The village depended on Cairndow to bring in tourists, which it did during the summer months. When the weather turned harsh and forbidding, and snow made passing the roads difficult without a four-by-four, a gloom settled over the village and the people.
“What are you thinking?” Her question took him aback. Had he ever been asked for his thoughts?
“I’m contrasting Highland with the village outside Cairndow.”
“How do we stack up?” Curiosity and defensiveness battled in her voice.
“Highland is alive.”
“Is the village at Cairndow populated by zombies or something?” Her dry wit made the corners of his mouth twitch.
The reality, unfortunately, wasn’t a joke. “It was a thriving fishing village at one time, the trade passed down from father to son for generations, but it’s cheaper to import fish nowadays. The old ways have dwindled to a few hardy souls and not many young ones. Most leave to take jobs in the bigger cities.”
“Highland used to be like that.” Anna pointed toward the street. “Empty storefronts, a fall in the population. Atlanta was growing by leaps and bounds and offered opportunities Highland couldn’t compete with. Izzy’s dad came up with the idea of the festival. The town council jumped on it and rebranded the town as Scotland in the South.”
Her assessment mirrored what Dr. Jameson had said. “I hope Isabel can work the same magic at Cairndow.”
“She’s told me about the honey and jams.” Anna poked a fry into a puddle of catsup, but didn’t eat it.
“I built the hives and helped put in the greenhouse and berry bushes.”
“Izzy said you were”—Anna cleared her throat—“good with your hands.”
Alasdair watched a blush creep up her neck and into her cheeks with fascination. What had embarrassed her? He glanced over his shoulder to identify the instigation point, but the scene remained mundane. He shrugged.
“I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t puttering or building something. Da kept me with him even when I was a babe. There’s a picture of me swaddled in a wheelbarrow at his side.” The picture was a testament to his da’s devotion, and the pang of missing him was physical and sharp. Iain rubbed his chest.
“Your dad sounds amazing.” Was the wistfulness in her voice part of his imagination?
“He is a man of few words, but I never doubted his love.” Iain pretended to pick at a loose string on his kilt to hide the flush of emotion pulling an embarrassing wetness to his eyes. “I left him with his hands full of Isabel’s projects. He’s learning how to keep bees. He grumbles at the changes, but I think he’s secretly loving every minute. He’s got a spring to his step I haven’t seen in quite some time.”
“Cairndow sounds idyllic.”
“I could say the same of Highland.” He turned the thought over in his head. “But no such place exists, does it? Life has its challenges anywhere, and you only pack your troubles with you wherever you go.”
It was a philosophy he should heed himself. Why did he blame Cairndow for his discontent? Happiness wasn’t something one found and possessed; it manifested from within. Why then couldn’t he manifest it at home?
“I know you’re right.” She swirled her catsup into a pattern, officially playing with her food. “I left Highland after high school, but I came back.”
A story lived between the two bookends. One he was sure had altered the way she viewed life in fundamental ways.
“I left Cairndow after secondary school but ended back where I started as well.” Like Anna, he had been fundamentally changed by all the events encompassed in the small conjunction.
“Maybe all the songs are wrong.” She finally transferred her attention from her catsup masterpiece to his face.
“What songs?”
“The ones warning you that you can’t go home again. I came home, and I’m perfectly fine.” There was that word again. “Fine.” After seeing the real thing, he knew the lightness of her smile was fake.
She wasn’t being truthful with him—maybe not even with herself—but as they’d only met the day before over a wayward sheep, he hadn’t earned her truths. “I’ll wager you weren’t the same when you came home. You’d changed, but were lucky enough that Highland welcomed the changes.”
“You are not what I expected, Iain Connors.” She checked the screen on her phone. “I’ve got to get back to teach my next class.”
He didn’t have a chance to request a list of her expectations and how he had fallen short. She shoved her chair back and strode to the bar. It was only when he caught the flash of her charge card that he realized she was paying for their lunch.
“You should let me—”
The glance she gave him over her shoulder withered his words. This was a woman who was letting him know in no uncertain terms that she didn’t require him in any way.
He matched her pace on the sidewalk. “We didn’t discuss how to divvy up the work on the festival.”
“Let me think on it, and I’ll let you know when I need you. In the meantime, you can hang out at Stonehaven, take care of Ozzie and Harriet, and binge some TV shows or catch a tan or something.” Anna looked both ways then trotted across the street, giving the truck who’d slowed down a wave and receiving a friendly toot in response.
Iain stayed on her heels, not willing to allow her to escape so easily. She came to a sudden stop on the curb and whirled around on him, leaving him at street level. She was still shorter than he was.
Anna snapped her fingers in his face. “You know what would be a big help? You could water Rose’s flowerpots. Ideally, they need to be done daily. Can you handle that?”
He’d built a bloody greenhouse that winter. “Which way do I turn the spigot to make wet stuff come out?”
She chose to ignore his rampant sarcasm. Her smile was brilliant, her voice sickeningly sweet. “Righty tighty. Lefty loosey. Do you need me to write that down for you?”
He answered with a glare that had sent battle-scarred men running for cover. Instead, she preened, proud of pricking his anger, and said, “I’ll need to drop by in the morning to work on some stuff Izzy left on her computer for me.”
“Is that fair warning for me not to water the pots naked?”
She blinked dumbly, her self-satisfied smile of a moment earlier wiped clean. Now it was his turn to hide his satisfaction at ribbing her behind a bland expression and fake acquiescence. “As you’ve made it clear, you don’t require my help at the moment, therefore I’ll cede the field.”
Of course, he planned to do no such thing, but military tactics notwithstanding, there was a time to retreat and regroup, and this seemed to qualify.
He sketched a small bow, turned on his heel, and strode down the sidewalk. He’d never been one for sitting on his bum and watching the telly. Probably because his da hadn’t kept a telly in the cottage.
The barn needed improvements, the stock would need proper pens, and he’d noticed a loose hinge on the French doors leading to the patio. There was plenty he could do while he worked on Anna and prepared for their next exchange of fire. A sense of anticipation added a spring to his step and a smile to his face.
Chapter Five
The next morning, Anna parked at the front door of Stonehaven. Izzy’s old truck was nowhere to be seen. It was Saturday. Had Iain taken her advice and gone sightseeing? Not having him around distracting her with his glares and growls would be a godsend. The sharp pinch of disappointment made no sense.
Nothing made sense when Iain was around. It was like he scrambled her radio signals and left her interpreting smoke signals. Yes, she found his gruff, tough demeanor attractive, and yes, he was built like a brick house, but that didn’t explain the thrill she got from seeing his lips quirk into the ghost of a smile as they sparred.
Paying for their lunch had been more delicious and satisfying than the actual food. Instructing him on how to work a faucet had been even better. But then he’d countered her jab with one of his own. Her sleep had bee
n interrupted more than once by lurid dreams in which Iain had been buck naked wielding his own personal garden hose.
Her mind had rendered an image so detailed, she was sure Iain would be able to see it in her eyes. If he even saw the trailer of the PG version of her dreams, her only option would be to die of embarrassment. Even though the AC was still blasting from her car vents, she took a file folder from the passenger seat and fanned herself.
It was like she was sixteen years old again and driving by a crush’s house. Not that she was crushing on Iain. A crush was too adolescent for what was brewing. No, she was lusting after him, which was perfectly understandable given the facts. Which were: One, she hadn’t had sex in more months than she had fingers. Two, Iain had a sexy accent. And shoulders and chest and legs and hands. Three, she hadn’t had sex in months. That bore repeating, because this crush-lust-obsession boiled down to one thing.
Anna was horny.
She would stop by Highland Drug and Dime for an economy pack of batteries for her vibrator on the way home. That would solve her problem in the long term. In the short term, she would hope Iain didn’t return while she worked in Stonehaven’s home office. If it became a lingering issue, she would move every file and both computers to her not-so-spacious studio office.
Anna tiptoed into the house and bypassed the Buchanans’ spacious and comfortable office to take a gander out the back door. Iain wasn’t watering the pots. Not that she had expected him to be naked, but a girl could dream as she had spectacularly proved the night before.
In case he’d parked out of sight and was in the shower—naked, of course—she cocked her head and listened, hearing only the ticking clock on the mantle. The house gave off solitary vibes. The layer of dust over the side table would have given Rose Buchanan fits if she could see it, but Anna didn’t have time to clean. She had to tackle a slew of phone calls, confirming details or finagling deposits out of tightfisted or absentminded vendors.
She took a step backward, and as she was turning, a flash of movement outside caught her eye. Squinting, she scooched closer to the window. Had it been a deer or the wind in the trees?
It was neither. A man had emerged from the barn. Anna’s blood quickened. A pair of binoculars for bird-watching lay on the dusty side table. She popped the caps from the lenses and held them up, the blur of movement coming into sharp focus.
Once again, he was bare chested. Did the man not own enough shirts? Did he not care about the health of her heart or other body parts?
Unlike their other encounters, he was unaware of her examination, and she took full advantage. His torso wasn’t cut into lean muscled lines likes, magazine models’, but was thick and strong in a way that spoke of hard work and not a gym. Neither was he hairless like so many men nowadays.
The tailgate of the truck stuck out from the far side of the barn. Iain strode toward it and pulled planks of wood from the bed, heaving them onto his shoulder. He wore a kilt once more, but this one was a more traditional weave of soft green and browns. His hair was damp with sweat, the dark ends curling around his ears and a lock falling over his forehead.
She adjusted the focus on his face. She catalogued a high forehead, heavy brows over long-lashed eyes, a prominent nose that was crooked at the bridge, and a dark beard framing lips that were neither thin nor fleshy. Rather than marring his looks, his scar emphasized his ruggedness.
It was the same face she’d sat across from in the pub, yet different somehow too. His expression was unguarded. In assumed solitude, the tight rein he kept on his emotions had loosened. Iain was worried and weighed down by his thoughts, and she wondered where his mind wandered.
What had he left behind in Scotland? Did he have a wife or girlfriend urging him home? Was he merely fulfilling a favor to the Blackmoors? Uprooting and coming to the States to help with a small town festival seemed excessive. Was he running from something … or someone?
The thought gave her pause. She felt like she was taking something from him without his knowledge. As she was about to put the binoculars away, his gaze arrowed across the field to where she stood at the window, and the eye contact though the zoomed-in binoculars sent a jolt of energy whizzing through her body.
Muttering a curse, she slammed the binoculars down on the side the table and hid in the folds of the curtains. With her heart tap-dancing in her ear, she peeked around the curtain. He was stalking across the field.
Any hope he hadn’t seen her ogling him like a horny freak died a quick death as she skip-ran to the office. Her foot caught in the hall runner, and she went down hard on her right knee. Ignoring the pain, she scrambled up and skidded on the hardwood flooring as she made the turn into the office.
Scooching behind Izzy’s desk, she worked to regulate her breathing and stared unseeing at the paper she’d grabbed off the top of a stack.
The back door opened and closed, and footsteps creaked the old floors. Iain was a big man—tall and broad and muscular. She’d make all sorts of noises if he was on top of her too. A huff of frustration escaped. Iain on top of her was not an image she needed to have flashing in her head at the moment. His footsteps grew louder. She tensed and stared unblinking at the paper, her eyes burning.
“What are you working on?” Iain’s rich baritone reminded Anna of dark chocolate—sweet but with a bite.
Slowly, she raised her gaze. He’d located a T-shirt in a forest-green color. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved.
“I am working on…” She had to look back down at the paper and scan it, “… a site map for the portable potties.”
He propped a shoulder on the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “Titillating stuff.”
Was he teasing her? Something in the way his mouth was set made her think he was. “It’s a detail people only notice if things don’t go well. What are you working on?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lot of wood for nothing.”
One of his eyebrows rose, instantly turning his expression mocking. It was his superpower. “You were spying on me.”
Anna shuffled papers around on the desk. “No, I wasn’t. I was bird-watching, and you happened to get in the way.” Not that her excuse was believable as is, but the fire creeping up her face only undermined her credibility as an amateur ornithologist.
He made a sound between a grunt and a hum, the noise dripping with disbelief. Instead of leaving her alone, he meandered farther into the office to peruse the corkboard wall covered with snapshots from festivals of years past.
“The festival looks like a ripper of a good time.” He sounded serious and even admiring.
“The whole point is for people to have fun. And spend their money, of course.”
He shot her a raised eyebrow over his shoulder before returning his attention to the pictures. She fiddled with a silver letter opener with a funny-looking gnome squatting under a giant mushroom. Or maybe the mushroom was normal sized, and it was the gnome that was tiny.
Iain took a photo off the board and turned slowly, glancing between it and her. Without waiting for him to ask the question hovering between them, she stood and plucked the picture out of his hands. “Yes, it’s me.”
In the picture, she was sixteen. It had been the first festival dance competition she’d won with a solo performance. The picture captured her mid-leap, her hair like a sunburst around her head. Much to her mother’s dismay, she’d forgone the pinned fat, fake curls of many Celtic dancers, and her dance had been more innovative than traditional.
Her dress had been understated compared to the rest of the entrants’. She had merely worn a black leotard and an emerald-green, gauzy. wraparound skirt. She’d wanted to blaze her own trail and hadn’t been afraid to take risks. She’d do it her way or go home empty-handed. She’d placed first.
How much of her attitude had been brash confidence and how much a rebellion against her mom’s more traditional methods? She stared at the photo as if seeing a stranger and touched her face, although h
er expression was lost to time. Where had her confidence gone? Had time and experience worn it away like the sea to stone?
“We twa hae run about the braes, and pou’d the gowans fine; But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit, sin’ auld lang syne.” His voice was deep and sonorous and held her enthralled even though she didn’t understand half of what he’d recited.
“‘Auld Lang Syne.’” She parroted the recognized words.
“Aye. Robert Burns. Not his finest, in my humble opinion, but fitting for your thoughts, me thinks.” His choice of words and cadence matched the old-fashioned lyrics.
“Braes are hills, but what the heck are gowans?” She took a step toward him, holding the old picture of herself over her heart.
He smiled a real smile. The first she’d seen him offer, and it was like a light flipped on inside of him. His brown eyes sparkled with unexpected charm. His teeth were white, the bottom center two overlapping. It made him seem more real to her.
“Gowans are flowers. Daisies, if you want to put a fine point on it.”
She held the picture out to him. “I suppose I have wandered many weary miles since that was taken.”
He tacked the picture back into the blank space it had occupied and ran a finger over her form. “You make it sound as though you’re old and worn, when you are far from it.”
She froze, not sure how to take his words and the sudden blast of intimacy. It wasn’t the first time she’d sensed an unexpected connection between them. The first time had been when he confessed his mother’s absence from his life. What could she do but ignore the push-pull?
Forcing her voice to a lightness she did not feel, she said, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you doled out a compliment.”
She sat and busied herself in the stack of papers, reaching for the cordless phone and refusing to engage any further with him.
At the sound of his retreating footsteps, she looked up, only to meet his gaze where he’d paused at the foot of the staircase. Even with the distance between them, she could sense the power of him. He was lightning and she quaked with an internal thunder. It felt melodramatic, yet fear leapt. Not fear of his physicality, but because she recognized something of herself in him. A restlessness. A desire for chaos. A need to feel out of control.
A Highlander in a Pickup Page 6