The Highlander Next Door

by Janet Chapman

  “Mostly just by my dad.” Birch sighed. “Does it count if they spend time in the same room?”

  Niall looked at her, his surprise obvious. “Ye see your father regularly?”

  “Well, of course I do. He’s my father. Before we moved here, I saw him at least every other weekend.”

  He dropped his gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said, making Birch realize she had sounded defensive. “It’s just that Hazel mentioned they had never married.”

  “No, but he was—is—an important part of my life.” She sighed again. “Do you think I’m ever going to get Mimi to stop snapping at every man she meets?”

  Niall looked up, the firelight revealing his amusement. “Not if she keeps taking her cues from you.”

  At least she hoped that was amusement. Maybe she should act on her powerful desire and kiss him.

  “Birch.”

  Yeah, that would be a neighborly thing to do. It certainly should let him know she was game for an affair if he was.

  “Birch.”

  No, she better not, seeing how he was hurt. Because of course he’d want to pull her into his arms and kiss her back, and he’d hurt himself even more.

  “Miss Callahan.”

  Well there he went growling at her again. Only not in a mean way, exactly, but rather . . . well, sort of carnal. “What?” she asked, lifting her gaze to his.

  “Do I have blueberries on my chin?”

  She squinted at him. “Ah, no. Why?”

  “Because ye look ready to come at me the same way ye did the pie.”

  She snapped her gaze to his again, and yup, the laughter she’d heard in his voice was dancing in his eyes. But she also saw something else; sort of an underlying . . . awareness that sent prickles of heat shooting through her. Nope, she better not kiss him. “So, do you?” she asked instead.

  “Do I what?” he asked back, staring at her mouth again.

  Want to have an affair with me. “Do you think Mimi’s too old to learn to trust dogs and men?”

  She almost laughed out loud when those gorgeous eyes narrowed. Which reminded her that easy to confound was right up there on her list of reasons she didn’t hate men, probably not far from easily distracted. Heck, most guys lost their train of thought if a girl simply smiled at them. And apparently Scots were no exception.

  “How old is she?”

  “Who?” Birch asked, trying to remember the conversation. “Ah, she just turned five,” she said, hoping to God they’d been talking about Mimi.

  Shep crawled forward on his belly, but this time instead of going for her nose, the dog touched Mimi’s paw—which made the little brat attack Niall’s stroking thumb.

  “Have ye been up to Nova Mare yet?” Niall asked.

  Birch stopped in mid-reach as she was just about to rescue him and dropped her hands. “No, actually, I haven’t. My interview with Olivia was here at the shelter. I have been to Inglenook, though.” She smiled. “Olivia let me raid the resort’s stockroom, and I filled my car with household supplies and all sorts of fancy little toiletries for the residents.” She started to reach for Mimi again, but stopped when Niall shook his head.

  “She’s fine, Birch. Five years of being afraid isn’t going to disappear in two minutes—or ever, if you keep rescuing her.”

  “I was rescuing you.”

  “I’ve had worse mosquito bites,” he said with a chuckle. “So what would ye say to my taking you to dinner at Nova Mare this Friday evening? Though Aeolus’s Whisper is known for its world-class dining, the view of Bottomless is even more spectacular.”

  The man was actually asking her out!

  Wow; a kiss and a date on the same day. And not just any old date, but dinner at Nova Mare’s super-exclusive restaurant. Mon Dieu, she’d heard the surf and turf there was—Birch suddenly stiffened. But then she just as suddenly deflated. “Oh, Niall, please don’t take me to such a fancy restaurant.” She gave him a warm smile when he stiffened. “I’d really be just as happy going to the Drunken Moose or the Bottoms Up, or even to a restaurant in Turtleback.”

  “But I want to take you to Aeolus’s Whisper.”

  “But you can’t,” she shot back, losing her smile. “I’ve heard all about Aeolus’s, and it’s too expensive.”

  “I’m paying.”

  “You can’t,” she repeated, “because you’re a cop.”

  There were several heartbeats of silence. “What,” he asked really softly, the growl back in his voice, “is that supposed to mean?”

  Birch got to her knees to look him level in the eyes. “It means you can’t afford to blow an entire week’s salary on one date,” she growled right back at him. “You want to impress me, then rent a boat and take me fishing. Or better yet, invite me to go hiking on one of the trails along the fiord. Or on a picnic. Or kayaking. Or anything,” she said, waving at nothing, “that doesn’t look like you’re trying to buy your way into my panties.”

  Birch sat back on her heels when Mimi was suddenly shoved into her arms, and actually flinched when Niall got to his feet and silently walked away. Shep also stood, hesitated as he looked at her, then padded up the lawn after his master.

  “Hey,” she called after them. “You can’t just leave the campfire burning.”

  Birch then called him a nasty name—not out loud—when he disappeared into the darkness without responding, only to flinch again when a plume of steam suddenly shot into the air with a boiling hiss. She looked over to see a wave lapping at the hot coals and realized he wasn’t worried about the campfire because the tide was putting it out.

  “So much for making peace with our neighbors, Mims.” She cuddled Mimi to her chest and dropped her chin onto the dog’s head with a heavy sigh. “So maybe I did get carried away thinking we could have an affair, but in my defense, I honestly felt Niall might be different.”

  Yeah, right; he was a guy, wasn’t he? And weren’t guys always looking for a way into a girl’s panties that didn’t involve having to reveal anything about themselves? Like how empty their bank accounts were, that they had a crazy ex-girlfriend stalking them, four children they somehow forgot to mention until after they got in her panties, or the fact that they’d moved back in with their parents for the third time because their third wife had gotten the house in the divorce.

  Oh yeah, she’d dated some real winners.

  And she’d still bet her trust fund none of them could use a pickax.

  That’s why his being a police officer had made Birch think she could have an affair with Niall. Who defined the saying “what you see is what you get” more than a cop? Usually blunt to a fault, with no pretense or hidden agendas—well, other than getting into her panties—and no “surprise, I’m broke,” because she knew that already.

  Mimi wiggled free and bolted for the house when another plume of steam hissed toward them, and Birch stood up with another sigh. She picked up the pie dish, but went perfectly still when a large bird silently swooped out of the darkness and landed on the other end of the log. She eyed what she hoped to God was a seagull—what other birds were so bold when they smelled food?—eyeing her back.

  Wait; seagulls liked blueberries, didn’t they? Birch recalled visiting the Maine coast with her dad a few years ago and seeing purple bird poop splattered all over the granite shoreline in Acadia National Park. And when she’d asked the park ranger—who’d been trying to keep people from climbing on the railing and falling into Thunder Hole—why the poop was purple, he’d laughed and said it was blueberry season.

  “Hey, bird, you hungry?” she asked, fishing the sticky forks out of the pie. She nearly dropped the dish when a virtual sauna of steam shot into the air just as the small wave responsible lapped at her sneakers. Birch looked back at the log, only to gasp in surprise when she found the bird now standing less than four feet away.

  Definitely close enough f
or her to see it was holding something in its mouth.

  There was just enough firelight left for her to also see it had sharply defined yellow eyes, but that its beak looked a little short and pointy for a seagull. It had some really impressive talons, too—putting her in mind of her paternal grandfather—although she’d always thought gulls had webbed feet. And this guy or gal was positively huge. But some species of seagulls were really tall, weren’t they, and didn’t some have motley brown and white feathers?

  Then again, maybe it was a fledgling . . . something that thought a human holding a pie worked just as well as a mama bird holding a fish.

  It padded even closer, now eyeing the dish in her hand instead of her. “Okay. Okay,” Birch said with a laugh, glancing around for a place to scrape out what was left of the pie. “But I better not find my car decorated with purple splats tomorrow,” she continued, deciding to just spoon it onto the end of the log, figuring the first rain would wash off any remaining juice. This was their campfire log, after all, and the residents preferred sitting on it instead of the cold gravel beach. “But feel free to use that big black pickup for target practice if you want.”

  The bird walked right up to Birch as she tilted the heavy glass dish and scraped the pie onto the log, but instead of diving in, it pushed whatever it was holding against the sleeve of her jacket.

  “Wow, aren’t you tame,” she said, straightening and setting the forks in the dish, then carefully reaching out. “Are you trying to give me this as a thank-you?” No sooner had the bird dropped the surprisingly heavy object into her outstretched hand than it started gobbling down chunks of crust as if it were starving. “You’re welcome, Mr. Bird,” she said, figuring it had to be male for having already learned how to get a girl to part with her . . . well, in this case, her food.

  Birch bent toward the campfire to study what appeared to be a barrette, the clasp’s weight and color making her think it was made of gold as she ran her thumb over what she suspected were genuine pearls covering what looked to be an ornately carved . . . seashell, maybe?

  “Well, good-bye,” she said, slipping the gift in her pocket as she watched the pie disappear down the bird’s gullet. Feeling summarily dismissed, Birch walked the length of the log and up onto the lawn, but turned back to make sure the tide really was putting out the campfire before looking at the bird again. “Just remember it’s the black pickup, not the little red crossover. Oh, and you get points for every time you nail his windshield, and I’ll even steal you another pie if you manage to hit his driver-side door handle.”

  The man had no call to be acting all offended and storming off, Birch decided as she trudged up the lawn. Because really, how come it was okay for him to say he wanted to kiss her—when she was angry, of all things—but it wasn’t okay for her to be up front about what she wanted? Which reminded her; easily offended was on her list of reasons why she should hate men, right up there with easily confounded.

  Yes, she’d actually made two lists—the first one when she was seven and had been angry at grand-père St. Germaine, and the second one after reading the steamy romance novel she’d found hidden under the cushion of her mom’s chair when she was fifteen—and easily confounded was on both, because sometimes it was an endearing trait and sometimes it was just plain annoying.

  But was it her fault the men in her family—on both sides—had the personalities of amoebas? Well, that was a mean thing to say about amoebas, because she’d bet they were happy in their one-celled ignorance, whereas both of her grandfathers had been critical, opinionated, ornery men. Her three maternal uncles weren’t exactly joys to be around, either, and she could only thank God that her father was an only child.

  Hazel had been the odd duck of the Callahan family and likely wouldn’t have survived her childhood if not for her grandmother Hynes. Birch had been six when Grand-mémère had died in a violent explosion, but she’d known the woman long enough to realize where her mom had inherited her quirkiness. They had both inherited Annette’s fortune—although Birch had considered that substantial blessing more of a curse during the four years Fredrick St. Germaine had gone out of his way to make sure the little heiress living with him didn’t feel superior.

  She’d been six; what had she known about social classes? She’d been too busy missing her mother and mourning Grand-mémère, while trying with all her heart to get her parentally challenged father to love her. It had been during those four years that Birch had learned some battles were better fought in silence and some by simply not showing up armed—if at all.

  But what really amazed her was how she had turned out so normal.

  Birch walked up the dark porch stairs, slowly opened the squeaky screen door, and quietly walked inside the silent house behind Mimi. “You might as well go up and crawl in bed with Mom,” she whispered as she walked to the sink and filled the pie dish with water before looking around for someplace to hide it. “I’m going to read for a while,” she told Mimi, opening a bottom cupboard door and setting the dish and two forks inside, then going back to the sink and washing her sticky hands. “Oh, and Mims,” she continued in a whisper, making the dog stop in the hallway and look back. “You were definitely Mighty Mimi tonight. But I hope you noticed that Shep really is only trying to get to know you and not eat you. And I thought he took your rebuff like a gentleman.” Unlike his master, who stormed off in a huff, she silently added as Mimi padded upstairs.

  Birch turned on the light over the kitchen table, pulled the bird’s gift out of her pocket, and sat down to study it. She couldn’t find any maker’s marks or hallmarks saying what the metal was, though. Heck, it didn’t even say it was made in China.

  It looked old; not worn old, just . . . well, it appeared to be an antique.

  She was fairly knowledgeable about jewelry, since she and her mom had inherited a king’s ransom in jewelry from Grand-mémère—almost all of which was in a bank deposit box in Montreal, because who wore fancy jewelry in the wilderness, anyway? And there were at least six barrettes that she knew of in the collection, but nothing as old-looking as this one. Heck, if she didn’t know better, she might think it was more ancient than antique.

  Then again, it just as well could be a reproduction.

  Either way, it looked expensive; certainly not something a bird should be flying around with, much less exchanging for leftover pie. But lots of birds were notorious for snatching up shiny objects, weren’t they? And Spellbound Falls drew ultrarich tourists from all over the world, so maybe her visitor tonight had filched it off a beach towel where some idiot had left it while she’d gone swimming.

  Birch grabbed the grocery list pad from the center of the table, tore off one of the blank pages, picked up the pencil, and began her note with Dear Chief MacKeage. She explained that a really large bird—describing as best she could because it had been so dark and saying she initially thought it was a seagull—had given her the barrette tonight in exchange for some pie. Birch then went on to explain she hoped he had a lost-and-found drawer in his station’s safe, unable to keep from smiling at her dig that he didn’t have a station, much less a safe. Then she added she was certain it was an expensive—underlining expensive—barrette, on the chance the easily offended jerk thought about keeping it to give the next woman he had a powerful desire to kiss.

  And finally, because she just couldn’t resist, Birch added that she hoped he didn’t find any purple splats decorating his monstrous, manly pickup in the morning.

  Folding the note around the barrette as she walked to the counter and pulled a plastic sandwich bag out of a drawer, Birch slipped the barrette and note inside and headed back outdoors. She let her eyes adjust to the darkness, then made her way over to Niall’s truck and, praying he didn’t have it rigged with an alarm, tried the driver’s door. Finding it locked, she climbed up on the running board, lifted the windshield wiper and tucked the barrette under it, then looked up at the star-studd
ed sky.

  “This truck, Mr. Bird,” she said softly, holding on to the outside mirror with one hand and gesturing at the truck’s windshield with the other. “Cover it in bright purple splats and I will be your friend for life.”

  Her moral obligation done, Birch returned to the house, kicked off her shoes and hung her jacket on the peg by the back door, then headed into the living room and pulled the familiar book off the bottom bookshelf. She flopped down on the couch and stretched out, propped the thick, heavy tome on her belly with a sigh, and opened it to the title page.

  She smiled as she ran a finger over the handwritten Happy Birthday, little cadet. Love, Dad, then flipped to the bookmark and once again started reading how to break down and clean any of several caliber Smith & Wesson automatic pistols.

  Oh yeah; they hadn’t invented a pill that could put her to sleep any quicker than her seventh-year birthday gift—which was why its pages were worn ragged and all but falling out of the binding.

  Chapter Nine

  Fairly certain the symbol carved into the unsettling surprise he’d found on his windshield this morning had something to do with Atlantis, Niall had driven a mile farther down the camp road rather than into town. He was just glad Birch had thought to put the hairclip and note in a plastic bag, seeing how it had taken several buckets of hot water to wash off the large bird droppings that had hit his windshield dead center—having assumed the culprit had been a seagull until he’d read Birch’s even more unsettling note. Now standing at the end of Titus’s driveway as the magic-maker studied the hairclip, Niall stopped in the middle of surreptitiously rolling his shoulder when he spied Shep licking the plate Rana was holding as she sat on her porch steps, and hoped like hell she wasn’t feeding the little beggar her husband’s breakfast.

  “I could heal that shoulder if you wish,” Titus said without looking up.

  “Thank you, but it’s doing a fine job of healing itself.”