It was nearly unbearable to have him so close, but not be able to crawl into his arms and be with him, and convince him that her feelings were true. But she’d asked him, and his words still haunted her . . . I care for the girl. The message couldn’t have been any clearer. Loving him was hopeless. She needed to start accepting that he would never come around.
She sighed. Late at night was no time to make rash decisions, though. In the morning, things had to look brighter.
But then she remembered her mother was coming to town.
* * *
Sixteen-year-old Harry Stanton watched Thistle Glen Lodge until the lights went out. All of Gandiegow was asleep so it was safe for him to go to bed. He shouldn’t have waited here so long. He should’ve stayed outside Quilting Central, to make sure no one had returned.
He’d thought again about sleeping on a boat, but it was a cold and tricky thing. He’d tried to stow aboard a few times, but the fishermen had a tendency to return to their boats unexpectedly in the evenings, checking God-knows-what. Also, the fishermen were always up early. After sleeping several nights in an old woodshed with a quilt he’d nicked, Harry had found that Quilting Central’s door was always open, was warm inside, and had a lovely sofa to lie on. Having a proper restroom for which to clean up was a treat and more than he could’ve hoped for . . . though the room was meant for lasses and not men. The danged flowers on the wallpaper could be seen in the moonlight.
He felt for the scissors in his pocket, the ones he’d borrowed from Quilting Central. Christmas was only two days away and he needed to finish the rest of his presents before the day arrived.
As he slipped through the shadows back to the hostel—as he’d taken to thinking of Quilting Central at night—he looked at each of the houses he’d categorized. The preacher’s, the doctor’s, the tinker’s. Like every night, he wondered which cottage held his father.
As he passed the kirk, he caught a reflection of himself in the stained-glass window. Since his mother’s death, he never passed a mirror when he didn’t wonder if he might look like his da.
Harry didn’t have much to go on. For his whole life, his mother told him absolutely nothing about his da . . . until she lay dying in her hospital bed in Edinburgh. In the end, his mother only told him a few things. His dad was tall with dark hair. She cared for his father very much. He never knew about you, she’d said. When Harry asked more, she’d only given him one clue . . . yere da’s from Gandiegow. She’d drifted off to sleep then. If he had known, he would’ve tried to wake her. Instead he hurried off to a café to do an Internet search to find out where Gandiegow was. An hour later, Mum was gone.
He looked around carefully, scanning for movement about the village, and when he was sure all was safe, he ran for Quilting Central and slipped inside.
He never turned on the lights, and most nights he sat on the floor under the window, using the streetlamp to read one of the books on the shelf. He wished they would stock something other than books that women would like, for Harry loved to read. It helped him to get away from his own world. But tonight he couldn’t flip through the pages. He had work to do.
He went to the desk, pulled out the middle drawer, and found more sheets of thick paper. Last night, he’d made a bird for the pie he’d taken. Tonight, he had to make the rest. He took them over to his place by the window and got busy. He needed something special for the owner of the General Store. He’d been desperate. His trainers weren’t keeping him warm. It was cold this far north, colder than he’d expected. He only borrowed the items. He would pay back the store owner one day. He’d get a job after he found his father. He’d pay back the lady who’d hung the flannel shirt out on the line at the cottage with the blue door. He’d give back the scissors when he was finished with the presents, too. Of course, he needed to do more for the lady with the kid who left him the only real meal he’d had since coming to find his da.
They’d talked to him at the hospital. It was the law. He would have to go into foster care as he had no relatives. That they knew about anyway. This was the reason Harry ran away to Gandiegow. Maybe he should’ve strolled into the village and asked about his father straightaway, but he was afraid they would call the authorities. No, Harry had done the right thing—stayed out of sight, hiding in various sheds, learning as much as he could about the people who lived here. He had to find his father first so he wouldn’t be stuck in some home until he turned eighteen.
But in the meantime, he needed to thank those who’d helped him get by.
He’d read about origami in a book once, but it all seemed too rigid for him. He’d put the book aside and did as he liked. He liked making things with his hands, shapes out of paper, but used scissors to make it become more of what he wanted.
He worked on the presents, fashioning a bear for the lady at Thistle Glen Lodge, thinking her kid could play with it. When he was done, he hid his new creations, with the others, in a plastic container under one of the tables, making sure to put it back exactly where it was. Tomorrow night, like Father Christmas, he would go from house to house and drop off his gifts to thank the people of Gandiegow.
* * *
Rachel drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming of Brodie. In her dreams she was even braver than she was in real life. In her dreams, she boldly went to the couch, climbed into his arms, and convinced him they were meant to be together. She woke up when he said, I do. The bedroom was dark with moonlight shining through the window. She’d been so happy to finally hear Brodie say the words that would bind them together forever. But it was only a dream.
Maybe she could make it a reality. She could get out of this bed, slink down the hall, and take advantage of him. She’d show him just how much she cared about him with her body, because dropping hints and leaving him clues hadn’t worked so far.
She rolled over and spied Hannah across the room, lying in her twin bed surrounded by her dolls. No. I can’t do as I please. Not anymore. She was a mother. Her job was to remain in her own bed and set an example for her child.
Soon after, she heard Brodie in the kitchen. But when she snuck out of bed to at least tell him good morning, she only caught a glimpse of his backside as he walked out the door. From across the room, she could see the lock had been set.
She padded back into her room and crawled into bed. When she awoke, Hannah was lying in her bed talking to Dolly.
“Grandma Vivienne is coming today. She’s really nice. I bet she’ll bring us a present for Christmas.”
Rachel reached for her phone, but there was still no text message from her mother and she was beginning to worry. She slipped out of bed, deciding if she didn’t hear from her mom by ten, she’d send the police, the fire department, and perhaps all of Gandiegow to find her mother.
While Hannah readied for the day, Rachel made breakfast and planned how to finish her Christmas projects in time. She was still groggy from her dream-filled night and wanted nothing more than to grab her daughter’s guzzy and slip back in bed. Instead, she hurried across town to Abraham’s to drop off Hannah.
When Rachel finally made it to Quilting Central, everyone was talking. At first she worried it might be about Brodie sleeping over at the quilting dorm, but then she realized the news was more substantial than a bit of gossip.
She went to Bethia, knowing the elderly woman would tell her what was going on . . . and be kind about it. Deydie, on the other hand, might say it was none of her damned business.
“Our trust is broken,” Bethia said sadly. “We haven’t had a robbery in fifty years.”
“What robbery?” Was another pie stolen?
“The General Store.”
“What? No. What did they take?” Rachel couldn’t help thinking about the store’s unlocked door and how tempting it might be for someone in need. From what she’d seen, several Gandiegowan families needed a lot.
“Amy is at the store, checking the e
ntire inventory. When she got in first thing this morning, she noticed a pair of wellies were gone from the shelf. Also, a hat, gloves, and socks. She came to tell us the news, but then rushed to get Coll to watch baby Wills while she went over the store with a fine-toothed comb.”
Rachel’s stomach plummeted. The pie thief had stepped it up a notch. “Who would do such a thing?” But she already knew. The thin man in the shadows.
“None of us,” Bethia said, with an emphasis on us.
“You and the others can’t surely think Tuck had anything to do with this. He can’t be the wellies snatcher.” If only she had a way of telling Bethia to get off Tuck’s scent without telling her about what she’d seen. But then Rachel had an idea. “What size boots are missing?”
“I dunno. But that’s a very good question.” Although Bethia had always been nice to her, she stared at Rachel with somewhat new eyes. “Will ye excuse me? I need to speak with Deydie about this.”
Rachel saw what was coming next . . . a version of Cinderella and the glass slipper, except this involved a bunch of fired-up Scots and a pair of stolen wellies.
Rachel checked her phone again. No message from her mother that she’d left the hotel and was heading for Gandiegow. For now, Rachel put her mother out of her mind; she had plenty to do. She took her place behind her sewing machine, needing to work on her mother’s patchwork lap quilt. She only had a bit more to go.
While stitching-in-the-ditch, Rachel kept her eye on Bethia and Deydie, who’d put their heads together. Two more joined them, Amy and Moira. Rachel sewed faster—almost done. Simultaneously, all four of the quilters looked in her direction. What the hell? Moira was even worrying her lip.
Deydie led the group toward Rachel. Amy looked as if she was dragging Moira with her arm looped through hers. The look on Moira’s face said she’d rather be disemboweling a fish than part of whatever was going on here.
Rachel snipped the last thread and pulled the nearly completed quilt from the machine. The only thing left was the binding, but making a getaway right now seemed more urgent than finishing a gift for her mother. As Rachel pushed back her chair, Deydie hollered.
“Rachel! Lass! We’ve something to tell ye.” She said it so loud that Rachel couldn’t pretend she hadn’t heard her over the sewing machines. Besides, the rest of the room had gone quiet to see what the commotion was about.
She held the simple patchwork quilt close, not much protection as the ladies gathered around. She stood. “Yes? What is it?” She tried to sound friendly, but her concierge’s voice came rolling out of her mouth, the one she used when the proverbial poo was about to hit the fan.
“It’s about yere idea,” Bethia said gently.
Deydie moved closer, putting her hands on her hips. “Hell’s bells. There’s no time to beat around the bush. I’ll tell her.”
“Tell me what?” Rachel was trying to remain cool and calm.
“We’ve decided, since ye came up with the idea, that ye’ll be the one to make the announcement at the kirk tonight after the Christmas Eve service.”
Rachel elected to play dumb. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Deydie huffed, the raging bull in the ring, and about to run Rachel through with her horns. “At the end of the service when Father Andrew calls for the announcements, ye’ll git up and ask which one of us wears a size forty- four.”
“Forty-four?” Rachel asked, feeling more than a little dumbfounded.
“Aye,” Amy answered. “The size of the missing wellies.”
Deydie continued on as if Rachel was going along with this crazy plan. “I’ll make sure beforehand that the good Father knows ye have something to say.”
Rachel shook her head. “I’m not going to church. My mother’s coming into town today.”
Deydie turned red as if Rachel admitted to being best buds with Lucifer.
Bethia touched Rachel’s hand. “Everyone attends service here.”
“Everyone,” Amy chimed in.
Moira gave her a sad smile as if she wouldn’t go to church either, if she had to stand up and accuse one of their own that they were a thief. And Moira was married to the pastor!
“Ye understand why it would be best if it came from you, don’t ye?” Bethia said.
“Because it would be easier coming from someone outside of the community?” Rachel’s question was rhetorical. She knew the answer. So much for planning a B and B in Gandiegow. Her fledgling dream went up in flames before the blueprints could’ve been drawn. Her public accusation would taint everything Rachel did from here on out . . . especially becoming one of them.
“Just be firm,” Deydie said. “Tell them ye volunteered to get to the bottom of things.”
Rachel shook her head, not wanting to know the answer, but she asked it anyway. “What happens if no one says they wear the same size wellies?”
“Then tell the whole damned congregation—men and women—that they won’t be allowed to leave the building until ye make them try on a size forty-four.”
Rachel looked down at Deydie’s army boots. Though the woman had a personality the size of Paul Bunyan, her feet were small. The way Deydie was glaring at her, there was no sense arguing. No sense in telling them what she saw the other night. Someone was guilty.
She gazed at all four women and chose Bethia, figuring she might answer her truthfully without the pain of getting hit with a broom. “So having me do this is really about some cockeyed retribution?” For stealing Joe and making him live in the States with her and then bringing him home in an urn?
Bethia avoided her gaze.
Deydie pounded Rachel on the back. “Damned straight ye are. As sharp as a needle, too.”
* * *
Sitting at the dock in the wheelhouse of his boat, Brodie gazed out at the sea. He glanced down, his pencil hovering over the logbook; he forgot what he was supposed to write . . . again! He was effing useless this morning, as tired as he was, and not because he was distracted. Tuck had just left. Good riddance.
The fish didn’t cooperate today. Tuck’s help had been appreciated, but his incessant blather wasn’t. All in all, it had been a rotten morning on the sea. Brodie wished to reboot the day. But he wouldn’t regret last night, though he was wiped out now. He’d stayed awake, watching over Rachel and Hannah at the cottage. A stranger in Gandiegow was keeping an eye on Rachel. Well, Brodie was keeping an eye on her, too. He was determined to catch the bastard and find out what game he was playing at. Brodie must’ve been squeezing too hard because the pencil snapped in two.
With the lead half, he scribbled in the low numbers for the morning and then stalked off the boat. He’d kept his eye out earlier this morning for the man who was lurking around town, and he was going to keep scanning for him nonstop. But if Brodie didn’t get home and get a little shut-eye, he’d be driving the boat in his sleep this afternoon.
As he got to the walkway, he spied a woman with two very large roller bags coming from the parking lot.
“What in the world?”
It was a woman dressed in a long coat made of the MacFarlane tartan of red, white, and blue. She wore a matching tammie on her head. She was the same height as Rachel but a little thicker around the middle . . . and the last person I want to see. It was too late to pretend he’d forgotten something on the boat, because she’d already seen him, too.
Her look of shock was priceless and he felt satisfied, though it wasn’t exactly the Christian thing to think. Of course, her expression caught up with how she felt about him, transforming from stunned to general disapproval, which inhabited every nook and cranny on her face. The last time he’d seen that look of disgust was during Joe and Rachel’s wedding, leaving him no doubt Rachel had filled her mother in on the details of what they’d been doing at the ruins of Monadail Castle. What Brodie didn’t understand . . . was why.
But he
knew why Vivienne Granger was wearing the MacFarlane tartan. The Clachers were part of the MacFarlane clan. Rachel’s mother was making a statement to one and all. She stood with Joe Clacher. But Joe was dead.
She marched toward Brodie with an eyebrow raised, the type of woman to lead the charge into battle. He could see that trait in Rachel, too. Vivienne lifted her nose a little. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
“Aye.” What else could he say? He wasn’t happy to see her either, but he could be courteous. “I’ll show ye where to get settled. May I?” He held out his hands to take her bags, happy he’d cleaned up on the boat. Fish guts and her bluidy luggage wouldn’t go well together.
“I wasn’t expecting a bellboy, but you’ll do.” She stood back while he grabbed her bags. “Where will I be staying? At Rhona’s like I did before?”
“Nay. Rhona has moved to Dundee to help care for her grandbairns.” Brodie nodded his head in the right direction. “Gandiegow has two converted cottages which serve as the quilting dorms for the Kilts and Quilts retreat.”
“The what?”
Gads, he didn’t want to explain, but it would be rude to grunt instead of reply. While they walked, he told her about Cait’s venture and how the whole town had gotten involved. “Even yere daughter,” he said. “She’s been teaching her Gandiegow Christmas Tree quilt.”
For a second, Vivienne looked puzzled, but then nodded, putting the pieces together about which quilt he meant.
At Thistle Glen Lodge, he opened the door, remembering again the man who had been lurking in the dark. He would have to talk to Cait about making Rachel lock the doors during the night and the day. He held the door wide to let Vivienne go first.
He pointed down the hallway. “The bedrooms are beyond the living room. Unless, of course, ye’d like to sleep in one of the bedrooms upstairs.”
“Down here will be fine.” She frowned at him as if she didn’t know whether to give him a tip or not.
It Happened in Scotland Page 17
