A Highlander is Coming to Town

by Laura Trentham

  Roy, one of the farm’s long-standing hands, was hauling buckets of oats to the various stalls. The barn housed animals who were injured or sick or having a difficult labor.

  “I’ll handle the troublemaker, Roy.” Holt waved toward the stall to his right.

  “Right-o, Holt. Everyone else is fed. I’m headed to the milking barn unless you need me for anything else.” Roy glanced between him and Claire, the deepening of the grooves along the side of his mouth signaling a slew of teasing questions later.

  Holt made a shooing motion and waited until Roy ambled out of sight before joining Claire at the stall door. The troublemaking cow chewed on alfalfa, her udder full and hanging low.

  The wind gusted through the open door with a bite, and Claire shivered.

  “Come on. Let’s get this done. We don’t want to chance missing visiting hours at the hospital.” Holt was almost thankful for the distraction.

  “Why is she a troublemaker?” Claire asked.

  “She busted through a loose gate and snacked on bitter weeds. Not for the first time, I might add. They soured her milk. She’ll remain culled and be hand-milked until she sweetens.”

  “That seems like a lot of extra work for a repeat offender.”

  He entered the stall and patted the brown-and-white cow on the rump. “Come on in. She won’t bite. Probably.”

  “A ringing endorsement.” Claire sidled inside and the door snicked shut behind her, making her press herself against the wall. “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll watch from here while you do your thing.”

  “We already established that you aren’t a coward, Claire Glennallen.” The use of her real name jolted her gaze to his.

  She shushed him as if a spy tasked with reporting to her parents was lurking. “I’m still Claire Smythe as far as anyone else in Highland knows.”

  “All right, Miss Smythe. Come on over and I’ll teach you to squeeze some teats.”

  A laugh stuttered out of her and she took a tentative step toward him and the troublemaker. “That sounded weirdly sexual.”

  “I promise you there is nothing sexy about milking a cow.” Holt grabbed a stool from where it hung from a peg on the wall and positioned a bucket under the cow’s udder. “You sit and take hold of a teat.”

  “That’s basically her boob. I can’t grab hold of that without an introduction at the very least. It would be rude.”

  “Would you like me to perform introductions?” His hand flourish was over-the-top but did its job pulling a slight smile to her lips.

  “Aye, I would be most pleased to make her acquaintance. What’s her name?” She shuffled closer to put herself within arm’s reach of the cow in the crowded stall.

  “She doesn’t have a name. She has a number.” He leaned on the cow’s flank and tapped the identifying tag punched through the cartilage of her ear like a ring.

  “A number is so impersonal.”

  Claire reached out tentatively and stroked the cow’s soft ear. The cow raised her head to bat her big brown eyes. Holt could almost hear Claire’s internal awww.

  “Do you have a problem with me giving her a name?” she asked.

  As Holt sensed Claire had already bequeathed the cow a name, he shook his head. “Go for it.”

  “I shall call her Maureen. That’s a good name for a troublemaker.” Claire grew bolder and patted Maureen’s neck, then shot him a smile. “Her fur is soft. Hi, Maureen. Do you mind if I touch your teats? I’ll try to be gentle.”

  If Claire ever saw the automatic milking operation, she wouldn’t worry about being gentle. Maureen shuffled toward Claire, bumping Holt aside. Dangit, he was already calling the cow by her given name in his head. That might prove to be bad news down the line.

  Holt adjusted the position of the stool and patted it. “Come on, then.”

  Claire sat, stared at Maureen’s udder, and then poked a teat with a finger. “It feels weird.”

  “Let me demonstrate.” Holt squatted, took hold of the two nearest teats, and expressed the milk, muscle memory taking over. He couldn’t even remember learning how to milk, but he did his best to explain how to work the teat from the top down.

  “Are you sure it doesn’t hurt her?” Claire glanced over at Maureen’s head, but the cow munched on alfalfa and acted like they weren’t even there.

  “Trust me, we’re doing her a favor. It hurts worse if the milk builds up. Plus, the risk for mastitis increases.” He took her hand and helped her get started. It took a few tries, but Claire got into a rhythm.

  “I’m doing it.” She shot him a satisfied look.

  After five minutes, she began to flag and hunched her shoulders. He tapped her arm. “Let me finish. Milking uses muscles you aren’t accustomed to using. It takes a long time to build stamina.”

  She gave up her seat without protest, and he finished the job, discarding the bucket of milk. He led her to the barn sink, where they washed up.

  “I get it now.” Claire watched him dry his hands.

  “Get what? Why you shouldn’t name farm animals?”

  “No. I get why your forearms look like that and why your fingers are so agile.” Her gaze shot to his face, and a blush burst in her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have said that out loud.”

  He burst into laughter, threw an arm around her shoulders, and hugged her into his side. “I knew my years of farm chores would pay off someday.”

  She relaxed into him, and they walked side by side out of the barn. “What’s next?”

  “Next, we go and see how Ms. Meadows is faring.”

  “I’m worried.” The previous night’s anxiety worked its way into the cracks of her voice.

  “Marilee sounded confident that Ms. Meadows will make a full recovery.”

  “It’s not just that. Everything is changing. Fast.”

  He stopped and turned her to face him. “Will you do something for me?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t make any decisions until after Christmas. Will you stick around until then?”

  “I don’t know…” Her gaze drifted off to the side, and he squeezed her hand to bring it back to him.

  “Ms. Meadows won’t be able to find a replacement for you this close to the holidays.” Desperation churned his stomach.

  “I should stay for Ms. Meadows?” She tucked her hair behind her ear in a gesture he was coming to recognize as uncertainty. It was good to know he wasn’t alone at least.

  “And for me. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend Christmas with than you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Claire would say no. It was a simple word. Two letters. One syllable. She barely got an n-sound out before her mouth mutinied. “Yes. Okay. I’ll stay,” she said instead.

  Even as she internally berated herself, tension flowed out as if she’d pulled the stopper of a tub. Right or wrong, staying in Highland was what she wanted, as brief as the respite might be.

  The day after the storm remained cool but the blue skies and sunshine injected much-needed optimism. After she dressed in her now clean and dry clothes, Holt ran her by Ms. Meadows’s house so she could pack up a small bag of toiletries and a fresh nightgown, a day dress, and underthings.

  The hospital was bustling but Holt seemed to know where to go and who to talk to. When he took her hand to lead her down sterile hallways, she was grateful. He had an instinct on when he should take charge or back off.

  She counted down room numbers until they reached Ms. Meadows’s room. The door was shut. With a deep breath, she knocked lightly and cracked the door to peek inside. Ms. Meadows was propped up at an angle in the hospital bed.

  “Come in, girl.” Ms. Meadows smiled. “I’m still alive.”

  “I never doubted it,” Claire said even though she actually had.

  “Is that Holt with you? Come on in, then. I’m decent.” The bed made Ms. Meadows look small and frail, but her hair had been brushed and her cheeks were pink.

  A shadow passed over Ms. Meadows’s face. “Th
ey want to run a few tests and are talking about keeping me another night.”

  Claire set the bag on a tray on wheels, pulled an armchair over, and perched on the edge. “The doctor told us. What sort of tests?”

  “Heart tests and blood work. Nothing to worry about.” Ms. Meadows patted Claire’s hand, which did nothing to diminish her worry. “The food isn’t nearly as good as what you’ve learned to make.”

  Pride burst in Claire’s chest like a Roman candle. “Only because I had the best teacher. What can I do?”

  “You remember what we talked about?” At Claire’s nod, Ms. Meadows continued. “Get rid of the magazines and box up the books. The library will take them. There are some nice hardbacks mixed in. You can keep any that tickle your fancy. Something to remember me by.”

  Claire had to swallow hard against a rising lump of tears. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get started today.”

  Ms. Meadows nodded and turned to Holt. “Could you give Preacher Hopkins a call? Fill him in and ask him to drop by.”

  “I’ll do that right now.” Holt stepped into the hall.

  “He’s a good man, Claire,” Ms. Meadows murmured.

  Claire jolted around in the chair. Embarrassment she’d been caught mooning at the sliver of Holt she could see through the cracked door mixed with surprise at the rarity of hearing her actual name.

  “I told Holt who I really am last night.” Claire glanced toward the door. The low murmur of Holt’s voice was steady.

  “Good. You can’t have a relationship without honesty.”

  Guilt pricked Claire like a needle, but she ignored it. She was closer to her true self than she’d been in more years than she could count. “We’re not having a relationship. It can’t happen.”

  “Why not?”

  The simple question flummoxed her, and her mind went blank. Finally, she said, “My inheritance. My family.”

  “You should make peace with your parents, but don’t live your life for them.”

  “But I’m a Glennallen.”

  “Does that indenture you to work in the whisky business?”

  “I’m not qualified to do anything else.” A self-deprecating laugh chuffed out. “Of course, I’m not qualified to run a business either.”

  “You’re a musician. Do something with your talent.”

  “Like what? I’m tired of touring.”

  “Then teach. I loved my time in the classroom. It was very rewarding.”

  It was the same thing Holt had suggested. Was that a sign? “I would be walking away from a fortune.”

  If she didn’t return to work at the distillery, she would forfeit everything. Her shares would revert to a trust. Neither her parents nor Lachlan would have control of them. It felt like the ultimate betrayal.

  Ms. Meadows made a pishing sound. “What’s money worth if you’re not happy, girl?”

  Claire had done without the Glennallen fortune for years, but in the back of her mind, the safety net had existed. It made the decision to leave the Scunners easy. Her mind was paralyzed at the thought of stepping into the world completely on her own.

  Holt returned. Ms. Meadows held Claire’s gaze and didn’t bother to hide the challenge in her expression. Could Claire give everything up and teach music? It was preposterous. It was laughable. Except she didn’t even crack a smile.

  “Everything all right?” Holt’s obvious curiosity broke the staring contest between the two women.

  “Fine and dandy. What did the preacher have to say?” Ms. Meadows asked.

  “He sends his best and is praying for you right now. He’s doing his hospital visitation rounds this afternoon and will come by for a visit,” Holt said.

  Ms. Meadows relaxed into the pillows. “If you two don’t mind, I’m going to take a little nap. Those nurses woke me up every hour to check my vitals and make sure my heart was still ticking.”

  Claire and Holt were effectively dismissed and didn’t speak again until they were back outside in the sunshine. Claire lifted her face and took a deep breath. The few minutes she’d spent in the artificial lights and sterility had left her dismayed.

  “Ms. Meadows mentioned a care facility in town. What’s it like?” Claire asked.

  “There are a couple of different ones. Surely she’s not considering leaving her house?”

  “That’s why she tasked me with going through her magazines and books. I told her I’d help her organize the house.” Claire shot him a glance. “She wants to sell the house and land to you.”

  He stuttered to a stop under the bare branches of a tree at the edge of the parking lot. “Are you serious?”

  “That’s what she said. A dream come true, right?”

  Instead of pumping his fist or giving her a high-five, he gnawed on his bottom lip. “The farm isn’t exactly cash-rich at the moment. We upgraded milking machines last year, and with Mom and Dad semi-retired and traveling…”

  “Can’t you apply for a loan?”

  “We already hold a sizable loan for the milking machines.” He ran a hand through his hair and fisted the back. “While her place has been a thorn in Dad’s side, it’s not a necessity to own.”

  “She was a teacher. Will her insurance pay?”

  Holt made a disparaging noise. “This isn’t Britain. Her insurance will pay for a shared room in the nursing home. If she’s lucky.”

  “Is the nursing home nice?” The slide of his gaze to the ground and silence were answer enough. “Wait, she mentioned an assisted living place. Is that the same one?”

  “No, the assisted living facility is way nicer.”

  Her shot of relief was short-lived.

  “And way more expensive.”

  Claire hadn’t seen Ms. Meadows’s bank statements, but it was clear that she wasn’t flush with money. Her wealth was in her house and land, which were only worth how much someone was willing and able to pay.

  She pressed her hands against her cheeks. “There’s no use in worrying about it right now.”

  “You’re right. How about we run by the Scottish Lass for some lunch?”

  “Sure.” The gnawing in her stomach was more akin to anxiety than hunger.

  The restaurant was busy. Holt grabbed two menus off the unattended hostess stand and led her to an open table in the back of the room. She sat and kept her eyes on the menu Holt handed her, but when it became clear no one was staring at them, she relaxed.

  After putting in their food order, Claire stole glances around them. The cousins Jessie Mac and Jessie Joe occupied a table full of men around their age.

  “Those men are the biggest gossips in town.” Holt leaned over the table to smile at her. “I’ll bet they already know about Iain and Anna.”

  “How?”

  “They have informants everywhere and know everyone. They’re more efficient than the CIA.”

  She forced a laugh, but his assessment wasn’t reassuring.

  His smile faded as he leaned closer. “Your secrets are safe with me. I didn’t mean to make you worry. I wouldn’t tell them anything even under threat of torture.”

  “I’ve been living as someone else for so long, it’s second nature to watch my back, but I can’t hide forever.” The thought used to fill her with fear, but now only resignation came with the acceptance.

  Holt looked as if he wanted to say something, and by the tight set of his features, it was serious. Claire tensed. Before a word was spoken, Iain strode through the restaurant toward them.

  “Mind if I join you for a tick?” He commandeered an empty chair from a nearby table and sat before either she or Holt could respond. “I need help.”

  Holt leaned back and held his hands up in mock surrender. “Is this about you and Anna, because man, I’m not sure—”

  “It’s about the Burns Night festival.” Iain turned to stare at Claire with his steady, disconcerting gaze until she couldn’t help but squirm. “The Jacobites need you.”

  “Me? Why?” It was a stupid question. They needed her voic
e. “You guys already have a great blend of harmony. You don’t need me.”

  “Robert has nodules on his vocal cords,” Iain said.

  “That’s bad luck, but I can’t help you.” Claire fiddled with her rolled silverware.

  “One good practice and two performances is all that’s involved. You’re a professional and already have more experience than the rest of us put together. It’ll be a cinch.” Iain dipped his head to catch her eye. “Please. This festival is important to Anna. Unless … are you leaving Highland before Christmas?”

  Her gaze shot to Holt’s and his brows rose. “No. I’ll be here for a little while longer. I suppose I can sing with the Jacobites, but only this one time.”

  Iain pumped his fist once. “Thank you, lass. We’re practicing in Anna’s studio tonight.”

  “I don’t have transportation.”

  “I’ll be happy to play chauffeur,” Holt said mildly.

  “I know you’re busy on the farm, and I’ve taken up too much of your time already.” She tried to sound firm.

  “Stuff and nonsense, Holt doesn’t mind giving you a lift, do you, mate?” Iain clapped Holt on the shoulder.

  “’Course not. What time do you need her there by?” Holt asked.

  After the time was settled, Iain took his leave as the waitress arrived with their food. A cheeseburger and chips for Holt, and a chicken potpie for her. It reminded her of the raised pies of her youth except the crust was buttery and flakier.

  “Did I overstep?” Holt asked before taking a bite of his burger.

  Claire sighed and poked holes in the top of her pie with her fork. “Being dependent on someone—anyone—makes me nervous.”

  “Look at it as one friend helping out another.”

  “Friends.” She wasn’t in a position to question the label. There were worse things than to be sleeping with a friend. In fact, Claire couldn’t recall any of her past lovers qualifying. “I suppose you’re right. Thank you.”

  The rest of the lunch passed in discussion of unimportant topics like their favorite movies, music, and books. They had more in common than she would have guessed. Both of them liked action movies and classic rock. Neither of them had time to read, but wanted to.