I leaned up closer against the glass and caught a glimpse of the UK Channel 4 logo in the corner of the screen, and realized my mistake. I also caught the eye of one of the servers inside, who looked a little alarmed at the way I was fogging up the glass with my breath.
I hurriedly stepped back, my stomach twisting inside me. I would be watching Good Morning America or one of its dozens of clones within a couple of days.
It was time to go home. But somehow the thought of America just—didn’t feel like home any more.
I tried quelling the panicky feelings that rose up by focusing on the visit with Gerald. It had been great to see him looking so well, and so happy. We’d both been looking for a Highland warrior on that long-ago cold night, and in spite of the ghost-sighting, neither one of us had found him. But fate had sent Gerald into the arms of an English nurse named Clare. A happy OUTLANDER ending if ever there was one.
And I really couldn’t complain. I’d had an adventure of a lifetime.
Inside the teashop, a sports clip had replaced the cooking segment and I stared idly at images of Glasgow Rangers fans, roaring their joy at a goal. The camera panned the studio audience, filled with delighted, screaming faces, and I had a moment to wonder how such a large group of people could look so awake at such an early hour, when the picture changed again.
The hosts were welcoming a guest, who strode across the stage with his hands up, waving at the clearly delighted audience.
It was Jack.
I bumped my chin on the window, and the people seated at the closest table jumped back a little. I shot them an apologetic smile and focused on the screen.
He wasn’t wearing his kilt this time, and he looked a little startled at the audience reaction, as the camera panned back and forth. Many of them bore little Scottish flags that they waved in the air with enthusiasm. The hosts greeted him warmly, and along the bottom of the screen, the caption read: Best-selling Inverness author Jack Findlay brings William Wallace back to life.
I could see he still had a slight limp as he walked across the set, and I was trying to lip-read what the female host was saying to him when the bus pulled up. The driver allowed the bus to stand idling a moment, and then honked at me, so I was forced to tear myself away from the screen and jump aboard.
As I stepped inside the bus, I looked back. The teashop server emerged carrying a spray bottle and cloth, and shot me a nasty look through the window. The bus pulled out as I dropped my pack onto the floor and fumbled for my ticket.
So Jack’s new book was a success. That was certainly quick.
“Oi—I need yer ticket, Miss.”
I scrambled back up to the front, my warm glow at seeing Jack dissipating under the weight of the driver’s scowl. “Sorry. Here it is.”
He grabbed it from me, glanced at it, and shoved it back at me.
“Y’er on the wrong bus. We’re fer Glasgow. Ye need to get off at the next stop. Or ye can pay me ten quid to change yer ticket.”
I grabbed the handrail behind him as we careened through a roundabout. I wasn’t about to pay extra for a ticket to somewhere I couldn’t afford to go.
“Can I get out here, then? I can walk back and get the right bus if you let me off at this corner.”
He didn’t even look up at me, just tapped a little notice he had tacked up beside the swing arm to open the door. NO UNSCHEDULED STOPS.
“Well, what’s the next stop, then?”
“Crianlarich. Ye can change there and go through Stirling to Edinburgh.”
“Seriously? That’s going to take…”
His glare stopped me in mid-sentence. “Yer lucky I’m not fer chargin’ yeh. Pay better mind the next time ye get on a bus, aye?”
Duly chastened, I struggled toward the back to find a seat as the bus rocketed along the motorway. At least it was not likely to be a long detour.
The bus was almost full, but I managed to jam my pack into an overhead bin and fall into a seat beside a lady whose knitting needles were busily clacking. I apologized when I realized I was sitting on her bag, but she waved it off.
“Ach, niver mind, Miss. I shoulda been quicker to move it away when I saw ye comin’.” She tucked the bag with the ball of wool inside between her feet and handed me a newspaper. “Here’s your paper, dear.”
“Oh, it’s not—” I began, when I caught sight of a teaser on the front page.
“Thank you,” I said, instead, and sat back to read an excerpt of my friend’s new bestseller.
My plan to keep my eyes to the windows and drink in the last of the Highland scenery had washed away in light of the found newspaper. I’d hardly noticed anything of the trip to Crianlarich as we sped along the road, the sound of the knitting needles beside me competing with the belches and gurgles of the bus.