Chapter 4 Katie
Chapter 4 Katie
Just as the cycling siren neared enough for me to see the whites of her eyes, my sloshy tennis shoes and I jumped to the side,
landing in a magnificent mud puddle and clearing the way for the homicidal mini-cyclist to zoom past.
She shot a toothy grin over her shoulder, and I’m pretty sure my jaw slacked.
The little rascal!
If my eyes shot lasers, little Miss “My brakes is gone!” would have an exploded tire. I stared at the girl’s retreating silhouette
as I pulled myself from the tiny pond from which I’d landed and shook out my shoes.
“I see you survived Kirsty and her dreaded bicycle.”
A woman about my mom’s age stood just outside the door of Mirren’s. She wore a patterned dress with a red cardigan over it,
and her dark hair fell to her shoulders in waves.
“So that happens often?” I took a few steps toward her welcoming smile, the squishing-shoe sounds keeping time with my words.
“Aye.” Her pale eyes twinkled. “Some of us thinks there’s naught wrong with her brakes and she merely likes to terrify folks
to an early grave. Like her dad, that one.”
My grin responded to her humor without hesitation. Her accent probably helped too. “I think my heart might have stopped there for a second.” I patted my chest and closed the distance. “But since my life follows a series of unexpected accidents, I think I’ll survive.” I looked back in the direction the little girl had left. “And I’ll know to keep my eye out for her next time.”
“Both eyes.” The woman pointed toward her own. “If I was you, especially with that one.”
Oh, I liked this lady. With a renewed smile, I offered my hand. “Katie Campbell.”
“Campbell.” Her dark brows rose as she examined my face and took my hand. “Have you tossed that name around the village much?”
My smile resurrected. “My taxi driver told me to be careful with it since I was in McClean country and might find myself on
the wrong side of a claymore.”
Her laugh burst out in such an infectious way, it made me want to hug her. “Aye, if you’d lived here a few centuries ago.”
She wiped her eyes and looked back up at me. “But I think you’re safe in this century if you stay away from certain villages.
Though, if you’re keen to learn more about it, Duart Castle is the site of one of the many battles between the McCleans and
Campells.”
Had I seen something about Duart Castle on a map?
“It’s naught a half hour drive from here and has a braw view.”
“Then I’ll definitely add it to my list of sites to see on Mull.”
“I s’pose you have some Scottish heritage in ye?”
“Aye.” I tried the word out. “My grandfather was a first-generation Scottish American and Scotland’s biggest fan.”
Her smile grew to crinkle her eyes. “Mirren MacKerrow, and this is my bookshop.” She gestured inside before leading the way
over the threshold.
For a book lover, bookshops held a similar ambience no matter where you were in the world. The shelves of spines, the scents
of paper and baked goods—but in this case an added mild fragrance of fish blended into the overall atmosphere.
Again, unexpected.
“There’s a bit of everything here, as you’ll find with most of the shops in Glenkirk. Small, but we have a mind of how to use our space.” She waved toward the room. “Take a look around, Katie, and I’ll fetch us some tea.”
Mirren slipped through a door in the back and left me to the wonderful quiet of the room.
The back of the shop boasted rows of books with a sweet little window seat along one part of the back wall and a cozy sitting
area around a potbellied stove at the other back corner. To my left stood a counter with various baked goods on display and
a couple of small tables directly in front of it. But to my right, a section of rain gear, fishing poles, and other fishy
sorts of things waited.
My attention fell on a row of rain boots.
As if approving of my approach toward the boots, my shoes added a squeak along with the familiar squish.
“Ah, you’ll be needin’ some wellies, will ya noo?” Mirren appeared from the back room and gestured toward my feet. “I’m brewin’
a fresh pot so we can warm you from your soggy socks up through the rest of you.”
It was almost impossible not to keep smiling at the woman. Not only did her turn of phrase and accent make me think of my
grandpa, but she glowed with a welcome and friendliness that put my whole body at ease.
“That is so kind of you.”
“Pshh!” She waved away my words and returned her attention to my shoes. “Some fresh wool socks would set you right too, you
ken?”
How could a simple phrase like “you ken” squeeze my heart in twenty places? Grandpa was surely grinning down from heaven as
I stepped into the world he loved so much... and felt such an immediate kinship to.
“Pulling on a pair of those soft warm socks over my cold toes sounds like one of the best things I’ve heard all day.” I pointed toward my shoes and wiggled my wet toes. “I’m afraid I didn’t come prepared for Scotland in the footwear department.”
“We’ll take care of that.” She nodded, then scanned me from toes to head as she reached for a pair of socks nearby. “And aren’t
you a tall one? You’d barely fit through the door of my cottage. My boys have to bend their necks, and you’re nearly as tall
as the shortest of the lot.”
“You should have seen me in the Philippines. I nearly bowed every time I walked through a doorway.”
A warm chuckle erupted from the woman as she handed me the socks, adding another charm to the list. She fit within these storied
walls and the quaint shop. Her red cardigan over a simple dress. Her reading glasses topping her head. The resident twinkle
in those pale blue eyes.
Everything fit together in a perfect sort of homey way.
“I suppose you’re one of the media people who’ve come to Craighill for the next few weeks?”
“I am. I write for a travel magazine called World on a Page .”
“So you travel for your job?” She lowered her glasses from her head to study me. “And write about what you see?”
“And any adventures or misadventures I experience along the way.”
Her chuckle warmed the room again. “From that twinkle in your eye, I’d say you’re keen on finding a few adventures.”
“Or they’re keen on finding me.”
We rummaged through the few pairs of wellies and, to no one’s surprise who has lived my life, the only ones close enough to
fit my size 10 1 / 2 feet were a bright yellow pair covered in hand-painted vegetables.
“Well now. I’ve hoped to sell those for a good three years.”
I nodded down at my newly adorned feet. “I wonder what took so long.”
“I cannae say. They’ve been my favorite pair.” She offered a wink and then shuffled to the counter. “How do you find the folks
at Craighill?”
I and my bright yellow wellies turned toward the books, measuring my response. “Surprised to find the Lennoxes are English instead of Scottish since the house is on Mull. But Mrs. Lennox has been pleasant enough.” No need to mention the macaw. “And the house is fantastic.”
“Aye, ’tis so.” Mirren nodded her appreciation. “A lovely house. Historic. Over four hundred years old and in need of some
repair. The upkeep for a house the likes of Craighill is no small feat.”
I couldn’t even imagine. The electric bill for the farmhouse back home was impressive enough. The idea of upkeep and heating
for some stone manor house on an island in the northern hemisphere? No thanks.
A whistling sound erupted from the back room, and Mirren’s head rose to attention. “Ah, the tea! I almost forgot.” She raised
a finger toward me. “Take a look around at the books, and I’ll be back in a trice.”
She scurried off, leaving me to pleasantly peruse the room some more, especially the bookshelves lining the back corner. All
sorts. And many featuring Scotland in some way or other. Hmm. What book had the Hateful Highlander mentioned? Lore and Legend ?
Well, he was Scottish, so at least I should consider his recommendation.
I skimmed over the spines of the books. A few popular titles faced forward, particularly a series involving time travel. Another
highlighted series featured dragons and swords on the covers. A crimson cover embossed with gold caught my attention, and
I slipped the book from the shelf. Scottish Kisses and Other Romantic Secrets of Alba ?
My face grew warm just reading the title. What on earth would the contents do? And yet, after a glance over my shoulder, I flipped open the book. Despite my less-than-stellar romantic history and uncertain romantic future, a title like that slapped on a book practically compelled the most inane romantic to take a little peek—or keek , as the locals might say.
My gaze fell on a short paragraph near the top of the page.
Though your typical Scotsman may appear standoffish to the stranger’s eye, don’t let his expression fool you. The Scots are
a deeply passionate people with a love for family, story, drink, and an extended coorie or snogging opportunity.
I cleared my throat and sent another glance over my shoulder. I didn’t know what coorie meant, but I sure knew what snogging implied. I’d read enough books to almost envision that one. My face reheated and I slammed the book closed but hesitated
before returning it to the shelf.
I cleared my throat and slipped the book back open.
The history and romance of Scotland is part of the lifeblood of its people. And though they may talk a great deal about their
stories and histories, they’ll not fail to show rather than tell when they find their m’eudail or ghràidh —darling or love, as the case may be.
A door snapped closed, sending me into motion, and I tucked the book beneath my arm to hide the title. Good grief. I didn’t
need that sort of distraction. Even though my thoughts had sufficiently dipped into the part of my brain that wondered how a wonderfully
standoffish Scot might show his passion in a very non-standoffish kind of way.
And then a vision of the Sulky Scot’s eyes and shoulders—in that order—popped to mind.
Ack!
“Here we go, Katie Campbell,” came Mirren’s voice as she emerged back into view, a tray in hand.
I snatched Lore and Legend from the shelf and shoved a smile in place, hoping my cheeks weren’t as red as they felt. “You’re so kind. Thank you. But
let me go ahead and pay for these purchases so I won’t forget.”
Mirren placed the tray on a small center table near the bookshelves and followed me back to the counter, where I placed the
wellies and the books out for her view.
She scanned my findings and looked up at me, a twinkle deepening in her eyes as she rang up the books. “Are you looking for
a wee bit of lore and romance here in Scotland, Katie Campbell?”
The heat in my face took an upswing into feverish, but I shrugged and gestured toward the books. “Fictional suits me well.”
“No beau back home, is there?”
Back home? I didn’t even know where home was. And spending too much time trying to sort out the answer ended up hurting in
places I tried to ignore.
“I appreciate that matchmaking twinkle in your eyes, Mirren, but I’m not really the type of girl a home-loving Scottish guy
would want. I travel a lot. I’m a little nerdy and old-fashioned. Ridiculously clumsy.” As my list grew, the twinge of loneliness
in my chest grew too. “Prone to snuggle up by the fire rather than party in the pub.”
My list didn’t seem to deter that twinkle as much as I’d hoped. “Ah, so you’ve set your mind against finding true love here,
have ye?”
“No, not... I mean... I’m sure there are some... braw Scottish men in want of a wife.” And my cheeks may have started
to sizzle a little. “But no guy wants a girlfriend who travels all the time, and very few are after a giant.” I gestured toward
myself.
Her brows rose.
“Not that I’m looking, of course.” I scanned the room, searching for a diversion, and my gaze landed on some hand-carved fishing
poles. “Oh, what are those? Aren’t they lovely.”
A smile crooked on the woman’s face, letting me know she was not deceived by my attempt at distraction. “Aye, if you’re looking for a nice souvenir, those would prove an excellent choice.” She opened a wooden box by the door that housed a dozen or more long poles, complete with a simple string and hook. “My brother makes them, and all the proceeds go to support our local school.”
I couldn’t help the grin that pulled against my lips, grateful for the topic change. The simple poles reminded me of going
fishing with my grandpa in the little pond at the back of his farm. We’d never caught too much with them—an occasional surprise
or two—but rarely anything to take back home for supper. The whole art and experience of fishing provided the real goal: time—with
him.
I glanced back at Mirren. “Proceeds go to the school, huh?”
“They do.” She preened, clearly proud of her brother’s work. “He’s made ’em for over thirty years.”
Though the poles were simple, the craftsmanship was not. Tiny curves and curls grooved into the wood. Swirls of Celtic variety.
A simple silhouette of a dragon or a bird or a mermaid. My fingers glided over the indentations and smoothed over the arches
of a few of the poles until I settled on my choice. The pole held carvings of flowers and the moon, and ended near the top
with a beautiful woman, her hair and gown swirling down the wood to meet the flowers.
“Ah, you’ve chosen Aine.” Mirren’s grin crinkled.
“Aine?”
“Aye, the goddess of love.” Her brows rose again. “Seems to be a theme. I wouldnae wonder if there’s a secret desire in your
heart, Katie-girl.”
The Scottish Kisses book popped to mind and my cheeks went hot again. “Well, doesn’t everybody want love?”
Whether we’re able to find it or not is the real question.
She didn’t answer but rang up my order while whistling some sort of magical tune that reminded me of a bluegrass ballad from my childhood. “This afternoon is meant to be a fine day, and the pools will be a good place to start.”
“The pools?”
“Aye, for fishin’.” She nodded toward the pole in my hands. “There are some nice pools down the trail with a few fish and
a pretty view just waitin’ to show off some of our island scenery for ye.” Her suggestion, paired with the twinkle in her
eyes, gave me the nudge I needed to take a little detour and indulge in a childhood memory placed quite perfectly in Grandpa’s
old stomping grounds. “I’d wager an adventure or two may wait there too.”
Why did “adventure” take on a totally different connotation when paired with her mischievous twinkle?
“But first, we must have tea before it gets cold.” She guided my newly wellied feet, my bag of books, and my fishing pole
over to the little sitting area by the stove where she’d left her tray. “You won’t want to become peckish while you’re out
near the pools.”
I had just taken a seat and filled a little plate with a sandwich and scone when the bell over the door jingled someone’s
entrance. Four older ladies, a book and bag in each hand, entered the shop and, in deep conversation about some spy in a downed
plane, found their way to the corner where I sat.
With a nod and/or smile in my direction and without any explanation, each lady took a plate and cup from the tray and joined
me on the seats near the stove as if they’d been expecting me.
What was happening?
“So glad to have a new one with us today,” said one lady as she welcomed me, took a seat, and opened her bag. “Not often enough
we get new ones.”
The next three ladies did the same.
From their bags, they drew yarn balls of various colors, knitting needles, and knitting projects in various stages of completion.
I looked over at Mirren as she took the vacant chair next to mine, her own knitting piece in hand. She leaned close. “This is our Wednesday morning Stories and Stitches book club.”
Book club? I shrugged off the surprise and embraced the opportunity. “How lovely.” Getting involved with the culture always
led to some great blog posts and articles. And, like this, I usually stumbled upon them.
“And everyone will love to learn more about you and your history,” Mirren continued. “All of us bring our own stories, don’t
we?”
My back stiffened a little. My own story? I wrote about other people’s stories. Not my own. Some places weren’t meant to be
explored too deeply.
“I’m much more interested in hearing about you all.”
“Oh! She’s American!” exclaimed an older lady wearing a purple cloche hat that brought out the green of her eyes. “How lovely.”
“Katie, this is Lori.” Mirren gestured toward the hat lady. “And Bea.” The woman beside Lori offered a gentle smile. Her beautiful
dark hair spun up beneath a teal headband that highlighted her skin tone, which was only a shade lighter than her hair. “And
there’s Blair.” The woman had a full white head of hair and wore round spectacles perched atop a narrow nose framed by two
rosy cheeks. If anyone ever looked like Mrs. Claus, this was her.
“And I’m Maggie,” announced the fourth woman, shaking her too-blond-to-be-real head of tight curls and examining me through
narrowed eyes.
I pulled my gaze away from her to friendlier faces. “It’s a pleasure to meet all of you. My name is Katie Campbell.”
An audible response emerged in various ways from the little crowd but, apart from Maggie, ended in more sympathetic smiles
than not, with Bea nodding and saying, “But those feuds were so long ago.”
And I wasn’t sure whether to nod my gratitude at not being in peril for my last name or laugh at the idea that my last name could put me in peril. In Scotland. Where stories and histories seemed to carry weight for decades and, maybe, centuries.
“What do you like to read?” This from Mrs. Claus... er... Blair?
“All sorts of things.” Surely book choices couldn’t be as historically controversial as my last name. “Fiction, travel, of
course.” I laughed. “History.”
“And have you enjoyed your visit to Mull so far?” Bea asked, touching up my tea.
“There’s this wild sort of beauty to it, isn’t there? Otherworldly.”
All the ladies, even Maggie, nodded in agreement.
I tipped my head to them. “And the people are pretty nice too.”
“Well, I’ll tell you now that we’re not like some of the movies portray,” Maggie offered. “It’s not always raining here, and
our men dinnae wear kilts all the time.”
“But when they do, it’s worth remembering,” Lori added with a little glimmer in her eyes.
My lips twitched. Go, Lori!
“And I havenae heard one person say ‘och aye the noo’ in all my days.” Maggie’s gray eyes grew wider the more she spoke. “And
there are a great deal of friendly Scots if one takes the time to learn us. We’re not a crabbit group in the slightest. No
matter what the movies say.”
Though her deepening frown conveyed just the opposite.
“Maggie,” Mirren interrupted, her lips tightening as if she fought a smile. “I dinnae think Katie is someone with a poor opinion
of us, are you, Katie?”
“Not at all,” I answered, smiling. “My grandpa was a first-generation American Scot, so I have all the respect in the world
for my own kin.” I tagged on an attempt at a Scottish accent on the last few words of my sentence and garnered some chuckles.
But not from Maggie. “And I’m delighted more than I can say to spend some time here.”
“And what’s brought you to Mull?” This from... Blair, was it?
“I’m a travel writer, and I’m here for the Craighill House’s Edwardian Experience.”
All smiles fell, almost changing the temperature in the room.
“Not fans of Craighill?”
“It’s no that.” Blair adjusted her glasses only to look at me from over the rims. “Craighill is a part of our heritage here
in Glenkirk. We love the house .”
“And the gardens,” Bea added.
“But it’s Lennox we’re not too keen on.” Maggie mumbled out the phrase before taking a bite of scone. “The Sassenach!”
Lennox? Which must mean Mrs. Lennox? And I’d never heard Sassenach said in such an unflattering way. Mind you, I’d only heard the word mentioned by Jamie Fraser.
Didn’t it mean English?
Mirren placed a palm on my knee. “It just takes some adjusting when any foreigner comes into your place with their own ideas,
as you can imagine.”
“And brings all her workers from England,” Maggie added, before washing down her bite with a sip of tea. “Not one hire from
the village. Why?” Her eyes narrowed. “Because she’s too high and mighty, that’s why.”
Not such a great rapport to have for a new business, that’s for sure. If Mrs. Lennox wanted to build her clientele, reputation
mattered, especially with locals. My thoughts spun back to attempting to fit into dozens of tiny dresses, and an idea popped
to mind. Maybe a little olive branch for both Mrs. Lennox and the ladies of Glenkirk would make this entire experience a little
better for everyone. Besides, if I was going to make this assignment shine for Dave, then it couldn’t hurt to put in a good
word or two. “Would you happen to know of a good seamstress nearby who can work fast?”
All the ladies’ attention shifted back to me, so I continued, “There’s some trouble with a few pieces of clothing I have back
at Craighill.”
“Aye, Janie McTavish is one of the best here in the village.” Mirren stared over at me, her expression making me feel all warm and cozy inside and, at the same time, a little... nervous. What was going on behind those eyes? “She and her husband run The Hairy Coo.”
“Which is an excellent shop for wool wear,” Lori offered.
“She hasn’t a mind for wool wear, Lori.” Maggie gave a shake to her head. “She’s in need of a seamstress.”
“I’ll fetch Janie’s card for ye.” Mirren stood and stepped to the counter, leaving me alone with the knitters.
Which shouldn’t sound as ominous as if felt.
“What does a travel writer do exactly?” This from Bea, her smile soothing over the earlier tension.
I took a sip of tea before answering. “Well, I travel around the world and collect stories to share, either through articles
or podcasts or on my blog. I’ve even contributed to a few documentaries.”
“You’ve been on the telly?” Blair’s mouth dropped wide. “We’ve got a regular celebrity among us, don’t we?”
“No, nothing like that.” I laughed and shook my head. “And I’m really not interested in that kind of visibility.”
In fact, the idea kind of crawled over my skin like Peruvian-sized cockroaches.
“Go to the pub of a Friday night and you’re bound to collect more stories than you could ever use,” Maggie offered with a
smug look that let everyone know she thought she was clever.
“To be honest, I love getting everyday people’s stories. Those are some of my favorites,” I answered. “And sharing the history
of an area, or the legends.” I raised the Lore and Legends book. “There’s never a dull moment with all these stories waiting to be told in a new way.”
“Aye, Mull’s stories are fathomless for sure.” Mirren returned to her seat and placed a card on the table in front of me.
“I can’t wait to learn about them.” I waved toward the ladies. “I’m sure you all could write a book with the stories you know.”
They nodded, a few snickering at the apparent delight of some of their memories.
“Our stories do tell a lot about us, don’t they?” Mirren topped off my nearly full cup of tea. Her expression caught my attention, and I couldn’t
look away. Those pale eyes captured mine, delving deep, as if she saw all the way back to my broken childhood. “But if you’re
spending so much time on all these other stories, when do you share your own?”
My face went cold. People weren’t supposed to see through me.
Especially not that quickly.
Which made me wonder about all those faerie stories about Scotland. And whatever magic powers Mirren, the bookshop lady, had.
Because here I was, being held captive by Mirren’s all-knowing eye like Frodo Baggins and Sauron. I flinched a little but
tried to cover it with a rub to my arm. “I don’t travel to share my stories.” I laughed weakly. “People aren’t interested
in those.”
“Then you’ve been around the wrong people, I’d say.” Mirren didn’t let go of me or the topic. “Every person’s story is worth
hearing, Katie-girl.”
Katie-girl. The first time I thought I’d misheard, but here she went and said it again. The intimacy of the name paired with her knowing
look twisted at my emotions. I cleared my throat. “Maybe my stories are just intermingled in the ones I tell.” I swallowed
through the lump in my throat and succeeded in pulling my gaze from hers, though I still felt her looking at me. Thankfully,
each of the women rushed ahead, sharing some of their own life stories.
I drew in a deep breath, thankful for the distraction as I tried to wrangle in my emotions. Maybe I should skedaddle out of
Scotland on the next ferry before I ended up spilling my heart to a faerie who would capture me in some sort of faerie world
from which there was no escape. I looked down at the book in my hand and wondered if it would give me some answers.
As the ladies talked, I began to relax a little, commenting here and there, trying to sort out why my insides kept doing the shimmy every time I glanced over at Mirren.
Then Lori asked, “Where’s home for you, lass?”
With only a slight hesitation and a tightening of my fingers on my teacup, I gave my automatic answer: “North Carolina.”
“Do you have any siblings?” Blair blinked behind her glasses.
My throat closed up. “I have two brothers. Both older.” Sarah’s name waited on my tongue, but I forced the temptation away.
“Brett, the brother who is closest to my age, would love fishing here. Chase would probably prefer the convenience of Edinburgh.”
Why was I chattering? I didn’t chatter. “Where would you say are some of the best fishing spots?”
“Any of the lochs,” Bea answered. “And my husband would be happy to show you.”
I smiled and readied for another redirection of the conversation away from me when Blair asked, “Are your parents still with
ye?”
With me? Ah, alive. “Aye,” I added for levity. “They’re in North Carolina. Actually, the mountains back home are similar to
yours here in a lot of ways. I’ve heard there’s a particularly large mountain on the island. What is it called again?”
“Ben More,” Maggie said. “And if you walk to the top of the bràigh behind Craighill, you’ll catch a fine view of it.”
“I have a nephew who’d be keen on a lovely lass like you,” Lori offered with a dreamy sigh.
“Oh.” I steadied my feet against the floor, readied to stand. Escape. Possibly run. “Well, that’s nice.”
“Do you have a sweetheart back home?” The angle of Blair’s glasses now made her eyes larger. Or maybe I was just paranoid.
Like all of them were trying to peer into my broken and very private past.
“No sweethearts.” I set my teacup down on the table and pulled my books up into my arms, tilting just a little bit to measure how far away the front door was. If I could jump over Bea and her tall hair, I could probably make it in less than five seconds.
“I cannae believe a lovely lass like you hasnae a lad of your own.” Bea shook her head as if she’d read my mind about the
escape plan. “There are some strappin’ lads here who’d love a tall lass like yourself. You look like you could weather a few
storms, and that’s a fact.”
My mouth struggled with something between a smile and a whimper. Why couldn’t I shake these ladies? They were harder to elude
than a bloodhound on the hunt. My breath caught. Maybe they smelled my growing fear.
“Do you miss bein’ away from home?”
I looked over at Mirren, my trained response waiting on the end of my tongue, but the look in her eyes stopped me. Her gaze
probed, sifted, and somehow pulled truth out of my mouth. “I... I miss what home could be, I guess.”
My face paled. Had I just said that out loud?
And what was worse? I actually meant it. I hadn’t even sorted out what home was yet. How could I miss what it could be?
If I stayed here much longer, I’d break down into a weepy mess in front of a bunch of strangers, and to my shock, all I really
wanted to do was curl up inside Mirren’s arms and cry like a baby on her shoulder while she cooed sweet Scottish comforts
in my ear.
But that was insane.
That I actually felt the desire to bare my soul to the lovely bookshop owner.
Whom I’d just met less than an hour ago.
Suddenly the door of the bookshop opened and a familiar, broad-shouldered silhouette framed the threshold. My heart crawled
right up into my throat and closed off any air I’d planned to breathe, as a terrifying realization dawned in my befuddled
mind.
I didn’t necessarily need it, but I desperately wanted a grumpy, barrel-chested, blue-eyed Scot to rescue me.