who fell in. But three men died that day, good men, friends. The cold killed them."
"Oh, no," she murmured. "D-did you know them?"
He nodded. They had been friends and members of his work crew. The bridge had been his own design, his own project. He looked away. "I worked with them. I... I could not save them. One of them died in my arms."
In the two years since the incident, he had said little about that day to anyone. Certainly not to anyone he had met only a few hours earlier. He felt somewhat amazed at himself now for doing so.
"Oh, Evan," the girl whispered. He felt soothed, hearing his name soft on her lips. "Why were you there? Were you traveling over the bridge?"
"I am a bridge engineer. It was my project. My pride and joy," he said bitterly. "It fell while still under construction. We could not save everyone." He sat back, hunkered on his heels. His hands draped, empty, over his knees. He did not look at her.
"I am so sorry," she whispered. "Was it long ago?"
"Just over two years ago," he answered.
"Tragedies can take away parts of our souls, I think."
He glanced at her quickly. He had never thought of it in those terms, but he knew she was right.
He knew that she understood. She had lost a brother to a tragic incident, and her father had been deeply changed. She had seen the people leave the glen at his own father's orders. She knew about the deep hurt of the soul, as he did.
Suddenly he understood something more about himself, why he had wandered, wooden and subdued, through life afterward, abandoning bridge projects for dock works, lighthouses, canals. Burying himself in geometrically beautiful designs and mathematical formulas, he had shut himself off from the love and friendship that others tried to offer him.
"It can take a long time to recover from such a blow. Some n-never d-do," she added. She was still shivering too much, her body struggling to raise its own temperature.
He narrowed his eyes, struck by the depth of her sympathy and understanding. In the space of minutes, she understood him as no one else had in two years. She had summed up his hurt and his sense of being lost, and offered him a balm.
His friends and relatives wanted him to get on with his life by now. His mother wanted him to find a pleasant society girl and marry, wanted him to build a fine new bridge to replace the other one both literally and in his mind. Somehow she was convinced that both actions would cure his heartache, his guilt, his self-recrimination.
Catriona MacConn did not know him, yet she knew how he felt. Part of him was indeed still missing. He needed time to heal, to find that lost bit again. The tragedy had destroyed part of him, heart and soul. He had recovered as much as he could by keeping himself tightly guarded and speaking very little about the experience. Somehow she understood that.
But a part of his soul had torn away, spiraled out, left him on that day. He could not get it back.
He frowned, then nodded. "Thank you, Miss MacConn." She could not know why he thanked her. "I know what cold can do." He rose to his feet. "So I will not let you suffer tonight." He held out his hand.
She set her hand in his and stood.
"Very well." She clung to his coat, still around her shoulders. "Turn around."
* * *
Shivers ravaged her. She had never felt so frozen. She had to get out of her cold, wet clothes now.
As Mackenzie turned away, she undressed while doing her best to keep his jacket around her shoulders. She pulled at loops and buttons, fingers trembling. Her body shook, muscles tensing, jaw tight. She only wanted to feel warm all over again. Her fingers were so stiff that she could hardly undo the buttons, and made a small sound of frustration.
"Are you finished?" he inquired, back turned.
"Nearly. It is diff-difficult," she admitted.
He turned and came toward her. Without asking permission, quickly and smartly, he opened the button loops at the waist of her wet jacket and moved up, his fingers
"Oh, no," she murmured. "D-did you know them?"
He nodded. They had been friends and members of his work crew. The bridge had been his own design, his own project. He looked away. "I worked with them. I... I could not save them. One of them died in my arms."
In the two years since the incident, he had said little about that day to anyone. Certainly not to anyone he had met only a few hours earlier. He felt somewhat amazed at himself now for doing so.
"Oh, Evan," the girl whispered. He felt soothed, hearing his name soft on her lips. "Why were you there? Were you traveling over the bridge?"
"I am a bridge engineer. It was my project. My pride and joy," he said bitterly. "It fell while still under construction. We could not save everyone." He sat back, hunkered on his heels. His hands draped, empty, over his knees. He did not look at her.
"I am so sorry," she whispered. "Was it long ago?"
"Just over two years ago," he answered.
"Tragedies can take away parts of our souls, I think."
He glanced at her quickly. He had never thought of it in those terms, but he knew she was right.
He knew that she understood. She had lost a brother to a tragic incident, and her father had been deeply changed. She had seen the people leave the glen at his own father's orders. She knew about the deep hurt of the soul, as he did.
Suddenly he understood something more about himself, why he had wandered, wooden and subdued, through life afterward, abandoning bridge projects for dock works, lighthouses, canals. Burying himself in geometrically beautiful designs and mathematical formulas, he had shut himself off from the love and friendship that others tried to offer him.
"It can take a long time to recover from such a blow. Some n-never d-do," she added. She was still shivering too much, her body struggling to raise its own temperature.
He narrowed his eyes, struck by the depth of her sympathy and understanding. In the space of minutes, she understood him as no one else had in two years. She had summed up his hurt and his sense of being lost, and offered him a balm.
His friends and relatives wanted him to get on with his life by now. His mother wanted him to find a pleasant society girl and marry, wanted him to build a fine new bridge to replace the other one both literally and in his mind. Somehow she was convinced that both actions would cure his heartache, his guilt, his self-recrimination.
Catriona MacConn did not know him, yet she knew how he felt. Part of him was indeed still missing. He needed time to heal, to find that lost bit again. The tragedy had destroyed part of him, heart and soul. He had recovered as much as he could by keeping himself tightly guarded and speaking very little about the experience. Somehow she understood that.
But a part of his soul had torn away, spiraled out, left him on that day. He could not get it back.
He frowned, then nodded. "Thank you, Miss MacConn." She could not know why he thanked her. "I know what cold can do." He rose to his feet. "So I will not let you suffer tonight." He held out his hand.
She set her hand in his and stood.
"Very well." She clung to his coat, still around her shoulders. "Turn around."
* * *
Shivers ravaged her. She had never felt so frozen. She had to get out of her cold, wet clothes now.
As Mackenzie turned away, she undressed while doing her best to keep his jacket around her shoulders. She pulled at loops and buttons, fingers trembling. Her body shook, muscles tensing, jaw tight. She only wanted to feel warm all over again. Her fingers were so stiff that she could hardly undo the buttons, and made a small sound of frustration.
"Are you finished?" he inquired, back turned.
"Nearly. It is diff-difficult," she admitted.
He turned and came toward her. Without asking permission, quickly and smartly, he opened the button loops at the waist of her wet jacket and moved up, his fingers
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