A Highlander in a Pickup

by Laura Trentham

  “And Anna Maitland?”

  “Anna feels like home.”

  “Then you must win her back, lad. Whatever the cost. Learn from your old da’s mistakes.” His da tilted his head back and sniffed. “I’ve always wanted to see the States.”

  His da hated to travel, but he would make the sacrifice to see his son happy. Iain pulled his da into a tight hug, fighting the burn of tears himself. His da had offered him a much-needed benediction.

  “Go talk to her, son.” His da broke away.

  “I’ll see you to the cottage before I—”

  “No. I’ll find my own way, so you can find yours.” His da patted his arm, then walked away, his footing sure on the path he’d treaded hundreds of times.

  Only when his da faded into the darkness and out of sight did Iain turn toward the castle. Everything had changed. He was free to follow his heart. Was it too late?

  Bypassing the kitchen entrance, he entered through the mudroom door, wanting to avoid being drawn into polite conversation. Padding up the stairs, he made for Anna’s room. With his fist raised to knock, he hesitated. The next few minutes might well change the course of his life.

  “I never pegged you for being indecisive, Highlander.” Anna’s voice came from over his shoulder.

  Shock had him slapping his hand on the door and spinning around. Anna leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the hall, her legs crossed at the ankle.

  “You gave me a fright, lass. I was just…” He gestured toward the door then ran a hand through his hair and gave a humorless laugh. “Gathering my courage, I suppose. I deserve a good tongue-lashing for the way I left.”

  “A tongue-lashing? You wish.” Anna swept by him, trailing the scent of magnolias, and entered her room to lean against the nearest post of the four-poster bed.

  He followed. The moth-eaten curtains and musty rugs had been replaced since he and Alasdair had engaged in one of their sweeping games of hide-and-seek twenty-odd years earlier. Perhaps he’d been inside since to change a lightbulb, but with Anna in the room, he took in every detail with fresh eyes.

  The green bedding brought out the red glints in her hair. The stone walls were softened by faded tapestries. The lemony scent of wood polish sharpened the air. In olden days, a fire would have burned in the massive fireplace, but now, only a brace of unlit candles stood on the hearth.

  “You deserved better than to have me sneak out. It was cowardly.” Iain remained standing in the middle of the room.

  “Yes, it was. I was mad and hurt and wanted to beat you senseless that morning. And the day after and the day after that and—”

  “I get the picture.” Nerves shuffled him into a short pace, hemmed in by the bed and the hearth. “I wanted to stay, but I made promises and was honor bound to keep them.”

  “Promises to who? I thought you didn’t have a girlfriend.” Anna straightened and crossed her arms under her breasts.

  Iain barked a laugh and pivoted toward her. “Not to another woman. To my da. I couldn’t abandon him the way my mum had. Besides Cairndow, I’m all he has.”

  “He’s a nice man with kind eyes. The kind of dad I always wished for.” Her smile was tight and watery. “I understand. I even forgive you. Is that what you want?”

  “There’s something else I want even more.”

  “What?”

  “You. I want you. Do you still want me?” His jaw was clamped so tight, he was sure all his teeth would crack.

  A laugh stuttered out, even as a tear escaped her eye and trailed down her cheek. She wiped it away. “Of course I want you, but nothing has changed. I can’t leave Highland.”

  “My da released me from my promise. He wants me to be happy and knows you will make me happy.”

  “What are you saying exactly? I need you to spell it out like I’m the village idiot.” She took a step toward him, closing the distance by half.

  He met her in the middle and took her hand in a grip that was desperate and too tight, but she didn’t pull away. “Wherever you are is my home. I’ll happily move to Highland. If you’ll have me.”

  “You’d move halfway around the world just to be with me?” The wistful incredulousness in her voice made his heart swell.

  When words were hard to come by, Burns never deserted him. “‘My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer.’”

  “Am I your deer?” she asked.

  “You’re my everything. I love you.”

  Her mouth opened and closed, but only a strangled sound emerged. She threw her arms around his neck, and her weight fell into him. He closed his eyes and wrapped her close, knowing he didn’t have to let go.

  “What will you do in Highland?” she asked.

  “Hire myself out as a contractor. I’m good with my hands and based on my experience with Loretta and her friends, there’s plenty of work around town. What do you think?”

  “You are definitely good with your hands.” The sexual tease in her voice kindled a heat in his stomach. She pulled back to look at him, her hands tight on his shoulders. “Do you want to know what I really think?”

  He nodded brusquely.

  “I think we’ll have to find a house together. You don’t fit in my apartment. And what about a work visa and immigration and—”

  “We’ll figure it out. Together.” Unspeakable relief flooded him. “I was afraid I lost my chance.”

  “You came awfully close. By the way, I love you too.” Anna examined him from head to toe before shoving him backward by his shoulders. The unexpectedness of the move caught him off guard, and he toppled, landing on the soft mattress.

  Anna unzipped her boots and kicked them to the side, then she climbed over him, straddling his hips. “It’s time for your tongue-lashing,” she said in a decidedly wicked voice.

  “You’re going to make me pay for my idiocy, aren’t you?”

  “It’s going to be absolute torture, Highlander. I’m going to make you scream and beg for mercy.” She smiled as she shimmied down his body and flipped up his kilt.

  And it was the best sort of torture he could imagine.

  Epilogue

  Holt Pierson ran a hand through his hair and adjusted his ball cap so the brim rode low, making it easier to avoid eye contact. He wasn’t in the mood to make polite small talk, and it seemed like the entire town had come out to watch Highland’s new mayor, Anna Maitland, cut the ribbon on the new shop on Main Street, Highland Antiques. Even the brisk November wind cutting through the crowd couldn’t diminish the current of excitement.

  Holt had forgotten about the ribbon cutting. He’d only come to town to replenish his beer supply and to grab some easy frozen foods. His parents were leaf peeping in Vermont in their RV. They had been as giddy as newlyweds on their last call home. Was Highland still their home? They had broached the possibility of heading to a Florida RV park for the winter. His mom thought the warm weather might help her arthritis.

  Iain Connors stood at the back of the crowd, leaning against the brick storefront of the Dapper Highlander. He had opted for jeans over a kilt in deference to the cool day.

  Holt sidled up next to him. “Anna has really energized the town.”

  His smile held a quality Holt couldn’t identify but left him with a strange sort of emptiness. “She’s a rare one. Her enthusiasm will drive the town to new heights.”

  “The Christmas party the town is putting on sounds like fun.”

  “It’s a bastardized version of Burns Night. Good food, great songs, plenty of fun. The lads and I are already practicing.” Since making his move to Highland, Iain had become a permanent member of the Bluegrass Jacobites.

  Iain had also launched a renovation business specializing in bringing out the classic beauty of older homes. His first project was the craftsman-style house he and Anna had bought on a quiet tree-lined street within walking distance of downtown.

  Meanwhile, Holt was living in the same one-bedroom cabin on
the farm he’d moved into after high school graduation. Back then, the autonomy had made him feel like a big-shot bachelor. At some point in the intervening years, the feeling had turned to melancholy and then loneliness as he watched friend after friend pair off.

  Anna finished her speech and cut the ribbon to a wave of applause. The crowd milled about, some pushing into the antiques store, some clogging the sidewalks and street to socialize. Rose Buchanan and Gareth Blackmoor backed out of the crowd.

  Rose gave him a half hug while Gareth shook Holt’s hand. “Where are your parents, Holt?” Rose asked.

  “Traveling the backroads of Vermont at the moment.”

  “Oh, how nice. I would take Gareth up north to sightsee, but his blood has gotten too thin from living in Georgia, hasn’t it, darling?” Rose tossed her silver hair and sent Gareth a teasing smile.

  “That is has, Rosie.” Gareth wrapped an arm around Rose’s waist.

  “How’s little Annie doing?” Holt asked politely.

  “She’s grand. Already rolling over. She has Isabel and Alasdair wrapped around her little finger.” Gareth beamed. “It’s good to hear a child’s laughter echo through the castle again. We’re going to spend Christmas at Cairndow.”

  “That’s great. Really great.” And it was. Holt didn’t begrudge Izzy and Alasdair their happiness. In fact, he’d been integral to getting them back together after Alasdair had nearly screwed it up.

  A woman stepped out of the Highland Drug and Dime. Holt’s gaze homed in on the petite figure, a vague feeling of familiarity washing over him, but his churning brain failed to catalogue her. She pulled her hoodie up and darted down the sidewalk with her face down.

  For the first time in weeks, energy zinged through his body. Smiling absently at Rose and Gareth, Holt excused himself and set off in the direction of the woman. The two stuffed grocery bags slowed her down, and he was able to close the distance to a dozen feet.

  She darted to the right, down an alley between buildings on Main Street. He hesitated at the street, questioning his sanity in following a strange woman into an alley. One of her bags brushed against the brick wall, snagged, and ripped open, sending items scattering along the concrete.

  Her hoodie fell back, revealing a set of pixie-like features framed by choppy, dark brown-red hair. While she looked like a disheveled Tinker Bell, the curses falling from her lips weren’t Disney-approved. The memory clicked the pieces into place.

  She was the lead singer of the Scunners, the Scottish rock band that had performed during the last two summer Highland festivals. He’d spent both concerts admiring her energy and spirit onstage. The bright red hair she’d sported over the summer had dimmed like her spirit. Dark circles under her eyes marked her fatigue, and her cheekbones cut sharply in her face. She sniffed and worked to gather her purchases. Was she … crying?

  Stepping forward, he said, “May I help?”

  She startled and stepped away from him, holding a bottle of generic aspirin to her chest. “What do you want?” Her Scottish accent still counted as unusual in Highland even with Gareth and Iain officially transplanted.

  Holt held his hands up and spoke as if she were a spooked horse. “Just offering to help you gather your things.”

  “Were you following me?” Her shoulders hunched inward. She wore several T-shirts under the hoodie. So many, in fact, she was shapeless.

  “Of course not.” He forced his wince into a hopefully non-creepy smile and held out a can of soup that had rolled to his feet. “Thought you looked familiar and I was trying to place you.”

  She snatched it out of his hand and juggled the bags. A jar of peanut butter cracked against the concrete, the plastic lid splitting in two. She squatted to scoop it up, her head down, but not before he noticed her chin wobbling.

  “Let me—”

  “I don’t need your help.” Her steely tone was weakened by the sound of the bag rending further.

  He scooped the torn bag out of the crook of her arm and tipped it up so nothing else would escape. “Of course you don’t, but my mama would tan my hide if I didn’t help anyway.”

  They faced off in an impasse before she shrugged and spun on her heel, heading to the narrow alley that ran behind the Main Street shops. A bike with a front basket and a canvas saddlebag leaned against the brick wall. The rims were rusty, and one side of the handlebar had lost its grip, leaving an exposed metal rod.

  She repacked the items from her bag into the front basket, including a loaf of white bread, a half-gallon of milk, and tea bags among other staples. Nothing that could be considered an indulgence, except for maybe the tea.

  She plucked the items out of the bag he held and filled the back satchel. This included the peanut butter, baking potatoes, cans of soup, and an assortment of ramen noodle packages. She straddled the bike. “I guess I should thank you,” she said grudgingly.

  Without another word or a backward glance, she peddled off, making the turn onto Maple Street and disappearing through the dancing yellow leaves.

  Holt shook his head and strolled to his truck, trying and failing not to wonder how the lead singer of the Scunners had landed back in Highland after the festival. Surely the Scunners were touring or had gigs or whatever. Questions niggled at him.

  With his own meager supplies of food, which included plenty of indulgences like beer and frozen pizza and a banana cream pie from the Highland Lass restaurant, on the passenger seat, he pointed his truck toward the farm and his evening chores. Even with the harvest in, he had to make sure the cows got milked and the animals fed.

  A small, hunched figure walked on the narrow shoulder of the road ahead of him, pushing a bike. The front tire was flat. He rolled the passenger window down and crept along beside her. She stared straight ahead as if his diesel truck was a gnat she could ignore.

  “Can I give you a ride?”

  “No.” Her voice clipped any hint of her Scottish accent.

  “I’m basically harmless. I promise.” He tried on his best Boy Scout smile even though it had been a while.

  She cocked her eyebrows and heaved a sigh. “Basically harmless? Not exactly a resounding recommendation. I find it creepy that you’re following me.”

  “I’m not following you.” This time he could state it as fact. “I live five or six miles down the road.”

  She stared straight ahead and ignored him.

  “I can’t rightly drive off and leave you here. People fly up and down this road, and there’s no shoulder. Either you let me give you a ride, or I’ll trail you until you get home. How far do you have to go?”

  She shot him an assessing glance. “Not far.”

  “It will go faster if you let me give you a lift. How ’bout it?”

  Her nod was reluctant and nearly imperceptible. He sped up, pulled halfway off the road into knee-high scrub grass, and climbed out. After loading her bike into the bed of his truck, he opened the passenger door, pushing his own shopping bags to the side.

  With her dark brown eyes full of suspicion, she grabbed the side of the seat and attempted to climb in. The lift kit plus the mud tires made it a difficult distance for her. After watching her try twice and fail, he picked her up by the waist and set her on the seat, making sure his hands didn’t linger.

  She gasped and turned on him like a half-feral cat ready to strike even the kindest hand. He took two stumbling steps backward, windmilling when his heel caught a divot of soft ground. After he regained his balance, they regarded each other like prey and predator. There was no doubt what she considered him.

  He held his hands up as if surrendering. “I didn’t mean to scare you, miss.”

  “Keep your bloody hands to yourself next time.” She slammed his truck door shut.

  He was just relieved she hadn’t bolted for the woods. Instinctively, he knew she’d be more comfortable keeping him in view at all times, and he circled around the front of the truck to climb into the driver’s seat.

  Once he got them back on the roa
d, he kept his voice casual when he asked, “Where am I dropping you?”

  “At the top of Meadows Lane.”

  His foot jerked on the gas pedal. “Are you staying with old Ms. Meadows?”

  “Aye.” While her body remained as still as a mouse not wanting to attract the gaze of a circling hawk, he didn’t miss the surreptitious glances she aimed in his direction from the corner of her eye. What had made her so skittish and suspicious?

  A widow and recluse, Ms. Meadows lived in an old house on a sliver of woods and hills along a creek surrounded by Pierson land. His dad had been trying to buy the property from her for decades.

  “I’m Holt Pierson, by the way. What’s your name?” he asked.

  She hesitated as if she was loath to surrender any more information than she already had, meager though it was. “Claire.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  She made a throaty sound of acknowledgment, but didn’t return the sentiment. “Do I take it your skills don’t extend to the kitchen?”

  “And what would you know about my skills?” He couldn’t keep the tease out of his voice.

  Color rushed her cheeks. “I watched you compete at the games this summer. That’s all I was referring to, I can assure you.”

  “I watched you perform too.” He tossed a glance toward her, but she didn’t react as far as he could tell. “Are you sticking around Highland for a while?”

  “Here it is. You can let me out at the top, thanks.”

  Overgrown bushes camouflaged the start of a gravel lane. Holt had driven past hundreds of times and never paid it any mind. The old mailbox needed a coat of paint and legible numbers and the red flag dangled toward the ground like the standard of a defeated army. He hadn’t seen the old house in years even though as the crow flew, it was a half mile or less from his cabin. Based on the overgrown state of the lane and the dilapidated mailbox, he could only imagine what shape the house was in. Last time his dad had gone out to make yet another offer to the old lady, she’d run him off with a shotgun.