She pulled a business card from her purse and handed it to him. “Here’s my contact information in case you need it.”
He glanced at the card and then at her with a raised brow. “You remind me of an older, wiser Kit MacKlenna, and now that I know you’re a vintner, it makes sense. She always wanted to own a vineyard. I doubt she’ll grow many grapes up there in the Highlands, but you never know when it comes to her. She’s a spitfire.”
“Elliott doesn’t like to talk about her.”
Dr. Lyles let out an exasperated sigh. “One of these days he’ll stop feeling guilty and stop grieving. That’s when he’ll heal more than his leg.” The doctor glanced at Meredith’s card again. “I’ll have to try your wine.” He stuck the card in his shirt pocket. “Come on. I’ll walk you to the elevator. You can probably get into ICU for a few minutes.”
“Where’s Kevin? Do you know?”
Dr. Lyles laughed. “Have you spent much time with him?”
“No, I just met him.”
“Kevin is a paramedic, a hunter, and an equestrian. He and Kit worked together at the Lexington Fire Department—”
“She was a fireman?”
“Paramedic. They were partners. He’d go out to the farm and ride. That’s how he met Elliott. They clicked. About a year after Elliott’s first surgery, he hired Kevin as his assistant and aide, and even sent him to flight school. Kevin flies them around in Elliott’s little Cessna. It adds to his charm, and the nurses love him. So, to answer your question, he’s probably in the nurses’ lounge. But don’t get me wrong, he’d take a bullet for Elliott, probably wearing a smile on his face.” They reached the bank of elevators, and Dr. Lyles pushed the up button. “Get some rest, Meredith. Doctor’s orders.”
After stepping into the elevator, she gave him a tight smile. “I’ll try, and thank you.”
She made her way back to the ICU. This time the staff didn’t ask her relationship to the patient, they just opened the door. Kevin was probably already in there.
The quiet chill, the antiseptic smells, and the beeping monitors were like a warning gate at a railroad stop. They got her attention and brought back a flood of memories. Taking another step would be the same as crashing through the barrier. She turned around, slapped the automatic door opener, and rushed out of the unit where she sat cross-legged on the recently mopped, cold and damp tiles.
Why am I doing this? Although she asked the question, she already knew the answer. Elliott made her feel like a woman, and she could temporarily forget what was ahead for her.
After a few minutes, she unwound her legs, stood, and somehow dug deep enough to push past the awful memories and reenter the ICU.
A nurse directed her to Elliott’s room. Beneath the wan face, the tubes, and IVs snaking around his arms and leg, he looked vulnerable. Louise’s words came rushing back. “Don’t hurt him,” she had said. How could Meredith hurt him when he did such a good job of that all by himself?
Beneath the ICU’s obnoxious medicinal odors, her discriminating nose scampered through all of the smells until she found his unique blend of outdoors and winter sun. I can’t deny the connection that exists between us. When she touched his hand, shock riddled through her. Cold, clammy fingers lay inert, unresponsive against her palm. “Elliott,” she whispered against his lips before she kissed him.
His eyelashes fluttered. “Hi, hen, I can feel my toes.”
“He repaired the graft. You should get better soon.”
“Get in bed with me.”
She tunneled her fingers through his hair. “Not tonight, honey. I have a headache.”
His lips curled up on the side.
“Louise and David are on their way.”
“Good,” he mouthed, then his head lolled to the side, and he drifted back to sleep.
The nurse came into the cubicle and stood at the opposite side of the bed, checking the IV. “You’ll have to leave now. We’ll take good care of him.”
Meredith appreciated the nurse’s sympathetic smile. She kissed him again, missing his warm kiss in return. How many hours ago had it been? Twenty-four? Forty-eight? Fear, buried beneath thick antiseptic smells, loomed large in the small cubicle. Dr. Lyles had told her Elliott would recover, but nothing was an absolute. Even those expected to heal died in hospitals. She didn’t want to leave, but neither did she want to cause a scene and upset the patients. The only consolation was that Kevin was in the building and David was en route.
Elliott was in danger. Meredith sensed it, and it wasn’t just his health. Asking David to come across the pond meant Elliott sensed it, too. Until he could protect himself, the snappy nurse would guard the door and David would guard Elliott.
Meredith checked the time—five o’clock. Her feet dragged down the non-descript tiled floor, mirroring her heart’s reluctance to leave him behind. If the situation was reversed, she felt certain he’d fight the nurses, administrators, and doctors to get his way, and more than likely win. He had that way about him.
By reversing directions, she found her way back to MacKlenna Farm and parked the car in the garage. She walked down the hallway and stopped at the portrait of Thomas MacKlenna’s granddaughter. The eyes, the chin, the cheekbones seemed familiar. Maybe Meredith would find something in her research.
Curiosity pulled Meredith down the polished oak hallway that spilled into an enormous foyer that smelled old. Not musty or molded, just old southern tradition. She reached the doorway to the front sitting room, separated from the dining room by two large partially opened pocket doors. Above the fireplace was an elaborate gold framed painting of a woman, probably in her late forties, with porcelain skin. Her black hair flowed down her back, and vivid green eyes followed Meredith around a room filled with the most exquisite early-American antiques she’d seen outside of a museum. With an appreciative glance at the artwork and collectibles, she decided maybe she was in a museum. The room was centuries old elegance personified.
For a long moment, she stared at the painting. Something niggled at her brain. Something important. Something she needed to know. But what? She hurried back down the hall toward the two women’s portraits. An art appraiser, she wasn’t, but she knew enough about art from the year she studied abroad to notice that the styles were very similar.
She leaned in, put her nose to the canvas and sniffed dust and age. At the bottom of the younger woman’s portrait were the initials S.M. She went back to the other painting and looked closely. S.M. “Sean MacKlenna? How interesting.”
Determined to return later and study the paintings, she climbed the stairs to her second floor bedroom. The majestic house seemed alive in the early morning hour, not with noise and activity, but with MacKlenna spirits. She closed her eyes and saw images of people in her mind’s eye, and she heard them, too—Scottish brogues, music, servants, children’s laughter.
Meredith felt connected to the house in an indescribable way.
Goose bumps peppered her arms and legs. A similar tingly sensation to what she experienced at the starting line of every race filled her with jittery excitement. She touched everything: the plaster wall, the wool carpet, the banister. She sniffed. Sniffed again. Lemon oil. What was it about this place that made her feel at home? Her hand slid along the smooth mahogany railing, coated with layers of polishing oil that had turned the wood a deep, golden brown.
Something beyond this world brought her here. Why?
Chapter Thirty-Two
MacKlenna Mansion – December 27
MEREDITH WOKE WITH a headache and upset stomach, symptoms of a hangover without any alcohol in her system. The clock on the bedside table screamed in a silent language, “You’ve only had four hours of sleep. What do you expect?”
She turned the clock face around. “Talk to the wall.” Then she rolled over and curled into a ball in the king-size, four-poster, cherry bed, but her eyes wouldn’t close. The sun bathed the room with warm light peering in between the slats of two shuttered and one unshuttered windows, al
l decorated with green chintz swags. The fabric coordinated with the earth tone green walls and white woodwork. Early eighteenth-and-nineteenth-century antiques lined the walls. Perfect harmony flowed through the room. Very feng shui.
She tossed aside the covers and walked across the room to get a closer look at three paintings labeled: Chimney Rock, Nebraska; South Pass, Wyoming; and The Blue Mountains, Oregon. The artist must have painted the scenes using earlier renderings as guides, because there were no paved roads, utility poles, or developments. As a child, she’d learned when facing a painting, the question to ask was: “How does it make you feel?”
Lonely.
As she gazed at the paintings a while longer, she was suddenly struck by a sense of joy—not happiness, but joy. She couldn’t reconcile those two emotions. All three paintings elicited the same response. She wasn’t at all surprised to find Kit’s name scribbled in the right hand corner of the canvases.
I would love to meet you someday, Kit MacKlenna.
Meredith stepped over to the Georgian-style writing desk set in a niche in front of a south-facing window. The shutters stood open, revealing a breathtaking view of the snow-covered, white-plank paddock. A magnificent chestnut stallion heavily bodied and muscled with three white stockings, stood in the center, head up, surveying his kingdom. She gripped the window frame. The horse was a dead-ringer for the stallion in a painting hanging in the winery’s office.
Her cell phone rang, and she answered the call before the second ring.
“We’re in Atlanta,” David said. “Our flight leaves in a couple of hours. “We’ll arrive around six o’clock your time, unless there’re weather delays. How’s Elliott?”
“He was groggy when I left at five. I haven’t called to check on him yet. I’ll do that and call you back.”
Meredith called the hospital and talked with Elliott’s nurse, who informed her he had slept well and had eaten breakfast. She then returned David’s call and gave him the encouraging news. Louise took his phone and asked Meredith to repeat the update. Louise’s voice no longer held the chill of Edinburgh. What had caused it to begin with and what caused the thaw? It didn’t matter, really. Meredith was just glad the frosty tone and attitude were gone. She’d learned the hard way that when someone hurt her, she typically avoided the person in the future. Louise would have to earn Meredith’s trust, and it would take more than a simple I’m sorry.
After a long shower, she followed the sweet strains of Christmas carols and the scent of coffee to a gourmet kitchen painted the color of melted butter with cherry cabinets, white woodwork, and stainless steel appliances. The room’s natural light from an entire windowed wall allowed the thoroughly modern kitchen to fit seamlessly into the historic home. She never would have picked that shade of yellow, but the warmth drew her into the room and made her want to sit and drink, not just a cup of coffee, but an entire pot.
A petite, buxom woman with white hair peeked around the open refrigerator door. “You must be Ms. Montgomery.”
“Mrs. Collins?” Meredith asked, offering a smile.
“My. My. Jake told me everything,” she said, making a tsking sound. “Dr. Fraser would’ve had himself in one pickle of a mess if you hadn’t been there to see to him. Lordy me, that man’s got to get a wife, or next time there won’t be nobody to pack him off to the hospital. Now,” she stopped to take a breath, “what can I get you for breakfast? Pancakes, scrambled eggs, an omelet maybe with cheddar and tomatoes and ham. I can throw on some home fries, too. I hear you’re from California. You probably just want tofu. Whatever that is, I don’t have it anyway.” She glanced back inside the refrigerator. “What was I doing when you came in here? I was looking for something.”
Meredith wanted to shrink back into the hallway and disappear as quickly as possible. “Do you have a coffee cup I could take with me to the hospital?”
“Leave without eating? Oh.” She glanced at the refrigerator, then back at Meredith. “I guess you do want to get to the hospital.” Mrs. Collins pulled a tumbler from the cabinet, filled it with coffee, and screwed on the lid. “Black coffee is what he said you drink. Never known him to be wrong about anything. Here.” She jutted out her hand, holding the steaming cup.
Meredith took the coffee. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll have time to eat one of your omelets.”
Mrs. Collins immediately brightened. “I’ll get a dozen of them organic eggs. I hear they eat a lot of them in California. Around here, we just eat whatever they got at Kroger. Don’t matter to me if the hens stay in their cages or run loose in the barnyard. An egg’s an egg.”
Meredith skedaddled, only to be attacked in the hallway by a golden retriever. “And who is this?” she asked. “You must be Tate.”
“That’s Tate all right,” Mrs. Collins yelled from the kitchen, “and he needs to go out. You don’t mind to take him for a little walk, do you? He don’t need a leash. In fact, if he runs off, just let him go. He’ll show up soon enough, just like a bad penny.”
If the dog didn’t need a leash and could run wild, why did Mrs. Collins want Meredith to take him out? She wasn’t about to ask. “Do you want to go outside, Tate? Maybe listen to some country music?”
He barked and ran toward the front door. Guess you want to escape Mrs. Collins, too.
Meredith grabbed her coat and walked out, zipping her jacket against the morning’s chilly air. She headed straight to the paddock for a better look at the chestnut stallion. Tate ran ahead of her. When she reached the fence, she climbed up on the lowest rail and leaned over the top plank. The horse whinnied and trotted over to her. “You’re beautiful.” Meredith rubbed his nose and blew into his nostrils. “What’s your name?”
“Stormy,” a voice behind her said. “He’s Kit’s horse. Nobody else can ride him.”
Meredith turned to see a tall, rail-thin, gray-haired man walking toward her. He was dressed in khakis, wearing a green Barbour jacket—the MacKlenna Farm uniform.
“You must be Meredith Montgomery?” His breath came out in a cloud of white.
“You have me at a disadvantage, Mr.—”
“Harrison Roberts. I’m CFO.” Although his eyes were an extraordinary shade of blue, they were bloodshot. “I called the hospital, but they wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“I talked to Elliott’s nurse about an hour ago. He had a good night and ate some breakfast. I’m on my way there now.”
Roberts pressed his lips into a tight seam. “Tell him to call me this afternoon. I guess you know someone killed our horse. It’s the insurance company’s opinion that an employee did it, and they’re not going to pay the claim. Elliott’s got to straighten this out.” Harrison unwrapped a throat lozenge and popped it into his mouth. “Anyway, nice meeting you.” He turned and stomped through the snow.
Meredith rubbed her arms, shaking off a general feeling of unease, and glanced around for Tate. The dog had vanished. Meredith gave Stormy a last pat, then hurried back to the house to gather her coffee, purse, and car keys to make a super stealthy getaway from the talkative Mrs. Collins.
On her way off the farm property, she stopped at the security gatehouse and notified the guard that Louise and David would arrive from Atlanta at six o’clock and needed a pickup from the airport. She left her contact information and headed back to the hospital.
The three previous trips down the two-lane Old Frankfort Pike had been in the dark. In the morning sun, every vista the road offered was more beautiful than the last. No wonder it was a historic byway. Miles of snowy pastures dotted with Thoroughbreds, white or black plank fences, and estate homes. It was clear to her now why Elliott felt torn between his Kentucky farm and his Highland hills.
She slowed the car and rolled down the window. Brisk air blew in her face, bringing crisp winter smells and wood smoke. Tears flashed in her eyes, partly from the smoke, partly from worry, partly because she just needed to cry. She pulled over to the side of the road and rested her forehead on the hand-polished wooden steering whee
l. On Christmas Day, she and Elliott had created a magical winter wonderland, and she wanted to escape to Fraser House again. Life had intruded into their kingdom, and as much as she wanted the situation to be different, she couldn’t change a damn thing. She couldn’t heal his leg. She couldn’t find the person responsible for killing his horse. She couldn’t cure cancer. But she could launch her wine. She wiped her eyes before tears clouded more than her vision, then pulled the car back onto the road.
Chapter Thirty-Three
University of Kentucky Medical Center – December 27
MEREDITH ENTERED THE ICU and found Elliott sleeping. Whiskers shadowed his face. She smiled, liking the rugged sexy look. With slightly tousled hair, a very different Elliott Fraser emerged. On second thought, he looked that way when he had made love to her. She pressed against the railing as she’d pressed against his body, feeling the hard planes of his muscular frame.
The hospital had stripped away most of his scent. With her discriminating nose, she picked through all the smells, breaking them down until she reached his essence—Scottish Highland pine forest and lavender. Comforted that she’d reclaimed him, she sat in the recliner next to the bed, turned on her iPad, and started through a long list of emails.
Her marketing VP, Gregory, had made several changes and attached the revised documents. She clicked open the PDFs. Damn. Balance and shading were all wrong. What was he thinking? It would take her hours to make corrections. Her frustration needed to simmer on low heat before she fired back an email she knew would piss him off.
Something or someone had to go. There weren’t enough hours in the day to mark off all the items on her daily list. They carried forward to the next day, ensuring that she started every morning where she should have ended the night before. If she hired a local genealogist, she wouldn’t have to finish the time-consuming research. That would help. Before she talked herself out of it, she sent Cate an email outlining the research parameters and asked her to contact the local historical society to find a researcher interested in completing the project. When Meredith hit the send icon, a heap of pressure lifted from her shoulders.
The Last MacKlenna Page 19
