“You are not endearing yourself to me, Ozzie. Don’t you want water and something to eat besides flowers?” The woman had her hands on her hips and spoke like she was berating a small child. Unless American-born blackface sheep were smarter than Scottish ones, the beastie would be unmoved by her words.
Sure enough, the blackfaced sheep merely turned to a fresh pot and beheaded more flowers.
The woman’s voice grew more strident. “If you don’t quit eating flowers and move your heinie toward the barn, I’m going to give you a real embarrassing haircut. Everyone is going to laugh at you.”
Amusement bubbled up and built a pressure in his chest. Ach, he felt lighter than he had in ages, as if his sleep had been enchanted.
“Bo-Peep, I presume? Or did you spring from a Rabbie Burns poem?” He cleared his throat and recited:
“Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.”
The woman whipped her head back and forth, then spun in a circle. The airy fabric of her skirts swished like a kaleidoscope. She wore a tight black leotard with a deep scoop along her back. Her reaction triggered laughter he did his best to smother. He suspected she wasn’t in a place to appreciate the farcical nature of the scene.
Finally, she tilted her head back and homed in on him like a falcon. “You!” She imbued the word with recrimination and accusation.
“Me? What have I done?” He leaned farther out of the window, the wood scraping along his bare stomach. He’d fallen into bed wearing nothing but his underpants the night before.
The sheep circled around the woman as if resentful her attention had shifted to another animal and bumped her in the bum. The woman yelped and high-stepped a few paces closer to his window and away from the sheep.
He was having a hard time controlling his laughter. “Ahem … do you need a hand?”
“Does it look like I need a hand?”
His sarcasm meter registered atomic. How to answer? With politeness or the truth? Because the lass obviously needed help, yet her ire was at combustible levels.
While he dithered, she precluded his response with an eye roll and a toss of her head. “Yes! I need a dadgum hand. Get down here.”
“Aye, then, I’ll be down in a tick.” He pulled clothes out of his rucksack and put on the first thing at hand, an olive-green utility kilt and a black T-shirt. With no socks materializing in the mound he drew out, he decided to forgo his boots, which he’d left at the front door last night.
He wound his way through the unfamiliar home, unlocked the set of doors that faced the flowering field, and stepped outside. Amazingly, the air-con had blunted the effects of the heat when he’d been at the window, and he felt the brunt of it now. The atmosphere was thick and humid and starkly opposite the chilly morning air at Cairndow he’d breathed in the day before.
“You’re Iain Connors, I suppose?” The woman was both smaller (in stature) and bigger (in personality) than he’d expected.
“Aye, and you are Anna Maitland.” No reason to frame it as a question. Isabel had sketched out her basic bio for him. Anna owned Maitland Dance Studio and had been left with the task of planning the Highland festival. At least until now. It seemed he’d arrived not a minute too soon by the look of things.
Of course, Isabel had left out some fundamental information, like how her friend’s rich red hair glinted in the summer sun like embers ready to catch everything around them on fire. Or the way her movements were graceful but vibrated with energy. Or the fact that her expression radiated intelligence and challenge.
“Were you aware these … these … creatures were being delivered?” she asked.
Her tone had him looking around for said creatures until he realized she was referring to the docile blackfaced sheep happily munching on flowers. “Creature? She’s hardly on par with old Nessie.”
“Nessie? Her name is Ozzie.”
It took a few blinks to follow the path of the conversation. “I meant, Nessie the Loch Ness Monster. Here, allow me.” He walked up, grabbed a hank of wool along Ozzie’s flank to keep her still, and retrieved the dangling lead.
Anna shook her head. “Why wouldn’t she let me get close?”
“Probably because she sensed weakness.” Animals reacted to alphas. To the sheep, Iain was an alpha and Anna was not. A simple dynamic.
“Excuse me? I’m not weak. I was merely unprepared to take delivery of two unruly animals today. Gareth didn’t even give me a heads-up. If it was your responsibility, then you should have been here.” His assessment had unintentionally offended her and applied accelerant to her attitude.
“The delivery wasn’t supposed to take place until tomorrow,” Iain said.
“Be that as it may, Gareth should have filled me in as I am in charge of the festival until they return, which doesn’t seem like it’s going to be imminent.” Her expression softened from granite to clay. “How’s Izzy?”
“Quarrelsome. Her ankles are…” He made a circle with his hands, knowing better than to use a negative adjective like “fat” or “sausage-like.” Isabel had thrown a pillow at his head when he’d compared her propped up, swollen ankles to something on display in the butcher’s window. He had been thankful a cleaver hadn’t been within reach.
A shadow of something familiar passed over her face. “I miss her.”
The admission was barely audible, and Iain wasn’t sure whether to acknowledge the sentiment or ignore it.
In a voice as brisk as the wind off the loch, she asked, “What’s the plan for Ozzie and Harriet?”
Ignore the shot of emotion it was. “I assume Harriet is the Highland cow?”
“Yep. I got her into the barn after she took a giant crap on the driveway.” The smile cresting her face had no relation to amusement or happiness. It was pure devilish glee. “Which you will need to clean up, by the way.”
He didn’t acknowledge her prodding remark. The primitive deposit of one Highland cow hardly filled him with disgust, considering he was used to managing hundreds of sheep and dozens of cows. Instead, he started toward the barn, Ozzie following docilely.
Anna fell into step beside him, taking two steps to his one. “A kilt on a weekday, huh? You take being Scottish seriously.”
He raised an eyebrow and shot her an up-and-down look. “A rainbow tutu on a weekday, huh? You take being a fairy sprite seriously.”
A laugh stuttered through her surprise before she muffled it. “A sprite? Nothing so magical. Just a dance teacher.”
“I’ll bet you’re magical to the kids you teach.” He opened the door to the barn and blinked, sun blind. The cow made a sound that bordered on distress. It was hot even in the shade of the barn. Better ventilation wouldn’t go amiss, but water was the top priority.
He let go of Ozzie’s lead, confident she would remain in the shade, and went in search of anything he could use as water troughs. Two large plastic buckets were stacked in the corner. Beating back the cobwebs, he hauled them to the middle of the barn. Inside one was coiled a green hose.
“There’s a faucet out here, I think.” Anna disappeared around the side of the barn and he followed. A pipe came directly out of the ground with a valve.
They worked together to attach and unroll the hose, then filled the two tubs. Ozzie and Harriet fought to drink as soon as the water hit the bottom of the first. Iain spoke to them in Gaelic, and it seemed American stock wasn’t much different than Scottish. Both animals calmed, and soon each was drinking out of her own tub. He gave each animal a scratch behind the ears.
Anna was looking at him with an expression absent the heat from earlier. “What are you telling them?”
“Basically that they’re safe, and I will care for them.”
“Interesting,” she said in a way he wasn’t sure meant “fascinating” or “strange.”
Probably the latter. He’d been called strange and weird an
d a host of other things since he was a kid. His childhood had been unconventional. Not many lads were raised in the shadow of a castle and fed Robert Burns for breakfast. Iain’s da could recite every poem the long-dead Scotsman had written. And now, so could Iain. Sometimes another man’s words were easier than formulating his own.
He was at a loss for any words at the moment. Iain shot a glance from the corner of his eye toward Anna, trying and failing not to stare. More of her hair had come loose, and she wiped her forehead with the back of her forearm. Curls wisped around her face. Closer now, he could see the light freckles sprinkled across her thin, straight nose and the red slashes the sun had left on her fair cheeks. She was younger than Isabel had led him to believe, yet her dark blue eyes reflected a wisdom gained only through the crucible of painful life experiences.
The silence was deafening. It was his turn to say something. He understood the basic mechanisms of conversation, even if his gears often got stuck. Although Iain hated to butcher a perfect quote from a British treasure, it was a truth universally acknowledged that Iain was utter rubbish with women. His army mates had teased and tortured him about his tied tongue and awkwardness around bonny lasses.
He hadn’t been gifted even a percent of Sean Connery’s suave confidence. In fact, he would have been more likely to be cast as a Bond villain than the hero. While he wasn’t an ogre under a bridge, he might pass as a distant cousin. His dark looks were intimidating, and the scar he’d acquired as a lad bordered on plain mean. A fact he’d used to his advantage when faced with snot-nosed village lads and in Her Majesty’s service, but which didn’t serve him well face-to-face with the fairer sex.
“Er … I guess I’ll take things from here,” he said.
“I guess you will.” She turned toward a car that appeared more like an overgrown toy, then spun back around, her skirt swishing. “Wait. What exactly will you take from here?”
“I’ll shepherd the festival to a successful conclusion and let you get back to your…” Dance seemed more of a passion than a job. “… work?”
The questioning waffle in his voice had been unintentional. Her blossoming anger transfixed him. Yes, beauty resided in her flushed cheeks and sparking eyes, but even more apparent was her spirit. She didn’t seem fazed by him in any way. Not his size or his scar or his inability to formulate coherent thoughts.
“I have everything under control.” She put her hands on her hips and stepped toward him.
“Of course you do, Bo-Peep.” The words came out with a teasing edge that surprised even him.
Anna arrowed her pointed gaze on him. “You stay in the barn out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours. Understood?”
His brusque nod seemed to appease her. She turned, slipped into her car, and threw gravel on her tight turn around the driveway. While he had understood her, he hadn’t actually agreed to stay out of her way. He had promised Alasdair to do whatever was necessary to make sure the festival ran smoothly. The last thing Isabel needed to worry over in her condition was a festival thousands of miles away.
Anyway, selfishly, he needed this time to away from Cairndow to figure out his life. He loved Cairndow and his da, and he couldn’t wait to get home after leaving Her Majesty’s service, but he hadn’t slipped seamlessly back into his old life. An odd dissonance had wrecked his expected contentment.
He was no longer certain if he wanted to take over as groundskeeper of Cairndow. Maybe he did, but he needed time to figure it out. He’d tried to voice his doubts to his da, but they’d lodged somewhere around his heart when he’d seen his da’s happiness and pride in having him home. Anyway, the Connor men weren’t known for their loquacious natures.
His future was a bridge to be crossed, but for now, he would enjoy the respite life had given him and consider his options.
He’d assumed Anna Maitland would be more than happy to relinquish control of planning the festival. Why wasn’t she? He hadn’t a clue, but what he did know was he and Anna were sure to lock horns like two Highland cows during mating season. A zip of energy went up his spine.
Mating season. He tried to banish the images the thought inspired, but failed spectacularly.
Chapter Two
Anna arrived back at the studio as her high school class broke up. The girls moved toward the door in a scrum, laughter buzzing over talk of boys and the festival and the imminent start of the school year. Anna had taught most of the girls for years. She’d seen them through their first pimple to their first heartbreak. This time next year, many of the girls would be packing for college or pursuing their dreams as Anna had attempted at eighteen. She wished them better luck.
Keisha patted her face with a small towel, her braids pulled up into a sagging bun on top of her head. The chatter of teenagers faded as they made their way out the door to enjoy the last days of summer.
“Thanks, Keisha.” Anna glanced around. “Where’s Gabby?”
The smile Keisha wore like a favorite T-shirt slipped into a worried line. “A no-show. I texted her, and she said she didn’t feel good, but…”
“But?” Anna prodded.
“She was fine yesterday. The problem is her dad. I don’t think he’s going to let her compete.”
Anna’s stomach swooped. Gabby’s dad was a conservative Christian who had tolerated but never supported his daughter’s love of dance. It had been Gabby’s mother who had loved to watch her daughter on stage. But she was gone now. Passed away over the winter after a two-year battle with breast cancer. Since then, Gabby had seemed to channel her grief into hard work in the studio.
Anna regathered her unruly hair and twisted it off her neck into a clip. “If her dad doesn’t want her competing, there isn’t much I can do.”
“It should be Gabby’s decision, not his. It isn’t fair!” The teenage refrain of the ages rang out and echoed back. “Can’t you go talk to him?”
“I suppose so, but I doubt it will do any good.”
“Thank you, Anna. You’re the best.” Keisha leaned in to give her a hug.
Anna loved dance and loved to watch her pupils improve and get stronger, but this was why she had taken over the dance studio. She wanted to give the girls something she hadn’t had. Encouragement. A place where they could laugh together, work hard, tease one another, but ultimately build one another up, never tear them down.
Anna’s mother was beloved in Highland. She had founded the studio as a single mom with a small business loan. She had pulled out the best from her dancers through an exacting work ethic. “Tough love” more than one person had said with a nostalgia that never failed to make Anna recoil.
Tough love. An apt way to describe their mother-daughter relationship. Her mother’s love had been tempered in fire. Hardened. Unbending.
Anna had worked diligently for her mother’s approval in the dance studio and had excelled. But she’d paid a price. All of her self-esteem had been tied to dance, and when she had failed to make it in New York City, something inside of her cracked. It had taken years to superglue herself back together, stronger than she had been. At least, that’s what she told herself.
When her mother couldn’t physically keep up with the studio and the students, Anna had jumped at the chance for a do-over. She was molding the studio into the space she’d longed for as a young girl, unsure of herself and her place in the world.
Gabby reminded Anna of a younger version of herself, except more talented. Gabby danced with a vulnerability that couldn’t be taught. She was born wanting—or needing?—to communicate through dance. What would happen if her dad silenced her ability? Keisha was right—it wasn’t fair.
Anna retreated to her closet office and called Gabby.
“Hello.” While Gabby was more serious than some of her friends, hearing the flatness of her voice made the seeds of worry Keisha had planted flourish in Anna’s gut.
“Hey, Gabby. It’s Anna Maitland. We missed you today. How are you feeling?”
“Fine. I mean, not great.” A fa
ke-sounding cough echoed in Anna’s ear.
Anna swiveled back and forth in her office chair, not sure what tack to take with the girl. “Have you been to the doctor?”
“It’s nothing serious. Allergies probably.”
“Does that mean you’ll be at the next practice?” At the lengthy silence that followed the question, Anna leaned forward and set her elbows on her knees. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“With my allergies?” Gabby ranked around a seven on the teenage sarcasm scale.
“With your allergies or your … situation.” Anna hoped her directness didn’t blow up in her face.
“Look, I’m not sure about dancing anymore. It’s not proper and stuff.”
“You forget that I know how much you love to dance. I see it every time the music starts. You’re talented. You can win Lass of the Games if you want it enough.” Anna waited.
“Maybe I don’t want it enough. I gotta go. Dad needs me.” Gabby disconnected and Anna was left to wonder if she’d blundered by calling at all. While Anna was generally good at navigating the teenage minefield, Gabby’s problem was more like an atomic bomb with an unseen trip wire.
Thankfully, she had her next classes to distract her. They flew by with the speed of enjoying a task. Finally, she was able to retreat to her small apartment above the studio for a shower, where her mind wandered into the brambles she’d managed to avoid. Mostly.
Iain Connors.
While he wasn’t suave or handsome in a GQ model sense, he was arresting. His features were rugged and made more so by the jagged white scar trailing from his forehead over his left cheek and into his beard. A beard which couldn’t hide the stubborn jut of his chin. Something about him struck her as primitive and elemental. He was intimidating in both stature and demeanor. And ridiculously jacked.
A Highlander in a Pickup Page 2
