(This story was begun two weeks ago, and 25 readers commented so far, to help decide where the story should go. You can read it the first installment here and the second here.)

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…

Allison took at step back and looked around the doors. Yes, there was an intercom button. She reached out a hand to press it, then paused and looked at the open door again.

She hesitated, then caught herself. No, she couldn’t go snooping around. The last thing she wanted was to receive no help at all because she was too busy trying to escape trespassing charges.

She pressed the button and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Wasn’t someone going to come? It seemed odd to pay for a security system, only to leave your gates open and your intercom off.

But since that’s what someone had apparently done, she didn’t have much of a choice anymore, did she?

Again, she slipped inside, but she paused. Should she go knock on that big set of doors? She thought for a moment, then decided. There was no point in doing that. If someone was inside, they would have heard the intercom button.

She turned and set off across the courtyard. She may as well investigate the sounds coming from behind those buildings, one of which now appeared to be stables–which she would avoid. She didn’t much care for horse smells.

Besides, those strange noises were right around back. Perhaps someone was trying to hammer out a dent in machinery of some sort. Or maybe metal stakes were being driven into–

“What are you doing here?”

She whirled around to find a boy standing there. He couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen, she guessed. Yet he stood there, boots planted in the dirt, arms crossed over his chest, and frowning like he’d spent years practicing how to demand information from trespassers.

“Uh…” she heard herself say.

One of his eyebrows disappeared under his heavy dark hair, as though he was extremely unimpressed with her answer.

She bit back a grin. This boy was going to be ridiculously handsome in another ten years, with his serious dark eyes and muscular arms. But she really didn’t need to be thinking about the future appeal a muddy boy who was probably about to turn her over to his father. After all, his father was probably who she wanted to see.

She changed her smile to one of friendliness and offered it freely. “I’m looking for your father.”

His eyes narrowed and he studied her for another moment. “Wait here,” he said. And he disappeared around the corner of the stable.

“Dad!” she heard him call.

The clanging stopped, and she started around the corner after him. His father was evidently the one making all the noise, and there was no point in delaying her interview with him.

She continued around a rather large bush, then stopped short.

Four men stood there.? Four men who were older–and taller–copies of the boy.

All four had dark hair of varying lengths, all four had jeans and work boots liberally smeared with mud, and all four were somewhere over six feet tall. The family resemblance was obvious. Unfortunately, all four were also studying her with varied degrees of disapproval in their dark eyes.

And all four were holding swords.

Big swords.

Make that huge swords. Swords that were as tall as she was, if not taller.

The man in the black t-shirt shifted, and she took a moment to notice that he looked a little older than the other three.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

She gulped. “Allison Tyler.” Then she raised her chin. She had pressed the intercom. It wasn’t her fault no one had answered.

The boy spoke up. “She said she wants to see you, Dad.”

Mr. Black Shirt glanced briefly at the boy, and one eyebrow went up just like his son’s had a few moments ago.

And yes, she’d been right about the boy’s looks in ten or twenty years.

She turned her thoughts toward her mission. “Mrs. Murchieson said I should see the laird,” she explained.

Mr. Black Shirt turned to the one next to him, who was wearing a grey shirt, and the two of them exchanged a look.

“Why did she say that?” Mr. Grey Shirt asked with a Scottish accent that Mr. Black Shirt didn’t have. Come to think of it, his son sounded American, too, interestingly enough.

“Well?”

Oh yeah, he’d asked her why Mrs. Murchieson sent her. “She said you–uh… he–might know something.”

“About?”

“I’m trying to find someone who went missing.”

Four pairs of eyes watched her silently. No, five, for the boy was studying her again.

Mr. Black Shirt broke the silence this time.

“When did he disappear?”

“Six years ago.”

Five pairs of eyebrows rose.

Allison sighed. She was starting to feel like she was having a conversation with their eyebrows.

She tucked her hair behind her ear to get it out of her face and squared her shoulders. “Look,” she said. “I don’t know who you all are, or how you could possibly help me. But Mrs. Murchieson said I should talk to the laird.

“I came here; I pressed the intercom button, and no one answered, even though the noise made it obvious that someone was here. So? which one of you is the laird?”

Mr. Grey Shirt stepped forward. “That would be my father, and he’s not here today. If you’re staying at Mrs. Murchieson’s inn, I’ll tell him you came and ask him to stop by and see you tomorrow.”

Allison’s shoulders slumped. “Can’t one of you help me? I’ve only got five more days before I have to go home, and I really want to find out what happened to Gabe, if it’s at all possible.” Not to mention, it was starting to rain. She’d made it a rule to limit her driving on the wrong side of the road to dry moments.

The youngest of the four moved. “Come on, Iain. It wouldn’t hurt to let her tell you what happened, would it?” His accent was Scottish, too.

Mr. Grey shirt, whose name was evidently Iain, leveled a glare at the younger man.

The fourth stepped between them. “Quit it, Tristan. If Iain says to wait for Dad, then that’s exactly what she’ll do.”

“But–”

“Tristan!” Mr. Black Shirt snapped.

Tristan scowled and stalked away with his sword propped up on one shoulder.

Mr. Black Shirt turned. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but Iain is right. You’ll have to wait for his father. I’ll walk you to your car.”

Allison sighed. She supposed she had no choice. And there was still the library. That would be a decent place to spend a rainy afternoon.

Mr. Black Shirt, who was quickly becoming Mr. Wet Black Shirt, tossed his sword to Iain, who caught in as though it wasn’t much more than a twig. Then he started toward the gates.

Allison turned up her coat collar and hurried in an attempt to keep up with his long strides.

“Which way did you park?” he asked as they stepped beyond the gates.

She gestured around the corner, and two seconds later, she was standing beside her little rental car, digging in her purse for keys.

Keys that weren’t there.

She glanced in the car, and sure enough, there they were in the ignition.

“What’s the matter?” the man beside her asked.

She pointed. “I locked my keys in the car.”

…

Jump to Installment #4!

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This week’s question: What would you like to see Mr. Black Shirt (or Iain, or Tristan, or the fourth man) do? I’m also curious to know if you got confused between them. It’s difficult to introduce four characters at once and not leave your readers scratching their heads in bewilderment.

Leave a comment and tell me, and subscribe so you don’t miss an installment! (I’ll just send you a quick notice when a new post is online.)