Bacon? Ham?
I reached over for the fried egg I had just placed on his plate and threw it at him. Bacon me, would he? Ham me when I was trying to discuss an issue of the gravest import!
The man had good reflexes. I don’t know how he saw the egg coming since he was in profile to me, relieving the refrigerator of its burden of bacon, but he did. He ducked, the egg flying past him to splat against the wall.
He watched it slide down the beige-and-white striped wallpaper trailing yolk and eggy debris, pursing his lips when it finally flopped with a nasty wet noise onto the floor.
“I take it you don’t want either bacon or ham, then?”
“ I don t give a damn about the bacon or ham, lam. I m about to be deported and all you can think about is what part of a pig you want to ingest? Is that it, Iain? I’ve got one foot out the door and all that’s worrying you is whether to go with bacon or ham? There isn’t anything else giving you a moment of thought?”
He considered me seriously for a moment, then said, “I think there’s a black pudding, if you’d prefer that.”
I threw the other egg at him.
Eventually, once the mess from the eggs was cleaned up, I managed to have a serious talk about the subject foremost in my mind. “I’m not kidding, Iain. I looked it up, I’ll have to leave. I can only stay for three months, then I have to leave the country, at least for a day.”
“Ah. I’m sure we’ll work something out. Were the eggs that you threw at me the last?”
“Yes. What do you mean we’ll work something out? What sort of something?” He shrugged. “I suppose I could go see if there are any eggs laid this morning.” I frowned at him, attempting to hide my hurt feelings behind a snarl. “I collected them already this morning. Those were the last of them. I’m sorry if the lack of eggs weighs more on your mind than the thought of me being torn from your arms in a couple of months, but life’s a bitch, eh?” I sat across the kitchen table from him and stared moodily at my breakfast. It looked about as appealing as a plate of manure. Self-pity swept me up in its salty, tearstained grip, singing a masochistic siren song about a dishy Scot who cared more for his stomach than the woman who loved him heart and soul.
Of course the eggs mattered more to him; I sniveled to myself. He needed eggs to eat. He didn’t need me. I was just a pleasant interlude, a change from the usual women who chased after him. I was just a quick tumble on the desk, and not a damn thing more. For all I mattered to him, I could probably walk out of the room that very minute and he’d never even notice.
I stood up and walked out of the room.
I waited in the sitting room. I waited some more. I kicked Iain’s chair. I frowned at his bookcases. I looked at the clock. Five minutes ? Bloody hell! I marched back into the kitchen.
“Excuse me, did you happen to notice that I’d left the room?” He looked up from his Sunday Post . “Aye, I did. Are you feeling poorly?”
“No, but you ‘re about to,” I muttered, then straightened my shoulders and glared at him. “Iain, as it’s evident that you don’t give a damn whether I’m here or not, I think perhaps I had better leave.”
That got his attention. He put his fork down slowly and frowned. “What are you bletherin‘ on about?”
“Cute words like blether aren’t going to cut any ice with me, mister,” I said firmly. One had to be firm with Iain, otherwise one’s knees would buckle at the sound of his voice rumbling around one. “I’m talking about the fact that you don’t care if I stay or go. I have told you how I feel”—well, OK, just the twice, and it shocked me as much as it did him—“but as you don’t… don’t seem to…
aw, hell, where’s the tissue?”
Iain stood up and handed me his napkin. I bawled into it. It was just too unfair, him meaning everything to me, and me not mattering to him as much as the weighty subject of whether to have bacon or ham for breakfast.
“You’re upset about something, love, but I’m not sure what it is. Are you going through PMS now?” He put his hands on my shoulders and gave a gentle “I sympathize with your PMS” sort of squeeze.
“Oh, yes, let’s bring intimate body functions into the conversation! This is not about PMS,” I wailed.
“Then what is it about?”
“Me leaving. You don’t want me here!” I had completely lost it at this point. It wouldn’t have surprised me to find myself in a big puddle on the floor.
“Teh, love, whatever gave you that daft idea?” He pulled me into a hug and rested his chin on top of my head while I sniffled into his shirt. I was somewhat mollified. He thought my leaving was a daft idea? It wasn’t the declaration of his undying love that I needed to hear, but it was better than indifference.
I pushed back far enough that I could look up at him. “Iain, I don’t have a choice. I’m going to have to leave come the middle of January.”
“Why?”
I would have hit him, except his lovely, warm, peaty brown eyes were full of concern. I started to puddle up again, but I was too upset over the issue of leaving to be annoyed with myself for crying once again.
“I’ve told you and told you! I’m only allowed to be here for three months.
And”—Oh, I really didn’t want to say this. But I had to. It was time to have this issue out in the open— “and because I have a home and a life elsewhere.” He just looked at me for a minute, and then pulled me back tight to his lovely warm chest. “No, love, you don’t. Now you’ve a life here, with me.” My tears soaked into his shirt as I smiled into his neck. That was it, that was what I had been waiting for.
“I love you, Iain,” I said, wrapping my arms tight around him. “I don’t ever want to leave you.”
His kisses said almost everything I wanted to hear.
A few days after that morning, Bridget decided we had had enough peace, and paid us a call.
“Katriona!” She looked surprised to find me at the house. I was more surprised to see her. I had hoped that after the last incident, she had taken Iain’s message to heart and had decided to leave us alone. “Still here, dear? Oh, no, don’t tell me darling Iain’s fired dear Mrs. Harris and you’ve taken to drudging for him?
Such a come down for you, falling from lover to char.” I shook out the tea towel and hung it up to dry. A good half dozen smart-ass responses were at the tip of my tongue, but I bit them back. It almost killed me, but now that I felt more secure with Iain, I supposed I wouldn’t actually die if I were polite to the woman.
“Drudging? No, I’m just making some scones for tea.” She looked at me, expectant. I looked back at her, obstinate. I may be polite, but I’d be damned if I invited her to tea. One tea with Bridget in a single lifetime was enough.
“David and Joanna are stopping by, so you might want to make whatever snarky comments you have to get off your chest and be on your way.” So much for my policy of politeness.
Her eyebrows rose as she seated herself, one elegant suede-clad leg crossed negligently over another. Not one to take hints, was our Bridget.
“How are things going in bed, dear?” She examined me head to toe as if the answer would be obvious. “Finally getting the hang of it, are you?”
“Bridget, I am not going to discuss anything with you so personal as my relationship with Iain. Either say whatever it is you came all this way to say, or please leave. I’m busy.”
“Dear, I’m afraid all this domesticity has gone to your head. I’ve called to see Iain, not you.”
My teeth started grinding of their own accord. She finished her examination of me, and turned her attention to her fingernails. I plopped the scone dough onto a floured board and did my best to ignore her.
“He’ll leave you, you know, in the end. He always does. Iain is not a man to be faithful to one woman for any length of time. Surely even you must be aware that a man of his desires is hard put to practice monogamy.” I ground my teeth harder and punched my fist into the dough. I took great pleasure in imagining it was Bridget’s neck my hands were squeez
ing. “In honor of Joanna and David’s visit, I think I’ll spruce up the scones a wee bit.”
“Has he told you about his other women? The ones he’s had recently? I can give you their names, if you’d like. Iain and I are extremely close. We have no secrets from each other.”
I added a handful of sultanas and worked them in. “Should I add some dates too or are the sultanas enough?”
“You can’t compete with me, you know, not as long as I am tied to his one abiding love. He loves his land more than he loves anyone, including his children.”
“No, I think the sultanas are enough.”
“So you see, it’s hopeless, your plan for Iain. You’ll never turn him away from me. You’ll never matter as much to him as this farm.” I shaped three mounds and cut them into fours.
“I know you listened to our private conversation about the land we own together, but if you expect to convince Iain against our plans, you are in for a disappointment. He won’t listen to you.”
I started guiltily. I had hoped to broach the subject of a slaughterhouse on Iain’s land despite the fact that it wasn’t any of my business, let alone that he hadn’t, as yet, sought my advice on the topic. Still, it wouldn’t do to let Bridget be privy to my thoughts.
“Avoiding the truth is going to do nothing but hurt you worse, Kelly. You should face up to reality, not try to ignore it.”
I dusted off my hands, put my finger to my lips and pretended to think aloud.
“Let’s see, the egg salad and chicken salad are made, scones are ready to be popped into the oven, and the kettle’s steaming. Yes, I think everything’s ready.”
Bridget tsked , and stood with a languid grace. “Such juvenile behavior is beneath you, dear, but as you insist on continuing it, I’ll wait outside for Iain.” Something sadistic and morbid within me had to know just what she was up to. Was it professional, business concerns that drove her to be so nasty to me, or was it a private, personal vendetta? At that moment I could make a case either way, but I had to know which it was.
“One thing, Bridget, before you go.”
She stopped at the door and looked back, eyebrows arched in a supercilious expression.
“Yes?”
“Do you really think you stand a chance with Iain?” She blinked at me, surprised by the question.
Sometimes I don’t know when to quit. “If he didn’t want to marry you any of the times you’ve asked him, what makes you think he’ll want you now that I’m here?”
She leaned forward and patted me on the cheek, and with that gesture I came as close as I’ve ever come to striking someone. “Ah, but sweet, how long will you be here? He’ll come back to me in the end. He always does. We have more in common than just sex, you see. We both have a love for this,” she turned and waved a hand toward the hills surrounding the farm. “And with Iain, land always comes first.” Well, I asked for it, didn’t I?
I was still fuming when Joanna and David arrived. I had no idea if Bridget was outside or if she had left. After her parting blow, she had sauntered outside and leaned on the hood of her car. I did my best to ignore her and whipped up a fruit salad to go with the tea. It wasn’t your standard British tea item, but I was not in the mood to debate traditional vs. nontraditional teas. Once that was done I sat down with a book and told myself I didn’t care one iota whether Bridget went and found Iain, or whether she was glued naked to the front of her car like a huge car ornament.
I didn’t read a single word.
“Kathie, it’s nice to see you again.” Joanna smiled warmly as she came in a short while later, giving me a little hug. She smelled like cinnamon and apples, and brightened my day considerably. “Oooh, that looks lovely. Let me help you.”
She handed me a pot of jam with the explanation that it was her own homemade berry blend, and then we rattled around the kitchen, laying out the plates and cups and saucers. We chatted about nothing in particular until she paused, and with a speculative glance at me, said, “I noticed Bridget’s car when we arrived. I assume she’s somewhere about?”
I reached for the coffee and my over-the-cup filter. I needed caffeine. Badly. “I have no idea where she is. She came in for a little bear-baiting earlier, but left shortly thereafter.”
Joanna’s lips twitched. “I assume you were the bear?” I tapped the tip of my nose and smiled ruefully. “Bridget doesn’t seem to like me very much.”
I expected her to agree and dish a little dirt with me, but she didn’t. She looked out the window for a few minutes, obviously gathering her thoughts.
Then she glanced at the door. “David went to fetch Dad.” She nibbled on her lower lip while I made myself a cup of coffee. “Would you like a cup of tea now, or would you rather wait?”
“Oh, now, please. I’m a little parched. It was the children’s story-hour day today, and the librarian who normally reads to them was gone, so I filled in for her.”
I handed her the tea, and we sat quiet for a minute, watching through the window as the bare trees moved restlessly in the wind. It looked to me like a storm was coming in.
“Er… Kathie… this isn’t any of my business, and you should tell me to mind my own if I’m offending you, but has Iain talked to you about Bridget?” Ah, now the dirt was coming. I settled back for a good gossip. “He’s told me a little. I know she asked him to marry her.”
Joanna nodded. “David mentioned that. Did Iain say anything else?” I thought for a moment. “Nooo, just that their involvement was finished several years ago.”
She nodded again and blew on her tea. “Bridget’s a widow, you know.” I didn’t know.
“She’s been widowed twice, as a matter of fact. Her first husband abused her terribly, or so she says. I don’t know for sure, but I can’t imagine she’d want to make something like that up.”
I withheld judgment on that point.
“Her second husband was much younger than her first. The farm she has now was part of his family’s land, and she took it over when he died. His family was very wealthy, one of old families in Edinburgh, you know? They were very high in their clan, very prominent. Well, anyway, when her husband died—I think he died in a bombing somewhere in Greece or Turkey—when he died, his family cut her off. She had nothing from her first husband, nothing from her family, and now nothing from her second husband.”
I didn’t like this. I didn’t like Joanna telling me this—it made Bridget human.
I struggled to push down a little bubble of sympathy that threatened to rise.
Joanna took a swallow of tea and with another quick glance out the window, continued in a fast, almost breathless voice.
“Iain could tell you what the husband’s family was like— they had a manager overseeing the land, but not running it properly. Iain and the others in the area offered to buy the farm and split it up, but the family wasn’t interested in money. Then suddenly Bridget appeared with a lawyer demanding that her husband’s property be turned over to her. He had a will, but it disappeared. No one, including the family’s solicitor, could find it. So his estate went into holding… what’s that called…”
“Probate?” The word popped out without my thinking. Joanna’s tale was making me very uncomfortable. I didn’t want to think of Bridget as a victim, or of Bridget as an innocent party. I preferred her snugly in the role she was in now, that of heartless predator after my man, the blood of the slaughterhouse victims dripping from her elegant hands.
“Yes, that’s it, how clever you are. Probate. Well, to make a long story short,” she laughed and made an apologetic moue, “the family cheated her out of what she had coming as her husband’s widow, and she ended up with only the farm.
I guess the family thought it was worth the least of all his property.” Snippets of conversations started to merge together in my head. Bridget asking Iain for help with the Farmers’ Union. Iain telling me she wanted him to help her with her farm, telling her to get a better manager. Bridget warning me that she and Iain had so
mething in common that went deeper than a physical relationship—their love of the land.
Oh, God.
I really didn’t like this. I didn’t like this feeling of pity I had for her. I tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter that a three hundred acre chunk of rock and valley was all she had. I tried to remind myself that she had hinted she would play as dirty as necessary to get what she wanted, and what she wanted was my Iain. I tried to summon up the picture of her hand on Iain’s arm, flexing her fingers familiarly against his biceps. I tried to rally a smidgen of contempt, but I just couldn’t. There was too much pity getting in the way.
I don’t wonder that I felt sympathy for Bridget; she wasn’t the man-eating monster I had first assumed, she was just a lonely, scared woman, holding on to what she had, fighting to keep her independence and that which mattered most to her—her farm.
No, I don’t wonder that I sympathized with her situation. I just wonder that I underestimated her passion so greatly.
Chapter Eight
Fate wasn’t through with tossing Bridget my way, not by a long shot, but it took a strange twist when a few days later I met Bridget’s closest friend, a small, round woman in her mid-forties with soft, curly brown hair, dancing eyes, and a pleasant smile. Her name was Annie Walker, and she and her husband Niall owned the farm that ran alongside Iain’s farm’s north border. I didn’t know that she was Bridget’s friend, though. Iain, who surely must have known that fact, didn’t tell me.
“Annie,” he said as we were on our way to the Walkers’ farm, “never has a bad word to say about anyone. You’ll like her, love, both her and Niall.”
“I’m sure I will,” I agreed, a bit nervous, regardless. This was the first time we’d gone somewhere together in a social couple status, the first time I was to meet Iain’s friends, and I was on tenterhooks. I wanted everything to go right this time, not turn into the debacle that comprised my meetings with his family. Accordingly, I reiterated with Iain how much I disliked the word girlfriend .
“You will please refrain from referring to me as either your girlfriend or lover,” I instructed him. “Or bird, or hen. Or, for that matter, not that I hope it would occur to you, as your old lady, or the ole ball and chain.” He swerved to avoid hitting something small and black. A stoat? Cat? Fox?
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