Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Ross had pulled a chair up to a set of clear plastic, stackable drawers and was going through the first drawer; mostly paint supplies from what Harper could see. He glanced over and immediately nerves shot through her system. "So where should I start?" she asked quickly.
"Anywhere. There are a few file cabinets behind that table there." He pointed to the large wooden trestle table at the end of the room.
With a curt nod, she headed that way, feeling the weight of his quiet, curious gaze following her as she went.
She didn't want to talk about what had just happened, and wasn't about to ask him if he wanted to.
She needed to find the damned notebook and get the hell out of Scotland before she completely lost it.
Harper knew herself well enough to know that the more time she spent with Ross, the harder it'd be to leave, and before she knew it, she'd be thinking herself in love with him and forgiving him for breaking her heart.
But it wouldn't be love this time. Not really. It'd be trying to recreate something that had ended a long time ago.
Harper grabbed the wooden chair tucked beneath the table, turned it toward the cabinets, and got to work.
The first drawer was filled with a stack of sketch books.
She flipped through these quickly. Mary MacLaren was a pretty good artist, rendering mostly landscapes and still lifes with charcoal pencils or pen.
There were some unfinished sketches and some were scratched through, and there were some Harper recognized.
The distillery, the house Ross lived in, Balmorie Castle. ..
In another drawer, she found sketches of Ross and Liam as toddlers.
One, in particular, she stared at for a long time.
It was a portrait of Ross, maybe three or four years old, staring off into the distance, interest and curiosity somehow captured in his gaze, his mouth slightly parted.
She couldn't help but think of children.
His future children. Ones who'd look just like that with those big eyes and chubby cheeks and mop of unruly dark hair. ..
Disgusted with her sappy thoughts and the maternal pang in her chest, Harper closed the old sketch book and set it aside with a huff.
Distracted, she pulled out a another book, not even realizing at first that it fit the description of the notebook with green leather and thistles impressed on the corners.
Holy crap.
This was it. The notebook her father had told her about.
Gently, she ran her fingers over the impressions and then glanced quickly at Ross. He was still digging through the art drawers. Biting her lip, she decided not to call him over just yet, wanting to see for herself what lurked inside.
As she flipped through the first few pages, a relieved breath escaped her.
It was all there. The entire notebook had been dedicated to brewing.
Notes on equipment, making mash, yeast lists and recipes, ingredients, flavors, experiments.
.. There were dates, too, she realized, flipping faster to find the year Mary and her sons had moved to the States.
But the pages went blank. And there was nothing.
No. That couldn't be right.
Gripped with panic and trying to stop the dismay that was slowly snaking up her spine, Harper flipped through the rest of the blank pages and then rummaged through the drawer, hoping there'd be another identical notebook.
There wasn't.
She sat back baffled, bitter tears rising. Why would her father tell her those things? There was not a single note from him anywhere in the book. Everything had been written months before Mary had set foot in Kentucky.
It didn't freaking make sense.
Staring in a daze at the notebook in her lap, she felt like she'd just fallen down the rabbit hole and was mentally scrambling to gain a foothold.
This was the notebook he'd spoken about.
Not knowing what else to do, she checked the pages again, looking for evidence that pages might have been torn out, determined to prove her father had been right, and, more importantly, had been telling her the truth.
A folded piece of paper dropped onto the floor as she flipped a page. Picking it up, her heart beat a little faster. The paper was lined and slightly faded. An ominous sensation settled into her gut as she unfolded and read.
It was a letter. Addressed to her.
From Ross.
On the eve of his mother leaving the States, he'd written her a quick note, telling her that they had to talk. That he loved her. To meet him out by the old tree swing in the backyard. That he wasn't leaving without her.
Shock crept slowly through her system. Her hands began to tremble.
Her chest pounded with hurt.
Folding the note slowly, Harper slipped it into her pocket and just sat there in a stupor. She'd never gotten the note.
Obviously, Mary and/or her father had found it and taken it. Her father must have tucked it into the notebook or seen Mary do so. Otherwise, he never would have sent her after it.
He'd known what was in it.
It didn't take much for her to understand his motives.
He'd been making amends. Trying, after twelve years, to make what he or they had done right.
To reconnect her with Ross. She closed her eyes and remembered every detail of that day in the hospital when he told her about the notebook.
His face had been filled with sadness. Regret.
Worry for her. He'd apologized, told her he wanted her to be happy.
To accept love. He must've figured out that her heartbreak had had an impact on her subsequent relationships, ones that never, for whatever reason she came up with, worked out.
His true purpose hadn't been saving the company. It had been saving her.
Harper blinked back tears and lifted her gaze to the ceiling with a rueful smile. Somewhere her father was looking down on her. Why? She questioned him silently.
A hand landed on her shoulder.
Harper shot to her feet with a gasp and spun.
It was just Ross. Of course it was just Ross. Who else would it be? Wiping her eyes, knowing she must look like a wreck, she made some lame comment about not sneaking up on her.
Ross' eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?"
She rolled her wet eyes and shook her head, making a wild shrug, the notebook still clutched in her hand.
"You found it."
"Oh. Yeah. I found it." She could barely get the words out as she handed it over. "There's nothing in it from my dad. It was all a . . . lie." That word rose up like a hot knife through a grieving heart. "I have to go now."
Ross reached for her as she darted past him, but she was too quick, too motivated to run. He called to her, told her to wait. But hell if she was waiting.
Run. Just run.
Tears swam in her vision and rose in her throat making it hard to breathe, but Harper continued, running from the distillery and down the road until her lungs burned, and her leg muscles started to tremble.
Once she made it to the castle drive, she finally slowed, casting a glance over her shoulder, relieved to see that Ross hadn't followed.
She didn't want to see him. Didn't want to think or feel anything more than she already did.
Inside the castle, she took a moment and paced the Great Hall, hands on hips, trying to catch her breath.
She didn't know what to do. Well, that wasn't true.
She wanted to scream at her father, wanted him back, standing in front of her so she could confront him.
And yet even with all the anger she felt, there was so much love, too.
Because, in the end, he'd wanted the best or her. He always had.
After her mother had deserted them, Harper and her father were left on their own. A team. She knew him too well, knew that he'd never want to leave her, knowing she'd be alone. Without a champion, without someone who cared for her as he had.
He and Mary had taken that note thinking it was for the best.
Maybe it had been.
A feeling of defeat came over her. She'd never really know for sure. She and Ross were never given the chance to find out.
Hamish walked through the hall, coming to an abrupt halt when he saw her.
They stared at each other for a long moment.
He had such a grandfatherly look about him that it made Harper think even more about her dad, about missing him, losing him, and then she burst into tears right there in front of him.
"Och. Now... Dinna fash yerself, lass," he mumbled, hurrying over and giving her a hard pat on the shoulder. "Now, now... Was it Ross? One word from ye and I'll give that lad a lashin' he willna soon forget."
And she had no doubt he'd do it, too.
His words made her smile, and she rubbed the wetness from her face.
"Sorry," she said, sniffing. "It's not Ross.
Well, it has to do with him..." What an understatement.
It had everything to do with him. And she was in way over her head.
"I'm okay, Hamish." His mouth dipped down doubtfully.
"Okay. I'm not right now. But, I will be. "
"Oh, I ken just what ye need. Come with me."
Hamish led her into the dining room where he grabbed a bottle of Scotch—whisky, to him—and two glasses, then continue to the back patio.
He sat sideways on one of the lounge chairs and Harper took the companion lounge chair facing him. She accepted the offered glass. He filled it. And then she sipped the fragrant liquid, focusing on the burn in her throat and the taste of peat and alcohol on her tongue. Yeah. Just what she needed.
Hamish set the bottle on the patio and regarded her for a long moment before taking a drink and then asking, "What's happened, lass?"