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  Andrew seemed unimpressed with the lowlying island, but then again, Andrew was rarely impressed. “This is really where ye lived, Da?”

  “Aye. Left the island only a handful of times, until I was twenty-three.”

  “Sounds a terrible bore,” Andrew said, and looked Trem over like there must be some physical expression of such a stifled existence.

  “There’s naught wrong with me,” Trem assured the laddie. “I had plenty of animals, and a few good friends, aye? And the whole of the Atlantic at my feet. And every day, it would leave treasures on the shore.”

  “Treasures?” Andrew’s doubtful expression finally turned to one of hope. “Like what for instance?”

  “Tremayne! Tremayne!” Esme’s voice came from over the rise, where she and wee Miles had disappeared a moment before.

  Trem took off running with Andrew close on his heels. He crested the rise and found his wife and son standing before a large monument of white stone. Looking out at the water, he realized it would be nearly impossible to see the thing from a distance, placed as it was amid the white sand.

  “Only a monument,” Andrew mumbled, disappointed.

  Miles turned round and squinted at Trem. “Was this here when ye were a lad, then?”

  Trem shook his head and stepped carefully down the sandy hillside. “Not…not that I remember.” He had to be careful what he told the boys where years were concerned. They were both too clever with numbers for his peace of mind, and one day, they would pull out a calculator and demand to know the truth.

  Esme walked around to the far side and started reading. As Trem joined her, she gasped, took the end of her scarf and pushed it into her mouth, then waved for Trem to take her hand. He knew that panicked expression, and she only looked that way when she worried the lads would see something they oughtn’t.

  He was tempted not to face whatever it was, but Esme waved her hand a bit more frantically. Neither of the boys had noticed, so he wrapped his fingers around hers and let her pull him close.

  The marker was old and pocked with moss and lichens. But the white granite must have cost someone dearly. His heart jumped when he read the large letters at the base.

  WATSON.

  Emotion threatened to swamp him like a boat, but he felt Esme lending him strength through their grasped hands, and it was enough to keep him upright.

  Starting at the top, then, he silently read the engraving.

  In honor of my beloved son, Tremayne Andrew Watson, who died at Culloden, April 16, 1746. The honorable chose sides.

  Neither of them could speak for quite some time. The lads fell asleep on the trip back to the holiday cottage, and a reverent silence had filled the car when Esme finally lifted her head from Trem’s shoulder and found her voice.

  “I love ye with all my heart, Tremayne Watson. But ye were wrong.”

  “What about?”

  “About a father’s honor. When we first met, ye said—”

  “I remember what I said. And ye’re right. I was wrong.”

  She smiled sweetly, just as she always did when Trem told her she was right about something. And bringing a smile to her lips was worth swallowing a great deal of pride. But this time, it happened to be true.

  She’d been willing to sacrifice her life if need be, to win back her father’s honor. And Trem had thought her foolish because he had tried to do the same, and failed.

  But thanks to his father’s grand gesture, Trem’s death at Culloden was not as bereft of victory as he’d always believed.

  She rested her head back on his shoulder. “Was yer father a poetic man, then?”

  He snorted. “My da? No. Why?”

  “That last line. The honorable chose sides. I’ve never seen that before.”

  Trem bit his lips and forced air in and out of his lungs, using whatever distraction he could manage, to keep from blubbering all over himself. After a moment, he was back in control.

  “They were the last words I said to him,” he confessed, “before I left to join the cause.”

  THE END

  Don’t forget, the ghosts have their own website and Facebook page.

  https://www.facebook.com/GhostsofCullodenMoor

  http://ghostsofcullodenmoor.weebly.com/

  About the Author

  L.L. Muir lives on the Utah side of the Rocky Mountains with her husband and family. She appreciates funny friends, a well-fed campfire, and rocking sleepy children.

  A disturbing amount of bacon was consumed while writing WATSON.

  If you like her books, be a sport and leave a review on the book’s Amazon page. You can reach her personally through her website— www.llmuir.weebly.com , or on Facebook at L.L. Muir.

  Thank you for playing!

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