Emily turned. “Hello, Mrs. Barnes,” she said. “I didn’t mean to desert you. I was so caught up in waving to my parents as the ship left the harbor, I’m afraid I drifted along the rail and forgot you were beside me.”
“Think nothing of it,” rejoined Mrs. Barnes. “While you were waving down to your father and mother, I went to our stateroom for my hat. And there is someone I want you to meet . . . a young man! He is one of the assistant stewards on our deck. He is very handsome in his white uniform. I told him all about you.”
Inwardly Emily sighed. It had already become obvious that one of her hostess’s objectives was to bring romance into Emily’s life. How could she make Mrs. Barnes understand that romance was the last thing she was interested in?
Three hours later, after their first shipboard meal, Emily stood at the front of the ship, looking out on open sea. Mrs. Barnes sat in a reclining deck chair behind her. No land was visible. The gentle swaying of the ship under the ocean’s swell gave further evidence that they were well on their way.
When Mrs. Barnes awoke, Emily was seated at her side, writing in a leather-bound book.
“Oh, good heavens,” said Mrs. Barnes sleepily. “I must have dozed off. What is that you are writing?”
“My journal,” replied Emily. “My grandmother gave it to me for the trip. She told me not to open it until land was out of sight. She said that it was now my turn to follow the Quaker tradition of journaling and write about my adventure.”
“Why do Quakers keep journals?” asked Mrs. Barnes.
“I don’t know. George Fox, the founder of the Quakers, kept a journal. So did John Woolman, the famous American Quaker. He is my great-great-something grandfather. For Quakers, the inner spiritual life is very important, how God speaks to your heart. Keeping a journal of thoughts and feelings and prayers is a way to record your life with God.”
“I suppose I should know all about that. My husband’s family was Quaker, though he didn’t practice religion much.”
“There are many branches of Quakerism,” said Emily. “For some, Quakerism is becoming more secular than spiritual. But there are also ultraconservative Quaker communities that are almost like the Amish in trying to remain separate from the world.”
“Is your family like that?” asked Mrs. Barnes.
“No. I suppose we are somewhere in the middle. My parents are spiritually devout, but we dress and go to school and drive a car and live like everyone else. We value the spiritual roots of Quakerism. But my father is a banker.”
The rest of their first day at sea passed leisurely. That night, in spite of the gentle swaying of the ship, Emily slept for nine hours and awoke to sunlight streaming into the stateroom.
Twelve hours later, on her second evening on the Viking Queen, most of the guests on the pleasure liner were just warming to the after-dinner revels. By nine o’clock the majority of those aboard were having a gay time of it.
In her stateroom, Emily sat with pencil in hand, reading a thick volume entitled Bird Species of the British Isles. These were more luxurious quarters than her spartan accommodations at Wilmington College in Ohio.
The door opened and Mrs. Barnes breezed in.
“Have you still got your nose in that book of yours, Emily?” she said. “You are coming to the ballroom?”
“I would rather not, Mrs. Barnes,” replied Emily, glancing up with a smile. “I have two other books I need to finish before we arrive. I want to make the most of my time on the islands.”
“This is no time for studies, my dear. Being on board an ocean liner is a chance for fun, adventure, romance!”
Emily laughed. “Didn’t I tell you when we met that I’m not the adventurous type, Mrs. Barnes? You are the world traveler—I will leave the adventure to you.”
“Come, come, Emily—the whole ship has turned out. This is the first big celebration of the voyage. The band is warming up. Dancing will be under way before we get back. And remember the steward boy I introduced you to? He will be there, and he is very good-looking, don’t you think?”
“I suppose. But honestly I don’t notice such things,” said Emily. “People don’t accuse us Quakers of being romantics.”
“Well then, I shall see if I can make one of you. Now come—put on that lovely green-and-yellow dress I saw you unpack.”
“Do I have to, Mrs. Barnes?” said Emily slowly. “I will if you insist.”
The older woman smiled a motherly smile. “No, my dear. You have done your duty by me for this evening at dinner. The whole table was taken with your humor and wit. You are more knowledgeable about politics and world affairs than I am. Some of the men around the table were astonished later when I told them that you will be in your final year of college next year and are traveling to the Shetlands to research your thesis. Men don’t expect pretty young women to be intellectuals as well as articulate conversationalists.”
After donning a different pair of diamond earrings and adding another necklace to the two already hanging from her neck, the woman who had made this trip possible left the room with a smile and wave. Emily realized that she had grown fond of Mrs. Barnes in the short time they had known each other.
Yet the two traveling companions were clearly from different worlds. According to Dean Wilson, her aunt had cut a wide swath through the glittering social circles of New York and Philadelphia during the Gay Nineties. Emily, on the other hand, came from as straitlaced an environment as could be imagined. The most wicked event that haunted Emily’s past was sneaking a drink from her father’s coffee cup at seven, knowing full well that coffee was bad for children and would cause them not to grow properly. Now in her twenties, she still stood but two inches above five feet. This fact, she was convinced, was directly attributable to the secret sin of her childhood. Not even her collegiate studies in biology and human physiology had yet managed to persuade her otherwise.
14
Texan Out of Water
As it rumbled off the ferry, Jimmy Joe McLeod accelerated the Range Rover onto the landing and turned right toward the village of Whales Reef.
The rough single-track road was not much wider than his rented SUV. Stares followed as he sped toward the disorderly array of stone buildings of diverse sizes and shapes.
He eased back on the accelerator, glancing to the right and left as the vehicle slowed. Quaint was not the expression this particular newcomer would have used to describe the place. A backward dump was more like it. The best thing he could do for these people was level these ramshackle huts and put the place to better use by extracting and refining oil.
He scanned the shop signs as he rolled slowly by. Now that he was actually here, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. How would he find the woman?
The post office . . . one of these two-bit stores . . . somebody was bound to know where she was. His eyes strayed to the largest sign he had yet seen. Whales Fin Inn, he read. He knew the look of such places. A good old-fashioned pub. Just what he needed.
Best beer in the Shetlands, the sign boasted.
That was good enough for him. Where better to get an earful of the local scuttlebutt? She might even be staying there, for all he knew.
He pulled to a stop next to the narrow walkway, though the huge SUV blocked the street from allowing any other vehicle to pass, and walked inside. The clomping of his oversized alligator boots echoed across the wood floor as heads turned to see the massive Texan striding across it. Most of those present had never observed such a spectacle in their lives. Whether a genuine beaver hat had ever been on the island was doubtful. The man was straight out of a John Wayne movie.
“How do, partner!” bellowed Jimmy Joe as he approached the bar. “That’s some claim outside about your beer.”
“Most folk on the island are partial tae my great-grandfather’s special,” replied the man behind the counter.
“Well, that’s good enough for me. Pour me a glass and I’ll give your ol’ granddaddy’s brew a try.”
Keith Ker
r held a pint glass under the tap. Jimmy Joe watched the frothing amber liquid fill it to the rim. Keith set it on the counter in front of his colorful customer, who took a long and satisfying swallow.
“Well, dang if your granddaddy didn’t know what he was about!” he exclaimed. “That’s right fine indeed. I might have to wrangle the Texas rights to this brew out of you.”
“I’m afraid the recipe for our special blend is not for sale.”
“That’s been said to me before, partner. But when Jimmy Joe talks business, ain’t too many who can say no. Money talks, and when I want something I let the money swing the deal. But the reason I’m here is that I’m looking for a gal by the name of Ford, an American. Got anybody like that staying here?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“She’s around someplace. Word is, she’s tangled up in this inheritance business of yours since the old fella died a year ago. You must have heard of her.”
“I have,” said Keith. He did not care for this big man’s bluster. With the exception of his two quirky regulars, the MacFarlane sisters, the hotel owner’s prejudice against the laird’s so-called heir spread to all Americans.
“Know where I’d find her?”
“Can’t say as I do.”
“Daddy, why don’t you tell the man?” said a feminine voice as Keith’s daughter came out from the kitchen. “She’s at the Cottage. A’body kens that.”
Jimmy Joe turned toward the newcomer standing in the kitchen doorway. “Hey there, little lady. Sounds like you’re the one I need to be talking to, if you wouldn’t mind repeating yourself, that is. Whatever you said blew past me faster than a tumbleweed in front of a West Texas gale.”
“I was jist sayin’ that the new laird’s bidin’ at what’s called the Cottage,” replied Audney. “’Tis the laird’s hoose, ye ken.”
“Don’t sound too imposing. What’s that you call her—laird?”
“Aye. She’s the new laird on account o’ bein’ Macgregor Tulloch’s heir.”
“An’ ye’re bein’ a mite too free wi’ yer tongue tae a stranger, lassie,” put in Keith.
“Hold on there, partner,” said Jimmy Joe. “No Texan’s a stranger for long. The name’s Jimmy Joe McLeod, and I hope you’ll give me your hand!” He held his great paw across the bar.
With obvious reluctance, Keith took it. Jimmy Joe gave his hand a vigorous shake.
“Now that’s more like it! And what’s your name, little lady?”
“I’m Audney . . . Audney Kerr. This is my daddy, Keith.”
“Well, I’m right pleased to know you both,” said Jimmy Joe. “So where’s this here place you’re telling me about? I came to your town to have a little talk with this Ford gal.”
“You don’t know her?” asked Audney.
“Never met her in my life.”
“Weel, the Cottage is jist oot o’ the village aboot a mile or so. ’Tis the biggest hoose on the island. Jist drive on the way ye’re goin’ if ye came fae the ferry, an’ keep on till ye see it on yer left. Ye canna miss it.”
“I’m much obliged to you, miss,” said Jimmy Joe. “I reckon I’ll be seeing you again.”
15
Snooping Eyes
Dougal Erskine had been keeping his eye on the Cottage for two days, doing his best to follow the chief’s wishes, to stay out of sight and not bother the American woman until she had grown accustomed to her surroundings. He had not yet met the new so-called laird face-to-face. That she was an American was bad enough. In his opinion she had no right to the old laird’s inheritance. But if anything, Dougal Erskine was loyal to his chief. David had told him to treat the young lady with respect, to keep watch over her interests, and to do his best for her.
He and the two Mathesons had slept at the Auld Hoose the first night. Saxe and Isobel were still there, along with the laird’s dogs, but he had come over to his own quarters last night. Keeping to himself and staying out of sight, he had managed a few chores around the barn and stables and had tended to the animals while the lady was in the village. He was well aware of Hardy’s visit and came out of hiding again the moment Loni disappeared behind the high dunes toward the beach.
He heard the engine of an approaching vehicle long before it rumbled down the long drive and wheeled to an unceremonious stop in front of the Cottage. He paid it little heed, however. Whoever was driving had not come to pay him a visit.
Muttering to himself about Americans and loud cars ruining the peace of the island, he continued toward the chicken coop to gather the day’s eggs for Isobel. A few minutes later his attention was drawn by the figure of a massive man sporting a big white hat, walking around from the front of the Cottage, peering in the windows, knocking on the kitchen door, then continuing around the east wing.
Whoever this interloper was, he had no business prowling around the laird’s Cottage, whoever might be the rightful laird.
The next instant he was on his way to intercept the stranger.
“An’ what might it be that I can help ye wi?” he said, approaching from behind.
Startled by the gruff voice at his back, Jimmy Joe spun around.
Not often at a loss for words, the sight that met his eyes was entirely unexpected. He stood gaping at the apparition that seemed to have appeared out of thin air. The man’s full salt-and-pepper beard and crop of wild bushy hair would have been enough to startle anyone. The bright plaid jacket, dirty wool cap, manure-encrusted boots and corduroy trousers, and the tall shepherd’s staff in his hand—which Dougal had grabbed from the side of the barn just in case the fellow tried any funny business—completed the incongruous image.
“That is,” Dougal added, “if ye dinna mind my askin’ what ye’re doin’ poking aboot where ye got nae business?”
The fire in the man’s eyes, and his thick menacing accent, were enough to jolt Jimmy Joe’s senses back to reality. He broke into a great laugh.
“Where’d you come from, partner?” he said. “Dang if you ain’t a picture! But I’m right glad to see somebody’s about the place—tried the bell but I couldn’t raise nobody.”
“I asked ye a question,” growled Dougal. “Do ye intend tae gie me an answer?”
“Musta plumb slipped by me. Your accent’s a mite thick. What was it you’re wanting to know?”
“What ye’re doin’ pokin’ aboot. Looks like trespassin’ tae me.”
“Whoa, laddie—don’t get your dander up.”
“I ain’t yer laddie, ken, nor anybody’s laddie. So I’ll jist thank ye tae be takin’ yersel’ off the laird’s property.”
“Hey, I don’t mean no harm. I just came paying a friendly visit to the lady of the house.”
“The new laird’s nae home, ken. Ye’ll hae tae come back later.”
“When will she be back?”
“I dinna ken.”
“Sorry, I don’t follow you. Who in the heck’s Ken?”
“I said I canna say when she’ll be back.”
“Where is she, then?”
“I canna say,” answered Dougal, by now more determined to be obstreperous than he was protective of his new mistress.
“She can’t have gone far. Is that her car out front?”
“It’s nae her’s,” replied Dougal, truthfully enough, though conveying just the opposite.
“Will she be back today?”
“I canna say,” said Dougal a second time.
Frustrated, but thinking better of alienating this local yokel whose support he might need, Jimmy Joe decided on retreat as his best option.
“Well then, partner,” he said, “you tell her I’ll be back to see her. McLeod’s the name.”
“I dinna ken when I’ll be seein’ her.”
“Don’t you work for her?”
“I’m the laird’s gamekeeper. But I keep tae mysel’, an’ she keeps tae hersel’.”
More confused than ever, and himself by now as irritated as the grumpy bearded fellow, Jimmy Joe returned to his car. He had
a good mind just to sit where he was and wait, though he might sit all day. For all he knew, the woman had gone to the city. He didn’t like the idea of being stymied by this cranky coot, but he didn’t know what else he could do without riling the old cowpoke even more.
He started the engine, turned around, and slowly made his way back toward the village while considering his options.
By the time he reached the village he had decided to have something to eat at that pub—and another glass of what he had to admit was the best beer he’d ever tasted—then book a room in the place for a few hours. He’d catch a little shut-eye and try to knock out his jet lag. Then he’d drive out to the big house again in a couple of hours.
Hopefully by then the lady would be back and her meddling gamekeeper would be off somewhere with his sheep or cows.
16
Unfinished Business
Loni came to herself and realized she was cold. She had been sitting on this rock, reading for an hour, maybe two, and had completely lost track of the time.
Unconsciously she glanced at her wrist. She wasn’t even wearing her watch. It was so unlike her. She, Loni Ford, executive assistant to Madison Swift, whose every minute was packed with productivity and phone calls and reports and appointments . . . wandering about a remote island not even knowing what time it was.
Loni shivered briefly, then rose, clutching the journal that had absorbed her attention for however long she had been reading, and looked about. She had even lost her sense of direction.
She had come from the shore, and there over a rise in the moor she saw the roofline of the Cottage—her Cottage, she thought with a smile . . . if she decided to claim it.
Making her way back, she was not thinking of tea but of hot chocolate. She wondered if she would be successful in finding anything suitable in the well-stocked kitchen cupboard. Hot chocolate in front of the fireplace sounded like a perfect way to warm up.
———
The doorbell chimes an hour later roused Loni from an uneasy sleep. She had dozed off after her walk. She glanced beside her. The half-completed cup of chocolate on the low table next to the chair was now cold.
The Cottage Page 6
