Land of My Dreams

by Norma Gail

  “I’ll show you the dresses I brought and see if any of them will work.”

  “Janet will make certain you meet everyone there.”

  Bonny turned at the sound of a deep voice to find the big sheep farmer behind her.

  “Kieran, meet Bonny Bryant.” Janet nudged her, making her aware of her open-mouthed stare.

  He reached for her hand, engulfing it in his own large one. “Welcome. I hope you’re settling in all right.” His wide smile and sparkling eyes were warm and friendly.

  “Janet is taking good care of me.”

  “She’s the best. I have to rush. I’m meeting a sheep broker at the farm. Feasgar math, ladies.” With a nod, he headed toward the stairs, leaving the scent of an unfamiliar, but very masculine, aftershave in his wake.

  Bonny’s eyes followed him, wondering if the intriguing Professor MacDonell might attend the faculty party.

  The distinctive skirl of bagpipes filled the air as Bonny returned from her walk. A green Land Rover was parked down the street near the gate of a cemetery. She listened for a moment before opening her front door. She was too far from the center of town to hear the pipers who played for change on the street corners. Just like the day she arrived, the music came from the cemetery she had discovered on one of her walks.

  The next day, she and Janet climbed a hillside above the town. “When does the heather bloom?” She surveyed the scene spreading out before them. A virtual sea of the abundant plant covered the steep, round-topped mountains.

  “The peak comes in September and October. The hillsides will be covered in purple.”

  “It’s incredible now. I can’t imagine anything prettier.” Bonny took a sip of water from the bottle hooked to her belt, remembering her question from the day before. “I heard bagpipes last week when I arrived and again yesterday. Are they for funerals?”

  Janet met her eyes. “It’s Kieran. On Fridays, he stops at the flower shop and then goes to the kirkyard, the cemetery, where he visits the grave of his wife and baby. He plays his bagpipes for her.”

  “What happened?”

  “Ach, such a terrible thing, it’s still impossible to believe. Bronwyn died in childbirth two years ago, and the baby with her. It gets lonely on his isolated farm. I think he began teaching again to have more interaction with people. He loves farming the best, though. He’s a rare one—gentle, kind, and considerate.”

  His warm welcome and romantic way of dealing with such devastating loss caused her eyes to mist over. A man like that was one she could care for, but it was too soon to think of another relationship.

  Chapter Three: Kieran

  Kieran MacDonell felt as dreich as the weather. He stood at the window of his office in the old stone farmhouse on Loch Garry. Hillsides dotted with sheep spread out before him in the heavy rain. Two years ago that very day, his dreams died in one horrific instant. Now, the house was silent, empty of the joy and laughter so anticipated then.

  A knock interrupted his reverie, and his housekeeper, Eleanor, entered with a fresh pot of tea. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve in a futile attempt to hide his tears. Bronwyn’s photograph clattered to the floor from the window ledge where he’d placed it when Eleanor knocked.

  She set the tray on the desk, crossed the room, and laid her hand on his arm. “Bless you, lad. I miss her too. It’s a sair fecht, but dwelling on her death rather than moving forward with your life does not honor her.”

  He laid his hand on her small, work-worn one. “I know you’re right, but how can I put it behind me?”

  “Leave the past in the past, Kieran. There’s more to life than sheep. You’re but forty. You’ve a long life ahead of you.” She squeezed his hand, then turned and walked out, closing the door behind her.

  The night before, he had visited the bedroom he once shared with Bronwyn, fleeing back to his own room after only a few moments, pursued by myriad emotions raised by visiting their private sanctuary. In that room, they had shared love and laughter and conceived their son. He tried to face the future, but guilt and grief stopped him. Her life ended too soon. Liam, who would be a busy two-year-old by now, never had a chance.

  Sipping his tea, he recalled the moment he spotted Bonny Bryant at the faculty meeting. He had been preoccupied by thoughts of her ever since. Petite, she lacked Bronwyn’s classic beauty, but was pretty with a vital energy. The softness of her small hand and her sweet smile lingered in his mind. She impressed him as strong, yet somehow vulnerable. No woman except Bronwyn had ever affected him with such intensity. One of the other professors had explained to him how she came to be there, and it signaled courage worthy of admiration.

  He’d known a professor was coming from America. But he hadn’t anticipated this sensation of standing on a precipice, ready to plunge into the unknown.

  Kieran noticed Janet’s office door standing ajar when he entered the faculty office wing the following afternoon. Though classes didn’t begin for a few weeks, she sat at her desk, surrounded by textbooks and lesson plans, unaware of his presence until he cleared his throat.

  She startled, then smiled, shoving aside her papers and motioning toward a chair. “I don’t remember the last time you visited my office.”

  He looked at the floor, searching for the right words. “Janet, you’re my oldest friend. My life feels empty and void of purpose. I spend more time with sheep than people. I can’t move on.”

  He sat down and she reached for the hand he laid on the desk. “Ending one chapter doesn’t mean your life is over.”

  “Ach, Eleanor says the same thing.”

  “It pains me to see you still hurting so.”

  In frustration, he stood and walked to the window. “I have no one else to talk to. I need a change.” It was difficult to find adequate words to convey his feelings. “I know what you’re thinking, but church isn’t the answer. God abandoned me two years ago, and nothing since then has shown me He cares.”

  “I know better than to suggest church to you.” Coming up next to him, she nudged him in the ribs. “Besides, if you know what I’ll say, why ask for my advice? Every time I suggest anything, you tell me I’m meddling.”

  Her gentle chiding made him laugh. “You don’t give up, do you? You’re a good friend.”

  “I’d better head down to the car park.” She pointed out the window at the small figure below, the unmistakable red hair shining. “Bonny’s finished with her walk. You should get acquainted. You share some rather similar experiences.”

  He felt a stab of pain near his heart, along with a familiar sense of panic at the thought of caring for a woman other than Bronwyn. He turned toward the door. “I—not today.”

  “Stubborn Scot. I knew it was a waste of breath.” She began to gather her belongings. As he headed down the hall, she called, “Why don’t you come to the faculty party this year?”

  Kieran dug the steel blades on the toes of his boots deep into the damp earth, lifting the twenty-two-pound hammer to his shoulder. He swung his arms around and around and let fly the stone with its wood handle. It whooshed through the early morning air.

  Birds called in the thick woods surrounding the meadow. He peered through the mist, hearing the hammer land with a thud in the damp grass. He checked the distance against the markers set up in his practice area—118 feet. He picked up another hammer from the pile. Six more today and then he needed to check on the South pastures.

  Bronwyn’s voice echoed in his memory. Her encouraging cheers had urged him to the all-around championship at both Cowal and Braemar, the two most prestigious of the Highland Games. When he cut back to only two events, she had cheered as loudly as ever. “126 feet, Kieran, love. Give it your best, now.”

  The image of Bonny entered his mind as he dug in again. He swung the hammer around with determination and let it fly—125. Better. He sent another soaring through the air, then another, and so on until he exhausted the pile and himself.

  His morning ritual complete, he recorded his throws in a noteb
ook as he piled the hammers and stones into a wagon he kept in the barn. Ten throws of the light and heavy hammer, followed by ten more for each of the stones. The Ballater Games were one week away. Janet had attended his competitions since Bronwyn’s death. She cheered him on, providing the moral support of someone special in the sea of faces. Maybe she would bring Bonny along. Now that was a random thought.

  He replayed the conversation in Janet’s office as he stretched to cool down. Deciding who was right for him was none of her concern. He didn’t even know if he wanted a woman in his life. An isolated sheep farmer in Scotland had little to interest an American only in the country on a temporary basis.

  He stretched with care. The shoulder injury from three years ago at the Lochaber Games still flared up on occasion. He felt guilty contemplating showing off his strength for a woman other than Bronwyn, but …

  Dragging the wagon behind him across the uneven ground, Kieran wondered if Bonny would come. The games were ancient, and Janet was a thorough tour guide.

  Taking the back stairs two at a time, he sought refuge in his room before Eleanor’s sharp eyes could detect the frustration he never managed to hide. He flexed the muscles in his arms as he washed the sweat of the workout from his upper body. Then, he shrugged into a thick, brown sweater. Yes, a Highlander in his kilt impressed women, Americans in particular. She appeared somewhat younger, but he wasn’t in such bad shape for forty.

  He pulled on tan riding breeches and rubber Wellies for his rounds of the sheep pastures. Perhaps he should rub lanolin into his hands. Hard and calloused from farm labor, they felt as rough and scratchy as heather in winter. They were not the hands to impress a woman.

  By the time he reached the pasture, he’d made up his mind. He would consider attending the party.

  A driving rain pelted the windshield, the wipers swishing back and forth in a brisk rhythm as Janet drove along the winding, two-lane road. “It’s a dreich day. We’ll be drookit by the end of it.”

  Bonny laughed. “I keep hearing those terms. Definitions, please?”

  “Dreich is damp and rainy. Drookit is soaking wet. No self-respecting Scot lets rain stand in her way. You’ll enjoy Ballater, a lovely village in Aberdeenshire, about a half-day’s drive from Fort William. The area is known as Royal Deeside, near Balmoral, Queen Victoria’s favorite vacation place. Sorry, we’ll have to tour it another time. The royal family spends the month of August there.”

  Dressed in warm clothing, with her rain suit ready, Bonny marveled at the serene beauty. This was their first weekend excursion, and Janet had promised plenty more. Green hillsides, curtained in mist and sprinkled here and there with a farmhouse or castle ruin, held her rapt attention. “Thanks for your willingness to show me around. The pastures look like a painting with the white sheep on the green grass and all the dry-stone.

  Janet agreed, never taking her eyes off the road. “Aye, it’s lovely, but it’s also harsh and unforgiving. Not long ago, surviving in the Highlands required tremendous strength of constitution and character. It’s still tough for those who work the land. As for showing you around, I’m glad for a travel companion. I enjoy weekend outings.”

  Constitution and character—the words created a definite contrast between Kieran and Adam. She had no delusions as to the type of character the latter possessed. Why did he hold my attraction for so long?

  The big Scot had such masculine appeal. He had filled her thoughts since she first saw him in the faculty meeting. She was eager to watch him demonstrate the skill Janet talked about. It was too soon for another relationship, but it gave her a warm feeling to discover he had qualities beyond the good looks which had first attracted her attention. Paying too much attention to appearance had been part of her problem where Adam was concerned.

  Even before they reached Ballater, Bonny was captivated by the thick forests and heathered hills surrounding the quaint town. The forest floor was grassy and free of debris. Large groves of ferns flourished under the majestic trees, their towering trunks bright green with moss.

  The crowded, curving streets created the sensation of stepping back in time. The old-fashioned granite block buildings captivated her, as did the wood-sided train station, painted pale yellow and trimmed in red.

  They found a parking place on a side street, and loaded up with umbrellas and backpacks. Janet’s quick pace hurried Bonny along the uneven sidewalks. She stopped to stare into the window of a sporting goods shop displaying curling stones and a butcher shop exhibiting stacks of canned haggis. The little, unexpected cultural differences provided the kind of refreshing change that distracted her from the reasons for her uprooted life. She pictured Kari’s fiancé, Dan MacDowell, laughing if she sent him a can of haggis in honor of his own Scottish roots. Maybe she should. A Marine serving in Afghanistan needed a little humor to brighten his day.

  “We’ll look around tomorrow.” Janet pulled her along. “In the train station there’s a lovely display of Queen Victoria’s last visit. You can see her private suite and the dogcart her family used to travel from here to Balmoral. Right now, we need to hurry over to Monaltrie Park. We don’t want to miss anything.”

  “I didn’t expect such a beehive of activity.” Bonny surveyed the variety of activities as they paid their fee and entered the park. “It’s similar to a county fair back home.”

  Delightful aromas from the food booths filled the moisture-laden air, making her mouth water. Vendors displayed their produce, fresh meat, crafts, and clothing. The light, misty rain, which Janet referred to as mizzle, didn’t seem to affect the crowd.

  Janet directed her attention to a track with a grassy field in the center, surrounded by benches with people standing three and four deep behind them. A covered grandstand stood at one end. “Dignitaries and officials sit in the grandstand. The chief of Clan Farquharson and his wife will attend. There’s a MacIntosh in his ancestry, making him a distant relation of mine. You’ll see the Highland dancing contest under the tent and bagpipe competitions over there. Track events for various ages alternate with pipe bands marching around the field. There’s something different everywhere you turn.”

  Bonny heard Janet’s obvious pride in one of the grand traditions of her homeland. Then she pointed out a strapping Highlander. “There’s Kieran, changing his shirt. I try to attend his competitions since his wife died. He needs a friend.”

  Bonny sucked in a deep breath at the sight of his rippling muscles as he pulled on a faded blue T-shirt sporting a red lion, and reading “Scotland—The Tartan Army.” His blue and green kilt came almost to his knees, his legs showing sturdy and strong below it.

  “They compete in kilts?”

  “Tradition.”

  “What does the slogan mean?”

  “Our national football team. You call it soccer.”

  Bonny couldn’t take her eyes off the series of events Janet called “the heavies,” which required both strength and skill. But when Kieran took the field, she found herself ignoring the others. When he wasn’t competing, her eyes searched for his glowing red-blond hair in the area where the contestants stretched out on the wet grass, warming themselves with sweats and blankets while waiting on other events. She hadn’t felt this way since high school when she had a serious crush on the quarterback of the football team.

  Janet provided a helpful commentary. “Watch his intense concentration. Kieran’s one of the older athletes, competing only three or four times a year now. He’s had his turns at Braemar, though. He was national champion more than once.”

  Remembering an article she’d read on the Internet, Bonny asked, “Isn’t Braemar the final competition to determine the overall winners?”

  Janet raised her brows, with a nod of approval. “Aye, but the older you get, the more difficult it becomes to compete. He’s cut back his events to throwing the hammer and putting the stone. The light hammer and stone weigh sixteen pounds, and the heavy weighs twenty-two. He loves it too much to quit. He tossed the caber better than
anyone.”

  “How much does it weigh?” Bonny kept her eyes on a young giant, grunting with effort as he hefted the massive pole.

  “It’s nineteen and a half feet tall and weighs around 175 pounds. That’s Brennan Grant, one of our local athletes.”

  Bonny turned back to the field, where the young man failed to tumble the enormous caber end over end. She glanced at the math professor again. Fascination didn’t come close to describing her feelings. It didn’t hurt to know he was also kind and understood what it was to lose the most important people in your life. How ridiculous to spend so much time thinking of someone she knew so little about.

  The weather felt like autumn, but the hearty Scots appeared to be enjoying their summer weather, ignoring the constant drizzle punctuated by periods of pelting rain.

  “Thanks for suggesting the rain suit. I’m not used to this.” She smiled at the sight of children in sleeveless shirts and shorts, and a dapper-looking older couple strolling along in their tartans, licking ice cream cones and declaring it “a lovely day.”

  Bonny regarded the varied group of contestants gathering on the track, already dripping wet. The rain was coming down in buckets. “They’re going to run up that mountain in this?”

  “Aye, it’s tradition. They go around the track, down Bridge Street, across the River Dee, up the trail visible through the trees to the top of the mountain, then back. They’ll have a muddy mess today.”

  The crowd cheered with enthusiasm for their favorites while teams from towns, fire departments, and clubs competed, sliding in the mud, pulling and straining.

  Bonny laughed as a tug o’ war team lost its battle, sliding into the mud. She raised her voice over the cheering crowd and boisterous yells of the participants. “Tug o’ war must be a big thing here. At home you only see it at picnics and kids’ birthday parties. The grunts and groans make it sound serious.”

  Janet pointed to a group finishing their round, calling back and forth with threats of a sound thrashing in the next round, though the smiles and good-natured handshakes belied anything serious. “Everyone enjoys it.”