Blame It on Scotland

by Patience Griffin

  Ryn felt awkward. “I guess I could take a nap in the car.” She wasn’t sure why the Laird wanted her to come to Gandiegow, if she had nowhere to go. And Tuck wasn’t offering for her to tag-along on the fishing boat with him.

  “Come with me,” he said. “I have an idea.”

  9

  Tuck ushered Ryn along quickly, hoping another solution would present itself. The only cottage with lights on—that didn’t belong to an early morning fisherman—didn’t feel like an option at all. But, unfortunately, Deydie seemed to be the only person awake in Gandiegow.

  God, he hated that he had to do this…for himself and for the American lass, too. Why hadn’t he considered this when the Laird had directed Ryn to help bring back the van so early in the morn?

  Tuck knew why. Since the moment he saw Ryn, he’d been preoccupied. Thinking with his pants, instead of his noggin. Well, look what it had gotten him.

  No matter the tongue-lashing or the glares he certainly would get from Deydie, Tuck slogged on toward the head quilter’s lighted cottage at the far end of the village. Would the Almighty never let up with the trials and tribulations? Probably not. Heaven knew Tuck deserved each and every pothole or roadblock the good Lord set in his path.

  He glanced down at Ryn, and surprisingly, his tightened chest eased a little. But then he saw the worried look on her face. “What’s the matter?”

  “My new sewing machine.” She stopped short and stared up at him. “I didn’t even check to see if it got wet when the roof was leaking.”

  “Och, lass, stop yere fashing. Last night I put yere machine out of harm’s way on top of the table. There’ll not be a drop on it when ye return.”

  She exhaled deeply and laid a hand on his arm. “Thank you.”

  He wasn’t used to playing the hero and was surprised he enjoyed being one in her eyes.

  She relaxed then, and like a kid at the fair, she cranked her head, this way and that, as if her eyes couldn’t soak up the picturesque village fast enough. This lass was a curious one.

  “How many people live here?” Ryn asked.

  “Dunno. At last count, there are sixty-five houses—if ye add in Rachel’s new B & B and the cottage Casper MacGregor is having built for himself and his new wife Grace.”

  “The town seems really special. It would be amazing to live in a place like this. Don’t you agree?”

  “Looks can be deceiving.”

  Rachel spun toward him with her brow furrowed and her eyes wary. She acted as if he’d pissed in her porridge. “Don’t tell me how looks can be deceiving. I’m an expert on the subject.”

  He could see she’d been wounded. Her eyes were clouded with the bruises of past disappointments. But if they were old memories, why was she including him? Where was the hero-worship of a moment ago?

  He aimed his next words at her, and at the same time, he spoke of the village which surrounded them. “Gandiegow passes judgement quickly and holds grudges. I don’t believe it’s right or fair.” His failure to sway the townsfolk in his favor these last four months still stung.

  “But the town looks idyllic.”

  “One might think so.” Stupidly, Tuck had listened to his brother, who’d begged him to stay. Andrew spoke of how uplifting a loving community could be. About how having supportive people surrounding him could make a man feel the power of the Almighty. Sure, it sounded good on paper, but for Tuck, Gandiegow had only offered up criticism and accusation.

  He sighed.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He could’ve asked her the same thing. Why had she looked at him with distrust a few minutes ago? She didn’t know him.

  But he couldn’t expect her to open up, when he had no intention of telling her about his own frustration, which had taken root in him. He grimaced at the houses then, for he missed this place. It makes no sense! How in blazes could he be homesick for this God-forsaken village? In Whussendale, he’d been able to breathe without constant judgement being passed. But still, Tuck missed Gandiegow. The pub. The constancy of the North Sea crashing against the walkway. And dammit, he missed his brother. Even more frustrating, he missed the effing people of Gandiegow as well. Tuck never imagined that would happen, not in a million years.

  “We should hurry,” he said through gritted teeth. This conversation had slowed down the inevitable encounter with Deydie.

  But in the next second, he felt bad for his clipped tone. Maybe later, after the morning run, he’d give Ryn a proper tour. He could show her the kirk and take her by the parsonage to meet Andrew, Moira, and Glenna. Tuck could show Ryn the progress on Partridge House, Rachel’s B & B. He could introduce her to everyone in the village. But that thought died. He wasn’t in good standing with the townsfolk, and if anyone thought Ryn was connected to him in any way, they’d snub her, too. At that moment, the two of them passed the kirk and Tuck had to revise his thought. Andrew and Moira would never treat Ryn with anything less than complete acceptance, like they’d done for Tuck.

  As they approached Deydie’s cottage, Tuck worried it might be in vain. Deydie was known to make the steep climb up the bluff in the wee hours of the morn to the big house at the top, where her granddaughter Cait lived with her famous husband, Graham.

  “This is it.” Tuck drew in a fortifying breath and knocked. He barely had a chance to glance down at Ryn before the door swung open.

  Deydie’s look of surprise turned to a glower, probably when her brain caught up to her eyesight. “What’re ye doing here?” Her old rheumy eyes drifted down to Ryn. “Who’s this?”

  Tuck had a moment of belligerence and spouted off to the old woman, something he’d never done before. “I brought ye a stray.”

  Ryn cranked her head around. Now he had two women glaring at him!

  “My name is Ryn Breckenridge.”

  “She’s Maggie’s cousin,” he added.

  Deydie bobbed her head. “Aye. Ross said ye were looking for Maggie.”

  Tuck noticed then that Deydie’s table was covered with fabric. On top lay a rotary cutter and a mat. All tools of the old woman’s trade—quilting.

  “Get yere arses in here,” Deydie growled. “April’s cold weather is enough to make me think old man winter has a hankering to stay in Gandiegow.”

  Tuck hesitated, but didn’t protest, though he needed to get to the boat. He crossed over the threshold obediently, as if he was a lad the size of Dand, instead of a headstrong man. But aye, he meant to save his backside from Deydie’s weapon of choice—her broom—as it was always in arm’s reach.

  Deydie waddled over to the stove and turned on the heat under the tea kettle. “We’ll have us something hot to drink.”

  Tuck shoved his hands in his pockets. “We returned the van, as the Laird requested.” He made sure he stressed Laird so Deydie knew Tuck was only following orders. “I didn’t want to drop the lass off at Quilting Central without yere permission.” The arse-kissing was over-the-top, but necessary. “Might Ryn stay here with you? After I pull the morning nets, I’ll take her back to Whussendale with me.”

  Deydie stopped and examined him, as if he were a fish she planned to gut. A moment later, she pulled down a teacup…instead of a fillet knife. When she turned back around, she glared even harder at him. “Why are ye still here? Be gone with yereself. I’ll watch the lass.”

  Ryn turned panicked eyes on him and the message was clear—Don’t abandon me again!

  “I’ll return.” Tuck hated leaving the baby seal alone with the killer whale. He had no choice though. He stalked to the door.

  “Take this with ye.” Deydie yanked a paper sack off the counter and shuffled toward him.

  At first, he thought she was offering him a meal for the boat, and was both surprised and pleased with her kind gesture. But his nose soon figured out the truth. This was no sack lunch she offered, and smoothing things over with this ole she-badger—or Gandiegow—was a lost cause. Deydie shot him that horrible grin of hers as she cracked open the bag. W
as she making sure he got a good whiff of how she felt about him? Aye, he took her meaning. He ranked lower in her mind than her smelly, week old garbage.

  Tuck left without another glance in Ryn’s direction, knowing he couldna worry anymore for the lass. His own problems heaped way too high for him to care a whit about the comings and goings of another.

  He trudged to the burn barrel at the back of Deydie’s cottage and tossed in the sack. From the metal milk box, he pulled out a waterproof match. When he struck the matchstick, the flame took hold and he dropped it into the barrel. From the horizon, the boats leaving the harbor caught his attention and he cringed at how late he was.

  And he’d sworn to never be late again.

  The fire came to life with a crackle and a spark, burning bright, illuminating the back of Deydie’s home. He wished for a fleeting moment the fire could help him glean what was happening inside the cottage. But only for a moment.

  The fire died down quickly so he laid the lid on the barrel to stifle the rest of the flames. When he was satisfied the fire was out, he rushed back through town.

  For the last few weeks, Tuck worked hard to avoid the people of Gandiegow, trying to slip in and out without being seen. But his efforts had been in vain. Each day, no matter the maneuvers he made, he ended up face to face with one or another of them. Today, dammit, was no exception. Mrs. Bruce stood in front of her cottage, sipping a mug. Why was she up so early? He knew the answer. She was enjoying some peace and quiet before her houseful of bairns awoke. Tuck had no choice but to pass by her to get to the boat.

  In situations like these, he never knew whether to say hallo, or whether to keep his trap shut. Should he make eye contact or pass without saying a thing? Most of the time, he ended up somewhere in between—making a noncommittal grunt while keeping his head down. But this morning, he had a crazy idea. For the hell of it, he’d pretend the people of Gandiegow cherished him, like they did his brother Andrew. It was a blasted fairytale from an effing grown man.

  He gathered his courage, trying not to feel as if he was walking the plank. When he got close enough, he nodded to Mrs. Bruce and gave her a smile as if he meant it. “Hallo. Fine morn for a hot cup of brew.”

  Mrs. Bruce, looking startled, fumbled with her mug, nearly dropping it, as “G’morn,” came automatically from her lips. She seemed as surprised as him! Then her brow furrowed and her mouth fell open awkwardly, as if her glare and pursed lips had nowhere to go.

  Tuck nodded again and kept moving toward the boat. Without warning, a genuine smile grew inside and warmed him against the cool morning.

  Hmm. He wished he’d known sooner that giving Gandiegow a wide berth had been the wrong approach, and that facing the adversarial townsfolk head-on, could be a bit of fun.

  He hadn’t felt this light in a while. Not since before John’s accident.

  * * *

  John drifted in and out of sleep, feeling warm and wonderful. With Maggie cuddled next to him, he felt whole, right.

  Instantly, he came awake, the truth grabbing him as surely as the winch drum had done on the boat. He broke out in a cold sweat. I’m not whole. Not anymore.

  He stared down to see if his wife was really there or if she was a phantom, too, like his gone-arm, when it pained him so. But Maggie wasn’t a dream, as she was, indeed, nestled up to his disfigured body. “What are ye doing here?”

  Maggie burrowed deeper into his side. “I can’t sleep without ye.”

  Shame and anger built inside John. What kind of man couldn’t shake off his problems for his grieving wife? Either now… or then. If only he’d done what Maggie had asked, the morning of the accident. She had begged him to stay—please don’t go on the morning run. She’d never made such a request…though since Irene’s birth, Maggie had seemed fearful and made grumblings of him finding a safer job. He’d chalked her irrational trepidation up to hormones, hoping sooner or later, she’d realize her worries were unfounded. Though his lost arm proved they were real.

  The night before John’s accident, Maggie had lost her da, Lyel, in a car crash near Aberdeen. The news had crushed her. The two of them weren’t close, but John supposed that made losing her da all the harder. Maggie’s sobs that awful night had sounded more like a wounded animal than the strong woman John knew her to be. And it shook him to his foundation.

  God, if only he’d done as his wife had asked, he wouldn’t be lying in this hospital bed. He’d be a whole man. And Maggie wouldn’t have suffered the one-two punch of losing both of her men—in a sense—within hours of each other.

  John cursed himself, for he’d always been too focused, too driven his whole life. Making a living and providing for his family had been everything. That morning, he’d been too dead set on getting to the fishing grounds early, too busy to take the time to comfort his wife. He’d thought he would comfort her later that evening.

  But if he was being honest with himself, drive and ambition wasn’t the only reason he’d left her that morning. He wasn’t comfortable with grief. With hers, with his own, or with anyone else’s. He’d wanted to get away from Maggie, out on the water, where her tears couldn’t reach him. But then…

  He glanced down at where his arm should be.

  A man should be able to put aside his own problems now to help his wife. John certainly had enough time on his hands now. But dammit, he only had enough energy to ponder on all the things he could no longer do. He was weak and as vulnerable as a caught fish heading for the processing plant.

  A knock came at the door and the doctor entered.

  Maggie shot up and scooted off the bed, taking the vinyl chair. John instantly missed her next to him.

  “Let’s talk about you going home,” the doctor said.

  Home? John didn’t have one anymore.

  Because he’d been trying to get away from his wife and her grief that morning, he’d lost everything. His home. His village. And his community. He felt sick all over again. And angry. He couldn’t look at Maggie.

  But he shouldn’t blame her. This was Deydie’s doing. The decision had been made while he was in his second surgery. In the recovery room, she’d told him what Deydie wanted—for them to move to Whussendale—but he’d been near out of his mind with pain. He had no right to argue with Maggie about it now. He’d given his word he wouldn’t fish again. For her.

  He’d been captain of the boat. Head of the family. Now baby Irene was of more use to the family than he was. He was now a man completely robbed of power in the prime of his life. Defeated. It made him physically ill his wife was forced to be the breadwinner, all because he hadn’t been man enough to withstand her grief and hold her in her hour of need.

  Maggie cleared her throat. “When can John come home?”

  The doctor gave him an encouraging nod. “If he continues to improve as he has, he’ll be headed home at the end of the week.”

  John didn’t feel encouraged.

  Maggie, smiling, took John’s hand and squeezed. “The nurse said something about physical therapy?”

  “And occupational therapy, too,” the doctor started.

  Ha! What occupation!

  As the two of them discussed it, John stared out at the bleak spring morning. Tall buildings stood in his line of sight. He should get used to having a different view. Everyone kept mentioning his new normal. As if the effing words fixed everything! To hell with the new normal! He wanted his old normal back!

  John hadn’t prayed since the Almighty saw fit to rip his arm from him, but he offered up to Him the same questions he’d been asking himself since he woke up in this nightmare.

  Lord, why me? He’d done everything he was supposed to do. When John’s own da died nearly four years ago, he didn’t question, but took up his father’s mantle.

  Why take my living from me, when ye know I love the sea? And to make me live in a godforsaken landlocked village? What are ye thinking, Lord? Am I such an awful man?

  And this was the hardest question of all: Is this my p
unishment for leaving Maggie alone when she needed me most?

  John waited a heartbeat, then two, but no answer came.

  What could he expect? Not only had the Almighty taken his right arm, he had turned a deaf ear to him, too.

  10

  Ryn looked across the short expanse of the postage-stamp-sized cottage. Deydie was frowning at her and Ryn frowned back. It wasn’t her idea to be dropped here with an ancient reluctant babysitter. And Deydie certainly hadn’t been kind to Tuck. Later, Ryn would have to ask him how he’d managed to get on the wrong side of the old woman.

  Though Ryn wasn’t thrilled about being here, something about Deydie reminded her of Granny Kay, making her miss her grandmother terribly. In some ways, Granny Kay had been more of a mother than Mom. She’d taught Ryn how to cook and sew. She’d made her soup when she was sick. Losing her last year had been devastating. Sometimes Ryn’s chest ached from loneliness and emptiness. She belonged to no one now and no one belonged to her. She felt adrift and wanted nothing more than to have a family, a home, to feel settled. She’d had such high hopes of finding her family here in Scotland. However, she’d set her sights too high, and now, was trapped here with Deydie. who was acting as if it was her fault she was here. Ryn wished she’d done what Tuck had suggested—put the Goodbye quilt into the post for Maggie and skipped the trip to Scotland altogether.

  Deydie gestured toward the table. “Do ye quilt?”

  “Yes,” Ryn said.

  “Then ye know how to use a rotary cutter?”

  Ryn stared at the green mat on the table. “Yes.”

  The kettle whistled and Deydie hurried toward it. “I need a collection of one-and-a-half inch strips and two inch strips. Make them super scrappy.”

  Ryn eased over to the ironing board where tartan remnants lay flat in a pile, fully pressed. She picked them up and took them to the table, positioning them on the mat. She grabbed the rotary cutter and began slicing the fabric into carefully measured out pieces.