Men in Kilts

by Katie MacAlister

  For one thing, there’s something that people who haven’t been around sheep don’t know. They look scenic and pretty on the hills, yes. They can be charming and cute as a bug frolicking around at a fair where they have been bathed and coiffed. Some people like them in a stew. But when they are in their natural state, in the rain and mud, they smell.

  A lot.

  We’re not talking spring flowers and roses here, either. We’re talking wet, dirty wool with an animal attached. Fortunately, Iain’s sheep didn’t seem to be any happier to see me up close than I was to see them, so they gave me wide berth.

  Until the stampede started, that is. And then I was convinced they were in cahoots with Bridget.

  I was stamping around the rocks trying to get the feeling back in my toes, waiting for Iain and Mark to fetch me when I heard them yelling and whistling sheepy sorts of commands, like away to me and easy . Suddenly sheep came over the top of the hill at a fast walk. I stood and watched them with an open mouth.

  Herding dogs in action are a wondrous sight to behold. The dogs don’t just act on the commands of their handlers, although that is a major part of their training. They have been taught to think about what they’re doing, and so they must anticipate the sheep’s movements. They have to know how to find the balance point (the spot that forces the sheep, avoiding the dog, to move to the dog’s handler), and how to encourage less than willing sheep to move.

  As the sheep poured over the hill toward me, I watched with fascination as Iain and Mark and the dogs worked the sheep down the hill. It wasn’t until the leaders swerved past that it struck me.

  I was directly in their path.

  I looked up the hill. Suddenly they didn’t seem so benign. Suddenly the Cheviots seemed like a huge wave of white four-legged minions of Bridget, intent on sending me tumbling down the hill to my demise. It was a veritable stampede of sheep, and I was dead-on in their path!

  Iain told me later me falling off the hill was my own fault. He pointed out, as he was helping me soak my sprained ankle in a bucket of hot water and Epsom salts, that sheep don’t stampede.

  “They would have avoided you completely if you hadn’t run like a madwoman into the middle of the flock.”

  “I was trying to alert them to my presence,” I replied with great dignity. “So they wouldn’t run over me by mistake.”

  “Ah, but love, waving your arms and screaming at the top of your lungs didn’t help, did it?”

  “Your sheep are not exceptionally bright, are they, Iain?” I parried his question sourly.

  “Which is why I’ve my doubts as to your opinion that Bridget was behind a plot to have the sheep murder you.”

  “At the time it seemed perfectly reasonable,” I grumbled.

  And it did, it all made perfect sense to me at the time. In my attempt to avoid being trampled to death by the herd of wild, man-killer marauding sheep—

  despite what Iain says, I swear their eyes were bright red, and their mouths were frothing and slavering at the sight of me—I slipped in David’s too-big wellies and twisted my ankle as I tumbled down a slope.

  I wasn’t really hurt, more annoyed than anything else because despite the protection of David’s anorak, by now my entire lovely—and did I mention expensive ?—russet tweed suit with complementary cream-colored silk blouse was covered in mud. Iain wouldn’t let me up until he had seen that I could wiggle my toes, which meant I had to sit even longer in whatever it was that was cold and wet and seeping through my lovely, expensive, russet tweed skirt.

  As it turned out, it was sheep poop. I found this out when I put my hand down in it to lever myself up on one leg. And bless him, Iain didn’t once say “I told you to wear the trousers.” No, he didn’t. He just helped me to my feet, slung an arm around my shoulders and hauled me up next to him, then carefully walked me down the side of that damn mountain.

  “I feel terribly guilty about this, Iain, leaving Mark to manage scooping the herd by himself.”

  “It’s called lifting, love, and he’s done it before, it’ll not be a problem for him.”

  “Oh. Well, would you do a me a favor, then?”

  Iain stopped. We were about halfway to his house, on the flat part of the land.

  “You want me to carry you?”

  “No. I want you to tell your dogs to stop looking at me like I just killed their best friend.”

  Iain chuckled and reassured me again that it was nothing to worry about, but I avoided meeting his dogs’ eyes after that. I just couldn’t take the accusation I saw in them.

  It took us twice as long to make it back to the house as it took us going out, but Iain was patient and even offered again to carry me. What a sweet man. I couldn’t let him do it, of course, since not only would he have given himself a hernia hauling me around, but by then I was completely covered in mud and sheep manure, while he remained more or less spotless. So he slowed his pace down to my hobble, and amused me with anecdotes of the first summer he spent on the farm.

  I might have noticed the strange car in the drive when we got back to the house, but at that point all I remember thinking was how much I wanted a hot bath and a handful of aspirin. I mentioned this to Iain.

  “Aye, love, you’ve told me that seven times now. A hot bath and some paracetamol.”

  “Maybe the aspirin should come first,” I mused as he paused in front of the door, his hand on the doorknob. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?”

  “I was wondering if I shouldn’t hose you off outside first. You look like a pig that’s been at the wallow.”

  I raised my chin. I was mucky, but not that mucky. “Oh ha ha, very funny.

  Open the door, buster.”

  He grinned, opened the door and swept a low bow for me to enter before him.

  I limped in with as much dignity as I could muster and ran smack dab into Bridget.

  I should have known that life wasn’t bad enough at that moment. It wasn’t enough that I should be walking like I had two bulldogs stuffed down my pants, looking like one of the dung balls those little African beetles take such pleasure in. It wasn’t enough I should be covered in mud and manure when I had gone to such pains to appear before the love of my life in a stunning ensemble guaranteed to drive home what a bargain he would be getting in me.

  No, it just needed Bridget to add that surreal touch to the day. Now you know why I was convinced she was behind The Great Sheep Murder Plot. It was simply too much of a coincidence that she should be here now, after her sheep henchmen had done their best to remove me from the scene.

  “Iain, darling, you look scrumptious as usual. I could just eat you up.

  Kimmy—is that the new look from America, dear?”

  I ground my teeth and stood on one foot, holding the other off the ground in hopes that the throbbing would lessen.

  “Bridget, what the hell are you doing here?” Iain looked annoyed to see her.

  The day suddenly looked a little brighter. He managed to hold her off when she rushed over to lay her lips on him, but I could see the battle had only begun.

  She was not a woman to surrender without a fight. “Give me your foot, love.” I put my hand on Iain’s shoulder for balance as he bent over to remove the boot, and shot Bridget a victorious smile. She bared her teem in return.

  “Can you make it up the stairs by yourself, then? Or do you want me to carry you?”

  It was tempting, I have to say that. What an exit, to leave Bridget in the dust while Iain carried me off to his bedroom. I could almost hear the sheik and the harem girl music playing in the background. But I had my pride to think of, and I didn’t want her being able to throw shots at me about being feeble, so I declined and hobbled up the stairs by myself. I will admit, however, that the thought of the succubus downstairs made me a wee bit speedier than I might normally have been changing my clothes. I peeled off the no longer lovely but still expensive tweed suit, threw it to the floor while grabbing a clean dress, snagged a pair of flats on
my way out of the room, and hobbled barefoot down the stairs, donning the dress and shoes at the same time. It wasn’t easy, but needs must when the devil drives and all that.

  I was just in time, too. She had him pinned in the kitchen. I pushed the door open and hovered. Eavesdropping? Damn right I was!

  “If we don’t make the offer to Tannahill in the next few days, he’ll start looking at other locations. We’ll never have another chance like this, Iain.

  We have to act now.”

  Iain stood next to the huge black stove, frowning down at Bridget as she stood pleading before him. “There’s no guarantee that even if Tannahill agrees to put the abattoir at Kin Aird the council will grant us the zoning exception.” Abattoir? Wasn’t that a fancy name for a slaughterhouse? Iain was thinking of allowing a slaughterhouse to be built on his land? My heart turned to lead as I thought of all those sweet little lambs being led off to their deaths.

  Bridget made a derisive noise and put her claw on his arm. “Darling, I’ve told you not to worry over the council. Graeham has guaranteed there will be no trouble getting the necessary permissions.”

  I stood silent and unseen in the doorway, heartsick at the thought of Bridget’s plans for the lovely and peaceful valley they shared, but aware that I had no right to voice my opinion.

  Unless Iain asked for it, of course. I began to plot a way to make him seek out my advice.

  “I’m not happy with the thought of throwing money after something we’re not sure of. We could raise a steady profit grazing the land.”

  “If you would look at the report Tannahill left—”

  Iain glanced over her shoulder to where I was standing. He smiled. “Aye, I will.

  Later.”

  Bridget made a nasty face as he turned to rinse out a brown teapot.

  “I would appreciate it if you could tear yourself away from your new playmate long enough to see farther than the end of your cock.” My eyes bugged out at the vicious undertone in her voice. Iain didn’t seem to take exception to it, though, because his was steady enough, although it had a granite, no-nonsense edge to it that brooked no further discussion.

  “I’ll look at it later, Bridget,” he repeated.

  Evidently she took the hint, because she immediately changed the subject. “I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn about the NFU.” I found out later that NFU stood for National Farmers’ Union, the big organization that all farmers belong to.

  “You’re the only one who can help me, darling.”

  Oh, puh-leeze! Pull the other one, it has bells on it!

  “Bridget, you’ve been dealing with the Union by yourself for eight years; why do you need my help now?”

  Because she’s desperate to get you into her evil clutches, my sweet innocent Iain.

  “You know how they are, Iain. They frown so on women. If you would just act as my representative—”

  Iain tched and pushed past her. I limped into the kitchen proper. Iain was heating water—I hoped some of it was for my foot.

  “It’s not women they frown at, Bridget, it’s fools who don’t know how to manage their farms.”

  Oh, good shot, lam! That made two for us and only one for her.

  “If you were to hire yourself a competent manager, you wouldn’t need to be running to me each time something went wrong. I’ve told you before—I’ve got my own work to do, and no inclination to do yours as well.” Plain speaking. You have to love it.

  Bridget, evidently, didn’t. She turned on a brittle, brittle smile and aimed it at me. “Kristin! So quick, dear. And what a… charming little frock. Something from the Oxfam shop?”

  More teeth grinding. I wouldn’t have any teeth left at this rate if she stopped by often.

  “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the Oxfam shops,” I lied, eyeballing her well-cut wool pants and obviously pricey mohair sweater. “But they appear to have some nice togs.”

  She laughed a gay little laugh that was sharp enough to scratch glass and turned back to Iain, who was rummaging around under the sink for something.

  He pulled out a bucket and a box of Epsom salts.

  “Come and sit, love, and we’ll soak your foot.”

  “Oh, what a shame. Your little”—Iain shot her a steely look—“friend hurt herself. I hope it’s not too serious, dear. You know they shoot lame animals out here,” she laughed.

  “What’s all this, then?” A sturdy, red-faced, brassy-haired woman stomped into the kitchen and stopped to glare at me. “Who’s that? And who tracked in mud all over my floor?”

  Iain was squatting on the floor next to where I sat, pouring hot water from the kettle into the cold in the bucket. Bridget stood next to the table, tapping her fingers and watching him with a calculating look on that too-perfect face.

  Iain glanced up at the newcomer. “This is Kathie. She’s staying with me.” The redhead eyed me with obvious disfavor. I sighed. Another person who wasn’t happy to see me. “For how long?”

  Ah, that was the question, wasn’t it? Iain shot an unreadable at me, then turned back to the bucket as he swirled in a handful of salts. “For as long as she likes. Kathie, this is Mrs. Harris. Put your foot in now, love.” Ah, Iain’s charlady. He had spoken of her briefly the evening before when we made dinner together. He hadn’t mentioned that she was built like a bull and had a scowl that could peel a potato from thirty paces. I eased my foot into the hot water. Mrs. Harris glared pointedly at the muddy footprints leading from the door to the bench where I had taken off my wellies and dumped the dirty anorak.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ll clean it up,” I assured her.

  “Like hell you will. You stay where you are and keep your foot in that water,” Iain said as he noticed me trying to ease it out (his idea of warm and mine were not the same). “I’ll clean up the mud later.”

  Mrs. Harris made the feminine version of Iain’s tch . “You’ve work to be doing.

  I’ll clean the floor as soon as you’ve all left me in peace.” She glared at all of us as if we were collectively the one blot on her existence that kept her from being truly happy.

  “No, really, I don’t mind,” I protested, worried that I was off to a bad start with Iain’s help. I started to pull my foot out of the water. “I’ll just clean it up now before it dries.”

  “Stay where you are,” Iain growled, and added more hot water. I yelped and socked him on the arm. “Put your foot back in there, Kathie. I said I’d clean it up.”

  “Those who make the mess should clean it up,” Mrs. Harris sanctimoniously intoned to the wall. “But if your guest has lamed herself, I’d best do it. Likely the job won’t get done right unless I do.”

  “Really, I don’t mind—”

  “I said I’d clean the bleedin‘ mess up! Now, will you put your foot back in the water?”

  “It’s not your mess to be cleaning—” Mrs. Harris started to say.

  “No, truly, it’s not a problem. I can clean it up quickly—”

  “Fer Christ’s bluidy sake!” Iain bellowed. He took a deep breath.

  Bridget eased her hip against the table, pushing it just enough to make a slight noise as the table leg shifted on the floor. We all looked at her.

  “Well don’t look at me, I’m not cleaning it up!”

  “If there’s nothing else you’re wanting, Bridget, you can leave.” Iain kept his hand on my knee, forcing my foot underwater. I grimaced at the pain and smacked at his hand. Mrs. Harris harrumphed at such familiarity between a mere guest and the master, and pulled a pink houndstooth wraparound apron from her carrier bag.

  “Darling, I just stopped by to be neighborly to your friend .” She eyed Mrs.

  Harris for a moment, and then addressed me. “And of course, I wanted to see how things went last night with poor Katrina.”

  Oh, god, tell me she wasn’t going to do this. Not here. Not now. Not while Mrs. Harris was eating up every word. Then again, why was I surprised?

  Everyone
else who met me was privy to our most intimate details, why not the char, too?

  “Last night?” Iain narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her. I made a mental note to have a talk with him about giving her such an opening.

  “Yes, darling. In bed. You and Karrie. Whether or not…” She glanced over at a fascinated Mrs. Harris and dropped her voice to a stage whisper. “Whether or not she managed an orgasm. I thought I would see if she needed any advice, or suggestions, or had questions, or wanted the name of a good sex therapist.” Bridget brought me a new understanding of the word mortification . I was too horrified to do anything but sit there with my foot in a bucket of hot water and gaze at her with blossoming abhorrence. Questions? Advice? The name of a good sex therapist ?

  I was formulating a zinger about how she would know if a therapist was any good or not when Iain slowly straightened up from where he had been squatting. I couldn’t help but smile. She’d done it now—she’d pushed him too far. “Out, Bridget.”

  “But darling, I’m only trying to help.”

  “Out!” The man had a powerful voice when he unleashed it. My ears would be ringing for days.

  “You’re living in the Dark Ages, Iain. Everyone talks about this.”

  “Not in my house! I’m warnin‘ you for the last time, Bridget. I’ll not have you upsettin’ Kathie with your talk. Now, get yourself home!” She slid off the table with sinuous grace and reached for a down-filled jacket.

  “As you like, of course. But I do think you could both be a little more open-minded about this. How is Karmel ever going to overcome her frigidity if you can’t talk about it in a reasonable and mature fashion?” Iain looked like he wanted to punch something. I hoped it would be Bridget.

  She leaned past Iain and patted me on my shoulder. “If you need anything, dear, ring me up. I have only your best interests at heart.”