Free Dragonfly in Amber by Diana Gabaldon Page B

finger.
    "Visitors." Roger squatted next to her. He traced the faded letters on the stone—FRASER. "People descended from the families of the men who were killed here. Or just those who like to remember them."
    She looked sidelong at him, hair drifting around her face. "Have you ever done it?"
    He looked down, smiling at his hands as they hung between his knees.
    "Yes. I suppose it's very sentimental, but I do."
    Brianna turned to the thicket of moor plants that edged the path on the other side.
    "Show me which is heather," she said.
    On the way home, the melancholy of Culloden lifted, but the feeling of shared sentiment lingered, and they talked and laughed together like old friends.
    "It's too bad Mother couldn't come with us," Brianna remarked as they turned into the road where the Randalls' bed-and-breakfast was.
    Much as he liked Claire Randall, Roger didn't agree at all that it was too bad she hadn't come. Three, he thought, would have been a crowd, and no mistake. But he grunted noncommitally, and a moment later asked, "How is your mother? I hope she's not terribly ill."
    "Oh, no, it's just an upset stomach—at least that's what she says." Brianna frowned to herself for a moment, then turned to Roger, laying a hand lightly on his leg. He felt the muscles quiver from knee to groin, and had a hard time keeping his mind on what she was saying. She was still talking about her mother.
    "…think she's all right?" she finished. She shook her head, and copper glinted from the waves of her hair, even in the dull light of the car. "I don't know; she seems awfully preoccupied. Not ill, exactly—more as though she's kind of worried about something."
    Roger felt a sudden heaviness in the pit of his stomach.
    "Mphm," he said. "Maybe just being away from her work. I'm sure it will be all right." Brianna smiled gratefully at him as they pulled up in front of Mrs. Thomas's small stone house.
    "It was great, Roger," she said, touching him lightly on the shoulder. "But there wasn't much here to help with Mama's project. Can't I help you with some of the grubby stuff?"
    Roger's spirits lightened considerably, and he smiled up at her. "I think that might be arranged. Want to come tomorrow and have a go at the garage with me? If it's filth you want, you can't get much grubbier than that."
    "Great." She smiled, leaning on the car to look back in at him. "Maybe Mother will want to come along and help."
    He could feel his face stiffen, but kept gallantly smiling.
    "Right," he said. "Great. I hope so."
    In the event, it was Brianna alone who came to the manse the next day.
    "Mama's at the public library," she explained. "Looking up old phone directories. She's trying to find someone she used to know."
    Roger's heart skipped a beat at that. He had checked the Reverend's phonebook the night before. There were three local listings under the name "James Fraser," and two more with different first names, but the middle initial "J."
    "Well, I hope she finds him," he said, still trying for casualness. "You're really sure you want to help? It's boring, filthy work." Roger looked at Brianna dubiously, but she nodded, not at all discomposed at the prospect.
    "I know. I used to help my father sometimes, dredging through old records and finding footnotes. Besides, it's Mama's project; the least I can do is help you with it."
    "All right." Roger glanced down at his white shirt. "Let me change, and we'll go have a look."
    The garage door creaked, groaned, then surrendered to the inevitable and surged suddenly upward, amid the twanging of springs and clouds of dust.
    Brianna waved her hands back and forth in front of her face, coughing. "Gack!" she said. "How long since anyone's been in this place?"
    "Eons, I expect." Roger replied absently. He shone his torch around the inside of the garage, briefly lighting stacks of cardboard cartons and wooden crates, old steamer trunks smeared with peeling labels, and amorphous tarpaulin-draped shapes. Here and there,