Scotland, Donuun in Argyllshire
Duff stood in the middle of the cemetery behind the Redeemer Presbyterian Church in Donuun in Argyllshire. Holding a spray of heather in his hand, he looked down at the grave.
SKYE MCGREGOR
1866 – 1886
Beloved Daughter of IAN and MARGARET
a light of love ...
too quickly extinguished on this world,
now shining ever brightly in Heaven above
Duff leaned down to place the flowers on the well-tended grave, then put his hand on the marble tombstone. Saying a silent prayer, he stood, then walked a half mile to the Whitehorse Pub.
The pub was filled with customers when Duff stepped inside, and he stood there unnoticed. Ian McGregor, the owner of the pub, had his back to the bar as he was filling a mug with ale. For just a moment he had a start, for there was a young woman, the same size and with the same red hair as Skye, waiting on the customers. But the illusion was destroyed when she turned.
Ian had just handed the ale to the customer and was about to put the money into the cash register when he looked toward the door.
“Duff!” he shouted at the top of his voice.
Ian’s shout alerted the others to Duff’s presence, and so many swarmed toward him that he was immediately surrounded. All wanted to shake his hand or pat him on the back. Duff smiled and greeted each of them warmly as they escorted him over to one of the tables. He had just taken his seat, when Ian placed a glass of Scotch in front of him.
“And would ye be for staying here now, lad?” Ian asked.
“Nae, ’tis but a visit,” Duff replied.
“For remember, ’tis no charge being placed against you. Three witnesses there were, who testified that you acted in self-defense.”
“Aye, ’twas explained to me in a letter,” Duff said. “But I’ve started a ranch, I’ve made friends, and I’ve begun a new life in America.”
“Then what brings you to Scotland?”
“As you recall, I had to leave very quickly,” Duff said. “I had no time to say a proper good-bye to Skye. ’Tis ashamed I was, that I was not here for her funeral.”
“You were here, lad,” Ian said. “Maybe not in the flesh, but there wasn’t a person in the church, nae nor in the cemetery when she was lowered into the ground, that did not feel your presence.”
Duff nodded. “Aye. For with all my heart and soul, I was here.”
Ian had to get back to work, but for the next two hours, Duff was kept busy telling his friends about America. Finally, when the last customer had left and the young woman, whose name was Kathleen, told the two of them good night, Duff and Ian sat together in the pub, dark now except for a single light that glowed dimly behind the bar.
“Have ye made friends, Duff?” Ian asked.
“Aye. Good friends, for all that they are new.” Duff told Ian about Biff Johnson, whose wife was Scottish, and Fred Matthews and R.W. Guthrie. He told him about Elmer Gleason, too.
“As odd a man as ever you might meet,” Duff said, “but as loyal and true a friend as you might want.”
“Have ye left anything out, lad?” Ian asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve made no mention of a woman. Is there no woman that has caught your fancy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ye dinnae know? But how can it be that you dinnae know?”
“I have met a young woman, handsome, spirited, gritty.”
“Handsome, spirited, gritty? Duff, ye could be talking about a horse. Surely there is more.”
“I don’t know,” Duff said. “I—Skye, it’s just that ...” he was unable to finish the sentence.
“Skye isn’t here, laddie,” Ian said. “And if she could speak from her grave, she would tell you nae to be closing your heart on her account.”
“Aye,” Duff said. “I believe that is true. But Skye is in a corner of my heart, Ian, and I cannae get her out.”
Ian reached across the table and put his hand on Duff’s shoulder. “There is nae need for ye to get Skye out of your heart, but keep her in that corner, so ye have room to let another in.”
“You’re a good man, Ian McGregor. ’Tis proud I would have been to be your son-in-law.”
“Duff, sure ’n you are my son-in-law, in my eyes, and in the eyes of God, if not in the eyes of the law.”
Chapter Two
The next day, Duff visited Bryan Wallace. Wallace was one of the most knowledgeable men about cattle that Duff had ever met, and he was the same stock breeder who had provided him with the cattle he used to start his own small farm before he left Scotland. After a warm greeting, Duff filled him in on where he had been for the last two years.
“I’ve built a nice ranch, with good grazing land, water, and protection from the winter’s cold blast,” Duff said. “And now the time has come for me to put cattle upon the land. Most would say I should raise Longhorn, for surely they are the most common of all the cattle there, and they are easy to raise. But there are some who are raising Herefords, and ’tis said that I might try that as well.”
“Aye, Herefords are a good breed and they do well in the American West,” Wallace replied.
“But I’m remembering with fondness the Black Angus I was raising here, and ’tis wondering I am, if you could be for telling me a bit o’ the background of the Black Angus?”
“Aye, would happy to, for ’tis a story of Scotland itself,” Wallace replied. “A man by the name of Hugh Watson was raising hornless cattle in Aberdeenshire and Angus. Doddies, they were called then, and good cattle they were, but Watson thought to improve them. So he began selecting only the best black, polled animals for his herd. His favorite bull was Old Jock, who was born 1842 and sired by Grey-Breasted Jock. Today, if you look in the Scottish Herd Book, you’ll be for seeing that old Jock was given the number ‘one.’
“In that same herd was a cow named Old Granny. Old Granny produced many calves, and today every Black Angus that is registered can trace its lineage back to those two cows.”
“And how would the cows do in America?”
“Ye’d be thinkin’ of raising Black Angus on the new ranch of yours, are ye?” Wallace asked.
“Aye, if I thought they would do well there.”
“Ease your mind, Laddie, they do just foine in America, for they are there already.”
“Really? In Wyoming?”
“Nae, I think there be none in Wyoming. But they are in Kansas, Missouri, and Mississippi. And, there is already an American Aberdeen Angus Association which has their headquarters in Chicago. If ye be for wanting information about the breed in America, I would say that’s where you should go.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wallace.”
“You’ll be going back to America then, will you?”
“Aye. I’ve set down my roots there, now.”
“What do you think of the country?”
“’Tis as big and as wonderful as you can possibly imagine,” Duff replied enthusiastically.
“Do me a favor, Lad, and drop me a line when you get your herd established. I have been keeping track of where all the Black Angus have been started. ’Tis a thing I do for the Scottish Breeders Association.”
“I’ll be happy to,” Duff said.
Chugwater, Wyoming Territory
When Meghan Parker checked her mail she was surprised, and pleased, to find a letter from Duff MacCallister. Excitedly, she started to open it; then, just before opening the flap, she hesitated.
What if it was a letter telling her that he was not coming back? What if he was writing to tell her that he was going to stay in Scotland?
No, surely he wouldn’t do that. He has a ranch here. He has made friends here.
But, he is from Scotland. And though Meghan didn’t know all the particulars, she did know that he had been in love there, and that the love, for some reason, was unrequited.