From Father to Son

by Janice Kay Johnson

  “December.” She grimaced. “I’m hoping the baby doesn’t come late. I always thought being a Christmas baby would be the pits.”

  Desmond wanted to know why, and his eyes widened at the idea of only getting a heap of presents once a year instead of twice. “My birthday is October 22,” he told them. “Anna’s is March 27. I’m gonna be seven.”

  “I’m four,” Anna said.

  Niall smiled at her. “You’ll be five on your next birthday.” He glanced at his brother. “Wasn’t that the year I had chicken pox?”

  “What’s chicken pox?” Des asked.

  The adults all shook their heads at the marvel of children protected by a vaccine from one of the scourges and rites of passage they’d all survived. Niall was able to resume his story, about a birthday party from hell. It had been held at a pizza place and he started to cry in the middle of it, which was when his mother discovered his first spots. The other mothers weren’t thrilled.

  Grinning crookedly, Duncan said, “Half the kids got it, too—although they’d probably all been exposed already. I got it from you, and was seriously unhappy. Con never did get chicken pox.”

  “It’s supposed to be awful if you catch it as an adult,” Rowan said. “He should probably get the vaccine.”

  Niall laughed. “The big bad DEA agent covered with itchy red spots. There’s a picture.” His face sobered. “He called yesterday.”

  Des was sliding under the table to feed part of his hamburger to Sam. Something in the odd nature of the silence pulled Rowan’s gaze from her son to the two men and even Jane. She and Niall both were watching his brother, who had gone still and expressionless.

  “Did he?” he said finally. He tossed a black olive in his mouth. Chewed, swallowed and asked, “Any news?”

  “He had to take a swim from a fishing boat in the Sea of Cortez and said a whale surfaced right beside him. You know that noise they make when they blow out? He said it was surreal, the two of them momentarily out there in the dark together.”

  Rowan saw the glance the two men exchanged. Had to take a swim from a fishing boat? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know why anyone would have to do anything like that.

  “But he’s okay?” That was Duncan.

  “He says so. He’ll be transferred to another region.”

  The older brother nodded.

  “He’s not the kid I remember anymore.”

  Duncan reached for his wife’s hand. Rowan wasn’t sure he’d even been aware he was doing so.

  “Conall hasn’t been that kid since he was nine or ten years old. Something went wrong in there.”

  Niall nodded.

  Jane’s expression was troubled; Rowan watched them all surreptitiously. She knew enough from what Niall had told her to be sure their childhood had been nowhere near as rosy as her own.

  Maybe, she thought, she should be more forgiving of her parents. She’d been lucky in so many ways, able to start a family of her own in full confidence that she had it in her to be a good mother because she’d had a worthy role model.

  Did Niall know how wonderful he was with her two children? What an amazing father he’d be? She switched her gaze to his brother’s face, currently as grave and withdrawn as Niall at his most inpenetrable. Did Duncan doubt his ability to be a father? Hadn’t he already proved himself with his brothers?

  She found herself looking at where his hand and Jane’s were linked, and saw that his knuckles showed white. So he and Niall were alike in needing to hide intense emotions. It was unsettling to think that these two men, both emotionally damaged, worried about their youngest brother because “something went wrong” when he was little.

  Oh, Lord. What?

  “Maybe he’ll get up our way,” Duncan said at last. “You haven’t seen him in…”

  “Four or five years.” Niall frowned. “I flew down to San Diego.”

  Nobody said anything else. Even the kids were staring at the adults now.

  “Apple crisp, anyone?” said Rowan.

  They all burst into speech. Rowan took orders; no ice cream for Jane, ice cream separated from the cobbler for Desmond ’cuz he didn’t like the crusty part getting soggy, all of the above for the two men.

  She felt a tiny bit relieved to escape into the house.

  CHAPTER TEN

  NIALL DEBATED ALL WEEK whether he should ask her. He performed in public, yes, but he had never, not once, taken anyone with him to watch. On occasion he saw someone in the crowd who knew him; he lived with the unease that someday his father would be there, perhaps even wearing the clan MacLachlan tartan as he did. But he didn’t tell women he slept with that he played the bagpipe, much less share that side of himself.

  It wasn’t Rowan he would be inviting, he tried to tell himself. Not exactly. It was the kids. Desmond especially would enjoy the Highland Games, with the bagpiping and drumming, fiddling, dancing and traditional Scottish athletic events. They’d all heard Niall play; a couple of times now, he’d stood out on his porch to play the bagpipe with the kids sitting at his feet listening and watching with something like the awe he’d felt when he was small watching his father.

  He was embarrassed to wonder if Rowan would think it was silly, a grown man, an American, a cop, for God’s sake, dressing up in a kilt and wearing the traditional black knife—Sgian Dhub—in his sock. He wasn’t even sure he could explain why, for such a private man, he sometimes needed an audience for his music.

  But finally, midweek, when he sat in his usual spot on her porch step with her in the glider, he said, “The Highland Games are this weekend.”

  “I’ve never been.”

  “I’m playing in the solo competition.”

  “Really? Can we come watch you? Or would you rather we didn’t?”

  “I was working my way up to inviting you. I thought the kids would enjoy it. The dancing is impressive, there’s a sheep dog trial going on, fiddlers, bands playing. Some strong-man competitions.” He hesitated. “I’m going Saturday. If you’re not busy.”

  “We would love to come,” Rowan said promptly.

  She asked what time, they discussed the likelihood of the day being hot, and then fell into silence. Time to say good-night.

  He most often kissed her now. Not always; he wouldn’t let himself sometimes, or Rowan seemed especially skittish and he didn’t like the idea of frightening her. He hadn’t asked her yet why a widow with two children was clearly alarmed by a man’s touch. A part of him didn’t want to know, because he expected it would make him angry.

  Tonight he stood and waited, leaving the choice to her. After a moment she stepped forward, her voice soft. “Thank you for asking.”

  He cupped her cheek. “I hope you like it. The music,” he said huskily.

  “I like hearing you play, even though you choose such sad music.”

  “Not always,” he said. “The piece for Saturday, though… It’s a folk song, I guess you could say. Not a lament, but not cheerful.”

  A small laugh escaped her. “I can’t picture you playing a bouncy reel. Sorry.”

  “I do sometimes.” With his thumb he explored her lips. He loved her lips—the shape, the way they quivered at his touch. Most of all the taste. “I will someday soon.”

  He kissed her then, letting loose some of the hunger he’d been keeping penned as if it was a wild animal snapping to be released. She wasn’t so shy tonight, and that made it harder to stay gentle.

  His tongue didn’t play with hers, it thrust purposefully into her mouth, and he let one of his hands capture her breast, so full it spilled over his fingers. Her nipple peaked through her bra and thin knit T-shirt, pressing into his palm. He wanted his mouth to be there. He heard himself groan as he kissed her harder, deeper, fingers in her hair gripping
her head, pulling it back. He kissed her throat tonight, licked the hollow at the base of it, and she took gasping breaths that lifted her breasts in a quick, uneven rhythm.

  His body ached, but he made himself back off. Gradually let her go, because he knew she still wasn’t ready. His frustration was building, though. This was ridiculous. He’d never had to court a woman like this. He didn’t date women who didn’t want the same thing he did.

  She was different. Everything about this was different. Niall knew it, resented it and liked it all at the same time.

  Rowan backed away from him, not looking behind her. She banged hard enough into the door to cause an audible thump and mumbled something to herself. He imagined her blushing. Anticipation heated his blood. He was going to be uncomfortable for a while, until his arousal subsided.

  He shouldn’t have sat talking to her for so long. He’d intended to go hunting tonight for the pervert, as he did every couple of nights, but he thought it was too late now. Kids were all snug in their beds with lights out.

  Sam walked him back to the cottage and looked longingly inside but plopped his butt down on the porch with a sigh when Niall didn’t invite him.

  “Good dog,” Niall murmured, and resigned himself to going to bed with a stubborn hard-on.

  EVEN THE KIDS WERE awestruck at the sight of Niall in Highland regalia. Rowan was struck speechless.

  The fact that he was wearing what was, essentially, a skirt didn’t reduce his innate dignity at all. The effect was masculine, sexy and very formal.

  The Clan MacLachlan tartan was a red, blue and black plaid threaded with a thin line of green. There were variations on it, he explained to all of them; the tartan had changed with the centuries, and different colors had been worn for dress-up occasions versus hunting, say. Above the kilt he wore a short-waisted black argyll jacket that she’d be willing to bet had been custom tailored to fit his broad shoulders. The knee socks were blue, and there was a dagger thrust into one. From his waist hung a sporran, a small bag. With his dark red hair and eyes the color of a loch under a winter sky, he might have stepped from another century, another place.

  “Okay,” Rowan said, “I feel seriously underdressed.”

  Niall laughed. The kids were in their usual shorts and sturdy sandals, Rowan in midcalf-length chinos, comfy sandals of her own and a filmy, short-sleeved white shirt open over a tank. “You’ll be more comfortable than I will,” he told her. “The kilt and jacket are both wool. Although I will be able to take advantage of any cool breezes coming from down below.” He shot her a wicked grin.

  Rowan knew her eyes had widened. Heavens—was it true that men didn’t wear anything beneath a kilt? While he drove, she kept sneaking glances at the way the plaid lay over his thighs, catching glimpses of knees that were larger and bonier than hers.

  Thinking about the possibility he was naked beneath the kilt became something of an obsession during the forty-five minute trip, interrupted, fortunately, by the necessity of answering the kids’ questions. But every so often she’d steal another glance, know her cheeks were coloring, and feel…funny. Like she wanted to squirm in her seat. She had to press her legs together to contain that odd, cramping sense of need.

  Please don’t let Niall have noticed.

  Probably he did wear underwear. Performances must sometimes take place on windy days. She imagined practical white briefs like Desmond’s beneath the kilt.

  “Why the smile?” Niall’s voice was low and husky.

  Gulp. He must have noticed her peeking. And blushing.

  Why not be honest? “I had this sudden picture of a whole bunch of bagpipers—” lie, lie, only you “—caught in a good breeze.”

  His laugh was husky, too, as though he needed to clear his throat. “Some of us wear something under there.” Pause. His gaze momentarily left the road and met hers, his eyes glinting with amusement but also holding a certain amount of heat. “Some of us don’t.”

  She turned her head away from him and bit back a moan. It was a moment before she could say with convincing lightness, “And you?”

  “Don’t.”

  Dear God.

  They were nearing the fairgrounds where the games were being held this year. Rowan spotted a bumper sticker on a car ahead of them and laughed.

  “Support your local piper.”

  Niall smiled. “My favorite is ‘Blow it out your bagpipes’.”

  They all laughed, especially Desmond who was at that age to love simple humor.

  They could hear music from the minute they got out of the SUV. Fiddlers playing a dance tune, a far off cry of a bagpipe. Voices, shouts, laughter. Rowan found herself rising on tiptoe to try to see everything. In one direction, the sheepdog trials were going on and she wanted to watch, but she could also see a performance of dancers ahead.

  Half the men and boys in the crowd wore kilts, and some women and girls, too.

  “There are competitions for kids, too,” Niall explained. “Drumming and fiddling for the younger ones. Blowing the pipes takes so much lung power, most kids can’t do it until around ten years old.”

  “You make it look easy.”

  “I work up a good sweat.”

  They wandered for the first hour, watching dancers and some of the athletics, including a competition Niall called caber, in which big men wearing kilts ran carrying what looked like a telephone pole and then threw it astonishing distances. Shot-putting must have originated in these early games, she realized, watching men heaving a heavy iron ball. The effect of seeing them in bright T-shirts and kilts was startling, as was the flashes of massive thighs as they twirled to throw and the kilt lifted.

  Anna was entranced with the dancing, Desmond the bagpipes and fiddlers. They all had fun watching the sheepdog trials. Des cackled at the idea of Sam on the field with a herd of sheep. Niall gave one of his deep, slow laughs.

  “Yeah, I bet our Sam could break records for scattering sheep.”

  She was careful not to look at him. Had he heard himself say “our Sam”? Why did that make her heart squeeze? Maybe because, as he said it, he was also lifting Des high with one arm and his other hand rested lightly on Rowan’s back.

  He took his hand away and was quiet for a bit after that, though, which made her think he had noticed what he’d said and been dismayed. She’d rather think he was withdrawing as he psyched himself up to play.

  They sat in the very front when he performed on the main stage. Rowan had the impression this individual bagpipe competition was one of the big draws of the games. She didn’t have the ear to judge in any way, but was riveted by Niall when he played, the “bag” of his pipe tucked under his left arm, the blowpipe in his mouth, his fingers flying on the chanter. She’d learned enough to know it was the drones—the sticklike appendages that protruded from the bag—that made bagpipe music so distinctive. In most wind instruments, there was a fraction of a pause, at least, while the musician drew breath. With the bagpipe, the drones produced continuous sound.

  The piece he played was haunting and melancholic. If it was a folk song, it was telling about a tragedy, of which Scottish history had plenty to choose from.

  He got rousing applause and whistles, but when he joined Rowan and the kids he shook his head. “I’m off today.”

  “Really?” She tried to decide if he looked upset.

  “Haven’t been practicing enough lately.” He shrugged. “Listen to this next guy. He’s really good.”

  Not upset; his tone held admiration and friendship. After the competition she bought ice cream for the kids while he talked with other musicians. Watching him surreptitiously, she remembered Jane’s observations. It was true, Rowan thought. Even though Niall stood amongst the group of men and laughed with them, he somehow still held himself apart.

  Something chan
ged on his face when he turned to look for her and the kids, though. His expression lightened when he saw Rowan, relaxed into a smile as he strode toward them, seemingly aware of the people around them only in the sense that he occasionally had to adjust his pace or divert from a direct path.

  Anna had been sagging in her arms. He reached automatically to take her, and Rowan let him.

  “Hold still. I’ve got to wipe her face.”

  “Chocolate ice cream, huh?” He grinned down at her little girl. “Good?”

  “Uh-huh.” She laid her cheek against his shoulder.

  “Getting tired?” he asked Rowan.

  She nodded. “I think we’d better call it quits, unless there’s something you think we should stay for.”

  Niall shook his head. “Come on, buddy,” he said to Desmond. “We can walk back to the car by the sheepdog trials and see if any of them have managed to best Sam yet.”

  Desmond grinned. “Maybe there are sheep all over the parking lot. We could take one home for Sam to practice on.”

  “That’d go over well with your grandparents,” he said drily.

  Rowan suppressed a shudder.

  “I’ve got to tell you,” Niall continued, “I don’t think Super Sam has it in him to be a sheepdog.”

  “How come? Sam’s smart.”

  Niall’s laughing, sidelong glance caught Rowan’s. She felt a hitch in her pulse at the silent communication.

  “It’s not all about being smart,” Niall said with a gravity at odds with that smile. “Some of it is instinct. Certain breeds want to herd from the time they’re puppies. If Sam had that kind of instinct, he’d be herding you and Anna. My guess is Sam’s breed—” the infinestimal pause likely had to do with the obstacle of imagining Sam as having any identifiable breed “—hunted something like rabbits or weasels. You know how much he likes to dig.”

  “Yeah!” Des brightened. “Sam’s a hunter.”

  “And tunneler,” Niall murmured for Rowan’s ears only.

  She giggled.