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Chapter Text

Lorna leaned over the railing of the ship's deck, shading her eyes with her hand as she strained to catch one last glimpse of her homeland. There it lay, in the distance, wild and green and misty with its craggy cliffs and hills of heather. As she watched, a sudden gust of icy wind blew in from the land, whipping her loose red locks about her face. She made no effort to brush them away as she clung tighter to the railing, trying to ignore the empty ache in her heart. She should be used to it by now. But her eyes filled with unbidden tears and she pressed her lips tightly together to keep back a sigh of regret and pain.

"Gu dàna," she whispered softly. "Boldly." She lifted her head high at the remembrance of her clan motto… that one word that had carried her through the past terrible months. She must not shame her ancestors. She must give them a reason to be proud of her. And yet it hurt… it hurt so badly.

Another blast of the chilling wind slammed into her and she gathered her tartan arisaid close about her shoulders. As she clutched her hands to her chest, she could feel beneath them the cold silver metal of her locket… her most cherished possession… beside her clan badge that she used to fasten her arisaid and the precious family Bible. The locket… engraved with the Scottish thistle and the words "Gu dàna"... held the only portraits she had left of her mother and father.

"Miss McAllister?" The deep voice startled the girl from her reverie and she turned to see the captain standing just behind her. "It's rather cold on deck. Perhaps you would wish to retire to your cabin?"

Lorna shook her head fiercely. In less than an hour, she would be out on the open sea… never again to set her eyes on the land she had loved for seventeen long years.

"I canna." she said simply. "There will be time enough for that later."

The captain nodded in silent understanding and moved on. Lorna stood alone on deck, watching… watching… as her beloved highlands faded into the mist.

Chapter Text

Dakota Territory, USA, 1870

"McCulloch! Well, well, well. Imagine running into you, way out here." Unbidden, the man pulled out a chair, twisting it backwards, then straddling it while crossing his arms over the top. The young man already sitting at the corner table in the little tavern glanced up, his blue eyes flickering with recognition, then hardening into anger.

"What d'ya want, Slade?"

"Easy now, McCulloch. No reason t' be short-tempered." The older man laughed softly, rubbing a bony hand across his gray handlebar mustache. "We've always been good friends now, haven't we?"

"I told ya, Slade, I don't want no part of it anymore."

Slade shrugged his lanky shoulders with a gesture of lazy carelessness. That last incident had been a close one… but he knew how to handle Jason McCulloch. The boy was still young and prone to foolishness, wasn't he? Only twenty-two. That was still young enough to be impressionable. And Slade needed him bad. A man of such talent was not to be come by easily. He wasn't going to let him slip through his fingers so easily.

"Hey there, bartender!" Slade called easily over his shoulder. "Two glasses of hard whiskey. Make it fast!"

The bartender didn't need to be told to move fast. He recognized immediately the lanky figure of Will Slade. Slade was a well-known and dreaded man in those parts… the powerful leader of an outlaw band. Quick on the draw and not hesitant to destroy anyone who stood in his way. The bartender, a small, nervous man, had noticed immediately the loaded six-shooters in Slade's gun belt. There were twelve perfectly good reasons to drop what he was doing and hurry to the corner table with the whiskey.

"There ya are, McCulloch," Slade set one of the mugs before his unwilling companion. "Let's have a drink to the old times, eh?"

Jason McCulloch pushed the whiskey away, glaring at the man before him.

"I don't drink, Slade. You know that."

"Heh. Ya always were a little fiddle-headed when it came to that."

"Means I kept my head when the rest o' ya lost yours."

"Maybe so. Maybe so." Undaunted by the thought of losing his head, Slade lifted the mug to his lips and downed the indigestible liquid in a few gulps. Wiping his mouth across his none-too-clean sleeve, he set down the mug with a look of contentment and reached for the one that Jason had left untouched.

"Well?" Jason demanded, one hand moving slowly toward the gun he wore in his own belt. "Out with it, Slade. Ya have a reason for talkin' to me… other than reminiscin' about old times."

"Wal, now, since ya mention it," Slade set down his second empty mug. "There is somethin' I could use yer help with. Now, don't say no… not until ya hear the offer I have t' make you."

Slade noticed the muscles in the tanned jaw clench angrily and the blue eyes narrow but Jason said not a word. That was good. Slade felt prepared to continue.

"Now thet they've finally finished thet transcon… transcon… whatever they call it railroad, the boys an' I have worked out a new job. A good one too." Slade lowered his voice and leaned closer. "Some purty rich passengers ride on them fool trains. An' between th' Mississippi an' San Francisco, there ain't much t' pertect them. It really ain't difficult t' stop a train an'… wal… you get the idea."

"I know what ye're meanin', Slade," Jason answered slowly. "An' I've already told you. I don't want no part of it."

"You've got yerself a nice little spread now, I hear," Slade changed his tone, relaxing his tense look. "A purty ranch… runnin' some cattle on it. But ya can't pay it off now, can you?" This last phrase was spoken bluntly.

"I plan t' come by that honestly."

"Sure, sure." Slade waved a hand airily. "But it's purty hard to work off a debt… when ye're in the slammer."

Jason flinched visibly and Slade grinned beneath the wide mustache. He knew he had struck the right chord at last.

"Ya remember that little incident last fall, now, don't ya? None o' that blame could be pinned on me… ya wouldn't dare. You were too involved. The money's gone… and Carter is dead. I covered it up fer ya… this once. But iffen ya refuse to help me…" the sentence was left unfinished and the threat hovered in the air. Slade leaned back, watching gleefully as the full meaning of his words sunk into his protégé's mind.

"Ye're th' best rider I've ever seen, now. Ya could be of a lot o' use to me an' the boys. And ye're the fastest on the draw. Talents like thet sure come in handy. What d'ya say, McCulloch? Is it a deal?

Jason raised his head slowly. The blue eyes flashed fierce hatred. Armed as he was with all the evidence he would ever need to destroy the young man, Slade quavered under the steady gaze of those blue eyes. But Jason dropped his eyes again.

"Just this once, Slade. Never again."

"Fair enough." Slade grinned widely.

Chapter Text

"What's wrong, Lorna?"

"Da's still in there! Hurry... help him! Rob... Robbie! Be careful! I..."

"Lorna! Get out of here! It's too dangerous!"

"I have t' help Da!"

"Nae... get back! Get back, Lorna! I've got him!"

"Da... Robbie! Nae... Lord... please!"

Lorna came to with a gasp. Her sheets were tousled, drenched with sweat, her pillow lay on the floor. Breathing hard, she raised a hand slowly to her cheek and felt the tears that were sliding slowly down. Would those dreams never stop? Over and over again, no matter how hard she tried to forget... those dreams kept resurfacing... coming back to haunt her.

Her hands shaking, she reached for the Bible that lay on her trunk beside the little bunk in the ship's cabin. It was dark... where was the lantern? She couldn't see... so she just held the precious Book close to her heart. Deriving comfort just from the nearness of those blessed words. She knew them by heart anyway.

"As I was with Moses, so I will be with thee: I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee." she whispered into the darkness. "Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest."

Retrieving her pillow from beneath the bunk, she let her head fall back onto it, but she couldn't sleep. Still clutching the Book, she whispered those words over and over as she listened to the sound of the waves crashing against the hull of the ship.

"Gu dàna. Boldly."

And at long last she was able to fall into a dreamless sleep.

oOo

Lorna's ship landed in New York Harbor two weeks after it had left port in Aberdeen. It was a strange new world that met her eyes... a busy, noisy world of turmoil. A city... teeming with life. People of all races and nationalities seemed to be everywhere all at once. Languages she had never heard before filled the air mingled with the sounds of carriages, wagons, pushcarts rolling through the dingy, narrow streets.

Her trunk had been sent on ahead to the little boarding house where she had planned on staying and so, clinging to her carpetbag with her left hand and her little address book in the other, Lorna picked her way through the streets, gazing at the unfamiliar buildings that shot up many stories high. It was nearly all she could do to keep from being run over. Nobody seemed to look where they were going. And nobody really seemed to care, either. Everyone was wrapped in their own business and nobody noticed anyone else. Never had Lorna dreamed that so many people could exist in one place. Back home... in those wild craggy highlands... the nearest neighbor was half an hour's ride away. In her hills, she had always the sense of being completely alone. And yet she had never been lonely. Not until... but she brushed the thought away.

After wandering through those chaotic streets for what seemed like hours, Lorna paused before a towering brick building with a Latin motto inscribed in stone over the heavy wooden doors. But she could not read Latin. It didn't matter... the engraved sign before the steps told her what she needed to know. After a brief moment's hesitation, she swallowed her nervousness and pushed her way inside.

"Can I help you, Miss?" A thin little clerk with a pair of spectacles perched atop his rather large, hooked nose, greeted her drily as she entered. It was a large room... high-ceilinged and dimly-lighted with a wooden floor that creaked dreadfully with every step she took. She moved closer to the receptionist's desk and set down her heavy carpet bag with a sense of relief.

"Can ye tell me where th' Board o' Education office is?"

"Third floor, office number seven. The elevator is just over there," the clerk gestured with a rusty-looking fountain pen.

"Elevator?" Lorna frowned. Never had she heard of such a thing.

"Yes, Miss. Why... don't you know what an elevator is? Ha! I do declare. Where are you from?"

"It doesna matter where I'm from," Lorna sniffed. Really, he didn't have to be rude about it. Without even waiting for an answer, she picked up her bag again and set off in the direction indicated. Arriving at the "elevator", she was relieved to find there was someone there who knew what it was and how to run it... nor did he make fun of her.

"Which floor, Miss?" the man asked cordially as he opened the door for her. It was nothing more than a rather tiny little room... a closet. She hung back, looking at him askance.

"I... How does this work?"

"It moves between floors... powered by steam. Like a train, you know."

"I see. I... I need t' gae t' the third floor, then." Biting her lip, Lorna stepped inside, watching curiously as the man closed the door and worked the levers. The elevator was actually moving! Startled, she reached for the handrail, then straightened up. It would certainly never do to act like a complete greenhorn. She must be calm, prepared to meet any new... anything... that could possibly come her way.

Relieved to find herself safely on the third floor, Lorna found office number seven easily and entered the room quietly.

"Mr. Grant?"

The stout, florid man at the desk looked up from his papers.

"Yes," he said briefly, barely glancing up.

"Lorna McAllister. I wrote ye about a position in one of the New York schools."

"Ah, yes. Miss McAllister. Let me see..." he shuffled through a heavy, rather disorganized stack of correspondence with a contemplative frown. "I see here your teaching application and it looks good. Unfortunately, I'm afraid I cannot offer you a position at this time."

Lorna sat stunned. She had based her entire hopes upon obtaining a teaching job immediately upon her arrival. If she couldn't get it... then what? Washing dishes? Slaving in one of the dreaded factories she had heard so much about?

"Mr. Grant... I dinnae understan'. I was told that... that..." she hesitated. "I'll take anythin'... anythin'. If there's any teachin' job ye know of... outside o' New York... somethin' that no one else will take... anythin', Mr. Grant."

Mr. Grant listened to her desperate appeal without the slightest change of emotion in his face. But when she ran out of words, he silently began to search again through his ponderous pile of papers and at long last fished out a solitary, handwritten letter.

"I have here a letter from the Dakota Territories." he began, looking at her skeptically. "More and more families have been moving out there and yet there are hardly enough teachers. I hesitate to send a young woman alone to the Dakotas but... if you're certain you want it, you can take a position out there."

"Och, aye! I'll take it!" Lorna cried impulsively, not even thinking of what such an undertaking might involve. "How far is it from New York?"

"Over a thousand miles." Mr. Grant answered, slowly and blandly. "You can make it by train... and you're just in time. The transcontinental railroad was scarce finished just last year. But I must warn you, young lady, the Dakota Territories are nothing to be taken lightly. It's a long and hazardous trip. The land is wild out there... outlaws and bandits and savages... not to mention the abundant supply of miners and cowboys and ranchers... a rough lot, all of them. You'd best be careful. Very careful."

oOo

Thus it was that Lorna found herself standing on the little platform of the New York train station early the next morning, trying to talk to the incredulous station master.

"Aye, sir. A one way ticket to the Dakota Territories."

Muttering something about "young fools" and "women who didn't know their place", the station master handed over the ticket. There was no going back now. A thousand miles further across this unfamiliar new continent. A thousand more reasons that she would never see her homeland again. A thousand more things to fear... nay... a thousand more things to face boldly.

Chapter Text

The flickering firelight cast eerie, ominous shadows across the dark landscape. Somewhere, far distant from the campfire, a lone coyote howled mournfully. It was a rather assorted group of figures that sat hunched or sprawled around the fire, each minding his own particular business and ignoring all the others. A rather incredibly tall, thin, sallow man with a drooping brown mustache played a slow, haunting tune on his rusty harmonica. A short and stocky character with a bristly shock of red hair and a bushy red beard to match it, rested his patched elbows on his stained jeans and puffed away disconsolately on a stubby corncob pipe. A dark, broad-shouldered man with black Stetson pulled low over his eyes, stretched comfortably out to his full length on the ground and snored comfortably. The boss of the outfit, Slade himself, was leaning back on the stump where he sat, crossing his arms and narrowly surveying the "boys", as he was apt to call them. Jason McCulloch, the youngest recruit, was sitting now in his old place in the corner. Always apart from the others... just like he had been the first time around. He never once glanced at any of the others but sat quietly mending the stock of his rifle.

"Dagummit, Sam, yer cookin' is as turrible as ever," the red-haired man spoke through his clenched teeth, not bothering to remove his pipe from his mouth.

The thin man glanced up, pausing his harmonica in the midst of "Laredo".

"Think ya could do any better, Charlie?"

"Least I wouldn't a' been burnin' the beans t' ashes."

Sam shrugged and resumed "Laredo". The dark man snorted loudly, grunted something unintelligible, and fell to snoring peacefully again. Charlie glared at the sleeping figure as if he had committed some sort of offense.

"Fool Bill," he snarled. "Won't stay awake long enough fer even one game o' blackjack. Will you play, Jason?"

Jason glanced up from his rifle and shook his head briefly.

"Can't ya settle down a minute, Charlie?" Slade muttered.

"Dull as tombs out here," Charlie ignored the boss's admonition. "Iffen ya won't gamble, Jason, git yer fiddle out an' play fer us. I'm sick an' tired of Sam's hermonica."

At first the request was ignored. But when repeated, more forcibly, Jason set the rifle aside and dug a well-worn violin from among the scraggly assortment of camp equipment in the one wagon.

"Give us a good rollickin' one." Charlie urged. "How 'bout Jerusalem Ridge?" So saying, he gave Bill a savage kick with the toe of his boot. "Say Bill, ya'd better snap to it iffen ya want t' hear some real music fer a change."

Bill had made many sad attempts at fiddling himself and bitter was the reward for it. The boys simply wouldn't stand to hear his "squawking". Bill "snapped to it", all right, but only lasted through the beginning of Jerusalem Ridge and soon the music was accompanied by a percussion of snoring.

Jason was a master musician, although few ever heard him play. No one seemed to know where he had acquired this talent. It seemed to just have been born within him. No one... except maybe Bill... could listen to his music without being touched in some way by it.

The supply of old fiddle tunes was quite exhausted that night. When Jason had played every one that the others could conceive to throw at him, he suddenly and without warning changed course. When he began to play that last song, the others didn't even recognize it at first. Most of them hadn't heard the ageless old tune since they were young children. And with toughened old outlaws like these... childhood was many lifetimes ago.

Slowly, softly, drawing out each beautiful note and spinning it into pure musical magic, Jason played the old song. All was quiet... the song echoed into the darkness of the prairie night and hovered on the night wind.

Amazing grace... how sweet the sound... that saved a wretch like me...

Jason played through three verses. When he got to the fourth, he only played halfway through, then stopped suddenly with a jerk of the bow that rattled even Bill. Abruptly he laid the old fiddle down and turned his face away from the little group by the fire. No one said a word.

From somewhere far distant, the lone coyote howled again. The crickets were chirping... a night owl called out. The stars were shining down coldly and the night wind blowing. And in one heart... only one... the desperate prayer was once again silently given.