“I fell asleep, in the Ladies’,” she said, more surprise testimony. “Sitting right there, I fell asleep. If somebody hadn’t banged the door, I’d probably still be napping on the damned throne.”
For some reason, this recitation made her weepy.
“Already tired when you got on the plane, then?” Niall asked. The rain pattered down, but he didn’t seem to mind. His hand on Julie’s neck was warm, his embrace was loose and unpresuming, and the happy little squirrel had shut up.
“Tired for as long as I can remember.” Since Dad had died, more than five years ago, maybe since starting law school.
“Rage is a heavy burden. I’ve carried my share.”
“I ought to move.”
Niall said nothing, but let Julie have his warmth, his physical presence, his patient company in a terrible, horrible, awful, mortifyingly stupid moment. He had the knack of a hug that set down roots right where it was planted and went nowhere, no innuendo, no flirtation, no hints at greater intimacies.
Maybe golf had taught him this too?
“Here you go,” Niall said, passing her a wrinkled hankie. “Let’s get you inside before your suitcase melts.”
He picked up her luggage and preceded her up the porch steps, leaving Julie to follow, dabbing at the raindrops trickling down her cheeks.
***
Never had a woman been more in need of double rounds for a week straight, and never had Niall wanted less to be on hand for them. Julie Leonard was that most dangerous of ticking bombs, the woman who didn’t realize she was about to explode.
Fortunately, the person who could set matters to rights sat at the cottage’s kitchen table, enjoying a cup of tea.
“Uncle, I hope you left some in the pot,” Niall said. “Our guest has arrived.”
Donald favored the kilt and had as far back as Niall could recall. Today Donald wore the Clan Urquhart modern plaid, which involved dark blues and greens with the occasional dash of red and white. Donald also favored pretty ladies.
“Donald Cromarty,” he said, rising stiffly and taking Julie’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Julie Leonard, Mr. Cromarty. That smells like peppermint tea.”
No lawyer-smile for Donald. The smile Julie turned on the old flirt was the most impish smile Niall had seen from her, also the most tired.
“The peppermint goes well with scones,” Donald said. “Niall, why don’t you take the lady’s suitcase up to the bedroom, and I’ll fix her a nice hot cuppa? Has Niall decided which course you’ll tackle first?”
Niall set the suitcase down. “I could do with a spot of tea myself. Did you have time to look in on Helen, Uncle?”
“We passed the time of day in Liam’s backyard.”
Proving Donald’s back was in sufficiently good form that he could march around the neighborhood, braving slick terrain on the trails by the river, Liam’s porch steps, and other hazards, but he’d been unable to fetch Julie Leonard from Edinburgh.
“I can take my luggage upstairs,” Julie said. “I need to change my clothes before I do anything else.”
Niall snatched up the damned suitcase. “I’ll show you up.”
Donald sat back down, his display of creaking, wincing, and sighing going to waste as Julie left the kitchen ahead of Niall.
“Pour me a cup, Uncle,” Niall said. “Because we’re about to have a wee chat.”
Julie was halfway up the stairs. She caught her toe on one riser but steadied herself on the railing. Maybe she was a naturally clumsy woman, maybe she was that tired.
Donald might suggest the fairies were plaguing her.
“This is lovely,” she said, when they arrived at a bedroom that was mostly windows and skylights. A king-size bed dominated the room, a red and green wool tartan serving as a bedspread, with red and green throw pillows arranged in a heap at the foot of the bed.
“Jeannie takes the comfort of our guests seriously,” Niall said, setting the suitcase on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. “The windows open, as does the skylight, and the office across the hall has all the internet access you’ll need, as well as maps of the walking trails in the neighborhood. Jeannie’s number is listed by the phone, as is Donald’s. His house is a few hundred yards to the south, and—”
Julie shrugged out of her blazer and dropped to the bed. “I’ve given up on today’s schedule, Niall. You can relax.”
No, he could not. Not until he’d scolded Donald into resuming the duties of a golf instructor for the next two weeks. Jeannie depended on the money the guests brought in, and one scathing review loose on the internet could queer the entire business.
“The courses will wait for you,” he said, taking her blazer and hanging it in the closet. “You can’t play at your best when you’re exhausted, and you’re more likely to end up with an injury.”
She stared straight ahead, as if trying to fathom a great mystery or fall asleep with her eyes open.
“Julie, get your shoes off and get under the covers.”
“I don’t normally let guys handle my stuff, Niall.”
“I’m tidy by nature, and I suspect you are too.” He fished in her black bag, which presumption she bore with an expression of mild curiosity.
“You’ll want to keep this on hand,” Niall said, putting the water bottle on the nightstand. “Aspirin is in the medicine cabinet. We have stronger over-the-counter headache remedies than you do, so use them carefully.”
“Right. You can go now,” Julie said, “and have whatever argument you need to have with Donald. He seems nice, and he looks like he walked right out of a commercial for shortbread.”
She wasn’t too tired to pick up on familial tensions, apparently, though Donald had actually modeled for a whisky advert. Niall knelt before her and slipped her loafers off her feet, because she needed to nap, and Niall needed to be about killing his uncle.
“Donald is a scheming old man,” Niall said, offering the polite version of his sentiments, “and he benefits from a regular thrashing, but he knows a lot about golf.”
“A schmaimin’ auld mon,” she murmured. “Sounds more rascally when you say it.”
Julie wore silky knee-high trouser socks in a wild pink and green paisley print. They were so unexpected, Niall admired them for a moment when he peeled them off narrow, pale feet.
“Hidden depths, Miss Leonard?”
“Socks, Mr. Cromarty. I buy them in three-packs. Do you normally take off your guest’s shoes and stockings?”
No, Niall did not. Neither did he stand holding those guests in the rain, assailed by the pure pleasure of an embrace both unexpected and astonishingly trusting. Julie had surrendered for a moment, to fatigue, bewilderment, despair, and maybe even a little bit to him.
Bad business all around, when a woman was depending on strangers—her menfolk had much to answer for, but the moment had been sweet, too.
“I have nieces and nephews,” Niall said. “I’m shoes and socks certified, according to Jeannie, and now you can scoot under the blankets and close your eyes.”
And Niall could get the hell down to the kitchen, unless poor, lame, ailing Donald had scampered back into the undergrowth.
“Wake me in an hour,” Julie said, rising. “And close the door behind you. I don’t need to hear this argument, and tomorrow, rain or not, we’re finding a driving range, at least.”
Donald was on intimate terms with half the driving ranges in Scotland.
“Sleep well,” Niall said, “and we’ll hope the weather cooperates.”
Scottish weather never cooperated with anybody for long, a point of national pride. Niall found Donald petting an enormous black cat who sat upon the kitchen counter, lord of all he shed upon.
“You’re not to feed him cream,” Niall said. “Louise is concerned he’s getting too stout.”
“Louise is off on a wedding trip with Liam, and it’s just us old fellows here at home, isn’t it?” Donald asked.
The cat, Black Douglas,
purred hugely, happy to be included among the old fellows, while Niall…
He wasn’t an old fellow yet.
“Has anybody heard from the newlyweds?” Niall asked, opening the fridge. The makings of a ham and cheddar on rye were on hand—Jeannie made sure each guest’s preferences were stocked. That Julie’s tastes were prosaic—no figs and goat cheese, designer grains, or exotic fruit for her—was as unexpected as her crazy, silky socks.
“The happy couple has arrived safely on Mull,” Donald said. “They send regards to Helen and Douglas from the Tobermory cat. I’m sorry my back is acting up, lad. I could do with one of those sandwiches.”
The cat jumped to the floor with a substantial thud. When Black Douglas ought to have gone through the cat door and been about his cat business, he instead stropped himself against Niall’s legs.
“Your back isn’t acting up. You can hike all over the riverbank, take Helen for a walk when she’s at least two hundred pounds of yanking on the leash, and you’re a far better escort for Miss Leonard than I’ll ever be.”
Far more convenient.
“Mustard on mine too, please,” Donald said, taking a placid sip of his tea. “I can take the lady out to hit some balls, but I’ll not be playing myself for some time, more’s the pity. Butter and mustard are a fine combination on any sandwich, young man.”
“Then you’d best melt the butter in the microwave,” Niall said, “because nobody recalled to get it out of the fridge.”
“Niall, I’ll deal with the American as best I can, because I know you have the council meeting coming up, and you don’t face that lot of ninnyhammers without proper preparation.”
The council, the bank, the neighbors, and various nosy historical associations, all of whom swore the best patch of Scottish ground for playing golf was also very possibly the site of major prehistoric, Viking, medieval, and modern battles, as well as Camelot, an alien landing, and a Roman encampment.
Niall passed his uncle a sandwich—Donald could manage the damned butter himself—and started on a second.
“I’ve submitted one report after another,” Niall said, paring thick slices of cheese off the brick of cheddar. “I’ve consulted experts and answered the council’s every objection. Their meddling and arrogance demanded a year’s delay from me, but the bank expected that. The next meeting shouldn’t be that much more work.”
Though any gathering of a body of Scottish local government was unpredictable. The council members could be cheerfully accommodating or cheerfully contrary as hell.
“You forgot the mustard on that one,” Donald said around a mouthful of sandwich.
“I don’t care for mustard.” Niall set the second sandwich aside. On the third, he did use mustard, because Julie Leonard had asked that mustard be stocked for her use, so she must like it.
“I don’t favor strutting around the links with a bad back,” Donald said, “but you’ve trouble afoot, Niall. I was enjoying a pint down at The Wild Hare and overheard Declan MacPherson holding forth about some great-great-great-grand-dame’s will. He says he has the evidence he needs to not only stop your golf course expansion, but end up with ownership of half the land. Thought you’d want to know.”
The knife slipped, smearing mustard on the counter.
“Declan MacPherson is an idiot,” Niall said, tearing a paper towel off the roll and cleaning up the mess. “He thinks Scotland should be covered primeval oak trees, and we should all be living in stone cairns while wolves are reintroduced to the Highlands.”
Donald studied what was left of his sandwich, though pretending to have a bad back must have worked up an appetite, for only a crust remained.
“Declan MacPherson is a determined man, Nephew, and his people have farmed those hillsides from time out of mind. I thought your energy would be better spent seeing what he’s about instead of hugging pretty American ladies in the yard for all to see.”
Donald stooped—easily—to pet the cat on the head, and then left, munching the last of his sandwich, and trundling down the porch steps as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
***
Declan MacPherson would not have set one muddy boot inside The Wild Hare in the middle of a workday, but the love of his life was to be found there and he needed to celebrate with her. She waited for him, unprepossessing, even dusty, on the shelf behind the bar. A twenty-eight-year-old bottle of Longmorn knew a lot about waiting. Her company cost a man dearly, but the pleasure she offered defied poetry.
“Was a time you and Niall Cromarty would have played a round and shared a wee dram,” Hamish Campbell observed, all uninvited of course. The man who owned the bar gossiped where he pleased.
“Was a time, I had a sister alive and healthy,” Declan said, holding his whisky glass under his nose. A proper whisky glass had a feminine shape, gently curved out toward the bottom, and didn’t spill its contents even when tipped over.
“Was a time, the people in this valley weren’t so damned greedy,” Hamish shot back. He dried a beer mug so thoroughly, his white towel squeaked across the glass. Hamish had reached the stage of life where his years were measured in the ferocity of his eyebrows and the shamelessness of his interfering. He and Donald Cromarty could have been twins, and nigh came to blows over the cribbage board regularly.
“It’s not greedy to preserve the land so it will continue to produce food that’s safe to eat,” Declan said, inhaling slowly through his nose. The bouquet was exquisite, all fruity mysteries and pungent, feisty promises.
“Not safe, but organic,” Hamish scoffed, “which your own granny would laugh at. Put the cow shite on the fields same as anybody else, she did.”
Hamish had probably stolen kisses from Declan’s granny, who’d farmed the land herself after her young man had died of meningitis.
“The manure I put on my fields isn’t full of pesticides, fertilizers, and God knows what,” Declan retorted. “Turn half the valley into a golf course, and we won’t be able to fish our own streams, but that’s no matter, because the streams will silt up in a few years and we won’t have any fish.”
Hamish slapped at the bar with his towel. “We’ve had nine holes to play on since before your granny was born, and the fish haven’t complained. You’re Scottish, you ought to have some regard for the Game.”
Not this. Not Hamish’s golf sermon, which made the thunderings at the kirk of a Sunday pale by comparison.
“I enjoy a round,” Declan admitted, “same as the next man, but farming is about food. Golf is about recreation and tourist dollars.”
Which Scotland took cheerfully enough, but with hundreds of golf courses already in operation, some of them going back to the 1700s, another back nine was hardly necessary.
“Golf is about—” Hamish fell silent—a momentary development of course, and in the mirror behind the bar, Niall Cromarty’s sizable frame filled the doorway to the Hare.
“Come in, Niall,” Hamish called, “and share a wee dram with MacPherson. He’s ranting, as MacPhersons will do, about unhappy fish and clean shite.”
Niall had aged, gone from a big, bold boy with a love for golf, to a cold, hard man with a love for coin. Declan regretted the loss, but he’d regret the loss of his farm more.
“Cromarty,” Declan said. “Hamish has taken down the Longmorn, and you’ll want a dram.”
Ten years ago, Declan could have read the emotions flitting behind Niall’s blue eyes, but then, ten years ago, Declan had had a pretty, lively sister, and she’d been in love with Niall.
Niall put a silver credit card on the bar. “A dram then, and another for MacPherson.”
A fool and his money. “I’m buying,” Declan said, a twinge of regret kicking him in the wallet. “When I’ve finally won the fight to protect my sister’s dream, the least I can do is buy the loser a drink.”
Hamish set the bottle on the bar between Declan and Niall, who’d put his fancy plastic away and slid onto the next stool. Niall smelled good—not like cow shit—but like
lily of the valley, meadow grass, and a touch of mint.
Like success rather than hard work.
“A drink to Belinda’s memory, then,” Niall said, as Hamish set a glass in front of him. “Have you a plan to run your cows over my golf course, MacPherson?”
Declan had considered it. Cows and sheep got loose all the time, and the Highlands were substantial beasts.
“The nine holes you have now aren’t the issue, Niall,” Declan said, pouring the consolation dram for his enemy. “It’s the plans you have to expand, to develop land in the watershed for my stream, to landscape the slope north of my farm, and north of the loch that provides water for the entire valley.”
Niall held his glass up as if to study the lovely amber color of his whisky. Good whisky was kind to light, and when Niall swirled his glass, the potation caressed the sides, a hint of legs without being heavy.
“The studies have been done, Declan. The lake is safe, the stream is safe.”
Why didn’t Niall sound like a man whose dreams were safe, then?
“The lake and stream are very safe,” Declan said, passing Hamish a credit card that still bore a crease from where the bull had tromped it, a metaphor for the pounding any farmer’s credit took regularly. “Your title to the slope is being attacked as we speak. I found the will.”
Such was the gulf between them, that even this disclosure provoked no discernible reaction in a man Declan had once considered a friend.
“Any document purporting to be a two-hundred-year-old will must be authenticated,” Niall said, considering his drink.
More than two hundred years, for Nancy MacPherson had died in 1787.
“I’m seeing to the authentication, and in any case, the discovery of the will is enough to stop your plans for ripping up that slope.”
Hamish ducked out from under the bar, though he wouldn’t go far. This confrontation was too juicy not to eavesdrop on.
“I’ll not rip up the slope, Declan. I’ve shown you the sediment and erosion control plans, shown you the final landscape design. The fairways will be the next thing to the natural contour of the land, and the greens will require only modest earthwork.”
Must Love Scotland (Highland Holidays) Page 3
