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Overview
Imogen was eight-years-old when her brother disappeared. Her family was exploring the Sawtooth Range of Idaho, along with her best friend, a boy named Connla. Compelled by a fearful premonition, Imogen led authorities to her brother’s body, trapped and lifeless in the rushing river currents. Then Imogen and Connla parted ways, and never spoke of it again.
Nearly thirty years later, Imogen has retreated to the mountains of Kintail in the Scottish Highlands where she finds peace as an artist painting the surrounding vistas. Living in a secluded cabin in South Dakota, Connla captures its untamed wilderness on film as a nature photographer. Then sightings of a rare big cat set him on a trail that will bring him and Imogen together. Still bound by the haunting memories of that tragic morning, and pulled into the mystery of yet another vision, Imogen and Connla must finally come to terms with the truth.
Jeff Gulvin’s novel of redemptive love and the beauties and mysteries of nature is ideal for fans of Nicholas Evans. “Strong on romance . . . [Gulvin’s] passionate interest in animals and his charismatic lovers make for compulsive reading” (Scotland on Sunday).
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781480418394 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 05/14/2013 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 413 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Jeff Gulvin is the author of nine novels and is currently producing a new series set in the American West. His previous titles include three books starring maverick detective Aden Vanner and another three featuring FBI agent Harrison, as well as two novels originally published under the pseudonym Adam Armstrong, his great-grandfather’s name. He received acclaim for ghostwriting Long Way Down, the prize-winning account of a motorcycle trip from Scotland to the southern tip of Africa by Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman. The breadth of Gulvin’s fiction is vast, and his style has been described as commercial with just the right amount of literary polish. His stories range from hard-boiled crime to big-picture thriller to sweeping romance. Half English and half Scottish, Gulvin has always held a deep affection for the United States. He and his wife spend as much time in America as possible, particularly southern Idaho, their starting point for road-trip research missions to Nevada, Texas, or Louisiana, depending on where the next story takes them.
Read an Excerpt
Cry of the Panther
A Novel
By Jeff Gulvin
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 2000 Jeff GulvinAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4804-1839-4
CHAPTER 1
1998
Imogen was woken at five o'clock by the sound of the cockerel crowing. That was when the sun, cresting the mountain, flooded the hen house. She had built it herself, and although it was serviceable and dry, it would hardly constitute a threat to either of the local carpenters. She yawned and stretched, then remembered what she'd planned to do later and a murmur of anticipation beckoned. She sat up, dragging crooked fingers through the tangles of her hair and stared at the shadows cast across the surface of the loch. There were two windows in the bedroom, one in either pitch of the roof, and neither of them had curtains. She hadn't bothered with them as one window faced the height of Sgurr an Airgid and the other Loch Gael, and anyway, her nearest neighbours lived fifty yards up the road.
She stood naked for a moment, considering the light. Her small easel was already erected just to the left of the window, which overlooked the loch. The window sill was wide and deep and cluttered with bits of crystal, dominated by two halves of amethyst expertly sliced through the middle. The easel had been there a week now. Every morning the light was different, and she had to try to catch as much of it as she could before the sun got too high. She was working in oils and she squeezed fresh colour onto the palette. The sun was just high enough, casting the waters of the loch black in the foreground. This was what she needed, what she'd hoped for. Good old Charlie Abbott, waking her up like that. The hens had been a nightmare until she had driven over to Skye to buy him. They had nested just about where they pleased and she'd found eggs in the most unlikely of places. Now he shepherded and cajoled them around the yard and they laid their eggs in the nesting boxes.
She sat on the stool by the easel, still naked, the warmth of the sun from the south-facing window across her back. The light was perfect, and taking a number-twelve brush, she mixed colour and worked on the water in the foreground. Paint smeared the brush stem, blue and black on her fingers. She wiped them on her naked thighs. Brush strokes are the voice of the painter. Words from the past—her tutor at college, bending to study the composition she was attempting to breathe some life into. Edinburgh, when she was eighteen. She paused, mid-stroke. Nineteen years ago now, and it felt like only yesterday. Mr Montgomerie—an old man with bony, high-knuckled hands, resting against his thighs to steady himself. Your style is your style, Imogen. Don't change it just because you change your subject matter. Your style says who you are.
She sat back, resting a forearm across her raised leg. A boat moved on the mirror-like surface of Loch Gael, Morrisey crossing from one side to the other. He had a smallholding, rented from the estate, on the northern shore. He kept his tractor parked in a lean-to and rowed across the loch from his cottage every morning and every night. It saved him driving round the edge. She watched him pulling on the oars, no more than a speck in the prow. She didn't want him in the picture and, as she waited for him to pass, the light altered and she laid down her brush. She laughed and stood up again; this was going to be a long-term composition, no doubt about that.
She showered, brushed her hair into a single long plait and flicked it over her shoulder, still wet. If it dried that way then it was manageable for longer. Downstairs she put the kettle on, then stepped into the warmth of the morning and looked up at the sky. It was deep blue, like the sea is blue from an aircraft, with no cloud over the mountains. Shading her eyes she looked the length of the valley: nothing on the horizon to suggest anything other than a perfect day.
Charlie Abbott squawked as she unfastened the latch on the hen house. There were very few foxes round here, most of them had been shot or poisoned by the gamekeepers, but that meant that rabbits overran the place. The only thing that had troubled her chickens was the odd feral cat, and they were few and far between. Six hens and Charlie Abbott, she scattered corn and they squeezed out of the narrow doorway into the yard. It wasn't very big—not enough land on which to keep her horse—but it was big enough for the chickens to scrabble about in the dirt.
Back indoors, she ate breakfast and looked at the clock. Seven already. She had time to go up and check on her horse, but there was a lot of preparation to do at school this morning, especially if she wanted to get away sharp this afternoon. The horse would be all right: she had free access in and out of the stable at this time of year, so it wasn't as if Imogen needed to let her out. With half a slice of toast in her mouth and a cup of coffee balanced between her thighs, she drove up the bumpy road and round the south shore of the loch.
Loch Gael was shallow and flat, which was why the sunlight caused such a special effect early in the morning, and it was tiny compared to Duich or Alsh, which ultimately it ran into. Imogen had a seven-mile drive to the main road, single track, only laid with tarmac the previous year. That made a hell of a difference to how much coffee she spilled. The road wound past her neighbours' houses till she crossed the river for the first time; it was more of a tributary really, eventually linking Loch Gael to the sea between Skye, Scalpay and Raasay. She would probably have lived nearer the castle or school given the choice, but the house had been in Gaelloch. When her great aunt had finally passed away, with her parents content to remain in Edinburgh and Ewan long dead, it had come to her.
Ewan. She thought of him suddenly as she worked the heavy Land-Rover over the wooden bridge and across the cattle grid. She hadn't thought of Ewan consciously in a long time. It was nearly thirty years since he'd died, yet the images of that day could be as vivid as if it were only yesterday. Sometimes his face would lift from where she housed it deep in the layers of memory. It was never as she remembered him alive, but always as in death, his skin white, eyes open and all of it underwater. She shivered and drove on, the Land-Rover bumpy and uncomfortable where a spring was sticking up through the vinyl seat. It was old and battered, but rarely let her down, and it pulled the horsebox over rough ground, which was absolutely vital.
Curving round Loch Long, she could see across Alsh to Glas Eilean, a flat, grassy island on the eastern side of the point. Skye almost linked with the mainland beyond it, where the narrow strait of Kyle Rhea took you out past the Sandaig Islands, southwest to Eigg and Rum. One time she had taken a boat to Rum to paint when the rutting season had begun. Apart from Redynvre, she had never seen red deer stags the like of which rutted on Rum. The school she taught at was in Balmacara, halfway to the Kyle of Lochalsh. Once upon a time there would have been a school in every village, but the Thatcher years put paid to all that. Now the buses ferried primary-school-aged children in from miles around.
Colin Patterson's green Volvo was parked in his usual spot as she pulled off the main road into the car park. He was always there first, partly because he was the head teacher and liked to show willing, but partly because Imogen generally arrived before the other two teachers. She sat for a moment with the engine off and drank the dregs of her coffee, aware of the traffic coming east from the Skye Bridge. At £4.60 a throw, it was no wonder half the islanders still didn't want to pay. She used to paint a lot on Skye, but it wasn't the same since the bridge had been built; at least with the ferry running they could limit the number of visitors.
She could see Patterson through the window of his classroom—tweed jacket, baggy at the pockets, with those leathery buttons and a strip of leather at the top of the breast pocket. He was from Glasgow and had moved north with his family at around the same time as Imogen, half a dozen years ago. The word was that he had been deputy head at an inner-city primary school and hadn't quite been able to hack it. Still, that was nothing to scoff at, she had done much the same in Edinburgh, although perhaps she had left for very different reasons. Teaching, she would never have thought about teaching, not in the heady days of her late teens, when landscape and canvas were everything. Her art was why she hadn't gone to London with her fiancé after college. Well, that was what she'd told herself at least.
Patterson suddenly looked up, saw her sitting in the Land-Rover and waved to her, a broad smile on his face. Imogen glanced at her watch—still early; she was reluctant to go in on her own, but it would be a good twenty minutes before Jean Law arrived. She had her boys to see onto the bus and her husband's lunch to make. Why Malcolm couldn't butter his own sandwiches was beyond her. She sighed, stuffed the coffee mug under the windscreen and shoved open the Land-Rover door. It was stiff and creaked, and she daren't open the split window, even in summer, because she knew she'd never get it closed again. The door shut with an effort, and she noticed the rust chewing ever more urgently at the bottom of the panel. The Land-Rover was pre-suffix, so what could she expect. She had bought it from John MacGregor, the factor, when the Arabs bought out one of the McCrae estates. Mercifully, there were still some McCraes left and the castle hadn't been sold. MacGregor was another one to watch, but not in the same way she had to watch Patterson. MacGregor was far more obvious, and he had been kind enough to her, making sure the Land-Rover was serviced and roadworthy. He had also been instrumental in getting that hill land for Keira, her highland pony. He wasn't married, at least, but he was fifty years old.
Patterson came out of his classroom, all smiles as usual. 'Morning, Imogen.'
'Good morning.' She managed a smile.
'You're early.'
'Aye. There's stuff I need to get ready.'
He seemed to block her path, hovering before her like an expectant fly. Her classroom was adjacent to the one he had just come out of, and his position in the corridor stopped her getting to it without physically brushing against him. This was what made her hesitate, and what he wanted, notwithstanding the fact that his three young daughters attended the school and his wife ran the village post office.
'How are you?' He smiled again, showing all his teeth.
'I'm just fine. I'm very busy, though, Colin.' She moved to get past him.
'Anything I can help you with?'
'No. No.' She didn't look back, but stepped into the classroom and closed the door. It was obvious, closing the door like that with the day warm and everything, but what else could she do. He opened it.
She knew he would. She hadn't even hung up her coat.
She looked round and he stood there, hand on the door knob, leaning in the space with one foot crossed over the other, baggy corduroy trousers over brown Oxford brogues.
'There's a staff meeting this afternoon, remember.'
'Yes, I hadn't forgotten.' She had forgotten, and it put paid to her plan to dash straight up the hill as soon as the bell rang. Her spirits fell. The ride to Tana Coire and back would have taken up most of the remaining daylight as it was. 'Have we much to discuss?'
Again he smiled. 'A few things, aye. End-of-term stuff, you know.'
She nodded, one hand fisted on her hip. 'Well, Colin. I'd best get on. No point in coming in early if I don't make the most of the time.'
'No.' He smiled. 'You should make the most of the time.'
He made her flesh creep with the obviousness of his arrogance. Some arrogance could be forgiven—when there was good reason for it, when the arrogant one had something genuine to be supercilious about. It was unnecessary but forgivable. Peter, her ex-fiancé, had had that kind of arrogance, a sort of smugness, based on his ability to make computers obey him absolutely, back when nobody else could. That was probably what finally broke them up, or maybe it was just another reason Imogen gave herself. That and London, of course. Peter had been English, studying at Edinburgh University. He played golf on Saturday mornings. Looking back, they had nothing in common.
Patterson left her alone then and she got on with preparing her day, aware that there were only two weeks left of the summer term and then each day would be hers until September. The mountains beckoned as always, but with the knowledge of what she thought she had discovered the pull was stronger than ever. Her parents would come up sometime in August for a week, as they liked to every year. They would let her be, however, having learned that particular art form years ago. She just had to work through these final couple of weeks and then the time would be hers.
The day dragged by and the children were particularly demanding. At lunch she had to watch them in the playground, along with Jean Law. Jean was west coast born and bred, older than Imogen at forty-five and heavy with red hair and freckles. Her eyes were pale blue and carried the expression of having seen a little too much of everything. They chatted about the up-coming vacation.
'I've got my kids at home, of course,' Jean said. 'Which'll put paid to any romantic notion of running off to the Riviera with some Italian lover.'
Imogen laughed. 'Is that what you'd do, Jeanie, if you had the chance?'
'Of course I would. Sun, sea, sangria. Lots of suntan lotion and some bronzed god to rub it on me.'
'You don't get sangria in Italy, Jean.'
'Chianti then. Darling, I'd settle for Lambrusco.' Jean watched the football some boys were kicking fly over the school gates and land in the soft grass by the loch. She nodded as the kicker looked her way imploringly then raced off after it. 'What will you do?' she asked.
Imogen thought about it and smiled. 'Oh, I'll take my horse and ride and paint and listen to the silence.'
'Solitude?' Jean squinted at her. 'I'm jealous of you, lassie. But I'm not sure it's all that good for you.'
'You think I spend too much time on my own?'
'I didn't say that.'
'What're my options, Jeanie? MacGregor, or an affair with Colin Patterson.' She shook her head. 'It might be just me, but I've not noticed the plethora of quality males in Galleoch.'
'There's always Andy McKewan.'
'Oh, yes, I forgot about Andy.' Imogen rolled her eyes to the ceiling. 'Now there's a man with conversation to enthral you.'
Imogen taught arithmetic in the afternoon, and then at a quarter to three she settled the children down for their story. Thirteen six-year-olds, all cross-legged on the cushions in the storytelling corner she had designed with some of her own paintings. She never used a book, but sat cross-legged herself and told them mythical tales of the Celts which she had picked up over the years. They loved the fact she didn't read them, but told them in the old way, from memory, with a conspiratorial edge to her voice. Jean asked her where she acquired the skill, and Imogen had to admit to too many nights in obscure highland pubs where the art of storytelling was still to be found.
'Miss Munro?' Connie McKercher, the daughter of a forester, put her hand up. 'Can we have the story of Olwen?'
'Not again, Connie. I only told you that on Monday.'
Colour brushed Connie's cheeks and she sat with her hands under her thighs and her head bowed for a moment. Imogen smiled at her. 'I'll tell you the story of Hudden and Dudden, two Irish scallywags, and the neighbour they tried to get rid of.' She glanced up and saw Patterson through the glass partition in the door. He smiled at her. She ignored him and looked into the children's expectant faces. Two of the boys were talking and, raising a finger to her lips, she silenced them.
'There once were two farmers called Hudden and Dudden,' she began. 'They had chickens in their yard, cattle in the meadows and dozens of sheep grazing on the hillside. In fact, they had everything a man could wish for, but still they were never happy. Now so it was that right in between them lived a very poor man indeed, so poor that he had but a hovel shack to live in, a tiny patch of grass and one bony old cow called Daisy. His name was Donald O'Neary.' The children listened, an innocence in their faces that delighted her. She told them how Hudden and Dudden plotted against Donald O'Neary and killed his only cow. But Donald was smarter than they were and took his quiet revenge by making them think his old tanned cow hides could produce gold coins by magic, knowing full well that they would steal the hides and make off. It all ended with their drowning in the Brown Lake. As she was finishing, Patterson opened the classroom door and listened. Imogen did her best to ignore him, but his shadow fell across the floor and she couldn't help but focus on it. She finished the story and looked up.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Cry of the Panther by Jeff Gulvin. Copyright © 2000 Jeff Gulvin. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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