saving our money for a trip to Scotland. Now here we were, Morgan still grieving the loss of her husband and I had the key and my imaginary castle and no earthly idea what to do next. The strangest part was even in her pain, Morgan was the one connecting, the one who was keeping it together. I, on the other hand, felt as if the threads that held my life together were unraveling.

"What was that all about?"

At the sound of my sister’s sharp tone, I jumped and sat up straight. Dropping my keys into my bag, I tried to look as if I weren't having a pity party for myself.

"I’m sorry, Gan, I just..."

"You just what, Bonnie?"

"Still dealing with jet lag, I guess. Go get yourself a cup of tea. It’s really good, but don’t order any scones. I think there’s going to be a performance of some type."

I nodded toward the grassy lawn where a group of men were gathering, all of them dressed in full highland regalia.

Morgan gave me a long look, then went to stand in line.

While she was gone, I watched the men. They appeared to be comrades, their expressions care-free, their smiles genuine. Using one of the tables to set their gear on, one man pulled out a folder with papers sticking out of it and  unsheathed a long sword, while another man pulled out a small set of bagpipes. Interested, I leaned forward in my seat. A reenactment, I was sure.

"Have ye seen him?" I heard one of them ask.

"No," another answered.

They scanned the crowd, squinting and shading their eyes, until I too turned to see if I could spot...whoever they were looking for. The odd thing was, when I did see him, I knew he was the one the men were searching for. Of course, if I had glanced down at his attire, it would have been obvious he was one of them, but it wasn’t his clothing that grabbed my attention, it was his eyes. Gray and...filled with...something I couldn’t read. He was wading through the busy crowd, creating a path as he passed.

Rather like Moses parting the Red Sea, I thought.

When he saw me, he stopped, did a double take, gave me a most curious stare, raised a black brow then looked me straight in the eye. Altering his course, he came toward me and made as if to speak, but just then, someone shouted, and it caught his attention. He took a step, waved a hand at me as if to say, "stay there" then joined his friends. Only when he walked away did I notice he was carrying a broad sword.

"Wow, would you look at that!"

I glanced over at where Morgan was pulling out a chair and realized she was staring at my guy, too.

"Nice choice, Bonnie,and that Claymore looks authentic. After the demonstration, you should go introduce yourself."

Okay, so it wasn’t a broadsword but a Claymore. I never said Scottish history was my strong point. Gannie, on the other hand was an authority on all things Scottish; A master’s degree’s worth of knowledge lay hidden behind her sad eyes.

"Yeah, right."

"I’m serious!" she said, flashing me a conspiratorial grin. "I’ll keep watch so you don’t do something you’d regret."

"Gan, I don’t just walk up to strange men and introduce myself."

"Well, why not? He almost stopped to talk to you. After all, how do you think Brian and I met?"

"That was different," I said, heart aching at the sorrow in her expression.

"No it wasn’t. He was working behind the counter in the student center, and I walked right up to him and introduced myself. Then, I asked him what his name was. We talked about how gross the cafeteria’s burgers were and the nice weather, and then he asked me out."

The thing is, things like that just seemed to happen to Morgan. They do not happen to me. I’m not as pretty as my sister, I’m not as up-to-date on social graces as she is and if I didn’t know better, I’d think that when God handed out luck with guys, He somehow forgot I was in line.

Well," I stalled, "you and Brian were meant to be."

I didn’t miss the way she swallowed hard; grief was something that never seemed to go away. After a minute, though, she nodded.

"Yes, Brian and I were meant to be, and I believe God has somebody out there for you."

I managed to keep from snorting, but barely.

"Gan, let’s just sit back, finish our tea and enjoy the performance. Then, we’ll go back to the B and B and go to bed. I’m worn out, I feel too grungy to talk to any men, and besides, I’m not in the market for someone new. Remember what happened the last time?"

"Yeah," she said, a pinched look around her mouth, "I remember Drake, more’s the pity. But, Bonnie, that was last year, and not all men are like that...that idiot. You need to start looking at men like any one of them could be God’s match for you."

"Now you sound like an advertisement for one of those Christian dating sites online. Give it up, Gan. I’m on vacation. Remember?"

Her sigh was so loud, I could hear it over the sound of the piper getting his pipes ready, but she said no more about my nonexistent love life and what I should do about it. With a sigh of my own, I sat back and made an effort to pay attention to all the performers, but it was hard. My eyes kept straying to my gray-eyed stranger.

The performance was impromptu, if the expression on the locals’ faces was any indication, but it was superb. One man read aloud from a paper in Gaelic and then translated in to English. It was a poem written by some long dead Scottish author. Then, the man put aside his papers, grabbed a sword and he and my guy went at each other, as if they truly intended on killing one another. But, as vicious as it looked, I knew it was staged. Still, my mouth watered in spite of my vow to give up on men. After the sword play, a third man began to play a small set of bagpipes, and something inside me came to life. I can’t explain it, really, but when I closed my eyes, I could almost see a regiment of highland clansmen, running toward the battle, Claymores at the ready.

Then, into my revery, someone began to sing. Opening my eyes, I stared at my guy in awe.

"O the summer time is coming and the trees are sweetly bloomin’ and the wild mountain thyme grows around the bloomin’ heather. Will ye go lassie go? And we’ll all go together to pull wild mountain thyme all around the bloomin’ heather. Will ye go lassie go?"

A song Grandma had often sang to Morgan and me at bedtime, and I found myself sitting on the edge of my seat, my whole being focused on the man and his voice.

"I’ll build my love a bower by yon cool crystal fountain and round it I will pile all the flowers o’ the mountain. Will ye go lassie go?"

Before the last notes of the song could fade, I was on my feet, my breath caught somewhere in my throat.

There was the sound of applause in the distance, and then our eyes met across the way. A question lingered in his gaze, a question I wanted to answer. I don’t know what he saw in my own expression, but the corner of his mouth tipped up, and he actually bowed. He straightened and then winked. I opened my mouth, but speech was impossible. Then, the crowd surged forward hiding him from view, and I could have cried at the feeling of bereavement I felt.

"Bonnie? Bronwen? Hello, earth to Bronwen!"

I blinked, and time began again. I turned, and the expression on my sister’s face made me feel about two inches tall.

"Hello!" she said. "Not in the market for someone new? Bonnie, that man was flirting with you!"

Flirting? What planet was she on.

"He wasn’t flirting, Gan. He was just singing."

"To you. Bonnie, everyone could see it. He was looking right at you and singing, and you stood up with this look on your face like...well, like you were ready to go lassie go!"

There was a sudden stinging in the corners of my eyes, and I turned away so she couldn’t see.

"Gan, let’s go."

"You’re not going to wait for him?"

Wait for him? So I could make a fool out of myself all over again? Not hardly.

"No."

"Bronwen!"

But, I ignored her and took off toward where we had parked the car.

Hurry! Find her!

But, she was nowhere in sight. By the time he found somewhere private to exchange his kilt for jeans and put his sword back in his car, the table where she and another woman had been sitting was empty. He ran back to the car park, searching each face for those familiar blue green eyes, but she was gone, and he didn’t even know what kind of vehicle he was looking for.

Of course, it would help if he knew for certain who he was looking for. He had his suspicions, but...

With a prayer in his heart he slid in to his own car and drove away.

Lord, that I might find her!

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