The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well. They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.

This story is mine as are characters of Dallas Delany, Sukhe Khan and various minor players - so please don't take them anywhere without letting me know. I hope you enjoy the story and if you do, I'd love to hear your comments.


A Splash of Color - Chapter 4

"It's that one ... the tan and blue one. That's our house," Dallas said from the back seat as Duncan steered the rental car around the corner.

Tall narrow houses built shortly after the 1906 quake stood shoulder to shoulder along the steep hill. Decked out in pastel finery and snooty as society matrons at a debutante ball, they cast disdainful glances at the latecomers creeping up from the bottom of the hill.

The one Dallas pointed out had a minuscule patch of yard surrounded by a white wrought iron fence. Stone steps led up to a small porch, and empty flower boxes trimmed the rail. Already the house had an air of abandonment about it.

Duncan maneuvered the car into a space that didn't leave much margin for error. Just before he switched the engine off, he remembered to angle the wheels in so the car wouldn't roll down the hill - not that it was going anywhere unless all the other cars moved as well.

"Oh look," Dallas shouted as she scrambled out of the backseat. "There's Mrs. Thompson. She's taking care of Murphy." She raced past Richie, knocking him back into the car door and treading on his foot in the process.

Richie grimaced in pain. "I think it's broken," he said, massaging the top of his sneaker-clad foot.

Duncan chuckled as he edged between his car and the next. "You'll live. And remember, you're the one who wants to keep her."

He clapped Richie on the back and pushed him toward the house where Dallas stood. She waved her arms as she talked to a plump woman with grey-flecked brown hair swirled into a bun at her nape. The woman looked up and peered over the tops of her glasses as they approached. Her eyes darkened with distrust, and Duncan hoped that the girl hadn't told her neighbor anything he couldn't explain.

Dallas glanced over her shoulder, her eyes wide and sparkling with glee. "This is Mrs. Thompson," she said. "She's baking Christmas cookies, and she said I can have some. She makes the best cookies, and sometimes she lets me lick the bowl when she's done."

Mrs. Thompson smiled as she uncrossed her arms to chuck Dallas under the chin with her bent knuckle. "I think there's a bowl in my kitchen right now with your name on it, sweetheart," she said, but the smile vanished as she narrowed her eyes to stare at Duncan. "Mr. Pendleton said he and Dallas were going away for awhile."

Duncan rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, then met her gaze. He hoped his prevarication skills were up to par, because she had to believe his explanation. "There's, ah ... been an accident," he began slowly, with a brief glance at Dallas. If she disputed anything he said, they were all in trouble. "Mr. Pendleton is dead."

The woman's eyes brimmed with tears, as she clapped a hand to her mouth. "Oh, no," she mumbled from behind it. She crouched down and wrapped her arms around Dallas. "Oh, you poor baby, first your dear mama, and now your father, too." She hugged Dallas to her for a moment, then she kissed her head and wiped away the tears that slipped down the girl's cheek. Dallas sniffled, then rubbed the back of her hand over her face as she pulled away.

Mrs. Thompson leaned on her fence for support as she stood, but the wary glare she flashed at Duncan was anything but weak. "What happened?" she asked.

A story he had read in the paper popped up in his mind. "He and Dallas were on their way to see me," he said. "He stopped to change a flat tire, and a drunk driver ran into him. He was killed instantly."

The woman touched her forehead, breast and shoulders in a rapid cross, then rolled her eyes to gaze at the sky. "He was a good man, God rest his soul," she mumbled looking at Duncan with a little more sympathy, but it vanished in a moment. She shifted her gaze to rest briefly on Richie, then she stared at Duncan, again. "And who might you be?"

Duncan smiled as he held out his hand. "Duncan MacLeod," he said. Glancing at Dallas, he willed her to play along. "I'm Dallas's uncle."

An expression he couldn't read flickered in the girl's eyes as she looked up at him, and a smile played at one corner of her mouth. She stepped closer to him, then took his other hand. "This is uncle Duncan," she said. She took Richie's hand, as well. "And my cousin, Richie."

Mrs. Thompson took Duncan's extended hand, but she held it tentatively as she swept a look of intense scrutiny over him. Her brow furrowed in a frown. "MacLeod," she said slowly. "Then you would be on her mother's side, I presume?"

"Ah, yes," Duncan replied, trying frantically to remember what Jake had said her mother's name was. Claire! "Claire was my sister."

The leather sole of Mrs. Thompson's brown oxford tapped a slow beat on the sidewalk as she crossed her arms over her ample bosom. "Funny," she said. "Claire never mentioned a brother."

Duncan laughed, and he hoped it didn't sound as nervous to his inquisitor as it did to him. "We, ah ... had a falling out when we were young," he explained. "You know how families are. We hadn't spoken in years, but we patched things up just before she died."

She pursed her lips as she studied him for a moment. Thankful that he had 400 years practice at this sort of thing, he hoped his explanation would satisfy her. Lying was always exhausting, and he didn't know how much longer he could keep it up.

"Not much of a family resemblance," Mrs. Thompson observed.

Duncan groaned inwardly as he labored to come up with an additional explanation, but Dallas came to his rescue.

"Murphy!" she shouted, distracting the stalwart Mrs. Thompson. The girl stooped to scoop up an orange tabby cat that had just snaked around the corner of the house. The cat wriggled in her arms as she buried her face in its fur.

She shifted the cat into a more secure position. "Did you miss me?" she asked. It purred loudly as it rubbed its nose against hers.

"That cat," Mrs. Thompson said, shaking her head, "has been moping around my house, meowing pathetically since they left. She wouldn't even eat the nice creamed cod I fixed for her last night. I kept telling her they would be back, but I don't think she believed me."

Duncan reached out and scratched the cat behind the ear. It craned its neck and leaned into his hand. Mrs. Thompson gave him another narrow look, but then she smiled. "If Murphy thinks you're okay, then I guess you must be family," she said. "She doesn't like strangers."

Duncan resisted letting his breath out in a sigh of relief. He decided they'd better get while the getting was good. "We have a lot of things to take care of," he said. "And perhaps we should all get in out of the cold."

Mrs. Thompson pulled her plaid wool jacket closed as she nodded agreement. "It certainly has been unusually cold, hasn't it? You never can tell about the weather." She ruffled Dallas's hair and scratched the cat's chin. "You come by when you can, sweetie. I'll save a plate of cookies for you."

"Okay," Dallas said, nodding as she attended to the cat.

Duncan quickly herded Richie, the girl, and the cat toward the other house before Mrs. Thompson could remember her suspicions.

"That was a close one," Richie said as he shut the door behind him.

Duncan shook his head as he laughed. "Yeah, I thought she was going to ask to see my birth certificate."

Dallas frowned as she set the cat down. "Mrs. Thompson is nice," she said in defense of her friend.

Murphy wove her supple body through Duncan's legs. She rubbed her head on his shins and left a trail of yellow fur on his black pants. He tried to nudge the cat away, but she seemed permanently attached to his legs.

"I'm sure she is," he replied, then he crouched down to bring himself to Dallas's level. He took her hand. "You did a great job out there. Playing along when I told her that I was your uncle."

She glanced down at their hands, but she didn't pull away. "Jake told me that we can't let mortal people know about us. He said they don't understand." Her shoulders lifted as she sighed. When she looked up, her eyes glistened with tears that threatened to spill over. She sniffled, pulled her hand from his grasp, then her face brightened as she looked over his shoulder.

"Hey, Richie," she shouted, leaving Duncan with less hearing ability in his left ear. "Want to see my room? I've got a computer too, and a new CD player." She grasped Richie's hand and towed him toward the stairs.

"Whoa ... hold up, Shortstuff," he said, throwing Duncan a glance that clearly said help me. "Mac and I have to get the stuff out of the car."

"That's all right," he said, chuckling at Richie's obvious discomfort. "I can handle it. You two go on and have fun."

Richie rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and groaned, but he followed Dallas up the stairs.

Duncan returned to the car to retrieve their bags and the large manila envelope that held most of the contents of Jake's safe deposit box. He'd expected trouble with the bank, but to his surprise Jake had listed him as a co-owner. He'd also done an excellent job of forging Duncan's signature on the card.

Unwilling to get dragged into the game session Richie and Dallas seemed to be engaged in upstairs, Duncan set the bags on the floor in the hall. If the squeals of delight that frequently cut through the silence were any indication, Dallas was winning. He set the envelope on the dining room table, then wandered around the lower floor in an attempt to learn who Jake had become over the last decade or so.

The house had been decorated with loving care in a warm country style that probably suited Claire, more than Jake. Amidst ruffled curtains and colorful braided rugs, there were small signs of neglect. Nothing serious, just little things a woman would fuss over, but most men would let slide. Thirsty plants with patches of withered leaves. Pillows that needed the lumps fluffed out. Dust caught in the corners of hand-crafted wall hangings.

He also found signs of a hurried departure. Breakfast dishes in the sink. A laundry basket with its contents strewn over the sides and onto the floor. A box of Christmas decorations in the corner - taken out of storage, but never hung.

Duncan let a strand of silver garland slip through his fingers, then he picked up a clear glass ball with a sparkling gold decoration hanging inside it. He held it up to the light and let it twirl a moment, then he set it back in the box. He didn't know why such a common place object should add another weight to his heart, but it did. He tucked the envelope filled with papers under one arm, then set off in search of Jake's liquor cabinet.

It wasn't hard to find. The one thing Jake loved right after women and fast horses was a good smooth bourbon. The oak cabinet was well-stocked, and after moving a few bottles around, Duncan found what he was looking for - a dark green bottle of unblended Scotch whiskey. It was still sealed, and probably bought in the hope that they would drink it together someday.

He poured a two-fingered measure into a glass, toasted his old friend, then sat down at a scarred roll top desk that just fit into an alcove off the kitchen. He dumped the contents of the envelope on the desk, then began to sort through it.

For most of his 800 years, Jake had been somewhat of a drifter. He lived by his wits, a little counterfeiting now and then, and a very polished talent for running a con.

"It's not like stealing, Mac," he'd protested during one of their friendly arguments on the subject. "The marks give me their money willingly."

"They give it to you because they expect something in return."

Jake just laughed at that bit of logic. "They get something in return," he'd countered, "a very valuable lesson in the perils of greed, and they learn not to trust strangers with their money."

After a few decades, Duncan gave up arguing with him. It wasn't worth losing a good friend over, and Jake made it a point of honor to swindle only those wealthy enough to afford losing his take. From the contents of the envelope, though, it looked like Jake had finally gone straight. The records indicated that he'd been buying and selling real estate. And apparently he'd been quite successful at it.

Separating the papers and documents into two piles - one that would have to be dealt with immediately, and one that could wait - Duncan worked through the lot with measured efficiency. He was about to reach for the bottle to refill his glass, but the rapid thump of small sneakers echoing on the wood floor stopped him.

He glanced up as Dallas barreled into the kitchen. She skirted the table with a deft maneuver, then stomped to a stop at his side. Her face was flushed and her bangs stuck up at odd angles from her forehead. She sucked in air using big gulps, and her shoulders lifted in rhythm with her labored breaths.

"Richie said," she gasped, pushing her hair back from her forehead with a swipe of her hand. "He said ... to ask you ... when we're gonna eat dinner?"

Duncan smiled, as he reached out to comb her bangs back into place with his fingers. She pushed the hair back and stared at him expectantly. Dinner was the farthest thing from his mind.

"Its after 6:30," Richie said, crossing his arms over his chest as he lounged against the door frame.

Duncan glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. "So it is," he said. "I didn't check to see if Jake left anything in the pantry. But I suppose we could go out to eat."

"I can tell you how to get to McDonald's," Dallas volunteered. "Or we could order pizza. The number's on the wall by the phone."

"I could go for a pizza," Richie said with a smirk.

"That's not exactly what I'd call dinner," Duncan replied.

Dallas pushed a chair over to the cabinets on the other side of the room, then climbed onto the counter. Pulling the door to one cabinet open, she reached in. She broke into a triumphant smile as she retrieved a can with a bright yellow label. "We can have Spaghettios!"

Duncan rubbed his hand over his forehead in an attempt to erase the pressure building there. He had no idea what Spaghettios were, but he didn't even want to imagine what culinary delights might be found in that yellow-labeled can. A shudder shifted his shoulders, as he shifted his thoughts to a nice little seafood restaurant he remembered from a previous visit to the city. But judging by the expectant expressions both Dallas and Richie wore, he didn't think he could interest them in his dining choices either - and he was clearly out-numbered.

The trilling chime of the doorbell sent all thoughts of eating to the farthest corner of his mind. They certainly weren't expecting company. He met Richie's concerned look, but he didn't sense the presence of another Immortal. Just the same, he nodded at Richie's gestured suggestion that they needed their swords. While Richie left to get them, Duncan followed Dallas's gaze and went to answer the back door.

He flipped the light switch, and peered out before opening it. To his great relief, the face on the other side of the glass, was no sword-wielding Immortal - it was just Mrs. Thompson. He turned the lock, then opened the door.

"Mrs. Thompson," he said, stepping back. Though he dreaded another round of questioning, he invited her in.

"Oh, no, I couldn't," she said with a broad smile. "I just came to bring you this."

Between hands protected by crocheted pot holders, she held a large white ceramic dish covered with aluminum foil. Two other foil-wrapped dishes sat on top of it, and plate of Christmas cookies swathed in red plastic wrap crowned the pile.

"I made pot roast for dinner tonight, and under the circumstances, I thought you could use a hot meal," she said, extending her hands to give Duncan her offering.

"Thank you," he said, smiling as he took the dishes from her, "but you shouldn't have." Clearly he had no choice. Mrs. Thompson's determined look told him she wouldn't take no for an answer.

"You know," she said. "There's just Frank and me, now ... my boys have been out on their own for nearly 20 years, but I still can't get the hang of cooking for two. There were plenty of leftovers."

She lifted one eyebrow and cast a knowing look over him as she shook her finger. "I know how you men are ... you forget a growing child needs regular meals. Mr. Pendleton was always busy with some project or another, and Dallas ate many a meal at my table." She tipped her head to look past him. "I didn't forget your cookies, dear," she said to Dallas, who moved up to join him.

Mrs. Thompson backed away from the door with one last piece of advice. "There are carrots and noodles in the other dishes. Just put them in the oven for a few minutes to heat it all up." She turned and waved. "Close that door you're letting all the heat out."

Duncan nudged the door shut with his foot, and turned to see Richie standing at the entrance to the kitchen with a sword in his hand. He wondered what Mrs. Thompson's reaction to that might have been, as he held up the dishes. "Mrs. Thompson to the rescue. Looks like dinner is served."