Chapter 12 Katie
Chapter 12 Katie
Craighill House and the whole Edwardian Experience thing was really starting to grow on me in a cozy, sweatpants-snuggle-by-the-fire
sort of way. Especially if the snuggling included the fantasy of a certain Scotsman I couldn’t stop thinking about. I mean,
I had tiptoed into a little bit of flirting with him, which seemed to be going really well until... I hit him in the eye
with a tennis ball.
Usual Miss Adventure stuff.
I was a disaster. In all ways, especially in romance.
Ana Lennox had screamed something like “Have you made him blind?” Mrs. Lennox ran forward, but not close enough to actually
do anything. And Mr. Lennox had raised his glass in another cheer before giving a nod of acknowledgment.
What had Graeme done?
He’d grunted. Almost grinned. And then talked about a similar incident with a piece of wood and his ex-fiancée.
Ex-fiancée.
I was glad for the “ex” part but of course wondered why such “ex-ness” happened.
After writing up some notes, which included deleting about five hundred words that consisted of detailed descriptions of Graeme’s eyes, lips, and physique, I decided some solid distance from the man was what my mind needed most. Because any attraction to him was simply based on a little harmless and somewhat inept flirting, a dance, and the saving of my life. Plus some good conversations. And the chasing of a parrot while punning.
People didn’t build futures on a collection of moments like that.
Did they?
Before my head started to hurt from my attempts at solving future problems I may not even experience, I packed my bag, grabbed
my fishing pole, and left my bedroom, only to run face-to-chin into Mark. My chin. His face. #tallgirlproblems
He stumbled back, swiping at his face as if my chin were the problem with his proximity.
“I didn’t think you’d stoop so low, Katie.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and looked down at him. “What are you talking about?”
“First, you take all the attention by falling into a loch, and then you try to hit me with a tennis ball last night as if
I’m not already injured enough.” He waved toward his foot.
I stared a full five seconds, trying to comprehend his lunacy.
“Mark, if you’d been paying attention to the full match, you’d have realized I almost hit everyone at least once. I’m just that skilled. You weren’t special.”
He sucked in an audible breath at the statement. “I think you’re trying to get me out of the way so I don’t steal your spotlight
because you know I’m a threat.” He narrowed his dark eyes. “Did you train that bird to take your hairband too, just to have
another story trend?”
I took another step away from him and all his ridiculousness, though the idea of my post having a solid viewing never hurt
my feelings.
Now the matchmaking going on in the comments section was a little over the top. A guilty pleasure to my daydreams—but over
the top.
“Sure I did, and for my next trick I’ll teach him how to pick up ridiculous men who ask stupid questions and then shake some sense into them.”
A movement behind Mark almost distracted me from my utter annoyance of his entire person. Was that gray rug on the floor...
moving?
“It’s not fair you’re up two years in a row.” His voice pulled me back to him, his frown deepening to such an extent his chin
size doubled. “It’s my turn to win the Vision Award, and you know it.”
The rug moved again. And had grown a tail.
And slipped to the door of Mark’s bedroom. Was that Mr. Lennox’s weasel? What was his name? Caesar?
“Are you even listening to me?”
I looked back down at his face.
“Mark.” I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “I am not trying to beat you, okay? I hope you win so you’ll get whatever this”—I
waved my hand toward him—“is out of your system.”
“But you’re trending. Trending!” he sputtered, running a hand through his hair and continuing to eye me with great suspicion.
“How on earth did you take a fall in a loch and turn it into a social media sensation?”
Did this guy know nothing about social media?
“ I didn’t, Mark.” I bypassed him and started down the hall, him on my heels. The last bit of fur disappeared around the threshold
into Mark’s room. I bit back my grin. One weasel for another?
Sorry, Caesar!
“Haven’t you figured out how all of this works? The viewers choose what makes it a sensation, not us. Only half of any interest is based on good writing, story, and visibility.”
“What’s the other half?”
I stopped at the top of the stairs. “The right time, place, and topic, and no one really knows what and when that combo will
hit to make a trend, Mark. It’s up to the cyber faeries.”
With that, I rushed down the stairs before he got another idea of how to blame me for something, bypassing one of the footmen poised on the stairs with a young housemaid in his arms.
“Take it downstairs, y’all,” I murmured as I passed and slipped from the house on my way to meet my “fishing date” by way
of Glenkirk. After all, I needed to pick up some bait, as well as a few snacks for lunch for the two of us. I figured Scottish
fisherfolk spent the same lazy time fishing as I’d known growing up. Fishing easily lasted several hours, if not more.
I glanced back toward the house as I exited through the back garden, releasing my full grin into the foggy morning. Maybe
Caesar would give Mark the big misadventure he’d been waiting for.
As if in answer, a loud male cry saying something about a “rat in my room” echoed down the stairwell toward me and ushered
me right out the door.
Low-lying cotton ball clouds floated on a gentle breeze and offered a soft rainy mist to help wake me up even more. I loved
the brisk feel of the morning air, all scented with sea and flowers.
Careful to check for the sinister cyclist, I made my way down the street and to Mirren’s shop window. A single light glowed
inside. I checked my phone. Hmm... only 10:30 a.m. Maybe she didn’t open until eleven on Tuesdays?
I stepped back, sending another glance around the space.
A movement drew my attention to the counter. Mirren stood with her head down, going through some papers. A little tap on the
window pulled her attention in my direction, and her entire face spread into a smile. Something twanged in my chest at the
immediacy of her welcome, like she’d known me for a lot longer than she really had.
And she was happy to see me.
She walked over to the door, and the sound of a lock turning came from the other side. Then she flung open the door.
“Ah, good morning to you, Katie-girl.”
The endearment etched itself into my chest. “I didn’t realize you wouldn’t be open yet.”
“Och away! None of that!” She waved me inside to the inviting smells of baked goods, fresh tea, and books. Really? Was there
any combination of smells quite so perfect? “Have you time for a cup?”
My answer popped out before my brain could stop it. “I have a little while, if you’re sure I’m not intruding.”
I wasn’t quite sure what kept drawing me toward this woman. Probably the twinkle in her eyes that reminded me of Grandpa.
And the sweetness in her expressions so similar to Gran’s.
Whatever it was, being around her seemed to douse the loneliness and ushered me into a connection I didn’t even realize I
fully missed until I felt it. I followed her through the shop to a back room where a cozy office nestled. A desk poised beneath
the window, a bookshelf stood against one wall, and a small table and chair sat opposite. A filing cabinet in one corner was
decorated with a massive fern, and a tall lamp cast a soft glow over a multicolored rug on the floor.
What a sweet little haven.
“Rest your feet and I’ll bring the tea.” She gestured toward the table, and I obeyed, taking a quick inventory of the books
on her shelf. Some had titles in Gaelic or were unfamiliar to me, but others were old favorites. Austen, Bront?, Doyle, Christie.
I noticed a few newer spines—John Grisham, Joel Rosenberg, Erik Larson, and even a Jaime Jo Wright book! Mirren liked a bit
of suspense, eh?
“I s’pose you’re not joining the rest of the group for a day visit to Dervaig today?” She reentered the room, laden tray in
hand, and sent a focused look to my fishing pole.
I stood and took the tray from her, placing it on the table. “I needed a little quiet and a whole lot of nature today. It’s
calming.”
“Aye.” Mirren sat in the chair opposite me and studied me for a moment. “’Tis a place to calm the troubled heart for sure.”
“Well, I don’t know about troubled, but my mind’s been too busy. My heart too. So the fresh air and just the overall...
I don’t know... atmosphere brings a special something with it.”
“Ah, now there’s something my gran used to say about a busy mind.” She pushed a plate of scones toward me. “A busy mind can
come from a restless spirit.”
I looked over at her, a burst of air puffing from my lips. “My grandpa used to say that.”
“And he was Scottish?”
“Aye,” I responded, causing her to smile. “I know it sounds strange, but he seems a little closer to me since I’ve been here.
I think about him and my gran often, but since being here, things he used to say and memories of him seem to be everywhere.”
“And that’s good?”
“It’s great.” My eyes burned a little, despite my smile. “I’d never felt safer or”—the word came to mind like an epiphany—“more
settled than when I was with my grandparents. They were the best people. They were welcoming and seemed to have joy and”—I looked
over at her, trying to find the right words—“quietness in their hearts. Kind of like you, I think.”
“’Tis a sweet notion and even sweeter reality.” Her gaze searched mine again. My eyes stung a little more. “When you know
you’re loved, it changes everything.”
That was it. So simple I should have figured it out by now. But the difference between being with my parents and staying with
my grandparents boiled down to knowing without question that I was loved.
And that knowledge not only gave my heart a sense of belonging but gave me freedom to be me. “Yes.” I swallowed through the
growing lump in my throat. “It does.”
“There’s comfort in speaking about the ones we’ve lost.” Mirren pushed a plate of “biscuits” toward me, encouraging me to share more than just the superficial I usually gave to the people in passing. She wanted more. “What sort of man was your grandpa?”
Some tightly coiled knot in my heart began to unravel at her question.
“Big.” I laughed. “He had a personality that took up an entire room in the best way. People loved gathering around and listening
to him tell stories. Gran was the same way, except a quieter version. And Grandpa always had a smile. Even after Gran died.
When he’d speak of her, many times through tears, the sweetest expression always covered his face. It didn’t take long for
him to follow her exit.”
The quiet softened the declaration.
“Love doesnae stop when bodies do.” Her voice smoothed over the words. “It’s one of the comforts in losing a loved one, ye
ken? The love lingers long.”
Unless it has squeezed you into silence or nearly suffocated you with unspoken words.
I pressed into the memory of how my grandpa mourned my gran. A sweet grief. A tight grasp with his heart but a loose hold
with his hands.
But Mirren’s words? Love lingers long.
I recalled the walk from Craighill to Glenkirk, everything from the breeze to the mist to the sea calling me to slow down
and embrace the now. To take it in. To savor.
I took a bite of the delicious scone to have something to do. I understood her sentiment because, despite my parents’ resolve
to ignore loved ones’ deaths in some weird way that meant we never talked about them, the love for my grandparents did linger. Brett and I would talk about them sometimes, which provided a sense of relief, even if Mom and Dad refused.
But talking about death always left me sore inside, even if I wanted to talk about them.
Their love did linger long inside me. “It’s a good thing you were close to them.”
I smiled and swallowed my bite. “Definitely. They’re the ones who encouraged my writing when everyone except my brother, Brett, thought it was crazy.” I sniffled and took a sip of tea. “And once they passed away, I took their encouragement and began to travel.”
“And you fancy traveling?”
“I do.”
She caught the slight hesitation because her chin tipped the least bit, so I rushed ahead. “I really do. Writing about where
I go and what I experience comes naturally to me. And seeing different cultures and beauties fills my life with so much amazement.”
“But?”
She did remind me of my gran, except a younger version.
“Well, sometimes, especially since coming here, I wonder what it would be like to... not travel so much.”
How had she gotten me to admit something I didn’t even know about myself a week ago? I narrowed my eyes a little. Faerie magic.
“And you’re afeart of it?”
Afeart? My grin tipped a little. “I don’t know.” And my words tumbled out even more. “Maybe I’m afraid of it not being what
I hope it could be.” And with whatever Scottish magic she used, the confession slipped from me in a whisper. “Or if it’s that
I’m not...”
Her hand reached out to cover mine, pausing my search for words. She studied me in a way I felt all the way to my soul. My
body readied for her words, braced for them.
“It seems to me we need to pray you find home, Katie-girl, because every wandering heart needs a place to rest.”
***
A place to rest.
It sounded so simple, and yet it shook me.
Weren’t people supposed to know where home was? Wasn’t that normal ?
And the idea of home being a restful place ushered up all the summers I’d escaped to Grandpa and Gran’s for refuge. I’d belonged
there as a teenager and young adult. My heart had rested on their farm, away from the impossible expectations and criticism
I was met with at home.
But when they died, maybe I thought the beauty of such a place died with them. Brett’s words resurfaced: “ Sometimes home is a place. Sometimes it’s a person. Sometimes it’s both .”
Maybe the people were what made the place home. Like how Mirren transformed a simple bookshop into something more.
For some reason, Graeme came to mind and the way he held me as he helped me from the loch. Secure. Strong.
I’d read about that feeling in romance books and had tossed the notion away as mere fiction, but I’d felt it before my encounter
with Graeme. With my grandparents. There was something inextricably grounding about my memories with them—of their love.
It wasn’t as if I didn’t believe my parents loved me in their own broken way.
They did all the typical “right” things, like call on birthdays, check in every once in a while, ask if I needed any money,
and so on. But the relationship stayed shallow. We didn’t discuss our grief or the people we’d lost. We didn’t share our emotions
unless they were positive ones; otherwise Mom’s nerves would act up. And living with a mom whose behavior meant the rest of
us had to walk around on tiptoe, and a dad who distanced himself emotionally—I suppose as a way to cope—cast a big, wide,
and deep sadness over so many memories.
As an adult, I could now see it and attempt to make sense of it.
Mom deserved some compassion. Dad too. But anger still bubbled beneath my compassion. Alongside a deep sense of longing. Longing
for whatever those warm, fuzzy movies portrayed about belonging.
Love lingered long, but so did wounds. But maybe I’d spent more time focusing on the wounds and running away from the pain than I had recalling all the love and allowing the good to heal me.
I gazed up into the sky on my way to the fishing spot. From what I believed and all I’d seen in my grandparents, love could
change everything. But whether from the care of a mother figure, the camaraderie of a little boy, the kindness of a handsome
Scot, or reminders of the truth in my faith, could I slow down long enough to let love make a change in me?
The morning’s mild temperatures had taken a strange turn into cooler air and darker skies. I pulled my jacket closer around
me and continued my walk across the grassy field, a foreboding set of mountains rising up in the distance like guards keeping
watch over the island. One peak rose above the rest. The tallest on Mull.
What had the map labeled that mountain?
Ben More.
During dinner the night before, I’d overheard Mark talking with Wake about “bagging a munro.” At first I thought they planned
to go hunting, but then Miss Dupont, in her encyclopedic way, explained that a munro is a mountain in Scotland, and the phrase
“bag a munro” meant hiking to the summit of one of the mountains.
I stared at the towering vista.
Maybe I could hike it next time I visited.
The thought paused me in my walk. Next time. Hmm... I didn’t usually contemplate things like “next time” this soon into
an assignment.
With a shake of my head, I followed the path over the next hill and saw Lachlan down below, already fishing. Wedge’s nose
raised to sniff the air, and he turned first, noting me and taking off in a run in my direction.
I rewarded his welcome with a solid scratch behind the ears. “Are you keeping a good eye on that little boy, Wedge?”
With renewed vigor at the mention of his name, he gave me a solid lick on the nose. “That’s good to hear. Mull doesn’t seem to be a crime capital or anything, but I’m glad you’re around to keep things under control.” I loved dogs. Hard to own one as a travel writer, but I embraced the moments I saw them along the way.
“It’s about time you showed up, Katie.” Lachlan shaded his eyes with his hand and called out to me. “Were you trying to wait
till I caught all the fish?”
I grinned through a sigh and made my way down the hillside, Wedge running ahead.
“I had to make a stop along the way. How is the fishing so far?”
“Not bad.” He shrugged a shoulder like a kid much older than ten. “But ’tis a dreich day and we’re bound to get some rain.”
The sky kept changing, almost by the minute. From partly sunny, as I started out that morning, to windy and overcast, to now...
where the clouds held a shade of darkness to them, just waiting to release right on top of our heads.
“My grandpa told me that some of the best fishing happens in the rain.”
“Maybe for the size of the catch.” He wrinkled his nose with his frown as I walked up beside him. “But no for pleasure.”
I chuckled, still enamored with his turn of phrase and the overall Scottish accent. It was delightful. Engaging. And if I
thought about Graeme, utterly swoon-inducing. “No, fishing in the rain isn’t much fun, is it?”
I set up my pole and baited my hook, receiving an approving nod from my fishing buddy. The mist carried from across the loch,
where a few hills rose on the opposite shoreline, and that’s when I saw them. The bane of my mortal existence.
Sheep.
A flock grazed just across the loch, thankfully distant. At least two dozen of them.
Sheep hated me.
And now it was reciprocal, but only because they started it.
My dozen experiences where “cute sheep” attempted to kill me proved the fact. The first situation that led to my moniker of
Miss Adventure involved a rebel sheep, a tricky vine, and a ledge. There I was on my first solo assignment, minding my own
business taking photos of the amazing views of the Andes, and a Criollo sheep decided I was his mortal enemy.
From all my knowledge of sheep at the time, which basically came from the Bible and children’s nursery rhymes, these creatures
exuded gentleness, tranquility, and maybe some recklessness or stupidity. But murderous intent?
I get the fact that red hair is unique and my American accent may not have been familiar to his Peruvian ears. But neither
of those things constituted him chasing me across the hillside until I slipped over a ledge, at which time I grabbed hold
of a vine that unraveled me far enough down that I only dropped about six feet onto a hillside and rolled the rest of the
way down the mountain.
So there I was at dusk with a fantastic photo of a sunset over the Andes, a ridiculous story, and a broken toe.
Of course I required a helicopter rescue due to the terrain.
My advice: Don’t let the woolly fluff fool you.
Their black eyes convey a soullessness not even Bram Stoker describes. I knew beneath that pillow-fluffiness dwelt sinister
designs for my demise.
“You look a wee bit peely-wally, Katie.” Lachlan slowed his pace and glanced from me to the terrifying creatures. “You don’t
like sheep?”
Even the word sent shivers down my spine. And if I had a heat vision–empowered glare, then Lachlan and I would feast on lamb
chops for supper instead of fish. I’d developed a tiny bit of a vindictive fondness for mutton.
“I had a bad run-in with a sheep once.” Or thrice.
“Aye, they’re troublesome sometimes, make no mistake.”
Now there was an appropriate use of the word troublesome . At least it was daylight. They looked less horrific in daylight. “They seem less alarming here than in Mongolia.”
“Mongolia?” His tongue smoothed over the word. “Is that near Yorkshire?”
I looked over at the adorable boy, and half of my previous fear dispersed into a grin. “Not really. Are the sheep in Yorkshire
scary?”
“I don’t know.” He gave a half shoulder shrug. “But the Scottish sheep are too dumb to be scary. Just troublesome. Dinnae
fash yourself. Wedge and I will keep ye safe.” He gave the dog a nod. “Won’t we, Wedge?”
The dog yelped his agreement.
“Now.” He tapped his temple and narrowed his eyes. “The one to keep a keen eye out for is Seamas.”
“Seamas?” I repeated. “Is that a really fierce sheep, or is it something even worse? Like a banshee? I’ve heard they live
in these parts too.”
He pursed his lips as if in thought. “Banshee?”
“A female spirit with a horrible cry.”
“You mean the caoineag. Aye.” He nodded. “But she doesnae appear in the day. Not her.”
He said it so matter-of-factly I almost laughed. But his very serious expression stopped me.
“Seamas is a hairy coo and a crabbit one at that.”
Hairy coo. Ah, I knew what that meant. I’d been sharing photos on social media of the adorable Highland cows for a few weeks
before my trip to Scotland. And I’d promised my nephew, Jake, I’d get some photos of them. And puffins.
“Are there more around besides Seamas? Nicer ones?”
“Aye, they stay up along that bràigh most of the time.” He gestured to a nearby hill. “And there’s a braw view of the Gribun
cliffs from up there. If you pinch your eyes, you might even see Tragedy Rock.”
The names in this place! They begged for more information.
“Tragedy Rock?”
Lachlan’s eyes lit. He already had storytelling in his blood and knew a willing listener when he saw one. “Isnae a happy tale,
Katie Campbell.”
I love how he used my full name so often. In fact, Graeme did the same thing.
“Well, I like all kinds of stories.”
He drew in a breath, ginger brows raised as if warning me. “’Tis said a young shepherd named John came to Mull to marry his
sweetheart, Rona. But a great storm brewed on the day of their marriage.” He spoke with the eloquence likely passed down from
his family and recounted the tale probably word for word as it had been told to him. So much like my Appalachian heritage.
Stories. They’d been in my blood from a very young age too.
“The storm didnae stop the two from celebrating their union, and after the festivities they retired in John’s nearby cottage
built under the cliffs.” He gestured back behind us toward the hill he’d just mentioned.
My body stiffened. I saw the next part coming.
“But the storm continued to rage through the night and loosed a rock, which came tumbling down the hill to land atop the wee
cottage, smashing it to bits.”
The last dramatic description was likely added for my benefit.
I released an appreciative sigh. “That is a sad tale.”
“Aye, and their bodies were never found.” His thin lips crooked the slightest bit. “Some say poor Rona is the caoineag heard
across the glen in the night crying for her dear John.”
I leaned forward and narrowed my eyes at him. I had to give the kid kudos for effect. “Are you trying to scare me a little
bit?”
“You’re naught the type to be easily afeart, are ye?”
Only of sheep.
And maybe a few other things that lived much deeper in my psyche than sheep.
“Not easily .” I waved toward the flock across the loch. “Except when it comes to sheep, but I must say you’re an excellent storyteller.”
His smile spread wide. “My uncle knows all the tales. Granny too.” He sighed back against the rock. “But my uncle always says
to leave a tale with a bit o’ hope, if ye can. So...’tis said that although the remains of the cottage lay crumbled ’neath
Tragedy Rock, flowers still bloom in John and Rona’s garden as a sign that true love ne’er dies.”
Love lingers long .
I studied the little boy. Leave a tale with a bit of hope? I grinned. A good life notion too.
We fished and talked a little longer. I took a few videos and photos of the scenery and the one tiny fish I caught. Lachlan
encouraged me with all the gusto a disillusioned eight-year-old could muster. Clearly, I was not an impressive fisherwoman.
However, when I brought out the Irn-Bru and baps, along with some cookies, his admiration for me resurfaced.
“I was told a proper fishing excursion required a snack of baps.” I raised the bread roll for his view. “I think there’s bacon
and eggs in these.”
“Aye.” He laid his fishing pole down and moved to my side, his grin crinkling up his freckled nose. “And some biscuits too.”
“Right.” I placed the bap and “biscuits” on a napkin in front of him and handed him one of the Irn-Brus.
“But they dinnae call them biscuits where you’re from, do they?”
I shook my head. “We call them cookies, but they taste great all the same.”
He nodded and took a bite of the bap. “And do you have Irn-Bru where you live?”
I looked down at the orange drink, a little skeptical. It came with its own online reputation. “Some stores probably sell it, but I’ve never had any before. It’s not a common drink for Americans.”
So he waited, brows raised in anticipation. Whew, the pressure mounted as he watched me taste the liquid.
And whatever expression I made as the bubblegum-flavored soda washed over my tongue brought the most surprised look to Lachlan’s
face.
“You dinnae like it?”
Nope. “I think it might take some getting used to.”
His brows pinched and he took a large drink of his Irn-Bru, then sent me a look, saying, That’s how it’s done . I covered my laugh with a bite of my bap. If life involved friendships with witty and sweet eight-year-olds, then maybe
I wouldn’t be so... afeart.
Suddenly Lachlan’s fishing pole started to jerk on the nearby rock where he’d placed it.
“I got one,” he called, cramming the rest of the bap into his mouth and rushing to the pole. Wedge joined in on the abrupt
excitement as Lachlan mounted the rock, but Lachlan must have jumped in a different direction than Wedge planned. The boy
and the dog got tangled.
Lachlan fell hard on the other side of the rock, and Wedge yelped before dashing back a few steps. I set my drink down and
rushed to the other side of the rock where the little boy was slowly sitting up, grabbing at his leg.
A whimper sounded from both the dog and the boy. Wedge drew close, sniffing at Lachlan’s hair, his ears low. Poor fella. But
Lachlan? A deep cut, already pooling with blood, marked from his knee down toward his ankle. At least four inches long. And
deep.
“Hold on. I have some bandages.”
I ran to my bag and brought it back along with me, the little boy’s lips pressed tight as he tried to hold in his tears.
Oh! I wanted to hug him.
“Does anything else hurt besides your knee?”
He shook his head and tried to move his leg, then stopped with a wince. “My ankle.”
I drew in a breath and stared up at the sky just as the first drops of rain fell on my face. We had—at least—a half hour walk
back to Glenkirk, and that was without a little limping boy.
“I’m going to bandage up your leg, Lachlan.” I started pulling supplies out of my bag. With my track record of clumsiness,
I always came prepared. I opened my water bottle. “I’m going to pour some water over the wound. Okay?” He nodded and I took
out my water bottle and cleaned off the blood as best I could. Ooh! That was a doozy of a fall. “We should have you cleaned
up in no time.”
And then he sniffled.
My hands paused as I started to wipe the wound with a cloth. “I’m sorry it hurts.”
He shook his head and looked away.
“I’ll try to be as gentle as I can, Lachlan, but I know you’re a strong boy, and it’s okay if you need to cry.”
He looked up at me then, those large blue eyes of his glossy from a sheen of tears, and my heart squeezed at the sight. “My
mummy used to say that.”
Used to? I clenched my teeth to steady my emotions. “Well, she was right. Must be where you got your smarts from.”
His lips tilted a little. “She didnae like Irn-Bru either.” He sniffled again, a lone tear sliding down his cheek as he nodded.
“But she loved Coca-Cola.”
I began to wrap his wound. “She had good taste then.”
“Aye.” The word rasped out, and he wiped an arm over his eyes. “Grandpa said if heaven has all the things we love, then Mummy
will have a big supply of Coca-Cola and sticky toffee pudding.”
I could get along with this lady. “I haven’t tried sticky toffee pudding yet, but I’ve been told I need to.”
“Aye.” He sniffed again, and this time his bottom lip wobbled. “You’d like it.”
I tucked the bandage into place and leaned close, catching his attention. He probably knew this already, but it never hurt
for a kid to hear it again. “It’s okay to cry when we miss someone, Lachlan. When we have such a big love inside of us, we
grieve big too. And it sounds like you have a really big love inside you for your mom.”
He pinched his lips as if working through his emotions, and then sniffled. “I cannae hear her voice anymore.” The words disappeared
into a quivered sound. “Not even when I close my eyes very tight.”
I didn’t know if it was the right thing to do or not, but I pulled him and his trembling shoulders into my arms... and
he cried. A quiet, aching little sound. A noise my heart understood all too well.
And Wedge did his best to press his nose in between us, finally succeeding in planting a solid lick on Lachlan’s wet face.
The boy wrestled the pup into a hug, his smile slowly returning, and then he made to stand.
With a whimper, he crumbled back to the ground.
And the raindrops decided to fall a little steadier. At least he hadn’t bled through the bandage yet. That was a good sign
about the depth of his wound.
“Do you live nearby?”
His eyes welled up again, but he answered, “Aye. Up the way.”
I grabbed my bag and scooted closer to him, sorting out how to lift him. “Is that a stone’s throw away? Or longer?”
Please say closer.
His brow crinkled. “I dinnae think my uncle could even throw a stone that far.” And then his expression cleared as his eyes
lit. “Ah, I see what you mean.” He paused and then his eyebrows shot high. “But I fell for it.”
I laughed. “Nice one.” And it got his mind off his leg and his grief for the moment. “And I might add”—I shot him a wink—“you really rocked that fall, so I’m going to help you get home, okay?”
“Okay.” His smile returned almost as bright as normal. “I’ve got a joke for ye.”
“Do you?” I scooped my arm around his back and helped him to a stand, snatching up my backpack as I went.
“What did one eye say to the other?”
Perfect boy joke, right here. “What?”
“Just between you and me, something smells.”
I laughed and looked toward the hill from where I’d just come. “Okay, Lachlan, which way is home?”
He adjusted against me and then looked up. “You just follow the rock fence up the next hill, and I live in the old wee cottage
at the top.”
At the top of the next hill—I braced my shoulders—perfect.
We started forward. “My great-granny used to live there with her pet sheep.”
Her pet sheep? In her house?
I knew what my nightmares would be tonight.
“Any sheep still there?”
His lips twitched as I slowed my strides to keep in step with him. “Not inside the house.” His delivery came slowly, like he was testing my response.
“You’re teasing me, are you?” I narrowed my eyes down at him. “That’s a really baaad sport.”
His giggle burst out and hit me square in the heart, especially after watching him grieve.
“Speaking of sheep.” No time like the present to resurrect my fourth-grade self and offer my own jokes as distractions as
we continued up the hill. “What instrument do two sheep play?”
He looked up at me, expectant.
“The tubaaa .”
His snicker followed. “What should you wear to a tea party?”
I shrugged my shoulders and his smile bloomed.
“A T-shirt.”
“Ooh.” I nodded. “That was a good one to have up your sleeve .”
And after a pause, he giggled again. I tucked that sound close.
On we went, higher up the hill, each trying to think up another ridiculous pun or joke. At one point I looked behind me, and
even with the rain coming down and the fog whisking past on the breeze, it failed to dim the majesty of the place. Was the
island moody? For sure. Was it equally fascinating and mysterious and... calming?
Strangely, yes.
No wonder Mirren read Jaime Jo Wright books.
As we crested the hill, a cottage came immediately into view. Larger than most of the others I’d seen off the main road, this
white stone cottage was a two-story rectangle. Three large windows dotted the second floor, with two on the bottom, separated
by a blue door. A chimney poked from each end of the roof, and a little lean-to room was attached to the left side.
The rock fence trailed all the way to meet a fence at the back of the house, and one large tree branched out in the front
yard. With a few flowering bushes and window boxes, it would look even more storybook.
Even in the rain.
I wonder what a starlit night looked like from this point. Marvelous, to be sure.
What a place to call home!
The rain began coming down even harder, and my body wilted a little beneath the weight of the little boy and our climb. But
at least relief was near.
We hobbled up to the door and I knocked, but Lachlan didn’t wait for an answer. He just shoved the door open and pulled me
in with him, as he was still attached to me for support.
“Uncle Graeme!” the boy called upon entry. “Uncle Graeme!”
The “Uncle Graeme” part didn’t register as quickly as it ought to have because I was immediately drawn to the fascinating
collection of sculpted birds hanging in various places throughout the living room.
A seagull.
Kestrel.
A barn owl with wings spread.
Even a puffin stood on the windowsill.
All lifelike.
Where was I?
“Lachlan?” The voice came just before the rest of him turned the corner of the room, towel over the shoulder of his T-shirt
and a pair of jeans that was doing him all kinds of favors.
His eyes met mine, then shifted to Lachlan and his leg.
“What?” He rushed forward. “What on earth did you do this time, Katie Campbell?”
Maybe hearing my full name wasn’t so great after all.
“Me?” The warm fuzzies tingling in my middle fizzled to sparks at his accusation. “I helped your... nephew get home after
a fall.”
Graeme was the uncle Lachlan kept talking about with such adoration? My thoughts spiraled. So, was Lachlan’s mom Graeme’s
sister? Or sister-in-law?
Graeme reached down and swept the boy up in his arms, carrying him to the couch opposite a cozy fireplace. “Did you help with
the fall too, perchance?”
Okay, that was just going too far. I turned right back toward the door.
“You’re not going to leave in this storm,” his voice boomed from behind me. “It’s only going to get worse.”
“I’m just trying to protect the innocent.” I shot him a tight smile. “If I stay in your house, it might get struck by lightning. Or blown over. Or”—I waved a hand in the air—“have a rock drop on it simply because I’m in it.”
“Katie,” he said, his tone softening over my name, but I was determined now.
I already failed at enough. I didn’t need to feel guilty over something I didn’t even do.
I pulled open the door and marched right out into a blustery burst of rain. The wind caught my breath and doused me with more
water than a shower. The view looked a lot less inviting than it had a few minutes before. In fact, it had pretty much disappeared
into a cloud.
“Get back inside, woman.”
Woman? I marched away from the house in a direction I hoped was the right one.
“Och.” Graeme’s fingers wrapped around my wrist and pulled me back. “You’re the most stubborn woman.” He tugged me over the
threshold, slammed the door, and then proceeded to tower over me in his grouchy, jacked giant sort of way. “You’re not going
back out in that storm when you havenae the sense to know where you’re going or how to get there.”
I raised my chin with more confidence than I felt. “I can find my way. Besides, aren’t you afraid I’ll bring some hurricane
with me to take out your entire farm?” I turned back toward the door, the burn of tears surprising me.
What on earth was wrong with me? I was as moody as the weather!
His fingers tightened back on my wrist, and he turned me around to face him. “You’re stayin’ until the storm passes, and then
I’ll drive you back to Craighill.” He studied my face, and I looked away. “It’s not safe, and you’re not in clothes fit to
go ramblin’ along the craigs waiting for death to find you.” He growled... or was it a chuckle? “Because it wants to find
you, Katie Campbell. I can practically feel it blowin’ on your neck.”
I opened my mouth to protest as my palm caressed the back of my neck—just in case. But with my track record so far, I’m not sure I had a solid argument against his accusation. At least I knew I hadn’t done anything to hurt Lachlan.
I’d never.
“You just catch me at the wrong times,” I offered in my weak defense.
“Heaven help me if I ever catch you at the right ones,” he grumbled and released my wrist. “I might not recognize ye.”
“I see the rain brings out your charming side.” It was a weak shot, but there it was.
His pale eyes steadied on me, and the faintest hint of a smile tipped those lips crooked. And those warm fuzzies came right
back to life.
“Come near the fire to keep warm.” The way he voiced those words held more fire than I needed. Warmth spilled from my damp
head all the way down to my muddy wellies. But I didn’t want to like him right now. He didn’t deserve it. I offered him one
of my finest glares.
He raised a brow, and I looked away just in case he could read the very warm thoughts in my head. With a chuckle, he returned
to Lachlan’s side.
After a moment’s hesitation and a strong chill skittering up my spine, I stepped around the couch and lowered myself to a
small wooden chair by the fire, near Wedge.
Graeme’s gentle tones pulled the whole story out of Lachlan.
The grumpy man bent over little Lachlan, his gentle movements unwinding the bandages I’d wrapped around the boy’s leg, and
the twinge of longing I’d felt earlier branched throughout my chest. So strong yet gentle. Caring.
His shoulders stretched beneath his T-shirt. Powerful.
Then he sent me a small grin over his shoulder.
And I knew that if I did fall for a Scot, he’d be the perfect one to catch me.