“You have three precious daughters to care for, Moira,” he replied in a gentle voice. “They need you.”
“Please find them a good home. Promise me,” she whispered. “Promise me you’ll protect my babies.”
James stared at her in alarm. “You must protect your babies. Give yourself time. You will be able to…” He stopped speaking when he realized she was no longer conscious.
Moira never regained consciousness. It was as though she’d grown tired of struggling for breath and at the end gave up the effort with one final sigh.
Moira with no last name had done what she could to give her babies a chance at life. Now it was up to James and Margaret to decide what to do with her legacy.
Chapter One
October 16, 2003
Greg Dumas peered through the windshield of his rental car with a mixture of frustration and resignation. He could scarcely see past the front of his car. He leaned closer while the windshield wipers valiantly fought a losing battle to remove moisture from the fogged glass. Rain poured down, mixing with the heavy mist that swirled in the headlights.
After several weeks in Scotland, he felt as though he’d stepped into another world made up of perennial rain and perpetual gloom.
Greg knew he should have stayed in Craigmor tonight, rather than attempt to find one small village in the western Highlands after dark. The village hadn’t looked so far away on the map, but he hadn’t taken into account that he was in the mountains.
He was exhausted. It didn’t help that the cough that had started sometime last week had worsened. He’d been on the move since landing in Glasgow last month. He’d rented a car and driven to Edinburgh, thinking he’d be returning to New York in no more than three days. Instead, Edinburgh had been the first stop of many in his search. Since then, he’d followed one lead after another, chasing back and forth across the Highlands like a de-ranged bloodhound.
When he’d received the newest lead late this afternoon, he hadn’t wanted to wait another night to check it out.
Greg knew he sounded like a barking seal every time he coughed. In addition, his head felt stuffed full of cotton and he couldn’t breathe without wheezing.
To make matters worse, it was now close to midnight and he was lost. He thought he’d been following the map he’d marked earlier when he stopped to eat, but somehow he’d managed to find yet another narrow road that appeared to lead to nowhere.
He couldn’t remember the last light he’d seen. Of course, with fog so thick, he could have driven through the hamlet—or the village, or whatever the towns were called—without being aware he’d reached his goal.
Manhattan was nothing like this, he muttered to himself.
He should never have taken this job, he thought—not for the first time—regardless of the money offered. In the three years since he’d opened his office as a private investigator, what had started as a one-man operation had mushroomed into a firm with several investigators—former cops as he was—and a growing support staff that threatened to spill out of their office space within the year.
So why had he finally agreed to take this case? It hadn’t been the money, although the client had offered to double his usual fee and pay all of his expenses if he would personally handle this matter.
He’d turned her down at first. He’d never been away from his daughter, Tina, for more than a night and he hadn’t been comfortable with the idea of traveling to Great Britain. However, Tina’s grandmother, Helen, had urged him to take the case. She’d felt he needed a change of pace from his busy schedule as well as a chance to see more of the world.
When Helen convinced him that leaving Tina with her would be fun for all concerned, he’d finally accepted the assignment. Of course, he’d taken this job thinking he’d quickly find the answers he sought.
Instead he was chasing false trails or trails that dried up, leaving him wondering where to search next, all because he respected Helen’s opinion.
He didn’t know what he would have done if his mother-in-law hadn’t stepped in and helped him to take care of Tina after Jill’s death. She rarely offered her opinion. When she did, he listened.
After three weeks in Scotland, he had no doubts that he’d made the wrong choice. What he had thought would be a simple matter—finding his client’s birth parents—had turned out to be far from simple. His search had turned into a mystery with few answers.
If this latest lead didn’t pan out, he would give up and return to New York. He’d exhausted all other avenues.
Right now, all he wanted to do was to hop on a plane and head for the States, sleeping the entire trip across the Atlantic. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, he appeared destined to wander the western Highlands of Scotland for the foreseeable future.
Greg knew he’d been on the road too long and had driven too many hours. He had to find a place where he could rest, and soon. Better yet, he needed to find a place to spend the night. Between the cold air and the dampness that had seeped inside him clear to his bones, he seemed to have acquired a permanent tremor throughout his body.
His assignment had turned into a wild-goose chase. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t have the protective coating of a wild goose. The cold, damp climate had him reeling.
He’d headed west to find some middle-aged woman who had retreated to the isolated area of northwest Scotland. She’d been nowhere near the village where he had hoped to find the information he needed.
From his interviews with several of the old-time residents of Craigmor, this particular woman was his best hope to discover the answers he needed.
When he first arrived in Scotland he’d expected to contact the attorney who had handled his client’s adoption and/or the physician attending her birth to get the name of her biological parents.
The first snag he’d run into involved making contact with the lawyer, Calvin McCloskey. Greg had gone to the address listed in the legal documents. There were still lawyers at the location—they called themselves solicitors—and the name of the firm was the same, but as the associate he’d spoken to pointed out, the adoption papers had been signed twenty-five years ago. The solicitors who’d been practicing law back then had all retired or died.
Greg had had a moment of concern that Mr. McCloskey was one of the guys who’d died, but the associate assured him that good ol’ Calvin was still alive and kicking. In fact, the associate had given Greg Calvin’s home address and wished him well.
Fat lot of good that had done him. He’d talked to the man’s housekeeper, who explained that Mr. McCloskey was off fishing. Since he hadn’t bothered telling her where he would be, Greg had no way of contacting him until he decided to return home.
Greg had had the choice of waiting for the man or searching for the doctor. But he could find no record of a Dr. MacDonald currently practicing in Edinburgh.
He’d had to wait for the solicitor.
Greg had passed the time while waiting for Mr. McCloskey by visiting several Edinburgh sights. He’d been impressed to see how well maintained the castles were and had enjoyed catching up on the history of the area.
By the end of the first week he’d adjusted to the Scottish brogue that he heard everywhere he went. In addition, he’d managed to stop going to the left side of the rental car to drive, since the steering wheel could only be found on the right side.
Late the following week Mr. McCloskey left word at Greg’s hotel that he could meet with him the following day.
They had the meeting at the solicitor’s home. The man was gracious enough but for Greg’s purposes