“It’s a personal matter.” She kept her voice cool, hoping he’d get the hint to leave well enough alone.
He didn’t. “Has it got something to do with the studio? Are you in financial straits?”
“The studio is doing well.” She ground to a halt and stared up at him. No breeze rustled the branches overhead, so even though it was shady, they were like Hansel and Gretel shoved into a witch’s oven. Haltingly, she said, “If you must know, Dr. Jameson is retiring, and I’m going to run for mayor of Highland.”
She braced herself for shock or, even worse, laughter. Neither emerged. He merely nodded. “I understand now.”
“Understand what?”
“The animosity between you and Loretta. She’s threatened by you.”
“By me? I’m the young, wild, upstart with no experience. She’s got the advantage.”
Iain smoothed his beard and tilted his head to study her with his usual intensity. It had stopped rattling her, and she’d come to appreciate his ability to focus. “Does she? You’re well-liked, quick-witted, stubborn, and full of ideas.”
She refused to admit how much his assessment bolstered her confidence. “How do you know I’m full of ideas?” she asked.
He raised his errant eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”
Anna harrumphed. “I’ve got a few percolating, but I’m not sure if the general population will appreciate them. Loretta especially. She can be so close-minded and old-fashioned.”
Iain shrugged. “She’s lost control over certain aspects of life—like getting older with still unfulfilled dreams—and therefore needs to seize the reins of control over the parts of her life she can. Plus, I think she’s lonely. Her husband has been gone a long time now, hasn’t he?”
“Have you been reading psychology books in your spare time?” Once again, she was being confronted with the knowledge that people could be more complicated than the mask they presented to the world at large.
He gave a half-shouldered shrug. “Something I sensed.”
Something niggled her memory. Hadn’t Loretta mentioned sending other work Iain’s way? “Are you going to start hiring yourself out?”
“Word got around that I have certain skills.”
“That makes you sound like the James Bond of home improvement.”
“The best James Bond was Scottish so … almost samsies?”
How could she not smile at the irreverence she never would have guessed at a week ago? Then, she remembered why she was standing under the oak trees with him and sobered up quickly. She waved the paper between them. “Once I turn in my intent to run, my candidacy becomes public record.”
“Which means everyone will know.”
“Exactly.” She gnawed on her bottom lip. “I need to knock the festival out of the park. If anything goes wrong, like overflowing potties or food poisoning or thunderstorms, then no one will vote for me.”
“That seems a bit extreme. No one would blame you for an act of God.”
“Yes, they will. They’ll say I didn’t pray sincerely enough.” It was going to be difficult to get the older, more conservative population to buy into her progressive ideas for the town. She couldn’t hand them an excuse to dismiss her.
“If they can’t see what I see, then they don’t deserve you leading them.” More confidence resonated from his words than she’d felt in a long time. Even more startling was his sincerity. He wasn’t feeding her a platitude like most people might have done.
“You’ve known me days when most of Highland has known me years.”
“Perhaps that’s why I can see you clearly. No history exists to cloud the present.” He gestured down the sidewalk. “Would you like me to accompany you?”
She shouldn’t want him. She should want to march inside and hand in her letter of intent standing on her own.
“Yes, please,” she said softly, waiting for a rush of defeat. It didn’t come.
Iain gestured for her to lead the way.
And she did with a springier step than she’d left the studio with. She didn’t feel weaker because of his support; she felt boosted. It was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.
It was the work of minutes to turn in her letter of intent. Baxter Dixon retrieved his reading glasses from his bald head, smoothed his callused brown hand over the letter, and smiled. “I was hoping the scuttlebutt was true. Glad to see you running, Miss Maitland. What will your platform include?”
It seemed the town gossips hadn’t waited for Anna to make things official. Loretta had no doubt been on the phone campaigning already.
“I’ve got lots of plans, Mr. Baxter. I want to expand upon the festival and start a new tradition at Christmas. A Very Scottish Christmas.” She waved her hand as if highlighting a banner.
Iain stepped forward. “What a wonderful idea. The possibilities are endless. Does Highland host a Burns Night celebration?”
Mr. Baxter tapped his lips with a finger. “I remember Dr. Jameson hosting one many years ago. I’m Baxter Dixon, by the way.”
“Geez, I’m not normally so rude,” Anna said. “Mr. Baxter, this is Iain Connors. He’s from Cairndow, like Gareth.”
“Yes, indeed, I’ve heard all about you, Mr. Connors.” While the sentiment came off slightly stalkerish—welcome to a small town—Mr. Baxter’s smile was friendly. “What were you saying about Burns Night?”
“It’s traditionally held in January, but I see no reason why you couldn’t host one around Christmastime. It’s a grand time with traditional Scottish songs and food.”
Anna picked up the idea and ran. “It could be a street festival. What if we closed down Main Street for a day to cars and allowed only foot traffic? Food trucks could set up and the businesses in town could showcase their stock. Roving singers. What a great idea.”
Iain grinned. “You don’t have to sound so shocked. I’ve helped plan a multitude of celebrations and events on the grounds at Cairndow. Gareth was always looking at ways to divert tourists to the castle. Cairndow is not exactly on the path well-taken.”
“Do you think the town will support the idea if I’m elected?” She tensed, waiting for Mr. Baxter’s assessment. His opinion meant more than one random man’s thoughts. He was a deacon of his church and a well-respected elder of the community. If he approved, then others would agree.
“No doubt, it would be a boost to the economy, plus it sounds fun.” His smile was wide and warm and offered much-needed encouragement. “A nice combination of the old ways and new traditions and a draw for families and young people alike.”
Anna controlled her urge to fist pump. Instead, she exchanged goodbyes, shook his hand, squared her shoulders, and strode out with confidence, Iain at her side. Once they were back on the sidewalk, she couldn’t keep herself contained a moment longer and performed a little jig, ending on a jaunty heel-click.
“That went way better than I expected. The Burns Night idea was genius, by the way. I’ve heard of it, of course, but I’m not sure what it is exactly.”
“Basically, a giant party celebrating Robert Burns. Traditional Scottish food is paired with certain Burns songs. Everyone is expected to sing along.”
“I assume there’s whisky involved.”
“Without a doubt.” He snapped his fingers. “The whisky tasting.”
“What about it?”
“Dr. Jameson said something about opening the festival. I told him you and I would handle it.”
Anna stumbled over a root that had buckled the sidewalk. “You volunteered us to dance in front of everyone at the whisky tasting?”
His brows drew low. “No I didn’t.”
“The whisky tasting opens with the hosts performing the St. Bernard’s Waltz. Izzy’s parents started the tradition decades ago.”
“I assumed we’d make an announcement or cut a ribbon.”
“Do you know the St. Bernard’s Waltz?”
“Of course I don’t,” he said incredulously.
“It is a traditional Scottish dan
ce, Iain. Not so far-fetched. I thought you Scots might have something similar to our cotillions.”
He sighed and looked heavenward. “What the devil are cotillions?”
“Young boys and girls meet for several weeks to learn etiquette and social graces. Things like holding a chair out for a lady or not to put your elbows on the table or which utensil to use when. And dancing. I happen to teach that part.”
He looked dumbfounded. “You’re telling me lads sign up willingly for this torture?”
The T-word had been bandied about by more than one boy over the years. “It depends on your definition of ‘willing.’”
“Mayhap, you should ask one of your former cotillion students to open the games with you.”
“No way. Even the thought is icky.”
“You’ll have to come up with some other plan, because I can’t dance.”
“Everyone can dance.” A qualifier slipped out. “Of course, not everyone can dance well.”
He groaned.
“And why do I have to come up with another plan? You’re the one who got yourself into this mess in the first place. I should leave you to find another partner.” She poked him in the chest.
He caught her hand and tangled their fingers. “Don’t abandon me, lass. If you can teach some lad with spots all over his face, surely you can whip me into shape.”
“You’re lucky I’m an excellent dance teacher.” Why was she breathless? It probably had something to do with the pollen count or her recent bout with strep throat. She resumed their walk, slower now as she contemplated what it would take to whip him into shape. “The only time I have available will be the evenings. Can you meet me at the studio at eight? We’ll see how things go and can meet every night until the tasting if necessary.”
“Every night?” The dread in his voice wasn’t encouraging.
“Yep. I have to represent the studio well. If I can’t teach one actual Scotsman a traditional Scottish dance, then why would Highland seek my tutelage for their sons and daughters?” Of course, she was being a tad overdramatic. It wasn’t like the parents of Highland had much choice, but now the idea had been planted, the sick part of her that loved torment wanted to spend every night in Iain’s company. In his arms.
“Next time I’ll ask to read the fine print before I agree to anything.”
“You’ll survive. I can’t guarantee you’ll survive with your dignity intact, though.” While she was feeling confident, she should tackle another dreaded task. She’d ride out and talk to Gabby and her dad.
She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.
“What is it now?”
“Nothing. Everything is fine.”
“I’m beginning to think we have very different definitions of the word ‘fine.’ You look like you are being forced down the plank at sword point.”
“No. That would be more like this.” She grimaced and acted like she was biting all ten fingernails at the same time. “Or this.” She opened her mouth in a soundless scream and put the back of her hand on her forehead in an old-fashioned parody of a swoon.
Iain did not look amused. He crossed his arms and planted himself in front of her on the sidewalk. When she tried to go around him, he shifted one way and then the other to match her evasions.
“Our dance lesson doesn’t start until tonight, Highlander.” Her joke garnered a tiny smile, but he didn’t move. She tossed up her hands. “If you must know, I have a student who is an excellent dancer, but her father is strict and doesn’t approve of her dancing in front of crowds even though she could win a ribbon this year. Maybe even Lass of the Games.”
“Doesn’t her dad have a say in what she does? Why are you inserting yourself in their business?”
Anna performed a faux pearl-clutch. “Are you insinuating that I’m a busybody?”
“‘Busy’ is not the word I would pick to describe your body.” Was that sexual innuendo hiding behind the tease in his voice?
“What word would you pick?” She immediately regretted her question and held her hand up. “Don’t answer that. This is not the time or place.”
“What will going to talk to your student’s da accomplish?”
“It’s what Gabby wants. To dance, I mean.”
“She told you this and asked you to intervene on her behalf?”
“Not in so many words.” Anna hoped her strained phone conversation with Gabby was a fluke. “But Gabby’s talented. She deserves to be up on that stage.”
“So, your plan is to inform her da that he’s a bad parent if he doesn’t allow her to compete?”
“Of course not. I’m going to tell him how gifted his daughter is and explain how much she loves to dance.”
“You’re going by yourself?”
“Yes, by myself. What could possibly happen?”
“As I don’t know the bloke, I can’t predict his reaction. I’m coming with you.” Iain looked like a man no one would want to meet in a dark alley. No one who had pissed him off anyway.
Anna didn’t buy into the alpha male stereotype. She had successfully taken care of herself all her life without a Y chromosome in the vicinity. “I can handle Gabby’s dad. I’m a big girl.”
His gaze dropped to her feet and meandered back up to her face. She knew exactly what he was thinking. “Not muscly big like you, but I’ve got a big mouth that can jaw with the best of them.”
“Jaw?”
“Talk trash. Rubbish. Whatever you Scots call smack talk.” She waved his confusion away, hopped off the sidewalk, and into the street to bypass his bulk. “I can handle myself. Don’t worry.”
He fell into step beside her, obviously not buying what she was selling. She shot him an assessing side-eye glance. He might actually prove useful if she needed backup. If Iain wanted to play knight-errant, who was she to deny him? “If you’re going to be stubborn about it, you can come, but you have to wait in the car.”
When he looked like he was ready to mount a protest, Anna held up her hand. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave me to get my business done.”
His jaw twitched even as he gave a brusque nod.
She led the way to her VW Bug and opened the passenger door and gestured him in. He stood in the opening and stared.
“I’ll never cram myself in that bloody tin can.” He pointed down the street. “The truck’s right there.”
“I’m not showing up sweaty. It would put me at a disadvantage.”
“The windows lower.”
“Then I’d show up sweaty and windblown. Not happening.” She circled around her car and slipped behind the wheel.
Teasing Iain was too much fun. How determined was he to play her protector? She cranked the engine and revved the gas pedal to add some urgency to his decision.
“Are you my wingman or not?” She dipped her head to meet his gaze.
“The devil take it!” He mumbled in Gaelic as he levered himself into the seat, first one leg, then the other, all while adjusting his kilt so as not to flash her or any passersby. His head touched the roof, and his knees were forced wide and brushed the dash. He was wedged in so tight, he wasn’t going anywhere, but he struggled to snap the seat belt into place anyway.
She pressed her lips together to stem her laughter and pulled out onto the road. The glare he aimed in her direction would have melted her spine if she didn’t know his tough demeanor hid something sweeter and more vulnerable than he cared to admit or even recognize.
“You’ll have to translate all that for me. I’m ready for another lesson,” she said lightly.
“What I said is inappropriate.”
“Excellent. It’s always handy to know some curses in another language. And Gaelic curses would be totally on brand for me.”
He ignored her and stared out the window, his arms crossed over his chest. She turned down a narrow two-lane country road, the shoulders crumbling and the lines fading. On one side were dense woods and on the other stretched a field dotted with a few lazily munching ca
ttle.
Against the rise of a foothill stood a two-story farmhouse. A hundred years ago, it had been grand, but time had laid a heavy hand along the sagging eaves.
She turned onto the drive, narrower by half than the road. Her little car jounced in a hole. Iain’s head smacked the roof. He let out an oof and sent a glare in her direction.
“Sorry. The Bug is not an off-roader.” She slowed to a crawl. The rocking motion wasn’t doing her stomach any favors either. It had been a nervy day already with the trip to the city offices, and her confidence was leaking out into the ruts.
“What’s your plan of attack?” Iain asked.
She clutched the steering wheel tighter to keep from being slung back and forth. “My plan is to use logic and appeal to his love for his daughter. I’m sure he wants her to be happy, and dancing makes her happy.”
“If it were so simple, you would not be on your way to talk to him.”
Iain had a point. She pulled up to the front of the house. From a distance, the house had appeared slightly derelict, but closer up, someone was doing their best on upkeep. White paint shone on the clapboards and the windows sparkled. The bushes were trimmed and yellow, and purple petunias lined the walkway to the front porch. The house was undergoing a genteel aging.
She rolled the windows down and turned the car off. “This shouldn’t take long, but if you get hot, you can restart the car.”
“Stay on the porch where I can see you,” he said.
“This isn’t a special ops situation. I’ll be fine.”
He stared at her without a change in his hardened expression. She heaved a put-upon sigh that would have made the teenagers she taught proud. “Okay, fine. I doubt he’s going to invite me in for a cookie anyway.”
She slipped out of the car, smoothed down her blouse, and climbed the stairs, casting one last glance back at Iain, glad he was there even if she wasn’t going to admit it aloud.
She rapped on the metal screen door and waited. Footsteps sounded on the other side and she pasted on a smile. The person that came into focus wasn’t Mr. Donaldson, but Gabby.
“Miss Maitland.” Surprise brightened her voice, but otherwise she looked wan, her hair messy and pulled back into a low ponytail. She wore a baggy T-shirt and a sweatpants. “What are you doing here?”
A Highlander in a Pickup Page 15
