That Night: The Shores of Blackpool
Alaistair MacLeod dug his feet further into the sand while he watched moonlit waves crash upon the shore. The tide was coming in, but he had a few hours or more before the cold water reached him where he sat upon the sandy coast of Blackpool.
He took another swig from his bottle of rum; the bulk of it he’d already downed in less than an hour. It tasted like water now, but that mattered not. It was getting the job done and quite well.
Aye, he was as drunk as he’d ever been, so drunk he hardly felt the cold air as it blew in off the sea. Still, the drink wouldn’t scrub the unwanted memory of Amelia Chase from his brain.
Damn it.
He didn’t want to remember the feel of her. The taste of her. He didn’t want to see her smiles when he closed his eyes, nor hear her laugh and especially not her lies when all was quiet. He just wanted her gone so he could move on.
He took another mouthful of rum, then wiped his mouth upon his sleeve. Aye, he was one of those unlucky bastards who never forgot a thing, no matter how much he drank.
MacLeod glanced left, then right. As desired, not a soul could be found on the beach now. It was late enough, which was the point. Unlike so many other men, when MacLeod was drunk, he grew less talkative, more introspective. Which meant he definitely didn’t want an audience about attempting to commiserate.
No singing, laughing, boasting, dancing on the table tops, or rioting for Alaistair MacLeod. No pouring out his soul. For MacLeod, being drunk meant he pondered the meaning of life. His life. His brother’s. Anyone who meant anything to him was a possibility for reflective consideration.
Hell, sometimes even absolute strangers danced across his mind.
What he wouldn’t give to be carefree, to allow drink to loosen his tongue and relax his mind. Then maybe, just maybe, all this shit with Amelia Chase wouldn’t hurt so goddamn much.
A seagull burst on the scene searching for food. He watched as it hopped around on the sand to his right, his obnoxious chirp a plea for a handout.
“Och, go on with you, bird. I’ve no’ got a thing save for my drink.” He followed his threat with a mouthful of rum. The bird cocked its head as if it was contemplating having a taste of his drink.
Just then, someone grabbed ahold of his shoulder, using him for balance so they could join him on the sand. “What are you drinking, my friend?” came a familiar voice.
MacLeod looked left to discover Danbury settling in next to him, his knees already tucked to his chest while he tossed a handful of pebbles, one after another, towards the sea. Damn, it was good thing Stonebridge had given him the evening off, for he certainly wasn’t in the most observant frame of mind; he hadn’t even heard the man approach.
“Rum.” he answered eventually. And in that one word, even he could make out the slight slurring of his speech.
Aye, he was very, very drunk.
Dansbury chuckled. “MacLeod, the Scottish Pirate.” He elbowed him in the arm. “Arghhh…”
MacLeod shrugged. “It’s what was available.”
Dansbury tossed another pebble. “Oh, I’m sure.”
MacLeod shrugged again and took another swig. “Even better, it’s getting’ the job done.” Hardly.
“Oh, that I can see for myself.”
For a moment, the two of them sat in silence. MacLeod watching Dansbury toss his pebbles while downing mouthfuls of watery rum at irregular intervals.
Eventually, he had to ask, “Did you have a point to joining me this night?”
Dansbury dusted his hands together, having thrown the last rock. “Stonebridge told me about Amelia.”
“Ah.” Of course. MacLeod wasn’t sure he wanted this conversation, but he was also sure he’d never talk Dansbury into dropping the subject. When the man had something to say, he had to say it.
Still, he waited for Dansbury to continue. It didn’t take him long; the man always had been the talkative sort. “I don’t know why Amelia thinks she’s not my sister.”
MacLeod jerked his gaze to Dansbury, the man’s statement catching him off guard. It was not at all what he expected him to say.
“But I can assure you of one thing, my friend. Amelia Chase is very much my sister.”
What the hell? “How do you know?”
“Spyder.”
MacLeod shook his head. “No.”
Now it was Dansbury’s turn to shrug. “He submitted proof. Irrefutable proof.”
MacLeod continued shaking his head in denial. “But that makes no sense. Why not tell her the truth? Or if he had, why did she tell us she wasn’t?”
Dansbury shook his head as well. “I can only guess. Until I speak with Amelia…” his voice trailed off.
MacLeod propped his arms on his raised knees and tossed the remains of a fallen leaf he’d been decimating to the ground. “It matters not. She’s still a—”
Dansbury grabbed his sleeve, his expression fierce. “I’m warning you now, take care of your words, MacLeod. We are friends, but that woman is my sister. Do you hear? I will not sit idly by and listen to you disparage her, friend or no.”
MacLeod shook off Dansbury’s hold and wisely bit his tongue. Oh, he had much he wanted to say, but for the sake of friendship…
On impulse, MacLeod tilted his head back and roared his frustration to the sky. It was a loud, primal scream. His feathered companion took flight.
God, it felt damn good to let go like that, like that scream had been bottled up inside him for years. Decades, even.
He turned to look at his friend, expecting to find the man looking at him as if he were crazy. Instead, Dansbury grinned, then tossed one arm around his shoulders. “My God, man. You love her.”
MacLeod snorted and looked away from his friend’s smiling face. “If this is love, I want no part of it.”
Dansbury shook his head. MacLeod detected a hint of pity behind the action. “At the risk of meeting your ham-sized fists, I’m only going to say this once. You’re drunk enough, so I’m not so worried, but, Amelia Chase is not Delilah Brooks.”
MacLeod chuckled, but he wasn’t laughing. He picked up a nearby pebble that had escaped Dansbury’s fingers and flung it toward the sea. “Funny you should say that, Cliff. She said the same damn thing.”