Izzy hadn’t mentioned how inconveniently hot the Highlander was. She had talked about how quiet and shy he was. How competent. A wizard with his hands, Izzy had said. That Iain had sounded perfect. Exactly the sort of man Anna could delegate menial tasks to while she handled organizing the Highland festival.
The Iain who had greeted her didn’t seem quiet or shy. The jury was still out on competent, but he had taken charge of Ozzie with ease.
He’d called her Bo-Peep, but when he’d called to her from the window, her first thought was that she’d stepped into a reverse Rapunzel fantasy. Naked man in a high tower? Yes, please.
She’d tried not to squint to get a better view of his bare chest. Once he’d appeared outside, she’d tried to stop herself from staring at the way his black T-shirt had clung to muscles she was sure hadn’t been covered in her high school biology class, but she’d never possessed the kind of puritanical self-control needed not to look.
Now, to torture herself further, she wondered if he was truly a wizard with his hands. If she continued down this path, she was going to need the shower wand for more than just washing away the day’s sweat.
A plan. That’s what she really needed. Or did she? All she really needed was for Rose and Gareth to keep their errand boy penned with the beasts.
After pulling on a tank top and shorts, she opened her laptop ready to compose the email she’d drafted in her head. Waiting in her in-box was a note from Rose informing her Iain was arriving to take delivery of a sheep and cow Gareth had leased, and reminding her to water her pots of flowers since they would be used on the stage as decoration during the competitions.
The information was too little, too late. She groaned. Rose’s prized pots had been decimated by Ozzie. For a brief moment, she considered emailing Rose and going off about the inconvenience of the unexpected delivery, the shock of Iain appearing, and the destruction of her flowers. But she didn’t.
Rose had enough to worry about. Instead, Anna returned several emails and made a couple of calls to vendors, then grabbed her keys. If she hurried, she could hit the nursery before they closed, and fix Ozzie’s rampage of destruction.
An hour later, with her floorboards full of flowers and the sun setting behind the trees, Anna pulled onto the narrow lane to Stonehaven, her headlights a stage for the swarming, dancing bugs. She pulled to the side of the house so she could make her way around to the patio.
Lightning bugs rose in the field, and beyond them, the woods stretched like an endless black pool. Even though she had grown up in small-town Highland, she didn’t consider herself a country girl. The silence and darkness had never inspired solace and calm, but a fear of the unknown.
The breeze played against the old house like a musician, the tinkle of the wind chimes accompanying the creaks. Sometimes it felt as if Stonehaven were alive. Or inhabited by ghosts.
Either way, Anna was creeped out. A shiver went through her, raising the hairs along her arms, in spite of the mild evening. If she hurried, she could be gone before full dark descended. She peeked in the barn, hearing the shuffle and snuffs of the animals. No sign of Iain. With any luck, jet lag had caught up with him and her stealth flower planting would go unnoticed.
It took three trips to move the flowers from her car to the patio. She replaced the beheaded flowers with the new flowers pot by pot, working up a sweat by the end and wiping her face with the back of her arm as she surveyed her work. They looked good, but not as good as the originals. Hopefully, if she kept them watered, they would grow exponentially by the festival and provide a colorful backdrop for the dancers and pipers.
She gave the nearest pot a thorough soaking with the hose so the plant in it could make it to the next day without wilting. Her mind wandered to her fridge, where a slice of pecan pie from the Scottish Lass restaurant waited for her mouth. Pecan pie as dinner wasn’t a bad thing, was it?
She moved on to the next pot and sighed, rotating her stiff neck. Every spare minute of her day was taken up by festival planning. She’d wasted too much time fumbling around the Buchanans’ shorthand notes and learning the ins and outs. What might take Rose or Izzy fifteen minutes took Anna three times as long as she checked and double-checked, afraid of making an error.
In fact, first thing in the morning, she needed to verify the number of portable potties needed. The intestinal needs of hundreds of festivalgoers had never crossed her mind. Until now. Doing some quick math in her head, she tallied up one day’s attendance and multiplied—
A noise had her spinning around, the water arcing around her in a weak defense. More than half the sun had fallen behind the trees now. Overhead, the orange streaks were being overtaken by a purpling sky. Gazing outward, she had to squint to see the shadowy monster looming in the middle of the field.
Her grip on the hose tightened and crimped the water into a spray. Logic inserted itself like a sliver. It wasn’t Bigfoot; it was only Iain. She had nothing to fear, yet her jumbled insides sent flight impulses to her brain.
He drew within a few feet, and her heart stuttered for a different reason altogether. He was bare chested and barefoot, with a kilt covering the rest of the good parts, but if one believed the old sayings about the size of a man’s feet, then his good parts were very good indeed.
“Anna.” His rumbling brogue turned her name into something exotic.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
His gaze narrowed. “I’m staying here, remember?”
She gave herself a mental kick. “Yes, of course. I meant, out here. And why are you wet?”
“I found a bonny glen in the woods with a stream. Perfect for a swim. It was hot as Hades today.” He rubbed a hand through his hair and droplets slid over his shoulders and chest. She followed the path they made all the way down to the waistband of his kilt.
His very dry kilt. Which meant … “Were you skinny-dipping?” Her voice was squeaky and radiated outrage. Which wasn’t at all how she felt. She felt like a blowtorch had been aimed at her body.
“Are you trying to finagle an answer to the age-old question of what a Scotsman wears under his kilt?” He crossed his arms over his chest, and while his expression remained serious, she sensed he was teasing her.
“What? No! I don’t care what you have on—or don’t have on—under there.” Except now all she could think about was what was under his kilt. She needed a fan. Or a dunk in an ice bath.
He stepped closer, and Anna took a step back, keeping distance between them. He halted, any humor emanating from him gone like a candle being snuffed. Between his thick black brows, dark beard, frown, and scar, he easily classified as formidable. Add in his height and he was downright scary. While she wasn’t exactly afraid, neither could she name the emotion making her heart tap dance and her insides launch into a do-si-do.
Silence held them in limbo before he cautiously broke it. “I’m glad we ran across each other. We need to discuss the festival.”
Already tired, her concentration was shot, faced with his partial state of undress and general demeanor. He, on the other hand, didn’t seem thrown by her. Why would he be? The nicest thing she could say about her old tank top and ratty shorts was that they were comfortable.
“What about the festival?” She turned away to shut the water off and gather her wits. “We agreed you wouldn’t involve yourself in the bulk of the planning.”
“No. I understand you don’t want me involved, but you obviously need help.”
She wavered and hated the feeling. She possessed unparalleled confidence when it came to the dance studio. If kids sensed weakness, they would pounce with the swiftness and brutality of a mountain lion. Plus, her instincts in business hadn’t steered her wrong. Her risk in taking out a loan to modernize the studio had paid off several times over.
It was other aspects of her life where she fought doubts. The people she’d grown up with in Highland expected her to be a certain way—comfortable in the spotlight and always ready with a quip—and usually she delivere
d. Sometimes, though, a lack of faith in herself snuck through the backdoor of her subconscious.
Not today, though. She refused to answer the knock. She’d faced down enough toddlers in tantrums and preteen angst to handle a single man. In fact, she could handle men like a blacksmith handled metal. “What exactly is your expertise beyond scooping poop?”
“Organization. Planning. Execution.”
It could have been taken off a company logo, it was so generic. “I am in charge of the organization and planning. I could possibly use some help with the execution,” she added the last so grudgingly as to be rude.
“In other words, you want a grunt to boss around.”
“You got a problem with a woman in charge?” Anna narrowed her eyes, her upper lip curling.
“Not a bit, but I was given different instructions. The next three weeks are integral to the success of the festival. I plan to spend tomorrow getting myself up to speed, then I’ll be happy to sit down over a cuppa and discuss my plans.”
“Your plans?” She matched his stance, crossing her arms. “I have been intimately involved with the festival since I was a child. The plans to be put in motion will be mine.”
“I plan to become intimately involved as well.” Was that a tinge of humor she heard in his otherwise grumbly, unruffable attitude? “You need me.”
“No I don’t.” Her knee-jerk response had shades of “I know you are, but what am I?”
Her disquiet with the situation was virulent, yet she wasn’t sure why. Half-stitched costumes for the girls spilled out of the closet at the studio for her to tackle. The application to run for mayor of Highland still sat blank in her desk drawer. She was running herself ragged and could use the help, yet relinquishing responsibility felt too much like surrendering.
She’d watched her mom rely on her dad’s promises and be disappointed over and over until finally her mom gave up. Anna had learned she could only count on one person. The one facing her in the mirror every morning. Everyone left for greener pastures, and if they didn’t, Anna did a bang-up job driving them away.
One of his eyebrows quirked up in a way that conveyed dry sarcasm even as his rich brogue remained emotionless. “In that case, can I assume you’ll be here at five tomorrow morning to see to Ozzie’s and Harriet’s needs?”
Five seemed an outlandish time, but she couldn’t say it wasn’t necessary. She made a throaty sound and wished she could pull out a set of 4-H credentials, but alas, she’d been a dancer and cheerleader in high school. Her knowledge of a cow extended only to how she liked her steak cooked.
Slapping on a “bless your heart” smile, she said blithely, “Ozzie and Harriet fall into the pooper scooper’s domain. That would be you. The P.S.”
Finally, he seemed ruffled and with gritted teeth said, “I am not a pooper scooper.”
She raised her eyebrows leadingly and glanced away to hide her satisfied smile. “Whatever you say.”
“Why don’t we make plans to meet and discuss how we can divvy up the workload?” His voice brooked no argument.
Anyway, she couldn’t come up with a single reason to shuffle him off. Rose and Izzy apparently expected them to work together as mother and daughter had for years, but Anna had no desire for her and Iain to become a well-oiled partnership. He would be gone in a matter of weeks. Even sooner, if Izzy had the baby in short order.
She would meet Iain, but on her terms and in her territory.
* * *
Iain braced for an argument or, even more unsettling, further teasing.
“You’ll have to come to me. I have a toddler dance class first thing in the morning, a Mommy and Me movement class at eleven, and my teen girls in the afternoon.” Anna ticked off her schedule on her fingers.
“Time and place.” His clipped tone was due more to surprise at her acquiescence than any annoyance on his part.
“Twelve o’clock. Maitland Dance Studio on Main Street.” Her tone was equally as brusque.
She set the hose down and ran a hand through her hair. It fell in a riot of waves a few inches past her shoulders. Her gesture left a smudge of dirt across her cheek.
Without considering the wisdom or the consequences, he brushed the dirt off with his fingertips. She jerked her head to the side as if his touch burned. He drew his hand into a fist and forced it to his side.
“What was that for?” she asked.
Not sure if it was fear or outrage coloring her voice, he could only produce some “achs” and “uhs” like a dobber before finally saying, “Dirt. Cheek.”
She scrubbed her cheek with the heel of her hand as if trying to remove the layer of skin he’d deigned to touch.
“I apologize if I scared you.” His brogue was thick with embarrassment. It was inevitable that he would make a doolally out of himself in front of her. She was just the sort of lass—beautiful, witty, and sharp-tongued—who ran circles around him.
“You surprised me is all. Why would you think I’m scared of you?”
“Because I could break you in two.” Only when her eyes widened and she put a lounge chair between them did he recognize his joke had fallen short. Actually, his joke had taken a swan dive off a cliff. To a woman alone in the gloaming with a near stranger, he could see how his teasing declaration might come off as a threat. He attempted to backpedal, but stumbled over his words. “I wouldn’t actually … I mean, yes, you’re tiny and I could … but I would never hurt you. Or anyone, for that matter.”
“I should hope not,” she said smartly while maintaining her vigilant stance.
They entered a silent face-off for longer than was comfortable. He wanted to look away, but couldn’t peel his eyes off her. She finally took a sidestep from behind the chair toward the line of pine trees separating her from her car.
“Alrighty then, I’ll be going now. I’ll see you tomorrow?” She cut him a look from the side of her eyes he couldn’t interpret and muttered, “In public with witnesses.”
He shuffled backward to give her space to escape. Just to make sure she got away safely, he trailed her to the trees and watched her taillights fade from view. Next on his agenda was an attempt to kick his own arse.
The only way he could have made a worse impression on Anna Maitland was to have— No, it couldn’t have been worse. He muttered a string of Gaelic curses on his way to check on Ozzie and Harriet. Gareth had left him a bag of feed, but he would need more and soon.
While his expectations of a businesswoman with a stereotypical dancer’s severity had been shattered, her coiled strength, vibrancy, and superhuman grace was undercut by a sense of exhaustion even her bravado couldn’t mask. Navigating Highland would be easier with Anna’s help, and whether she wanted to admit it or not, she needed him too. A sense of purpose lent a spring to his step.
He’d been adrift for more than a year and had thought—hoped—Cairndow would prove to be his rock, but only now did he feel like land was in sight.
Chapter Three
Iain overslept and blamed a combination of jet lag and dreams populated by a wild red-haired dancer in a tank top and short shorts. He wasn’t proud of the romp his subconscious had taken while he’d been asleep and vulnerable. Would she take one look into his eyes and see the etchings left by his imagination?
It wouldn’t do. He wasn’t sure yet if she would be adversary or partner. Friend might have already been struck from the possibilities considering the events of the previous evening. He needed to have his wits in battle lines for their meeting.
Iain had spent time in deserts during his deployments, so the Georgia heat wasn’t entirely foreign, but the humidity was like a boggart sitting on his chest and made it difficult to take a proper breath.
Isabel had insisted he drive her truck while he was at Stonehaven. It was a piece of … work. A red-and-black tartan pattern covered the bonnet and tailgate as well as two thick stripes down the sides. The rest of the truck was gunmetal gray with rust spots marring the fenders. While both admiration and hor
ror arose, mostly he fought regret for not springing for a rental coupe.
Sliding onto the driver’s seat, he opened the visor and caught the keys Isabel had left. The truck started with a grind of the engine that made his ears tilt toward the unharmonious sound. A well-tuned engine was like an orchestra. This was more like a garage band. He’d take a look under the bonnet later, but for now, he prayed the thing would carry him into town and back.
His regret took an exponential rise when the air-con did nothing to combat the heat. The air being pumped into the cab was sun scorched. He flapped his dark blue kilt and rolled down the windows. Even the shade was uncomfortable.
The tires crunched pea gravel on the truck’s stuttering start. Trees lined the narrow private lane and dappled light danced across the arm he had crooked out the window. Rich scents of verdant greenery and wildflowers filled the cab. While pleasant, his nose twitched as if in search of the loam and salt of home.
The sea had been his lodestone and his anchor. While he relished and appreciated the life his da had given him at Cairndow, he wasn’t sure he wanted the same. His da’s expectations of passing the care of Cairndow to Iain as Gareth would pass the earldom to Alasdair had turned claustrophobic, and he didn’t know how to extricate himself from his birthright without breaking hearts.
Iain took a deep breath, smelling freedom and opportunity. Had the Scottish settlers of generations past felt the same? Away from the rigid caste system of the aristocracy, the poor immigrants had had a chance to make their own way.
He turned onto the paved main road toward town. The trees gave way to scattered houses. One even had a stereotypical picket fence. The squeals of children playing in backyards and biking on side streets reached him and made him smile.
A decorative hand-painted sign with a cartoonish Scotsman playing the pipes welcomed him to Highland: THE HEART OF THE HIGHLANDS IN THE BLUE RIDGE. Beyond a four-way stop stretched a long street lined with colorful Scottish-themed restaurants and shops and pubs. Alasdair had done his level best to describe the place, but hadn’t done it justice. It was over-the-top and ridiculous, and Iain couldn’t decide whether he was appalled or bloody well loved the place on sight.
A Highlander in a Pickup Page 3