“Detention! Detention for a month when we get back. And a ten page essay on how stupid American teenagers get abducted every day because they can't seem to follow even the simplest of rules, like staying with the tour group and not hiding behind rocks to make-out. If I only had a guillotine...or the rack...”
Anne's tirade and delicious, if not completely legal, ways to punish her hormonally charged students were momentarily interrupted when she stubbed her pedicured toe on one of the aforementioned, offensive rocks.
“Ow! Urgh!!! The District doesn't pay me enough for this sh-”
“Ah, ah, ah! Language. Wouldn't want to give you a detention.”
Anne glared at the woman to her left, hoping the daggers she was shooting were enough to wipe the smirk off her face. So what if they were best friends since day one of college, nine years ago, and she loved her like a sister? A grown woman traipsing about the Scottish Highlands in search of two wandering teenagers had every right to vent in a colorful way, especially after the long, loooong, day she had had.
“Whatever, Miss New York City Magazine Editor. You'd indulge in a little 'language' if you had to deal with them one hundred and eighty days out of the year, too.”
Anne's best friend, Clara, only shrugged, smiled, and said, “Yeah, but you get two months' worth vacation.”
Well, clearly there'd be no sympathy from that department so Anne felt it best to stew in silence and save her energy for when she and Clara actually found the truants.
The wind whipping up from the loch and emerald valley below shushed her mind for a moment, long enough to regain her composure and take stock of her surroundings. The Highlands, though chilly for mid-May, were nothing short of breathtaking. This view, this wild, unconquered scene was the whole reason Anne agreed to act as chaperon for the La Sierra Senior Honors Class trip, the high school where she teaches World History and Civics.
It was so different from the hectic, congested pace of Los Angeles. And though L.A. was home, there was definitely something missing. Not to mention someone, which was why Clara agreed into acting as a quasi-chaperon in the first place. To say Anne was grateful for her friend was a major understatement. Though she was doing remarkably well given the circumstances, she didn't want to think about how she would have felt facing this trip alone.
Two months before the trip and her fiance, Neal, broke off their engagement with little more than the “It's not you, it's me” speech. And man, did she hate that speech. To her mind, it was nothing but a pitiful excuse for saying, “Hey, you know that investment of two and a half years of your life – your smile, tears, joys, and dreams – that you put into us? Well, good job for trying but no dice. Be sure to play again next time!”
After a full week of red-puffy eyes and a tissue attacked raw nose, Anne was done playing, or more aptly put, being played. But at least he wasn't lying when he said it wasn't her. As it happened, Angela, his boss and a woman ten years his senior – a peerless cougar - was the reason for the sudden cold-feet and subsequent flight. And the promotion to V.P. Of Marketing that came along with his upgrade probably had nothing to do with dumping her, either.
At any rate, at twenty-seven, she was probably better off, she told herself. It's not like she was old or anything. It left her free to mingle with the local hotties at the pubs, once the kids were safely ensconced in their hotel rooms, Clara cheerily reminded her. She might even consider flirting - a practice which Anne never felt truly comfortable doing - but that would be the extent of it.
Anne carefully fortified the wall around her heart and measured her life so that she could never be left vulnerable again. Men weren't worth it. No more tears, no more grief, no more wasted time. She lead a full, happy life and couldn't ask for anything more than what she currently had.
Well, missing hormonal students aside.
Out of the corner of her eye something- or someones- rustled in the shadowy ruins of an old fortress. Bingo. Anne snapped back to reality and right into teacher mode.
“Julie Simms and Miguel Suarez, you come from out of there right now and head back to the bus!”
Nothing. Not a sound, not a “Dude, it's Miss Evinsdale,” not even the familiar mocking laughter of puberty towards anyone with authority.
Perhaps the wind, which was picking up its intensity, was muffling her. She motioned Clara to follow her and marched to the shifting shades, praying she wouldn't find them in a compromising scenario. She could just picture the notes home now:
“Dear Mr. And Mrs. Simms, Your daughter passed World History with a C+, but her knowledge of Biology, well, let's put it this way - in nine months, give or take, she will have graduated that particular course with Honors.”
Yeah, that would be a parent-teacher conference for the books.
Just as she was figuring out a similar note in Spanish for Sra. Suarez, a large, dirty-tasting hand clasped her mouth and she was shoved to the ground. Almost simultaneously, she heard Clara scream from behind, followed by some strong cursing in manly tones.
Panic for both Clara and herself overcame her, quickly followed by white hot anger.
She hated surprises, and even more, she hated dirt. And more than that, she hated the fact her new Anthropologie white eyelet skirt, which cost her more than she ought to have allowed, was now covered in mud, moss, and quite disgustingly, sweat. And it wasn't even hers!
Anne kicked and thrashed until a grunt-slash-groan let her know she hit a lucky spot. Up like a shot, she grabbed at Clara's outstretched arm, and sprinted as fast as she could, considering she was wearing flip-flops, towards the bus about fifty yards away. Or, at least, that's where it should have been.
To her dismay, it was nowhere in sight – nor could she clearly define the road.
“Really?! I mean, really?!”
From behind, she could hear the gallop of horses' hooves beating closer and closer. Not about to be taken by surprise again, she whirled about to face them.
Only she couldn't believe what she saw – three grown men in what looked like kilts sitting atop what could only be called noble steeds. This would be perfect if she were in a Disney ride; which, of course, she was not. Either she and Clara had just stumbled upon a Medieval Enactment camp or some traditional festival was taking place.
Neither of the three looked particularly pleased with them. The one on the right was glaring at Clara, while oozing a small trickle of blood from his left eye-brow. And the one on the left looked ready to kill Anne. Not like she could figure out why, unless she ruined some Renaissance Fair event. But that really was by accident.
And why was he sitting so funny? She wasn't an equestrian by any means but...oh. That was kinda' by accident, too.
Anne hazarded a glance over at Clara. She was white and trembling with either fear or rage – probably a mixture of both. Either way, not good.
“Clara, you hurt?”
“No, you?”
“No. Follow my lead, okay?”
Anne was met with a questioning eye-brow, but nothing else. She took that as her cue.
Putting on her best “Setting-the-tone-for-the-rest-of-the-school-year-beginning-with-day-one” face she resolutely took one step forward, eying each man full on. Showing fear wouldn't get her anywhere, and she silently pleaded she wouldn't break out into nervous hives.
“Have any of you seen two seventeen-year-olds? A young man and a girl around here? We're already late and the tour bus is, er, was, waiting - “
“Be silent.”
Anne stiffened at the crisp command issued by the center horseman.
“No, seriously, we need to find them. So if you'll just excuse us, we'll be on our way.” She gestured for Clara to follow, while murmuring, “Sorry to have interrupted your festival. ” With that she turned around but found herself two seconds later, vexed, and surrounded by the three riders.
“Ye've not been granted permission to leave, lassies,” chided, yet again, the center horseman.
Though seemingly stern, she couldn't help but notice sparkling brown eyes complementing thick, wavy, chestnut colored hair and, to her delight – though why she was delighted she couldn't fathom – straight, white teeth. “I'd date those teeth,” she remarked silently.
Good teeth aside, Anne was in no mood for a bunch of World of Warcraft addicts and Lord of the Ring goofs telling her what to do. It had been a long day, what with Mr. Nefler from the English department getting motions sickness, the bus breaking down in the middle of nowhere, and now two students missing, doing who knew what. Her feet hurt, her head ached, and all she wanted was to take a lavender scented bath and drink a Coke.
She leveled the center rider with her best no nonsense gaze. So persistent in maintaining character, these men clearly were not catching on to the gravity of her situation. This annoyed Anne to no end. “Okay, Frodo, who died and made you king? If you won't help us, then let me find someone who can.”
Just as she tried pushing past between the center horseman and the one she christened Lucky, a strong arm swooped her up and plopped her on top of his saddle – no small feat considering her height of five feet ten inches.
“Dare throw a rock at me again, and you'll regret it,” issued the rider to Anne's right, Mr. Blood-Trickler.
Anne's abductor -the center horseman, whom she had a feeling was the trio's leader – had a very wide back, and was easily over six feet tall, judging by the height he had on her. His unruly hair kept whipping her in the face as the wind was picking up even more ferociously than before. But, if she stretched around from behind his right shoulder, she could see enough of Clara's stance to know what her friend was poised to do.
Anne shook her head in a sharp, but hopefully subtle, movement for Clara to catch. She loved her, but the girl had a temper and took to commands about as well as a cat to water. Knowing her, Blood-Trickler's warning came off as a challenge to be met, and now was not a good time for a power-struggle. All Anne could do was hope Clara didn't have that glint in her eye.
“Let us go, you freakin' jerks, or you'll regret it!” snapped Clara.
Crap. Her eyes were glinting.
Clara's rock missed Blood Trickler's face and bounced off his shoulder. It didn't phase the man in the least, who seemed just as large and flinty as his comrades. Tossed over his saddle she went, but with far less dignity than Anne. Blood-Trickler smartly smacked her backside twice, causing her to squeak, before setting her aright firmly in front of him.
Anne's jaw dropped. That sort of thing was supposed to have been taken care of by the feminist movement. And even if these geeks – handsome, she had to admit- chose to live in a world where the term had yet to be invented, she and Clara sure as hell hadn't signed up for it. She was almost positive it was never mentioned in the touring company's reading material of Scotland.
A deep, low chuckle escaped Anne's captor's lips, and if her friend's bruised dignity didn't set her off into steely indignation, his reaction to it certainly did.
“You'll hear from our lawyers, you chauvinist pi- ”
Any further attempts at protest were overwhelmingly silenced by a fear for her life. Clutching at the tartan of her dentally perfect abductor, the horses practically flew over the hills of the Highlands, and it was all Anne could do to maintain her balance let alone give into the knot of stinging worry that stuck in her throat.
Wherever she was going, she hoped they took credit cards. A Coke and fries were going to be, she feared, her only link to sanity.