by Laurel Kerr
In contrast, the scowling Mr. Rude looked like a grumpy Paul Bunyan. Yet, when the man had stood and stared her down with his piercing blue eyes half hidden by a mop of dark-brown hair, she’d felt a thrill clean down to her toes. It hadn’t been the smooth pull of attraction. No this—this had been a searing bolt of primal energy. It was as if some elemental feminine instinct had instantly, and explosively, responded to his raw strength.
And there’d been something about his face. True, his unruly hair and beard had obscured his features, but June had always possessed an eye for a person’s bone structure. Her second talent after making jam was giving folks a makeover. And if anyone needed her helpful advice, it was Mr. Rude. Oh, he’d never be classically handsome. The planes of his face were too harsh. But with the right hairstyle and a trimmed beard, he’d look arresting, especially considering his cobalt-blue eyes.
But June had no desire to poke that particular bear on his snout by offering fashion tips…well, almost no desire. She did love a good project, and Mr. Rude would definitely provide a challenge.
“Hmmm, he may not be your type, but I’m detecting a classic June Winters glint in your eyes,” Katie said.
June smiled airily. “I’m just thinking about how I’d go about taming a wild Scot.”
Josh snorted. “That sounds like the title of a romance novel.”
“Oooo, I wonder what June’s crush would look like in a kilt,” Katie added. The brown in her eyes deepened, which always happened when she was developing concept art. Although June generally appreciated her friend’s graphic design brilliance, especially when she put it to use helping market June’s two businesses, this time she wished her friend had a smidgen less color in her imagination.
“I can see the book jacket now,” Katie said in her normal voice, before she turned it theatrically throaty. “Bulging biceps, ripped chest…hairy legs.”
June was just about to retort when Bowie broke into the conversation with something blessedly sensible. As the director of the zoo and a former single dad, he was as solid as granite, a trait June appreciated, especially in conversations like this one. “Wait. Was the guy Scottish?”
She nodded. “With a deep brogue. If my nan didn’t listen to Scottish music, I doubt I would have understood him.”
“Shit,” Bowie said, rubbing his hand over the back of his head. “That was probably Magnus Gray. I hope you didn’t scare him off. He’s supposed to start work at the zoo tomorrow.”
Katie turned toward her husband, her red curls swinging. “June’s guy is the mysterious writer who’s going to volunteer at the zoo for several months?”
“Unless June’s man is visiting Rocky Ridge National Park and was just passing through, but I doubt it,” Bowie said. “It isn’t tourist season, and we don’t generally have a lot of Brits in Sagebrush.”
“Dang blast it all,” June grumbled, “he’s Magnus Gray. I was planning to ask if he’d chat with Nan. During the Blitz, her parents sent her to live on the island he wrote about. She’s been listening to his audiobooks for years.”
The teasing glint left Katie’s eyes as she regarded June with a serious expression. “How is your grandma doing?”
June sighed, wishing she had something better to report. “I’m not sure. She keeps calling me in the dead of night, thinking we had some big kerfuffle and I’m angrier than a tomcat in the rain.”
“I know Lou can have his off days,” Bowie said, mentioning his eighty-year-old adoptive father who lived with him, Katie, and Abby, Bowie’s twelve-year-old daughter.
“I’m worried it’s more than just tiredness. This horrible, haunted look comes over her face as soon as the sun goes down. It’s like she’s constantly fretting about something fierce.”
“Why don’t you bring her by the zoo?” Katie asked. “The animals always cheer her up.”
“We’ll give her a personal tour,” Bowie promised. “I know how much your grandma loves the baby animals, and the orphaned polar bear cub is due to arrive soon. That’s one of the reasons Magnus contacted me. He had some experience with the species when he was a roughneck in Norway, and his editor had heard we’d received a grant from the Alliance for Polar Life.”
“His second bestseller was about polar bears,” June said. “Nan listened to that one too. She missed the animal anecdotes in his other books, though, so she stopped asking me to download them.”
“His email said something about getting back to his roots,” Bowie said. “I wasn’t going to turn down free labor, especially from someone with his background in caring for animals.”
“Why didn’t you recognize him just now?” Katie asked.
Bowie shrugged. “I didn’t know what the man looked like. Magnus is very private. I haven’t even talked to him on the phone. All of our correspondence was through email. When I researched him online to check out his credentials, the pictures I saw were taken from the back.”
“According to Nan, Magnus Gray would make a hermit seem downright sociable. Part of his mystique, I suppose.”
“He sounds like an ass,” Josh interjected with his typical bluntness.
“My sentiments exactly,” June said. “I was just being genteel. Poor Nan. She was tickled pink he was coming to town.”
“I don’t know, June,” Josh teased. “As you always say, if you try hard enough, you can charm a snake.”
“I’d rather try my luck with the actual reptile. They have a more pleasant personality, even the rattlers.”
* * *
Magnus rose before the sun. He wasn’t meeting Bowie until ten o’clock, but even years after leaving the croft, he couldn’t escape the rhythm of rural life. During his childhood, the responsibility for the farm animals had mainly fallen on Magnus, with his da off early on his trawler bringing in the day’s catch. Their Shetland sheep and shaggy Highland beef cows had been fairly self-sufficient, but the milch cows had required his attention before and after school. Once Magnus had finished the morning milking, he’d quickly toss feed in the chicken run before rowing to the larger island for class. In the evening, there’d always be a stone wall to repair or a barn to clean. And that was in the winter months.
Work had only intensified in the spring with lambing, calving, and planting. In the summers, Magnus had helped his da on the trawler, the two of them working in silence with only the sound of the waves lapping against the sides of the boat. Life on the oil rigs had been just as constant and demanding. Magnus had spent long shifts hefting hammers and wrenches as he kept the machinery working.
When Magnus had begun writing full time, he’d found himself fighting a low thrum of pent-up energy. Eventually, he’d buckled and begun lifting weights. In the past, he’d mocked the toonsers who paid good money to work out in sweaty, smelly indoor gyms instead of earning their muscles. And then Magnus had become one of them. But it was either exercise or go absolutely barmy.
As daft as it sounded, a part of Magnus actually looked forward to hauling feed and cleaning out pens again. It would be good to use his muscles for their intended purpose. He just wished it didn’t mean dealing with the zoo’s guests and all the townsfolk.
Luckily, the streets seemed fairly deserted as he left his B and B. Bowie Wilson had promised him lodging, but Magnus hadn’t wanted to bother looking the man up as soon as he’d arrived in town. Instead, he’d stayed the night at the Red Cliff Inn. The place didn’t serve breakfast until eight, but at least it had been clean, neat, and, most of all, quiet.
Thankfully, the Primrose, Magnolia & Thistle opened at six thirty. Up ahead, a welcoming glow seeped from a large picture window. Picking up his pace, Magnus could fairly taste the bangers and tattie scone. The fare on the menu was heavier than the food served by a traditional British tea shop, but he was in the States now. He supposed he should be grateful that a Wild West town like Sagebrush Flats even had something approaching a traditional Scottish breakfast. Althoug
h the name of it—the Hungry Scotsman Platter—made his hackles rise, he’d order the blasted thing. As long as a breakfast included black pudding and beans, he wouldn’t quibble over what a Yank called it. He supposed it was better than the Kilted Southerner, which was an appalling mix of Scottish and U.S. cooking. Proper white pudding should not be paired with grits. It just wasn’t done.
Magnus pushed open the door, and a little bell chimed. Two older men with sun-leathered skin and cowboy hats glanced up at his entrance. Their eyes scanned him briefly, taking his measure. They might dress a wee bit different than the old folks back home, but they were all the same. Magnus bobbed his head politely. The men returned the gesture. Their assessment of him complete, they returned their attention to the more important matter of breakfast.
Magnus turned toward the front of the tea shop and froze. Behind the counter stood the blond lass from the Prairie Dog Café. She’d wrapped her long, wheat-colored hair into a comely top knot that drew Magnus’s attention to the graceful lines of her neck. For a minute, he went utterly doolally and imagined planting his lips there. Because of his cursed imagination, he could practically feel her shiver in his arms and see those pink lips part as she groaned. Baws, he’d be sporting a fair stauner if he didn’t stop the direction of his thoughts.
The woman smiled, and her green eyes sparkled with an unholy chirpiness, especially given the early hour. Magnus wondered if she’d divined his thoughts. She did look a bit like a fae creature despite her height. One thing was certain. She didn’t look either goosed or hungover—just happy to the point of being mental.
“Hi there, stranger.” She grinned broadly. “Welcome to my tea shop.”
“Fuck me. You bloody own this place?” His dismayed shock had evidently startled the stutter right out of him. He didn’t even block on the P, which generally gave him trouble.
To his amazement, the lass’s smile didn’t turn brittle at his crudeness. In fact, it stretched a little farther northward in pure glee. The barmy hen was taking delight in his misery.
“I sure do. Now how can I help you, Magnus?”
He glowered. How the fuck did the lass know his name? She must have read the confusion on his face.
“We don’t get many Scots here in Sagebrush, especially in the winter. When I mentioned your accent, Bowie figured it was you.”
Magnus scowled. Damn it all to hell. And damn the nosy lass too. Was the whole town gossiping about him now?
“So,” the woman asked, leaning across the tall glass counter that showcased various pastries, “what can I get you?”
“I’ll be having the Hungry Scotsman P-P-P…” His throat closed up. He couldn’t fight the tightness. He stood there stuck on the P as he helplessly watched the lass’s face. He wondered in those long seconds of horror what her expression would be. Frustrated annoyance like his da? Amusement like his classmates? Pity like the headmistress? Discomfort like the townsfolk? He’d witnessed them all…or so he’d thought.
A light flickered in the lass’s eyes as if she’d just solved a challenging riddle. Then she stuck her arms akimbo and delivered a look a mum would give to a lad who wanted to quit football just because his team got mullered. At least Magnus assumed that was the look. He’d never had time to play sports, and his mum had bunked off when the allure of mainland Scotland had grown too strong for her.
“Now why didn’t you tell me that you were a person who stuttered?” June asked. “I would have understood, honey. Is swearing one of your avoidances? You don’t need to worry around me. Just be yourself. I don’t mind disfluency. And people who do can go straight to the devil.”
Magnus blinked. The woman made his head spin faster than a weathercock in a gale.
“Disfluency?”
“Do you prefer another term?”
Magnus rubbed his head. He couldn’t help it. What he preferred was to be left alone, but it didn’t appear the fae lass would grant him that particular wish.
“What one would you like me to use? My brother, August, is pretty flexible about terminology, but I know some people prefer certain words over others.”
“Your brother?” Why the hell was she blethering about her sibling?
“He’s a person who stutters,” the lass said. “I did too in elementary school, but I’ve been fluent for years. It’s partially why I speak like a southerner. My mama’s from Georgia, but I grew up all over the world. But that doesn’t mean I use my drawl as an avoidance. It’s how I talk naturally, and the slower cadence gives me more control over my rate of speech. The experts say speaking with a fake accent only works for so long, you know.”
The deluge of information pelted Magnus like spray from an arctic wave. The woman could drown a body in random facts. She talked funny, and he didn’t mean her drawl. She sounded like a bloody medical pamphlet from the National Health Service.
“So?” the lass asked, with an expectant expression on her face. He simply stared back in confusion. A bloke needed a compass to navigate her speech.
“What term do you prefer instead of disfluency?” she clarified.
“I don’t give a shite,” Magnus said in frustration. Why the hell would he care what she called his damn stutter? He wanted to live free of the bloody thing. Calling it something different would never change how people reacted to it.
“I’m sensing you don’t like talking about it.”
“Aye, that’s right.”
She leaned over the counter and said in quiet seriousness, “Ignoring it won’t make it go away. My brother tried that for years, but August found it was easier if he just told people up front. He’s a JAG officer in the Air Force now.”
Was she giving him advice on his own stutter? Magnus glowered. For once, the blond heeded his look. She straightened, but the welcoming smile returned. What was it about her pink lips that made him think of snogging when the woman herself was nothing but a constant vexation? She had him in a snirl. And he didn’t like it.
“So,” the lass said conversationally, “what would you like to order?”
Magnus opened his mouth to respond and discovered he’d lost his appetite. The lass had ruined his ale and now his breakfast. “Fuck me.”
Without giving the hen a chance to react, he turned and left the tea shop. He’d eat at the bloody B and B.
It wasn’t until Magnus was halfway down the street that a realization struck him. He hadn’t stumbled over his words once since the lass had started havering about disfluency. In fact, he hadn’t even thought about stuttering. Not once. Which never happened. Especially in the company of a stranger. An annoying one at that.
* * *
Honey was bored. It was a frequent occurrence, but that didn’t mean she liked it. She was a clever, daring honey badger, and she did not belong in any zoo. No, she belonged in Africa. She should be running through the bush, killing cobras, robbing beehives, and chasing away hyenas. Not that she had ever done any of those things, but she would be very good at them. Very good.
Unfortunately, her skills had been wasted since birth. Her first memories were of growing up in a house, which she’d hated. There were only so many cupboards she could raid. She’d become very good at learning to get into places where the silly bipeds did not wish for her to go.
Honey smiled. That, at least, had been fun, not as exciting as tussling with an apex predator like a lion…but she had enjoyed watching her old human’s face turn red. The vein on his forehead would do the most interesting things.
One day, people in matching clothes had invaded her old home. They’d rudely placed Honey in a small carrier and lugged her to a vehicle that reeked of other animals. Although she had loved sneaking rides in her old human’s car and tearing up the upholstered interior, she had not enjoyed the smelly van.
Then Honey had arrived here. The zoo. Her new home had a nice shade tree, and the humans gave her “enrichment” t
oys…
But there was a monumental problem with her new residence. Him.
Honey detested sharing her enclosure, even with her own kind. And Fluffy was especially intolerable. Even his name was ridiculous. Their species was not fluffy, neither in temperament nor in looks. They were mean with coarse fur. No suitable mustelid would go by “Fluffy.”
But he had the audacity to act superior to her. And she fully intended to prove him wrong.
Chapter 2
June watched in shock as the giant Scotsman once again stormed away from her. He slammed the door to the tea shop so hard, she swore the building shook. Poor Stanley Harris and Buck Montgomery jumped at the sound. The two regulars turned toward her, their eyes wide.
“What did you say to make the newcomer go off half-cocked like that?” Buck asked.
“Nothing,” June said. “I was just making polite conversation, that’s all. Some folks don’t have any manners these days.”
Neither Buck nor Stanley seemed convinced, and they both loved a good story. “I don’t know, Miss Winters,” Stanley said, tipping back his cowboy hat in a clear effort to get a better look at her face. “He sure seemed mad.”
Buck nodded sagely. “Reminded me of a bull at the rodeo with his privates all cinched up.”
Luckily, June was saved from answering by the sudden appearance of her nan. Buck instantly flushed. Everyone knew Clara Winters didn’t tolerate swearing or any off-color remarks in her tea shop. June might own and run it, but Clara remained queen.
But instead of her grandmother’s hazel eyes lighting with proper indignation at Buck’s breach of etiquette, they remained glassy and a little unfocused. With an almost childlike expression, she glanced around the room, looking like a wizened apple doll in a folk-art museum. June’s heart squeezed at the sight as worry thrummed through her. Although her nan was in her nineties, until the last couple of weeks she’d been an energetic woman. Even with her petite frame, June’s grandmother had always exuded a stalwart stoutness—a steeliness forged during the opening months of the Battle of Britain and refined through years as a military wife. Sure, she required more sleep than she had when June was a child, but Nan still pitched in at the tea shop and helped June create new recipes for her growing jam business. Strangers always thought Nan was in her seventies, which was a compliment considering that was two decades younger than her real age. But lately something had changed, and a brittleness had fallen over June’s grandmother like a witch’s curse.
