A Highlander in a Pickup

by Laura Trentham

  He squeezed her hand. “All is forgiven. Would you like some help locating your wayward spreadsheet?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He let go of her hand, and she hid her disappointment by falling a couple of steps behind him on the way to the house. The swing of his pleats hypnotized her, and she alternated between wishing for the wind to bless her with another peek and silently berating her wayward libido. It had been tossing and turning since Iain had come to town, but it had officially emerged from hibernation. The timing couldn’t be worse.

  In the office, she attempted a brisk, professional tone as she used the mouse to open the folder the file should have occupied. He stood behind her, braced a hand on the desk, and peered over her shoulder.

  “You’ve been saving regularly?” he asked.

  “Of course. I’m not a doofus.” Anna glanced up where he loomed over her.

  “I assume that’s similar to a dobber.”

  “We need a Southern-Scottish translator.” She smiled and even though his focus was on the computer screen, the corner of his mouth she could see tipped up.

  “We seem to rub along fairly well now we understand each other better.”

  “Rub along well? Is that a euphemism?”

  He barked a laugh. “No. Why don’t you let me drive?”

  They exchanged places, and she paced behind the chair. “My file is probably floating around cyberspace as a disconnected series of zeros and ones.”

  He merely grunted as he clicked through various folders and entered search strings in the box.

  “You’re good at this,” Anna said, trying and failing to keep the surprise from her voice.

  He clicked through more layers of files. “I used computers quite a bit in the service, but not much since. I spent the last lambing season in a little stone cottage all alone with no internet.”

  “How long is lambing season?”

  “The bulk of the births happen in six weeks.”

  “You spent a month and a half alone except for sheep as company?” She tried to imagine the silences. Would it be peaceful or torturous?

  “More like four months. In fact, Alasdair had to come find me when it seemed the baby was not going to cooperate with the timing of the festival.”

  “You must have hated to leave your fortress of solitude.”

  “I didn’t say that.” He turned and graced her with the rise of his haughty eyebrow.

  With her brain taking a nap, she smoothed over the sleek dark eyebrow with her thumb. “That thing is out of control, Highlander.”

  For a moment he appeared nonplussed, but then a slow smile tilted his lips and crinkled his eyes. “Is this it?”

  Is this it? It seemed like a philosophical question for the ages. Is this a beginning or an ending or something else entirely? “Is this what?”

  “Your file?” He pointed at the screen, and she transferred her focus with difficulty.

  She blinked. Sweet relief soothed her acute anxiety. “Thank you, sweet baby Jesus, yes! Where was it?”

  “In a temp folder. Apparently, you downloaded it from somewhere and never changed the default file folder when you saved.”

  He stood and put her in mind of a tree. Nothing exotic like a gingko or a Japanese maple, but a sturdy, dependable oak. A tree that weathered storms without a fuss. She understood the compulsion to become a tree hugger.

  “You really saved my bacon. Thanks.” She forced a lightness she didn’t feel into her voice. In fact, her body and mind felt weighed down.

  “Americans are obsessed with their pork products, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, because it’s delish. Have you ever had a BLT with a fresh-picked tomato and still-sizzling bacon?”

  “I can’t say I have.”

  She realized her question sounded suspiciously like an invitation. “Uh, well, you should get one before you leave to go home.”

  A crease formed between his eyes. “I’ll make sure I do.”

  She spotted the envelope from Loretta on the desk and waved it in front of him. “What do you know about this?”

  “Loretta asked me to pass it along to you.”

  “When?” she asked.

  “I replaced a rotting doorframe in her shop. I believe it was after you talked to her about it.” His gaze danced around the room, never quite meeting hers.

  “I thought for sure I was going to have to hit her up again. I wonder what brought around the change of heart.”

  His answer was a shrug. “Can I help you with anything else?”

  “Naw. I’m good. Are you good?” Why had she asked him that?

  “I’ll get back to my work, then, lass.”

  “Lass” was basically Scottish-speak for “girl,” and if anyone else had called her “girl,” she would have cut them with her tongue. Why then did a tiny thrill zip through her when Iain called her “lass”? It made no sense. It was a Scottish double standard.

  “Okay. Thanks again.”

  He nodded and walked out, the front door snicking shut. Anna slumped in the chair, looking not at the spreadsheet she’d been so desperate to find, but the empty doorway of the office, feeling as if she was still missing something vital.

  Chapter Nine

  The next day, all of Anna’s nerve endings vibrated like she’d plugged into an electrical source. Even her skin was supersensitive, her T-shirt more like a Brillo Pad than cotton. Her stomach felt like it was hosting a battle of the bands. Her mind struggled through a bog, thoughts falling away to be lost in black water, and her usual high energy dipped to an all-time low. Had she even gotten four hours of sleep the night before?

  A solid night’s sleep tonight would put her to rights. She checked her watch. She still had her class of high schoolers to teach, costumes to fit, and festival work to organize. But then, she would definitely get a great—okay, decent—night’s sleep and feel back to her normal self in the morning.

  Her class flew by as they were polishing their routines for the competition. Gabby was once more a no-show, and worries about one of her star pupils piled onto the heap of others. The fitting went poorly as her fingers were clumsier than usual, and after poking the same girl twice, she dismissed them, promising to finish after their next practice.

  After locking up the studio, she waffled at the foot of the stairs to her loft. It was almost eight and the sun was setting. She hadn’t eaten since grabbing a granola bar at lunch, yet her stomach wasn’t grinding itself into dust for food. Her throat had worsened overnight and through the day. Georgia pollen was no joke.

  Before she could crawl into her soft bed, she had one more piece of business to attend to. The printers needed the map of the festival grounds for the pamphlet, and she needed to add the barn and the planned pens to last year’s map. As she didn’t have the necessary program on her laptop, she would have to head to Stonehaven and work in the office. Once it was sent off, she could collapse and sleep without guilt.

  Iain would be taking advantage of the cooling evening to work on the enclosures, so she wouldn’t even have to worry about a six-foot-something distraction. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him and blamed him for her poor rest. Sure enough, when she pulled in to the front of Stonehaven, Iain stepped out of the barn, wearing another one of his utility kilts and no shirt, wiping his forehead on a small towel.

  She slid out of the car, her knees shaking so badly, they were almost knocking together. If this was how her body had started reacting seeing him from a distance, what would happen up close? Would her ovaries explode?

  He gave her a little wave, which she returned then pointed toward the front door and sought the safety of the house. She flipped the light on in the office, squinting when the brightness made her head hurt. Had Iain put a supercharged bulb in?

  Once she sat in the cushioned office chair, her shoulders slumped and her spine curved as if her bones had turned to taffy. She slapped her cheeks to regain focus and fired up the computer, pulling up last year’s map with
no trouble. The animal exhibition needed to be added as did the extra portable potty station Anna had booked. It was geared toward families and included a diaper changing station.

  She squinted against the bright light and found her clumsiness had carried over to the mouse. Maybe a power nap would clear her head and get her back on track. Ten minutes max. She put her head down and closed her eyes.

  * * *

  Iain stepped quietly down the stairs, which was difficult considering their age and his size. The wood creaked with every step. He ducked his head before reaching the bottom and peered into the office. Anna hadn’t moved since his return to the house. Her head was tucked into her crossed arms like a bird against a storm. He’d thought for sure she would have woken by the time he had finished showering.

  What now? He propped a shoulder against the doorjamb of the office and considered his options. Leave her or wake her? Her red hair was braided, but pieces stuck out at all different angles. The lass was running herself ragged. While the enclosures were a big undertaking, he had time to help her, especially during the hot afternoons when he took a break.

  He could only imagine the crick in her neck if she spent much more time slumped over the desk. Barefoot, he shuffled to her and put his hand on her shoulder for a slight shake. Heat radiated through her thin cotton T-shirt and ignited a different worry than mere exhaustion.

  “Anna, lass. Wake up.” He shook her shoulder more vigorously.

  As if she’d entered a dimension with a different set of laws defining space and time, she lifted her head and blinked at him in slow motion. No recognition registered in her blue eyes. She looked drunk or dazed or … feverish.

  He touched the back of his hand to her forehead. Definitely too hot. Now he knew the problem, he could solve it. Medicine and water and somewhere to lay down.

  “How about we head to the couch?” Although he framed it as a suggestion, he scooped under her arms and helped her to stand.

  She was a wet noodle, her forehead landing on his chest as her weight pitched into him. He picked her up in a cradle hold, carried her to the overstuffed couch in the living area, and laid her down gently. Her eyes were closed, and he wasn’t sure if she was awake or asleep or passed out.

  He ran his hand over her forehead, pushing her disheveled hair back in a motion that was more caress than she’d be comfortable with if she were awake. She’d made herself perfectly clear at the farm; she wasn’t interested or attracted to him in any way. The memory still had the power to sting, but the discomfort would fade like all the other rejections he’d received over the years. And it felt as if they’d smoothed things over the day before. Minus the accidental peep show. Heat flushed through him as if he were sick too, but with embarrassment.

  He merely looked at her for a long moment, not sure where the boundaries lay. While they weren’t friends, it felt like they had moved beyond being enemies. He was in no-man’s-land.

  He foraged through the kitchen for fever reducers, finally locating a cache of first aid supplies in a cupboard by the stove. Setting the bottle and a glass of water on the coffee table, he dropped to his knees next to Anna. Her cheeks were rosy, but underneath she was pale. Her delicateness was usually camouflaged by the strength of her personality.

  Once more, he resorted to shaking her shoulder. When her eyes blinked open, he said matter-of-factly, “You’re sick, Anna.”

  Her gaze sharpened, if not to its normal stiletto deadliness at least to rusty pen knife levels, but her voice was weak and hoarse sounding. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

  “It’s not terrible, merely a fact.”

  “I can’t help it.” Her bottom lip trembled as a wave of emotion broke through her usual strong facade.

  “I know you can’t,” he said gently, not sure why she was getting emotional or what to do to stop it. Did they make a medicine for that?

  “It’s all your fault.” She poked him weakly in the chest with a finger.

  Was she delusional from the raging fever? “I didn’t make you sick, lass.”

  “Yes, you did. You showed up, looking like you do, and planted all sorts of sick, perverted thoughts in my head. It’s totally your fault.”

  Perverted thoughts? He rubbed his forehead. Was he the one who was feverish and delusional? “What sort of perverted thoughts?”

  She reached out and grabbed the side of his kilt. “I can’t stop thinking about yesterday. I could barely sleep, and when I did, I dreamed about you. Not that it was the first time.”

  His lungs were tight and his breathing shallow. All sorts of questions rampaged through him like, What did she dream of? And how was he involved? All that stuttered out was a simple “Wh-what?”

  She barked a laugh he had become familiar with. It teetered between true humor and sarcasm. “Oh please, like you don’t know.”

  He was at a loss how to respond because he truly didn’t know. He had stepped out of the shower and into an alternate universe. Or, more likely, she was hallucinating. “Here. Take these.”

  He helped to prop her up on the pillows and shook two pills into one of her hands and pressed the water into her other. She swallowed and grimaced. “My throat hurts.”

  At least, she was making sense again. “The medicine will help,” he said.

  “I’m so tired.”

  “You’ve been working hard and not taking care of yourself. When’s the last time you ate?”

  Her eyes grew unfocused. “I had a granola bar for lunch, I think. Or was that for dinner last night? I don’t remember.”

  “Wait here,” he said stupidly. As if she had the strength to up and leave. Although, if anyone would try to escape his help and drive herself home, it would be Anna. He retreated to the kitchen to find something she could eat, finally settling on some yogurt with fresh blueberries.

  He resumed his position on his knees next to the couch and handed over the bowl. The first scoop barely made it to her mouth, her hand shook so badly.

  He took the bowl from her and fed her one small bite at a time, ignoring her initial protests. She stared into his eyes like a lost sailor searching for a beacon. When the bowl was half-empty, she pushed the next bite away, her hand clasping his wrist and not letting go even when he put the bowl down.

  “How do you feel?” He lay his hand against her forehead and let the backs of his fingers slide to her cheek in a moment of weakness. Her skin was soft and not quite as blazing hot as it had been.

  “A little better?” She lilted what should have been a statement into a question, which meant she still felt like shite.

  He pulled a soft fleece blanket from the back of the couch and tucked it around her.

  “I don’t want to be a bother. I should go home.” She struggled to sit up, but he pressed her back down by the shoulders. It took hardly any effort.

  “You’re no bother. I can’t in good conscience allow you to drive home to an empty house with no one to care for you.”

  He had no idea what he said that triggered her, but suddenly she was blinking tears away and her chin was wobbling at the precipice of a cry.

  “I don’t even live in a house. I live all alone in a cramped apartment above the studio. You’re right, I’m pathetic.”

  “I said no such thing! You’re not pathetic; you’re lovely.”

  “You should throw me outside and lock the door. Let Bigfoot take me to his lair and gnaw on my bones.” Her melodramatic tone had him fighting a smile, but any amusement vanished when tears trickled down her temples into her hair and her face scrunched.

  “Oh, no. Don’t fash yourself, lass. Please.” When the crying jag only intensified, he panicked, patted the top of her head, and murmured, “There, there.”

  She sat up, wrapped her arms around him, and buried her face in his shoulder. Her hands clutched at his back, her nails scraping through his T-shirt. It felt like she wanted to crawl inside of him to steal something of vital importance.

  His breathing turned ragged as he allowe
d himself to react instinctively. He held her close, rubbing her back with one hand and massaging her nape with the other. Despite the medicine, he could register her fever.

  The tears seemed interminable, but the longer they fell, the looser her body grew in his arms as if her cry was a release valve. When finally she lifted her head, he was ready with tissues. She blew her nose and rubbed at eyes nearly swollen shut.

  She flopped backward on the couch. “I look terrible.”

  There was no way around the fact she was an ugly crier.

  Iain cleared his throat. He might not be suave like Alasdair, but he knew well enough not to agree with that. “Well … you look a wee bit like your head got trapped in a sack with a hive of bees.”

  A laugh-sob erupted from her throat.

  He cupped her jaw and ran a thumb along her cheek, his skin callused, hers soft. “I’m sorry. No more crying. Please.”

  She nuzzled into his touch and closed her eyes. The vulnerability surprised him. No, it shocked him. Anna was tough and confident. She didn’t need anyone and made sure everyone understood she needed no one. Was that true, though? He’d seen flashes of longing in her face, but he wasn’t intuitive enough to interpret what she longed for.

  Her breathing evened out, and he tucked the blanket tighter around her legs. What she needed more than anything was sleep. If she was no better in the morning, he would insist she visit a physician. When he shifted to rise, she surprised him once more by grabbing his hand and threading their fingers.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Nothing to be sorry for.”

  “I need to tell you something very important.” Still her eyes didn’t open. He grunted his readiness to hear what she had to say, and he was relieved to see her lips tip into the smallest of smiles. “I love Robert Burns, and I love that you love him. I only teased you about him to get a rise out of you.”

  He huffed a laugh, wondering at the way her brain worked, and brushed her hair back from her hot forehead. “Do you realize how close I was to calling you out at dawn to fight for Rabbie’s honor?”

  She rewarded him with another small smile and blinked her eyes open. “You have a sexy voice, Iain. Will you sing me a song?”