LIBERTY
Houston’s Intercontinental Airport was just as large as Methos had expected. He had had his fill of huge airports so one was no different from the other. Perhaps this one was more efficient than some others because his Range Rover awaited him outside. For that he was thankful. It felt so good to be behind the wheel once again, no more taxis.
The map was spread out over the passenger seat, and he pinpointed a stretch of road he figured might prove fruitful. There were many smaller towns in between, but some of these places might just be where MacLeod had since called home.
"Just let the wind take you," he whispered. Folding up the map, he stuffed it into the glove compartment. The road would lead him, he decided.
Weaving out of the parking lot, he found a freeway, much too busy for his blood for he did not feel up to fighting the traffic. Instead, he opted for the access road and tolerated the lights at every intersection. This was taking him nowhere. Making a turn with no clue to which direction the road would lead, Methos allowed his instinct to guide him.
He found himself on an interstate, heading towards the city of Huntsville. Slightly farther east than he had first planned, his gut lead him. On he drove, his thoughts the only sound inside the vehicle. After some time, he tried the radio but found no stations to his liking. The music was either hard alternative rock or silky, smooth tinkling orchestra. His mood could accept neither.
Not that the silence might aid him in his search, but somehow he felt that no sound could prepare him for coming within range of who he hoped would be MacLeod. Ludicrous, he thought, but most things he considered these days were. Why stop thinking that way now?
An hour passed and signs on the road indicated he was nearing the city of Huntsville. Nothing, he felt nothing, no feeling except memories that the place conjured. He pressed on down the interstate. A few sights were taken in, ones he had never seen given the city had changed considerably since he had last resided there.
On the outskirts of the city, the university was marked by the powerful and proud white statue of Sam Houston. His golden eyes, glued to the illuminated monument, enticed his memories to fill the silence.
He was greeted at the door by the same servant who had paid him an earlier visit. "Yes, Doctor Adams, right this way."
Ushered down a hallway and to the master bedroom, Methos took in the certificates framed on the wall. He had heard many stories about this man, the one time president of the Republic of Texas. Finding himself eager to meet the prestigious fellow, he entered the large and lavishly furnished room. The grandest four poster bed he had ever seen stood in the center of the brightly lit room and upon it was Mr. Sam Houston. Beside him in a wing-backed chair sat a woman who could only be his wife.
"Oh, Doctor Adams, I am so pleased to see you," she cooed and hurried over to greet him. "My husband took a notion to forego the use of his walking stick and plummetted almost to his death."
"Hush woman!" barked the tempermental grayed man from the bed. "That is nonsense, and you know it is such. I've only been bruised, and I tell you that is all."
The temper was never a rumor. It was a fact. Methos had heard the tale of the time he had beat a Congressman with his can all because he had been accused of fraud.
"Nevertheless, allow me to inspect," Methos supplied, knowing that his accent would spur questions.
"Which part of the country might you be from?" Houston asked as the doctor approached.
Methos neglected the question for the moment. "Which leg?"
Houston raised his robe to reveal a blue and purple marking on his right calf. Methos did his routine inspection for breaks but found none. "Well, Mrs. Houston, it appears your husband is right. It is only a bruise." Rummaging through his bag, he found what he was looking for and withdrew a tiny bottle. "A little sip of this now, and then one each morning should ease the pain."
Making sure the elder took the medicine, Methos lingered a moment longer. "From the east, I am from overseas."
"Ah, how delightful!" Mrs. Houston praised. "How exciting it must be for you to be in the new land!"
"Yes indeed," Mr. Houston commented, agreeing with his wife. "You must pay me a visit and have a chat."
Methos nodded, not at all reluctant with agreeing to the offer. Sam Houston appeared to be a man who could be admired. With his political ties, his friendship should not be one to pass. "Be sure to send for me if you need anything at all."
Politics was normally the topic of conversation. Houston had convinced the good doctor to travel to Nacogdoches with him and his family. The day he revealed he was going to run for governor again, Methos was surprised at the proposition he was given.
Pausing in mid-stride, Methos glanced around the park in which they were stolling through before turning his attention back to the man whose outside appearance shouted he was much older than the immortal. "You want me to be an advisor?"
Houston cleared his throat to explain. "I've come to value your friendship, and you have good views, most of which are mutual to mine. And you are a doctor. When I win, I would like you to move into the Governor's Mansion with my family and I. There, you could tend to our needs as well as any other in the city, but most important, you will be close at hand for our talks. What say you?"
For once in his life, he was rendered speechless. Many times during the millenia he had lived, he had come close to royal leaders, had been their advisors. Never had he had the chance to perform medical miracles in that position. It was almost as if he'd be hightened to the pennacle of his career. How could he refuse? "I'd be honored."
And so, Houston won the governorship of Texas in December of 1859, and Methos moved into the Governor's Mansion with his family in Austin. It was the first time he had been to the city, and was fascinated by its many inhabitants. One slight problem arose, and it was one that was not easily solved.
Nancy Elizabeth, the oldest of the female Houston children, pranced around Methos whenever he entered the room in which she occupied. With her light curls and frilly dresses, the twelve-year-old flirted excessively with the good doctor. At first, Methos had not minded, but the girl was taking it too far when she begged for a kiss.
"Now Nancy, you know I'm too old for you. There's some young man out there just waiting for your attentions to fall upon him," he had told her on more than one occasion, but that did not falter her flirtations.
Mrs. Houston noticed her daughter's bold behavior and scolded her. When Methos witnessed the downhearted expression, he was almost sorry he was too old for her attentions. In due time, he thought, she will grow to be a beautiful young woman, but she would question why he had not aged. No, better to stay away from the young flirt.
It was not an easy task, but he managed to avoid the girl, keeping himself busy with the affairs of the state with Houston and tending to his patients. In May of 1860, Houston lost the nomination of the Union Party for President of the United States. Methos had agreed that such a position would be most difficult to achieve, but for the meantime, the state of Texas was in great need of his abilities.
Methos' own abilities were put to the test in August of that year when Mrs. Houston gave birth to the couple's eighth and final child, a boy named Temple Lea. Houston was very grateful to the good doctor for protecting his wife during childbirth, although Methos had explained to him that the protection came from someone of higher status than he.
Houston had taken him aside and began to tell him the tale of his childhood and second wife. Methos had heard the stories of the Governor's previous marriages, but never had he heard the true story.
"When I was a boy of thirteen," Houston began, "my father died unexpectantly. Mother took me and the others to Tennessee to a farm. I grew to hate the farm work, so I ran away, not thinking on my mother's feelings. I suspect that's where I first went wrong. Until Margaret, I've had no luck as you would call it with women.
"I stayed with the Cherokee people when I ran away, and I loved them as if they were my own family. They taught me how important it was to love family, so I went back home and made my peace and returned to the Cherokees. The chief, Oolooteka adopted me and gave me my own Indian name, The Raven.
"Nearly twenty years later, after my politicing began, I became ill. Oolooteka saved my life, so I became an Indian citizen and married Tiana Rogers. I was estranged from Eliza my first wife, but soon Tiana and I grew apart because I left when Mother became sick."
The Governor furrowed his thick eyebrows during the tale. At six feet and two inches, the prominent man stood just over his companion, but his dress was much more impeccable; the white suit with high collar complete with red bowtie. His receeding hairline and sideburns reaching down to his chin gave him the Governor look. Methos much admired this man, and much joy was known that the man entrusted him to reveal his past.
And then the fog cleared. Houston had been dubbed The Raven by the Cherokees. Not that it neccessarily had anything to do with the problem at hand, but had Joe not answered the Amanda mystery? She was going by Raven now. How ironic could that be?
Looking out the window, he tried to figure out where he was. A leaving Madisonville city limits sign came into view. Methos had no idea where he was, but he continued on, sensing that fate, if it did exist, would reveal MacLeod.
He passed through several small towns, each seeming to be smaller than the next. Never had he seen so many trees. Now he knew why East Texas was known as the Piney Woods. As he was the only vehicle on the highway from both ways, he slowed to thirty miles an hour. This gave him the chance to inspect his surroundings.
So green was the countryside, the temptation to pull over and roam the pastures overwhelmed him. Approaching a bridge, he decided that once across, he would pull over. What he came upon must have been the longest bridge not over water he had ever driven over. The Trinity River flowed beneath the first part of the bridge, but he must have traveled another hundred feet or more before he actually touched ground again. He pulled the Range Rover over in the grass on the side of the highway.
Stepping out, he locked the door and headed across the highway. On either side, a large farm sat on at least a thousand acres. Crops of some type were planted and the rows of the plant seem to go on for eternity, something Methos was becoming experienced in. He set to the outside of the "garden" and traveled toward the woods in the far off distance.
After walking for about ten minutes, he felt it. The fear did not settle in on him like it usually did whenever he felt another nearby. He knew it was Mac from the connection they somehow shared since the Horsemen incident. MacLeod had finally been found.
Gazing ahead across the neverending crops, he noticed a group of people. In the early morning hours, they had begun their work early no doubt to attemp to get it done before the blazing heat of the day exhausted them. And there he was, the tall dark head among the group, the one darting left and right trying to locate the source of the buzz he was receiving.
Methos lifted his fingers to his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. This alerted the entire group, and with the rest, Duncan turned. Even from the distance that separated them, Methos could see MacLeod's shoulders relaxing. The Highlander came trotting toward him.
"What brings you here?" he questioned in his thick voice once within earshot.
Methos waved his hand, "Well, you know how I love the heat and wide open spaces."
Duncan did not smile. If there was one thing that being away all this time did not make him miss, that was Methos' unnerving humor. "No, what really brings you here?"
"You," was his simple answer. "I know you didn't want to neccessarily be found, but we've got a crisis."
"Did Dawson send you?" He was neither alarmed nor did he seem the least bit curious. It was more like he was annoyed.
"No, I came on my own, although Joe did help me to find you. You know, you're not an easy one to find once we lose track."
"That's the way it's suppose to be." Duncan's thick burr was more intense than usual.
"Well, I think this will encourage you to come with me," Methos spelled it out. "It's The Raven."
Neck thrust out in confusion, Duncan moved closer. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Amanda," Methos explained, "Walter Ambrosi has kidnapped her."
It took a moment for the identity of Ambrosi to dawn on MacLeod. "Ambrosi! I thought he was in prison! And what is he doing with Amanda?"
"That is what I'd like to know, but I figure it's got something to do with the Federal Reserve. All I know for sure is that I got this note." Methos fished the crumpled paper out of his pocket and handed it to his friend.
After studying the note for a moment, MacLeod nodded. "That your vehicle?" he asked indicating the Range Rover on the side of the highway.
"Yes sir," Methos responded a little too cheerfully. He knew that he was about to bring MacLeod back.
Duncan started back toward the group of men he had been working with. "Get it warmed up, I'll be there in a minute," he called over his shoulder, and Methos hurried to fulfill the command.
