A Highlander in a Pickup

by Laura Trentham

  As soon as he was out of sight and she heard a door close upstairs, she dropped her head and banged it against the desk. No. This was not happening. Not right now with the festival bearing down on them like a train and her ambition to run for Highland mayor. She needed to maintain the image of upstanding businesswoman and not indulge in the kind of fling that would lead nowhere good.

  The shower turned on upstairs, the trickle of water through the pipes distracting her. She stared at the ceiling for so long, her neck grew a crick. It was painfully obvious she would get no work done with Iain gallivanting around without a shirt on or reciting poetry or showering.

  Anna gathered the list of numbers she needed and climbed into her oven-like car with a hint of guilt. She was leaving Iain, a stranger in a strange land (because as much as she loved Highland, it qualified as strange) to fend for himself.

  If he hadn’t been borderline nice earlier, she wouldn’t be hesitating with her foot hovering over the gas pedal right now. Her Southern ancestors would be turning over in their graves at her lack of hospitality. Not to mention what Izzy and Rose would have to say on the matter.

  No, he was a grown man who was imminently capable of taking care of himself. She made a wide turn in the graveled loop leading up to Stonehaven and headed toward the Brown Cow for a bracing cup of coffee and a table to work at, trying not to consider how a fling with Iain might leave one of them (him—never her) emotionally wrecked, but sexually (very) satisfied.

  * * *

  Iain spent longer than normal in the shower, maxing out the cold water tap, and pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He shivered in the air-con as cold water droplets from his hair trailed down his back. Even in Scotland, quoting a Burns poem in casual conversation when it wasn’t New Year’s Eve or at a Burns Night Feast was an oddity, but he hadn’t been able to help himself when the look of nostalgia crossed her delicate features, pulling her mouth into a sad pout.

  The energy and verve of a young Anna had been caught in the snapshot, but still it was a pale facsimile to the woman. Looking at the picture, he sensed Anna hadn’t drawn on fond memories but lost herself in the thorny brambles between then and now.

  He padded downstairs and stopped in the entryway. She was gone. He knew before he pulled the drapery aside to see the graveled front driveway empty.

  Now what? He’d unloaded the wood, but planned to wait until the evening offered some respite before continuing his project in the barn. Even if he could figure out the numerous remotes, he wasn’t the type to sit around and watch the telly.

  Feeling unaccountably nervous, he retrieved Dr. Jameson’s number and rang him up. The conversation was easier than he anticipated due to Dr. Jameson’s innate friendliness, and Iain readily accepted the doctor’s invitation to meet at the Scottish Lass restaurant for lunch.

  Stepping into the restaurant brought another spate of nerves, and Iain scanned the crowded room for Dr. Jameson, spotting him waving from a back corner. Instead of a one-on-one meal, Iain found himself in a gathering of Highland residents, mostly over the age of sixty.

  The menu was full of meat and vegetables, some familiar, some not. Iain followed Dr. Jameson’s example and ordered the meatloaf along with a variety of vegetables, including fried okra. The meatloaf reminded him of a hearty Scottish pudding even though it was baked and not steamed. He decided the okra must be an acquired taste like haggis.

  The talk centered heavily on the weather and how it would impact local crops and the festival.

  “Too soon to say, of course, but the Farmer’s Almanac calls for rough weather during festival weekend.” An older man in denim overalls pulled a worn, rolled copy of a book out of his back pocket.

  Dr. Jameson made a scoffing sound. “For goodness sake, Winston, that almanac is a load of bull. It was probably written by a random event generator on some computer in New York City.”

  Winston drew in a sharp breath then pinched his lips together, refusing to acknowledge Dr. Jameson’s opinion or presence. The tension was cut by the entrance of a man who looked to be around Iain’s age. He was blond and tall and stopped at the hostess’s stand to scan the crowd.

  His gaze zeroed in on their group, and he weaved his way through the tables. “Sorry to interrupt, gentleman. Dr. Jameson, we need you out on the farm, if you’re available.”

  “I’m always available. It’s part of the job. What’s the trouble?” Dr. Jameson wiped his mouth and stood.

  “Calving difficulties, as we expected.” The blond man had a tight, worried set to his mouth.

  “Right-o. I’ve got everything I need in the truck. Holt, I want you to meet Iain Connors. Izzy and Alasdair sent him over to help out with the festival.” Dr. Jameson waved a hand between the two men, and Iain half-rose to shake hands with Holt.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Iain murmured.

  “I’m glad I ran into you. Gareth and I were talking before he left about my farm providing some of the animals for the livestock exhibition. Nothing fancy, but we’ve got some goats and piglets. A few chickens. Could you come by tomorrow after church so we could talk?” Holt ran his hands down the front of his jeans, obviously anxious to get Dr. Jameson back to his farm.

  Iain found himself anticipating telling Anna. Providing a spark and watching her spirit come alive was becoming additive. “I’d be happy to. Already have a Highland cow and a blackfaced sheep in the barn at Stonehaven. I’m working on display pens right now.”

  Iain and Holt exchanged numbers, then Iain sat back down to finish his lunch, the conversation buzzing around him. While he felt no pressure to join in, he found himself making small talk about his life at Cairndow. A tap on his shoulder brought him around to face the man sitting at the table directly behind him.

  “Hello. Name’s Robert Bradshaw. I couldn’t help but overhear. You play the guitar?” The man had floppy, light brown hair and a wide, guileless smile. A natural enthusiasm made him seem boyish, although he was pushing thirty at least.

  “Aye. I’m a dab hand.” In the face of such good humor, Iain found himself returning a smile. “Not much else to pass the time during the winter months.”

  “Do you sing?” Robert asked with a hopeful lilt.

  “A fair bit.” Iain enjoyed singing while he worked or in the shower.

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to join me for a slice of pie and a chat,” Robert said.

  Iain shrugged his acceptance and scooted his chair around to join Robert at his table.

  A half hour later, he left the Scottish Lass with a full belly, a Highland T-shirt pressed into his hands by the waitress, and a mobile full of numbers. It seemed he’d acquired a few mates.

  Stepping outside, he took a deep breath of thick air and strolled down the sidewalk. Front windows of many shops were decorated with cartoonish illustrations in greasepaint advertising the festival.

  A banner was strung across the street as well, but the bottom of one end had come loose and flapped in the breeze, making it difficult to read. Two men well into middle age stood at the bottom of a streetlight and stared up at the loose ties. As Iain wasn’t in any hurry to return to Stonehaven, he joined them and looked up.

  “Anything I can help you blokes with?” Iain asked softly.

  The closest man startled. “Howdy, young man. I didn’t hear you walk up.”

  Iain only smiled. He’d learned at a young age how to move so as not to startle deer or pheasants. The skill had proved useful during his service. “Iain Connors. Isabel and Rose Buchanan sent me to help with the festival.”

  The Buchanan name opened doors like it was a magic word. The man grinned, a wad of tobacco visible in his bottom lip. “I’m Jessie Joe and this here is Jessie Mac.”

  The other man stuck out a roughened hand with deep creases, but didn’t speak.

  “He’s my cuz,” the first man said, thumbing over his shoulder. As if that was explanation enough, he propped his hands low on his hips and stared upward once more. “Got any
ideas besides commandeering the firetruck or a utility truck with a basket? How’s about a front end loader?”

  Iain judged the distance and examined the light pole. It was decoratively ridged all the way to the hooked old-fashioned-looking light. “You only need it tied down?”

  “That’s right.”

  Iain toed off his trainers, peeled off his socks, and stepped forward. The cliffs had been his playground, and he’d become a proficient climber. He’d only have to climb halfway up the pole in order to reach the flapping ties. Actually securing them so it wouldn’t happen again was trickier since he needed both hands, but he would give it a try. By the time he was finished, his feet ached where the narrow ridges dug into his arches.

  “What are you doing up there?” The female voice was unmistakable.

  Iain looked down from his perch. Anna’s face was tilted toward him, her expression a combination of shock and worry, the breeze playing with her long red hair.

  “Helping Mr. Joe and Mr. Mac fix the festival banner.”

  Jessie Joe burst out laughing. “You here that, Anna? Mr. Joe.” He rapped on the light post and stared up at Iain with a good-natured grin that seemed a characteristic like his eye color or baldness. “Jessie Joe is my given name, son. My last name is Sawyers, just like Jessie Mac’s.”

  “I planned to call Dr. Jameson so he could authorize a truck. This looks dangerous,” Anna said. Iain wasn’t sure whether she was actually worried he might fall or annoyed he had inserted himself.

  “Izzy sent him to help,” Jessie Joe said simply.

  “I know that.” Impatience skipped in her voice like a throwing stone. “Come on down before you fall and crack your head open like a watermelon.”

  He was tempted to defy her just to see what she would do—yell at him? Pull him down?—but his feet ached. He’d gone soft. With ease, he scaled to the ground, the pavement hot enough to burn his bare feet like walking over coals.

  She made a harrumphing sound. “You’re not wearing a kilt today.”

  “A good thing too.” His raised an eyebrow, a mere quirk of forehead muscles that he had inherited from his da. “Unless you were hoping to get a peak underneath.”

  “It never even crossed my mind.” Color rushed into her face, leaving her cheeks splotchy.

  With a start, he wondered if she were lying. The thought she might be at all interested in what was under his kilt left him staggered. To cover his discomfiture, he squat to slip on his socks and tie his trainers, letting his gaze trail up her shapely, toned legs as he slowly rose.

  “I appreciate you helping the Sawyers, but you could have hurt yourself, Iain. I figured you’d be halfway through a binge-watch by now.” Her mouth had lost its tightness, and while her lips weren’t anywhere near a smile, he sensed a softening.

  “I couldn’t figure out the remotes. Anyway, I’m rubbish at relaxing.” Once upon a time, he’d been a world-class shirker of his chores. He’d spent hours in the loft of the barn reading or daydreaming or napping. His da had boxed his ears a time or two over it, but in general, he’d indulged Iain. The military had marched and deprived and drilled any such tendencies out of him.

  “Then go back to Stonehaven and practice,” Anna said with a dry humor he found hard not to smile at.

  Jessie Joe guffawed. “This one has red hair for a reason, boy. She’s left a string of broken hearts in her wake.”

  Anna’s shoulders shifted forward. While the old man’s ribbing was good-natured, Iain caught the unintentional whiff of condescension. Instead of calling Jessie Joe to task, Anna gave them a tight smile. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I have work to finish.”

  She shuttered her emotions behind a polite facade of Southern sweetness that wasn’t natural. Fascinated with her discordant attitude, Iain followed like she was the Pied Piper.

  She stopped with the door to the coffee shop open. “What are you doing?”

  “I find myself in need of a cuppa. You don’t mind, do you?”

  A protest was ready to come to her lips when Millie called out from the counter. “I know you weren’t raised in a barn, Anna. Let the poor man in.”

  Anna stepped aside and gestured him to enter, but he didn’t miss her muttered, “Poor man, my ass.”

  Iain ordered a fresh peach-infused iced tea using as few words as possible. While he waited, he studied Anna out of the corner of his eye, catching her cutting glances toward him. Her color was still high, and he wondered at the insecurity he’d got a peak at more than once.

  After completing the transaction for the drink, Iain stopped at Anna’s table, his hand on the back of the empty chair across from her. “May I?”

  She wanted to say no. He could see her lips form the word, but she abruptly changed course. “It’s a free country. You can sit where you want.”

  He sat across from her and made himself comfortable, stretching his legs out to the side and crossing his feet at the ankles. The chair creaked. Far from making him cower, which he was fairly certain was the intention, her laser-like gaze energized him.

  He took a sip of his tea, finding the cool sweetness refreshing and delicious. It was both familiar and foreign. Exactly like Highland. He held the cup up. “I’ll have to pay a steep penance to my ancestors after this.”

  “Over iced tea?” Anna looked up from where she was tapping something on the screen of her mobile.

  “They’re no doubt clawing their way out of their graves to haunt me this very moment.”

  “That’s a fanciful if morbid thought.” Anna put her mobile down, her smile a little sad, her brows drawn down over her blue eyes. “Reminds me of something Izzy would say, actually.”

  Iain took another long pull of tea, not missing a scalded tongue because he couldn’t wait for it cool. “You miss her.”

  “Of course, I do. She was my best friend.”

  It was interesting that Anna spoke in terms of the past. “She still is, by my reckoning.”

  Anna waved her hand dismissively, but her darting gaze landed anywhere except on him. “Of course she is, but things change. She’s in a different country and married and about to have a kid, for goodness’ sake, and I’m still here doing my thing.”

  “Do you not want to be here?”

  “No, I do. I just want … more.” The admission came out as if removing splinters from under her fingernails.

  “You want more respect.” The thought popped into his head, but instinctively, he knew he was right.

  “I have respect.” She sat forward and propped her crossed arms on the table. “I run a successful business, and now I’m in charge of the festival.”

  Was she trying to convince him or herself? “Yes. You’re an impressive woman.”

  “You have no call to mock me.” The blotches of color were back in her cheeks, and with jerky movements, she stacked papers and shoved them into a red folder.

  He blinked, shocked at her reaction. She stood. Her chair scraped the floor and tipped over with a clang that silenced the buzz and brought every eye to them. She righted the chair and grabbed her mobile and the folder.

  Finally, he gathered his wits enough to react and took her wrist. His fingers overlapped his thumb by a good three inches. He was aware like he’d never been before of their difference in size. Her personality was big and bold and filled the room, but she was vulnerable in ways he didn’t think others noticed. It’s like she had cast a glamour on the residents of Highland, but as an outsider, he could see her for what she truly was.

  “I was being truthful, Anna. You are impressive.”

  She didn’t tug out of his loose grip, and her fist uncurled, leaving her arm pliant. “You’re trying to butter me up so you can … you can … What do you want?”

  How many times had he asked himself the same question? He had arrived in Highland to escape and figure out what was next. Should he trod down the expected path or venture into the unknown? That’s not the answer she would expect from him.

  He let go of her
, crossed his arms over his chest, and shrugged. “I want what you want. A successful festival. The question is, why won’t you allow me to help more? No need to martyr yourself over something as trivial as a festival.”

  “Trivial?” Her gaze flicked down his body and back up as if assessing the strengths and weaknesses of an adversary. “I’ve dealt with men like you before. You’re used to being large and in charge. You’ll creep into the project until you completely take over like a cloud of noxious gas.”

  He stood. “I can’t do anything about the large part, but I’m not here to perform a hostile takeover. I’d prefer us to form a partnership.”

  She slung her purse over her shoulder and clutched the file folder tight against her chest. “You don’t need this like I do. I’ve got everything under control, so back off. In fact, why don’t you go home?”

  Nothing waited for him at home except days spent puttering around Cairndow with his da and working for Alasdair. Like Anna, he needed more. Not respect, but freedom. God, he was turning as melodramatic as Mel Gibson’s William Wallace in Braveheart. Next, he’d be painting his face blue and not showering.

  “I’m not going home,” he said shortly. “Anyway, who would scoop the poop and feed the beasties?”

  She spun around and weaved her way to the door, throwing one last look his direction before disappearing. He expected to see scorch marks.

  He regained his chair and rubbed at the condensation on his glass of tea. A piece of paper was camouflaged on the white tabletop. He flipped it over and skimmed a grid of names and numbers and occupations like potter or painter or quilter with notes in small, neat handwriting.

  If he ran after her, he might be able to catch her on the sidewalk. Or … he could use the list as a lure. Underhanded, perhaps, but he was already anticipating their next meeting. His blood sang through his veins, and he smiled.