Hannah looked up at Robena. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay, sweets.” She smiled at Hannah fondly before turning to Abraham. “Happy Christmas, Da. Thanks for having us.”
“’Twas the lass’s idea,” Grandda said.
His mother winced, but Keith jumped in to the rescue.
“It was a grand idea.” He squatted down in front of Hannah and extended his hand. “We haven’t met. I’m Keith.”
Curiously, Hannah glanced from Keith to Robena, and then back to Keith. “Are ye my grandda?”
Keith chuckled and rubbed her head as he stood. “I’m Robena’s husband,” he said proudly.
“If she’s my auntie,” Hannah said, “then ye must be my uncle.”
“That would be fine.” Rachel seemed to physically guide Hannah in a different direction by turning her body toward her stack of toys. “Why don’t you get your stroller and your dolls and show them to your auntie.”
His mother’s smile toward Rachel seemed grateful. But Brodie knew Rachel had done it for him. He was sure of it.
Vivienne and Robena hit it off as if they both were acting like doting grandmothers, each one commenting on how cute Hannah was. Harry wandered into the room. Brodie started to introduce Harry to his mother and Keith, planning to keep it short, but the little princess took Harry by the hand and laid out his story to both Robena and Keith . . . twice. Thankfully, Harry hadn’t shared the bit about looking for his da with the wee lass.
Harry appeared highly uncomfortable with the attention, but he didn’t remove his hand from Hannah’s. The princess had won over more than one frog in the room.
“Ye’ve got to see the pillowcase,” Hannah said to Robena, dropping Harry’s hand and tearing out of the room.
“What pillowcase?” his mother asked.
Before he or Rachel could say anything, Harry piped in. “Rachel made Brodie a pillowcase with a partridge on it.”
“Oh?” His mother’s eyebrows lifted into the air. Her eagle gaze went from him to Rachel to the locket, and then back to him again.
Damn Harry. Here Brodie was just praising the kid’s good sense that he knew how to keep his mouth shut.
Hannah was back and thrust it at his mother. “Isn’t it bee-oot-iful?”
“Very.” His mother looked as if she had the wrong idea about what was going on between him and Rachel. She neatly folded the pillowcase so the partridge showed on top, laid it on her leg, and patted it gently as if it were a babe’s bottom.
Brodie couldn’t stand it. He popped up and snatched the pillowcase. “I’ll put this away.” He didn’t look at any of their faces as he went straight upstairs to his room and shoved the damned partridge under his pillow.
When he returned to the parlor, something had happened. The air was filled with awkward tension.
Robena stood, looking sheepish. “Da, should I go make the Christmas punch?”
Once again, Brodie got a glimpse of what it must’ve been like for his mother growing up. In this cottage, she never acted like the strong woman that Brodie knew her to be.
“Christmas punch, Christmas punch,” Hannah sang.
Abraham nodded. “Aye. Thank ye, daughter.”
Robena beamed before hurrying from the room.
Brodie followed her into the kitchen. He stood in the doorway as she pulled the cranberries from the refrigerator.
“Ye’ll have to make the bairn version of yere punch.” He remembered her making it when he was a lad.
“Aye.” Robena stopped and smiled at him. “She’s a sweet child. ’Tis a shame Joe isn’t here; a shame she’s growing up without a father.”
Brodie stepped farther into the room. “I thank ye for coming.” He should’ve extended the invitation to her weeks ago—no—years ago.
Her smile held love for him. “It’s my pleasure.” She looked hopeful that the tension between them was gone.
But Brodie had an old streak of hurt that lashed out as if he were a kid again, ready to douse her hope. “Hannah wanted ye here.” He walked from the kitchen and stood in the hallway, hating himself. Why couldn’t he get over something small, like his mother being disloyal to his father’s memory?
A scripture from Sunday service came back to him. When I became a man, I put aside childish things. He hadn’t completely. Brodie held on to his resentment like a lifeline. But it was Christmas, the New Year only days away. He wanted to be a better man moving forward. He marched back into the kitchen.
“Mum?”
She turned and faced him, her cheeks red, and her eyes wary as if preparing herself for another jab.
“I’m sorry. For hurtin’ ye just now. I really am glad ye came.” Because he’d been a total jerk, he went the extra mile. “I’m glad Keith came, too.” Though Brodie didn’t fully mean it.
But Keith had been perfectly nice to everyone, including himself. Hannah had taken quite a shine to him, which only spoke well of Keith. Abraham seemed to enjoy having his company, too.
His mother didn’t say anything, almost as if she was waiting for more.
“I hope ye’ll forgive me.” Brodie didn’t stay to see if she accepted it. He couldn’t. What if she’s like me and isn’t the forgiving type, too?
After the punch was carried into the room and everyone had had a glass, his mother claimed they needed to head home—animals to tend to. Brodie knew the truth. He’d caused her to leave early.
“We better get to the quilting dorm, also,” Rachel said, nodding to Hannah, who was rocking in the chair he’d given her, looking ready to nose-dive because she was so tired.
“Vivienne, I’ll get yere bag from upstairs,” Brodie said. “Harry?”
The teen looked up.
“Follow me and I’ll show ye to yere room.”
Upstairs, Brodie pointed out the bedroom, the loo, and where the towels were kept in the linen closet. From his own room, he pulled out a clean T-shirt and sweatpants for Harry. Before he left, he took Rachel’s present from his drawer, hoping to have a moment to hand it off to her. He shoved the wrapped notebook under his arm and met the kid out in the hallway with the clean clothes. “These’ll swim on ye while yere things are being washed. But ye need to take a shower. When ye’re done, check on Abraham to see if he needs anything.”
He waited for the kid to nod.
“I’ll be back.”
When Brodie returned downstairs, he shoved Rachel’s present into the inside pocket of his jacket. The day was nearly through, his duty nearly over. He would carry Vivienne’s luggage back to the dorm this one last time.
But the gift weighed heavy on the inside of his coat. He had to give it to Rachel tonight, because this was it. He wouldn’t see her again. He’d do everything in his power to steer clear of her as if she were the dangerous line of rocks half a nautical mile from Gandiegow.
The females each told Abraham good night, the little one making outrageous promises to be back early in the morning. She looked as if she might sleep until the New Year.
As Brodie walked them through the village and then to the foot of the bluff, he thought how he’d developed a habit of escorting Rachel around town. Well, that was ending, too.
He planned to leave Vivienne’s roller bag just inside the doorway, but Hannah had other plans.
“Mommy, I want Brodie to put me to bed.”
Rachel did a pretty good job when it came to reading him. “Honey, he can’t. He has to get home so he can get to bed, too.” But the word bed seemed to get caught on her teeth on its way out.
Vivienne—halfway down the hall already—stopped at the word bed, too, her back stiffening as straight as the planks on his boat. She hesitated, but then she continued on to the bedroom.
Brodie couldn’t help going to the same place he assumed Rachel had. Their time together had been all-consuming, but he put the image o
ut of his mind. However, he couldn’t prevent hearing Love me, Brodie every other second. Gads! He’d needed a new playlist to get rid of this particular love song that was stuck in his head.
Hannah wrapped an arm around his leg as if she was anchoring him to the spot. “Please, cousin Brodie. I want ye to tell me a story.”
He sighed. Good thing he wasn’t her father; he had a hard time telling the lass no. “Okay. But only one.”
“She’ll be ready in a minute.” Rachel took her by the hand and led her down the hallway.
Brodie was left with his own thoughts. They were crazy thoughts. Thoughts about him and Rachel . . . together. What that might look like. How he might feel if he was Hannah’s father. But he waved them away with his hand. “Childish things,” he said to himself. He’d had these visions before . . . six years ago. But they weren’t real.
“She’s ready,” Rachel said.
Brodie plodded down the hallway, noticing Vivienne was in his room with the door shut. He went to the room Hannah shared with her mother. Rachel pulled Hannah’s covers up, going to stand in the doorway, but going no farther as if she were attached to him by an invisible fishing line. A stack of picture books was beside Hannah’s bed. He picked up the one from the top and flipped through the pages. “Do you have a particular story you want to hear?”
“Aye,” Hannah said. “Tell me a story about my daddy.”
Chapter Fifteen
Rachel stepped outside the room and leaned against the wall, feeling as shocked as Brodie must be with her daughter’s request. She listened while he shared the antics of two wild and free boys who had the world at their fingertips. There was a vast difference between how Brodie and Joe were raised and the life Hannah led.
Her daughter was growing up in a world of locked doors, predators, and dangers around every Chicago street corner. Rachel dreaded the day, not too long from now, when Hannah would begin kindergarten and have to walk to the school four blocks from the Winderly Towers.
But as soon as Rachel thought it, a comforting image appeared in her mind’s eye—her own bed and breakfast, sitting next door to Thistle Glen Lodge. But it was only a deluded fantasy. There would be no future with Brodie; he’d made that clear.
Wait a minute, the little voice in her head said. Not the same voice which had been cheerleading for a lifetime with Brodie. This was a different voice, one that had only recently been vying for Rachel’s attention.
What does owning a bed and breakfast have to do with Brodie? Can’t you build a B and B anywhere you damn well please? Can’t you raise your child here if you want? But these empowering thoughts only presented more complications, more questions, and more decisions to make.
Rachel hadn’t touched Joe’s life insurance money, not a dime. She didn’t feel as if she should. They had been separated when he’d died and were planning to get a divorce.
“Good night, princess,” Brodie said.
Rachel peeked back into the room. Hannah wrapped her arms around his neck. “I love ye, Brodie.”
He stilled, but then he whispered to her daughter, “I love ye, too.”
The words nearly crushed Rachel. She was so conflicted. She wanted those words for herself. She wiped away the mist that had sprung to her eyes. But if she couldn’t get his love, at least her daughter could. She stepped away from the door before he found her spying.
She waited for him in the living room. When he appeared, she handed him his coat. “Thank you for doing that. You made her day.”
Brodie smiled, but it wasn’t really at Rachel. “She made everyone’s day. Grandda couldn’t have been happier. I hope ye’ll bring her back for more Christmases . . . for Grandda’s sake.”
Rachel gave a noncommittal shrug. Not because she didn’t want Hannah to spend her Christmases with Abraham, but because the future, a new version of it, was only now coming into focus.
“Come outside with me for a second,” he said.
She couldn’t help it—her old rampant imagination went into overdrive, hoping he meant to give her a good night kiss. She slipped on her coat and followed him out.
“I wanted to get ye alone.”
She waited for him to make the move. But instead, he reached inside his coat and pulled out a small wrapped package. He handed it over.
“Yere Christmas gift.”
She motioned to the cottage and the tree inside. “But you already gave me a lovely gift. Our tree and the partridge on the top.”
He looked as if he was struggling with something. He turned away. “Thank you for the pillowcase.”
“I hoped it was all right that you had to open it in front of everyone,” she said honestly. “I never meant for that to happen.”
“It was no big deal.” But he seemed to work at keeping his emotions under control.
“Sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay.” He motioned to the package in her hand. “Open it.”
She pulled back the paper to reveal a dark brown leather cover with a Celtic knot stamped into the top. “It’s beautiful.” She opened the notebook to reveal thick parchment paper.
“I saw it and thought you would like it. I know how ye like to sketch.” Then he looked injured. “At least ye did . . . before.”
Before I backed out on our future together. She really couldn’t blame him that he wanted nothing to do with her now.
He said something very quietly.
“What?” She heard the word leaving. Was he asking her to stay?
“I said . . .” His voice was thick with emotion. “When are ye leaving?”
She stared at him, once again kicking herself that she had gotten it all wrong. “I don’t know.” She looked down at the Celtic notebook in her hand.
He tipped her chin up. He dropped his hand and stood tall. “Good-bye, Rachel.” His eyes lingered on her, as if taking a mental photograph, and then he walked away.
As he did, the fog lifted and she realized what had just happened. He hadn’t said good night, he’d said good-bye.
She wanted to run after him, but he was already through the buildings and on the walkway toward home. It wouldn’t do any good anyway. The magic of Christmas was over. Brodie had stayed true and right from the beginning: Nothing will change between us. Her second chance with Brodie was truly gone.
* * *
Cait waited on the sofa as her husband, Graham, turned off the lamp in the parlor. The Christmas tree lights and the glow of the fire, plus the soft music in the background, provided the perfect ambience. Deydie had gone home for the evening and Mattie was in bed. Cait felt jittery inside for what she needed to tell Graham.
But they’d been down this path before and it had ended in sorrow, disappointment, and shame. A million times she’d asked herself what was wrong with her that she couldn’t carry a baby for very long. But today marked the first day of her second trimester. She wasn’t feeling wholly safe she would carry this baby full-term, but she would keep the secret no longer from the love of her life.
Graham gazed at her from across the room. “Finally. Alone at last. Two months is a long time to be away from ye, lass. I’m so glad to be home.” His brogue was especially heavy when he had love on his mind, as he did now.
“Come, husband. Sit.” She patted the seat beside her on the sofa.
He strode across the room, giving her the smile a million women had swooned over, but this smile was only for her. He draped his arm around her shoulders as he nestled up beside her. “Happy Christmas.” He kissed her thoroughly and deeply.
God, how she loved this man. She laid a hand on his chest when he was done. “Enough with that until after we talk.” She reached over and opened the drawer of the side table, pulling out the wrapped baby stocking. “I have one more Christmas gift for you.”
He didn’t take it right away, but gazed into her eyes. “But ye’re the on
ly present I need, my love. Don’t ye know that?”
“Open it,” she said.
He removed his arm from around her shoulder and tore open the package. The baby stocking fell into his lap. He lifted it up. “What’s this?”
She chewed her lip and waited. “What do you think it is?” She gave him her best ye’re-a-smart-man-figure-it-out look.
“Is it for Dingus?”
The Sheltie’s head popped up from the pillow by the fireplace.
“Not for the dog,” she said, giving him mock frustration.
Realization grew across his face, along with pure joy, but just as quickly, he turned guarded. She understood.
“Does this mean ye’re nesting?” The excitement wasn’t there as when she’d missed her period the first time . . . then miscarried. He’d been in New Zealand and she had been here. The loss of the baby and the separation from him had been nearly unbearable.
“Aye. I’m nesting.”
“When?” he asked cautiously.
She took his hand and squeezed it. “I’m four months today.”
A hurt expression crossed his face, but he pulled her to him, hugging her anyway. “I’m happy. Really I am. But ye have to know, ye’re all I need. If this doesn’t pan out . . .”
Anger shot through her. “No negative thoughts. We’re not going to talk that way! We’re only going to think positive.” Cait clutched her abdomen. “I want this baby!”
There was a gasp in the doorway. Both she and Graham cranked around to see Deydie standing there gob smacked.
“What baby?” her grandmother growled. “Ye’re pregnant and didn’t have the decency to tell yere own relation? Well, that’s a fine kettle of fish.”
“Gran,” Cait pleaded while unfolding herself from the couch. “I didn’t want to get yere hopes up again.”
“She only just told me,” Graham complained, “and I’m her husband.” He definitely wasn’t happy that she’d waited to tell him, too.
Cait looked from one to the other. This wasn’t how she’d planned it. “I’m going to bed.” She stomped from the room and fled up the stairs, knowing her hormones were making her more emotional than usual.
It Happened in Scotland Page 24
