Sexy too, damn him.
Violet waved, because neighbors did, and Mr. Brodie crossed the road, evidently intent on stopping by. Well, fine, because she had some questions for her new neighbor.
“Good evening,” Mr. Brodie said, letting his backpack slide from his shoulder. He held his pack by a strap, while the dogs came over and gave him the whiff test. He let each dog sniff his free hand, patted their heads, and tugged on Murphy’s ears.
Murph loved to have his ears tugged, and predictably, he was on his back, paws in the air, begging for more.
“Have you no dignity, dog?” Mr. Brodie asked. “May I sit, Miss Hughes?” He had the sense not to encourage Murphy, a bellyrub-ho without shame.
“Of course,” Violet said. “Are you getting settled in?”
He came down beside her, right there on the wooden porch steps. “Aye. It’s very pretty here, reminds me of home. Did you grow those strawberries yourself?”
Men and food, food and men. At least he’d complimented the valley. “I trade with another farm up the road. I get their soft fruit, they get my apples and pears as part of an organic produce co-op. Murph, get lost.”
Murphy had remained at the foot of the steps, rooching around on his back, trying to look adorable, and mostly looking like a hundred pounds of idiot dog.
“I admire persistence in a fellow. Have you lived here long?”
This was what neighbors were supposed to do—to visit, to take an interest in each other, to stop by of a pretty evening. Violet had gone so long without a real neighbor, she was out of practice socializing—not that a single suitcase suggested Elias Brodie intended to stay in the area.
Or maybe she was out of practice socializing with good-looking guys who purred their way across the English language. Elias Brodie caressed his vowels, and snapped off his t’s and d’s, like verbally snipping fresh green beans.
“I’ve lived here all my life,” Violet said. “My dad farmed this property, his dad before him, back five generations.”
“So this is home for you.”
Murphy cast Violet his best hopeful-doggy look, then gave up, wiggled to his feet, shook, and trotted off after Sarge, who was sniffing around the mailboxes at the foot of Violet’s driveway.
“This is home,” Violet said. “Where is home for you?” She wanted desperately to know what Mr. Brodie had planned for the Hedstrom farm, but she also wanted to know about him.
No harm in a little neighborly curiosity, after all.
“I live in Perthshire for the most part, at the foot of the Highland line. You’ve never seen such beauty, Violet Hughes. Every season takes your breath away, the fishing is the best in the world, and yet, you can be in Paris or London by early afternoon. And then there’s the whisky.”
He spoke of whisky as some men spoke of the first woman who’d stolen their heart.
“Have a strawberry.” Violet held out the bowl.
He chose a small specimen, which was smart. The largest berries often lacked flavor.
He tore off the leaves, pitched them among the pansies, and popped the berry into his mouth. In the spirit of neighborly visiting, Violet helped herself to a strawberry as well.
“These are excellent,” he said. “I’m more of a raspberry man, myself, but that is delectable fruit.”
A raspberry man, though not razzberry, as an American would have pronounced it. Rasp-bury.
Violet had been around all manner of attractive guys. Her hay dealer was six-foot-three, roped with muscle, and had a smile as wide as Nebraska. The Knightley brothers were three fine specimens of local manhood, and Niels Haddonfield, manager at the therapeutic riding stable, had more Saxon-warrior handsome going than was decent—and he was a nice guy.
But he wasn’t a rasp-bury man.
“Have another,” Violet said. “They taste better when they’re snitched.” They tasted best of all when sun-warmed, fresh from the vine.
“Forbidden fruit is the most delicious.” Mr. Brodie helped himself to a second small berry. He paused before eating, sending Violet a smile that was…
Trouble. That smile was pure, sweet, succulent trouble, and yet, it had nothing of pandering in it. Elias Brodie’s smile was conspiratorial, a little self-conscious, and even a touch naughty, but it was naughtiness shared among fellow snitchers of berries, not a man flaunting his wares at a woman.
“What will you do with your farm?” Violet asked, selecting another berry for herself. “It’s a terrific property, has plenty of arable land, good pasture, solid structures, fences are in good repair, and not too much deadfall on your wooded acres.”
“Would you like to buy it?” He lounged back so his elbows rested on the top step.
She’d adore owning the Hedstrom property. “I can barely afford my own place, but then, a competent farmer seldom turns a profit. Aren’t you hot in that jacket?”
Elias Brodie wore beautiful clothing, probably hand-tailored. But even lightweight wool was wool, and the temperature still hovered near eighty.
He sat forward and shrugged out of his coat, hanging it tidily over the porch rail. Next he slipped gold cufflinks into his pants pocket and turned back his cuffs.
“The last time I saw French cuffs was at a funeral,” Violet said, then crammed another strawberry into her mouth—one she’d neglected to denude of leaves.
“We wear our kilts for send-offs,” Mr. Brodie replied. “Also for weddings and celebrations. So what would you do with my property, if you’d inherited it?”
His gaze as he surveyed the rolling fields and lovely barn across the road was bleak. Of course, he missed his uncle, and Violet had been an idiot for mentioning funerals.
“With the land that isn’t under leased cultivation, I’d take off as much hay as I could, though a lot of it’s only suited for round bales. I can put you in touch with an excellent hay dealer up in Thurmont who might be able to find you somebody to make up your first cutting on short notice. You can do a summer wheat crop, there’s still time for corn if July doesn’t get too hot, and you are ideally situated to start a co-op garden.”
Violet’s corn had gone in two weeks ago, and thank God no late hard frost had come along to ruin it.
Mr. Brodie crossed long legs at the ankle, as if lounging on farmhouse porches was what Scottish businessmen did best.
“That’s twice you’ve mentioned cooperatives, Violet. Are they popular in this area?”
As the sun sank toward the Blue Ridge off to the west, Violet waxed eloquent about co-operative farming, community gardens, fresh produce, children getting outside, and how to teach simple gardening techniques. Without intending to, she’d soon circled around to the topic of which she never, ever tired, the backbone of American agriculture, family farms.
And Elias Brodie let her talk. He stole the occasional strawberry, slipped in a request to charge his cell on the porch outlet, ambled back to the steps, and let Violet talk some more.
By the time she was tossing out the url for her blog and website, both dogs were dozing at Elias’s feet, and Violet was mentally thanking Zebedee Brodie for having such a lovely nephew. Maybe all Scots were good listeners, maybe neighboring was something that came naturally to them.
The strawberries were capped, the crickets had started to chirp, and a pitcher of icy lemonade had been consumed. Elias had tossed his ice cubes into the grass before swilling his lemonade, and the afternoon had given way to evening by the time Violet wound down.
“You’re passionate about your agriculture.” Elias rose and extended a hand to Violet. She accepted the help because her butt was numb.
He picked up the bowl of strawberries and the knife. “Should the berries be put in the refrigerator? One doesn’t want them to spoil.”
Unlike raspberries, strawberries did not mold in mere hours, but yes, the produce ought to be chilled.
“Have you had dinner?” Violet asked, taking the berries and knife from him.
He gathered up his jacket and his backpack.
Both dogs came to their feet. “I’m off-kilter if you must know. I left Scotland somewhat precipitously, and I do not enjoy air travel. I’m fairly certain if you put food in front of me, I’d be ravenous.”
“Come into my kitchen. I can feed you, and you can tell me about farming in Scotland.”
“You needn’t go to any trouble,” he said, stuffing his cell phone in a pocket, and collecting the empty glasses. “I don’t want to impose and I honestly know very little about farming in Scotland—or anywhere.”
Well, damn. Chances were he wouldn’t be moving in next door. “We’re neighbors. Sarge and Murphy like you, otherwise you would not get past my front door.”
In other words, Violet knew she was being stupid, admitting a strange man to her house. Except what guy intent on bad behavior would lounge on the front porch for more than an hour first, pet the dogs, snitch strawberries, and listen to endless raptures about vintage tomatoes?
“You ought not to allow me into your home, Violet. We’ve just met, and you’re isolated here.”
Violet snitched one last strawberry, trying to label her feelings. The hint of a scold in Elias’s words rankled—she’d been taking care of herself more or less since childhood—but he wasn’t exactly chastising her.
Maybe he was being—she rummaged around for the right word— protective?
“You are among strangers,” she said, “far from home, and you’re hungry. If you don’t mind plain fare, I’d like to share a meal with you.”
“You have a hay crop coming off soon. Will you let me help you with that?”
Violet understood the fine line between charity and hospitality, between pride and arrogance. “You’ll hate me if I let you make hay. Dirtiest, hardest, most back-breaking, curse-inducing work there is.”
“I enjoy hard work, what little I’ve done of it. We’ll share a meal, and you’ll introduce me to the business end of a hay wagon.”
“Assuming it doesn’t rain.” Violet gestured Elias into her house, but paused a moment to study the property across the road. For the third time in an hour, a dark blue SUV drove slowly past. She knew that vehicle from somewhere, and she didn’t like—
Recognition struck, with equal parts anger and anxiety.
God rot Maxwell Maitland to the foulest manure pit. Abruptly, Violet wished she were holding her shotgun, and not half a bowl of fresh, succulent strawberries.
Chapter Three
* * *
The Brodie charm was as much legend as fact, just like much of Scotland’s history. Auld Michael, Elias’s many-times great grandfather, had toddled off to the Napoleonic wars for nearly a decade, and had come home to his lady with a barony in hand. Brenna Brodie had apparently required some charming before she welcomed her soldier back to the castle—stories abounded about their reunion—but Michael had managed to win the fair lady’s heart and many children had resulted.
Some years later, Queen Victoria had taken a shine to her Highland neighbor, deeming Michael the dearest old flirt ever to strut about in a kilt. His strutting had seen the family title elevated to an earldom, and exporting Aberdeen Angus breeding bulls had similarly elevated the family’s fortunes.
Zebedee Brodie had certainly commanded a great deal of genuine charm. By comparison, Elias rated his own appeal of the counterfeit variety. He was a pleasant escort, he looked good in a kilt, he wasn’t difficult to get out of that kilt.
Not much of a resume for a man who’d celebrated his thirtieth birthday.
Sitting on Violet’s steps, watching the sun set, fatigue had hit Elias like a gale-force wind. Fatigue of the body, for he’d gone short of sleep in recent weeks dealing with Zebedee’s estate; fatigue of the nerves, because flying did that to him; and fatigue of the spirit.
And now he found himself in a woman’s kitchen, anticipating—of all things—a home cooked meal.
“Just set the glasses in the sink,” Violet said, putting the strawberries in the fridge. “Unless you’d like more lemonade?”
The lemonade had been ambrosial—cold, sweet, tart, fresh. Elias could not recall having had better.
“Water is probably a good idea,” he said. “Flying can result in dehydration.” Also in death. He filled his glass at the sink, drank it down, then refilled the glass. “I would not have known this was a log cabin from the outside.”
Violet’s farmhouse had a sort of pioneer chic. The walls of her living room were the exposed interior of a log cabin, while the kitchen appeared to be a later addition. Her furniture was pine, possibly handmade. Sturdy and unassuming, but comfortable-looking. Pillows, quilts, afghans, dried flowers… a woodstove that looked more functional than high-tech.
Not at all like the baronial opulence of the castle’s lodge, but inviting in its way.
“Most of the old farmhouses in this valley are log cabins,” she said, “but the log structure is hidden under drywall and siding. Some are ‘out and up’ stone houses—take the rocks out of the field and use them to put up the walls. If you look around, you’ll see that on many farm properties, there’s still a tiny homestead cottage.”
Violet was at ease in her kitchen, opening cupboards; getting down bowls, measuring cups, ingredients; and making a domestic racket that soothed the part of Elias’s soul that had never wanted to leave Scotland again.
She ran the hot water, testing its temperature with her fingers, then filling a measuring cup—non-metric units—and adding a teaspoon of sugar.
Elias propped a shoulder against a doorjamb because the lady hadn’t invited him to take a seat. “What’s a homestead cottage?”
“Look out that window,” Violet said, dumping a floury mixture into a glass bowl. “That log-cabin-type shed is where people lived the first winter they settled here. They’d get it built over the summer, or cut the wood one year, come back and build the cabin the next. They’d have shelter for winter and a dwelling on the property for homesteading purposes, and then they’d build a proper house as time allowed.”
Violet was making bread. Elias had seen his aunts and cousins make enough bread to know the rhythm and sequence of the task. Never before had he found the activity of much interest, but he liked watching Violet Hughes in her kitchen.
She was competent, efficient, and… feminine. Her hair was bound in a braided bun that held itself together through invisible means, but this late in the day, entropy had made progress over order. Wisps of auburn hair brushed against her nape—a tender, vulnerable spot, and kissable too.
“Can I do something to help?” Elias’s aunts had smacked some manners into him, when they’d had the chance, and having a task would help keep him awake.
“Wash your hands. Then you can start on the salad. Bathroom’s down the hallway to your right.”
How to ask. Elias had come here in search of a shower, then ended up sprawled on the porch steps. He’d been felled by jet-lag, the delight of sitting in sight of the mountains and fields, and the pleasure of listening to a woman wax eloquent about eggplant—whatever that was.
He remained in the doorway, not sure how to ask for the use of the facilities, knowing he had clean clothes in his backpack.
Violet pulled a small step-stool over to the counter and stood on it to knead the dough. “Better leverage this way,” she said. “Conserves energy.”
Elias snagged his backpack and headed down the hallway rather than let it appear he’d spent two hours with Violet, and listened to her pour out her agrarian heart just so he could have access to hot running water.
* * *
Maybe Bonnie had simply wanted the office to herself.
Max gave up on casually introducing himself to the Brodie heir—or whatever minion the estate had sent to look over the Hedstrom property—when darkness encroached, and not a light went on in the house. He’d tried knocking on the front door, then the back door—Damson Valley was rural—and even poking around the dusty, cobwebby barn.
No sign of life save for a fat orange cat that had hissed and arched its b
ack while following Max all over the property. Damned feline was probably spying for Violet Hughes, a porcupine of a female who’d spent too much time riding her tractor in the summer sun. Three years ago, she’d stopped one of Max’s projects north of town—ten miles from her farm—and Max had spent the next twelve months freezing his balls off on a job out in Garrett—godforsaken snow capital of the Appalachians—County.
The Hedstrom property by contrast, was beautiful. The land rolled just enough to create a sense of cul-de-sacs and neighborhoods, the class four rural stream would make a couple of nice water features. Jogging trails nearly laid themselves out, and never had a parcel of land begged so eloquently for development.
Max drove back to town at the hour when deer in their red summer coats foraged at the edges of hay fields, and bats swooped across a darkening sky. Damson Valley was only half-civilized by his standards. Needed a decent grocery store so people didn’t have to drive into town for a loaf of bread. A gas station or two would help, maybe a liquor store, and a smattering of—
The phone rang, so Max punched the controls for hands-free discussion, but too late realized who was calling.
“It’s Saturday night,” Pete Sutherland said. “Why isn’t a good looking young guy like you out painting the town red?”
“It’s early,” Max replied, putting a smile he did not feel into the words. Then too, young was a relative term. “What can I do for you, Pete?” Besides make the man several million dollars Pete would do nothing to earn.
“I have some news. Don’t know if it’s good news or bad news.”
Peter Sutherland had been born in West Stump, New York, a municipality so small, it was technically a hamlet rather than a town. At some point, Pete had decided that his station in life required a Southern accent, though Max had been unable to divine exactly how this linguistic transformation had occurred—sometime after Pete had acquired a degree in business from Dartmouth (no mention of honors), and before acquiring the first of several Mrs. Sutherlands.
“I’m always happy to listen to news,” Max said as a rabbit darted across the road. Another rabbit followed immediately, necessitating a sudden application of the brakes.
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