Vaughn had scared her when he’d come home and found her talking to his wife and daughter. Apparently he had heard in town that she was running the new Crisis Center, so Birch had barely said her name when the man had gone off like a rocket. And although Ike Vaughn wasn’t exactly a hulk, she wouldn’t have stood a chance if he’d gotten physically violent.
She was going to have to keep her bear spray clipped to her belt. Oh, and her phone, too.
Merde
; at this rate she’d be running around looking like a cop. Shep poked his head in the closet, his body shaking enough that Birch could tell he was wagging his tail. “I’m coming,” she said, quickly slipping on the thick socks, then wrestling her feet back into her wet boots. “I’m coming,” she repeated more loudly when Niall called her name. “I’m changing into some of Misty’s clothes.”
Birch finished lacing her boots and ran out of the closet, but halted beside the broken stairs when she saw Niall had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. It wasn’t so much the sweat-darkened shirt clinging to his broad shoulders that caught her off guard—she did watch the man go swimming regularly, after all—but rather the pistol tucked in the back of his belt. Not that she knew why the sight of it should surprise her, since her father never left the house without a backup weapon.
“I need ye to stand over here,” he said, nodding to his right as he wedged a thick board under a boulder directly beneath the window. Holding the board in place, he pointed up at where the floor joists rested on the foundation. “Watch the foundation sill and tell me if it starts to bow or if any of the rocks along it start to loosen.” He used his sleeve to wipe his forehead. “The operative word would be
starts
; if too many rocks around the window fall, this whole side of the house could cave in.”
“Do you really know what you’re doing?” Birch asked, walking over and frowning up at the ancient beam. When she looked over to see Niall was frowning at
her
, she shrugged. “Your DNA or whatever’s floating around in your Scottish blood hasn’t laid siege to a castle in at least what . . . several hundred years?”
He stretched to grab the pickax, but not quickly enough for her to miss his grin. “Ye might be surprised how recently it’s been for my particular lineage,” he said, placing his shoulder under the board, then wiggling to adjust his stance. He looked at her again, completely sober. “Watch the sill. Wait,” he said, glancing around. “Shep,
falaich
.”
“What language is that and what did you tell him?”
“It’s Gaelic for
hide
,” he said, using his shoulder to put pressure on the board, then adjusting his position several more times. “Watch the sill.”
Birch turned her attention to the beam above the window. That is, until she heard a soft grunt and looked over to see Niall slowly straightening, his eyes closed and sweat breaking out on his forehead again as the board started bending from the strain.
“Well?” he said through gritted teeth.
Well what? Oh, she was supposed to be watching the
beam
. “It looks fine to me,” she said, even as her gaze—of its own volition—slid to those amazing, straining muscles again. Yes, she might find men annoying, but she definitely didn’t hate them.
“Here,” he said tightly, holding out the pickax. “Pull more dirt away from under the right side of the stone. Keep checking that sill,” he said when she started digging.
Birch alternated between digging and glancing up, being careful not to strike him with the other end of the pick as she widened and deepened the crack. “Oh, the rock just moved!” she said, stilling when the axe became wedged deep in the foundation.
“A few more strikes,” he growled, straining upward on the board. “But be ready to run when I tell you.”
She was trying to wrestle the pick back out of the crack when the board suddenly snapped with
She was going to have to keep her bear spray clipped to her belt. Oh, and her phone, too.
Merde
; at this rate she’d be running around looking like a cop. Shep poked his head in the closet, his body shaking enough that Birch could tell he was wagging his tail. “I’m coming,” she said, quickly slipping on the thick socks, then wrestling her feet back into her wet boots. “I’m coming,” she repeated more loudly when Niall called her name. “I’m changing into some of Misty’s clothes.”
Birch finished lacing her boots and ran out of the closet, but halted beside the broken stairs when she saw Niall had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. It wasn’t so much the sweat-darkened shirt clinging to his broad shoulders that caught her off guard—she did watch the man go swimming regularly, after all—but rather the pistol tucked in the back of his belt. Not that she knew why the sight of it should surprise her, since her father never left the house without a backup weapon.
“I need ye to stand over here,” he said, nodding to his right as he wedged a thick board under a boulder directly beneath the window. Holding the board in place, he pointed up at where the floor joists rested on the foundation. “Watch the foundation sill and tell me if it starts to bow or if any of the rocks along it start to loosen.” He used his sleeve to wipe his forehead. “The operative word would be
starts
; if too many rocks around the window fall, this whole side of the house could cave in.”
“Do you really know what you’re doing?” Birch asked, walking over and frowning up at the ancient beam. When she looked over to see Niall was frowning at
her
, she shrugged. “Your DNA or whatever’s floating around in your Scottish blood hasn’t laid siege to a castle in at least what . . . several hundred years?”
He stretched to grab the pickax, but not quickly enough for her to miss his grin. “Ye might be surprised how recently it’s been for my particular lineage,” he said, placing his shoulder under the board, then wiggling to adjust his stance. He looked at her again, completely sober. “Watch the sill. Wait,” he said, glancing around. “Shep,
falaich
.”
“What language is that and what did you tell him?”
“It’s Gaelic for
hide
,” he said, using his shoulder to put pressure on the board, then adjusting his position several more times. “Watch the sill.”
Birch turned her attention to the beam above the window. That is, until she heard a soft grunt and looked over to see Niall slowly straightening, his eyes closed and sweat breaking out on his forehead again as the board started bending from the strain.
“Well?” he said through gritted teeth.
Well what? Oh, she was supposed to be watching the
beam
. “It looks fine to me,” she said, even as her gaze—of its own volition—slid to those amazing, straining muscles again. Yes, she might find men annoying, but she definitely didn’t hate them.
“Here,” he said tightly, holding out the pickax. “Pull more dirt away from under the right side of the stone. Keep checking that sill,” he said when she started digging.
Birch alternated between digging and glancing up, being careful not to strike him with the other end of the pick as she widened and deepened the crack. “Oh, the rock just moved!” she said, stilling when the axe became wedged deep in the foundation.
“A few more strikes,” he growled, straining upward on the board. “But be ready to run when I tell you.”
She was trying to wrestle the pick back out of the crack when the board suddenly snapped with
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