Men in Kilts

by Katie MacAlister

  “They’re dogs,” I reasoned, and grabbing Rob by his collar, put him into position on his blanket. I gave him the command to lie down. He just smiled at me, his head cocked to one side, his tail wagging slightly at the game I was playing with him. “Dogs can be both pets and working animals. Lie down, Rob, lie down.”

  Rob continued to look at me, expectant, waiting to see what this game entailed. I tried forcing him into a down, but he stiffened his legs and resisted my efforts.

  “Why won’t he lie down? I’m giving him the command you use.” Iain folded his arms across his chest. He wasn’t going to help me.

  “Well, don’t tell me I’m going to have to use your blasted whistle! I’ll never learn the whistle for down.”

  Iain smiled.

  “Rob, you darling dog, wouldn’t you rather lie here nice and toasty in the kitchen than out in the cold, damp barn?”

  Rob offered me his paw. Iain smirked and leaned against the wall. Biorsadh leaned against Iain.

  “Roy, you handsome thing, you! Come over here and let’s get you settled by your brother. He’ll be soooo jealous once he sees how comfy you are!” Roy backed off, growling. Iain snapped a command at him that stopped him in his tracks.

  “Fine, Roy, be that way. Biorsadh, my friend! Come and see what a lovely blankie I have for you!”

  Biorsadh wouldn’t even look me in the eye. I glared at Iain.

  “I told you, love, they’ll be happier in the barn.” When I staggered out of bed to check on them the following morning, all three were curled up on the blankets. I smiled smugly at Iain, and went about putting the kettle on and getting the dogs’ breakfast ready. I thought my point had been made, but alas, there were still lessons to be learned.

  Lest anyone think that I had pushed back my plan to wring an admission of love—not to mention a marriage proposal—out of Iain, I hasten to correct that false impression. It was still uppermost in my mind. I had dramatically changed my tactics at that point, however, and I had high hopes that my new plan would do the trick. Rather than shying away from mention of the L word, I took every opportunity to tell him how madly in love with him I was. My reasoning was that he might not have been told he was loved in the past, and therefore, he was hesitant about saying it himself. I made sure he knew just how I felt about him.

  “I love you,” I told him in the morning when we woke up.

  “I love you even more than I did a half hour ago,” I told him when he was brushing his teeth.

  “You’re so adorable when you eat a sandwich! I love you!” I told him at lunch.

  “Tea’s ready. Oh, and I love you,” I told him in the afternoon.

  “Mmm, this is great stew,” I told him one night. “I love it, but not as much as I love you!”

  I shouted it to him across the parks, I whispered it in his ears, I mumbled it against his lips, and I gasped it at moments when our bodies and souls merged into one. I admit I might have gone a little too far the day I marched into the bathroom and went into a three-minute soliloquy about my love for him while he was engaged in business of a personal nature, but still I felt it necessary to drive home the point that I didn’t just love him when he was seen at his best.

  I slathered the man in love, and waited for him to tell me he loved me in return.

  Chapter Nine

  As November rolled into December my new policy of making Iain feel he was the most loved man on the face of the earth was firmly in place. I carried out my plan accordingly, much, he told me later, to his pleasure. He never once complained that I was going a bit too far with my campaign to force him to declare his love for me. No, truthfully, he always looked pleased when I told him I loved him. He’d hug me and kiss me in response, then go back to whatever it was he was doing when I interrupted him.

  The days passed, and I worried more and more that my tactics were having no effect other than some exceptionally pleasant interludes. I fretted over whether I should ask him point-blank whether or not he loved me. I was sure he did, but I reasoned to myself that it was more important that he say the words on his own rather than having me drag them from him.

  I became obsessed with hearing him say the words.

  “Just three little words,” I muttered to myself one morning when I was folding laundry. “Just three simple words that I know he feels, so why can’t he say them?”

  I did everything I could to get Iain to say them, too.

  How’s the romance scheme going? Cait asked one morning in e-mail.

  Lousy, I responded. I have arranged for romantic dinners and even more romantic apres-dinner activities. I make sure to give him time to himself, so he will cherish our time together all that much more. I make silly, romantic gestures like tucking little notes into his mac pocket in the morning, where he would be sure to see them later in the day. I even started knitting him a sweater !

  Cait was impressed by my diligence. A sweater? Does he not realize how inept you are at needlecrafts? Does he not realize this is a declaration more meaningful than mere insubstantial words ?

  “I guess not,” I answered her question aloud, sighing. I had done everything I could; I let him know I loved him for more than just his lovely eyes, knee-melting voice, and exceptionally fine body. I told him I loved each of the parts that made him up individually as well as the sum total, and still he just kissed me and held me and made mad, passionate, wild bunny love to me. It was wonderful, but I still waited to be told that he loved me in return.

  Christmas was beginning to loom ahead, and we talked about having it at the farm, rather than going to Joanna and David’s flat, as Iain usually did. I was nervous enough about having Archie and Ewen (Iain’s brother, whom I had yet to meet) come for the holidays, but I was almost panicky at the thought of facing Archie without Iain’s acknowledgment that he loved me. Without that, I was just another tart in Archie’s eyes, not the woman his father loved. If only he would just… say… the… words!

  Sometimes you find that what you’ve been seeking isn’t really what you need.

  Two weeks before Christmas I pulled up the long drive that led to Iain’s house, and tried to figure out what I was going to say to him. I had been crying, and just the thought of facing him made me sick to my stomach.

  I had killed one of his cats, and I was surely going to rot in whatever hell was set aside for those people who were responsible for the deaths of innocent animals.

  I looked behind me at the two boxes on the backseat. One of them held Mouser, one of the barn cats, but the other was empty. It was Clara’s box, and she was dead. She died under anesthetic while on the operating table at the vet’s office where I had taken her to be spayed.

  Without Iain’s knowledge. Or permission. Or approval.

  When I first arrived at the farm, Clara had four seven-week-old kittens, and Mouser’s litter had just been given away. Both were barn cats, living in the barn, keeping the rodent population under control. Mouser was a lovely marmalade-colored cat with part of one ear missing, while Clara was a neat gray-and-white with four white paws. They were both friendly cats, coming up for treats or pets, winding themselves around your legs in that lovely way cats have.

  I asked Iain what he did with their kittens.

  “Give them away,” he said in a garbled voice, trying to speak around the hindrance of a cat’s tail in his mouth. Clara loved Iain. She’d come running whenever she heard him in the bam, following him around like one of the dogs.

  She’d talk to him and pat at his legs until he would sling her up onto his shoulders, where she’d ride around on him as he mixed grain, fed the goat, gathered eggs, and so on.

  “Give them away to whom? Are they good homes? Did you check the people out? I hope you made them pay something so you don’t get any of those research people who just want free lab animals.”

  “Most of them went to Brannock. Foxes took his barn cats, and he was looking for a few good mousers.” Iain batted Clara’s tail out of his face, but she just flicked it bac
k across his upper lip. It was a game they played.

  “Oh, yes, that’s a good home,” I said sourly. “And when the foxes take this batch, you’ll just fire Mouser up again and have her kick out a new lot of kittens, is that it?”

  By that point in time, Iain knew how I felt about animals, so he didn’t try to argue with me. We had two different viewpoints, and he was wise enough to know it would take time to find common ground on the subject.

  I had been raised to be responsible for my animals, always having them spayed or neutered unless there was a particular reason for breeding them. Rob and Laura Petrie, my zebra finches, were the exception to this, but that’s only because my vet turned down the chance to practice her sterilization arts on the birds. So I was naturally outraged by Iain’s cavalier attitude about the reproductive habits of his barn cats. I decided that they both should be spayed, and after finding out how long I needed to wait before it was safe for Clara to undergo the procedure, I arranged for their surgery.

  I am the first person to admit that I should have consulted Iain about this, but I was still suffering the trauma of having to find good homes for Clara’s remaining three kittens (one died shortly after I arrived). I didn’t want to go through that nightmare again, so I packed up the cats one Monday morning, and drove them off to the vet.

  They called six hours later with the news that Clara had died during the surgery and that Mouser would be ready to go home that afternoon.

  I would have confessed my sins right then and there if Iain had been within hailing distance, but he was out in the Land Rover with Mark, checking the fences on the farthest part of the farm. So I cried and chewed on my nails and made a nuisance of myself to Mrs. Harris. She gave me an I told you so lecture about people who meddle in the affairs of others, and left me to my misery.

  I brought Mouser home and shut her into the downstairs bathroom with a bowl of water, a litter pan, and a hot water bottle covered with a blanket. She was still a little groggy and seemed happy to lie there and sleep. I avoided meeting her eyes (She knew! She knew I had killed her best friend Clara!), and went off to wait for Iain to return to the barn.

  It was raining a nasty, cold, sleety type of rain, the sort of rain that makes a sound just like the Gaelic word for wet— fliuch . I stood around in the barn, huddled in my anorak, telling Mabel the goat my sins. When I heard the Land Rover outside, I girded my loins and tightened my belt, and went out to confess.

  I noticed two things right off the bat: it was a raining even harder, and Iain was in a foul mood. He had the body of a dead ewe in the back of his Rover.

  “What happened?” I asked, huddled under the dripping eave of the barn.

  “I don’t know,” he answered, grim-faced and scowling. I knew the ever-present worry of disease was uppermost in his mind. He pulled a tarp over to the Rover, rain running in a steady stream off his hat. “There’s a section offence down near the stream.”

  “Oh. That’s not good, is it? Can you fix it?”

  He granted a no and opened up the back of the Rover. “‘Twill need more fencing than I’ve available, but I’ll have to do what I can with that lot until I can pick up more.”

  Mark came around the side of the car, his hand swathed in a bloody piece of cloth.

  “What happened to you?”

  Mark grimaced. “Cut my hand while we were shoring up the fence so the ewes wouldn’t go through it.”

  “Oh, geez, I’m sorry, Mark.”

  He ducked his head in acknowledgment.

  “Then the bluidy Rover mired three times coming home,” Iain granted as he and Mark heaved the dead ewe onto the tarp. “I’m thinking I punctured the oil pan on the way here, but that’ll have to wait as well.” I watched them with dismay as they covered up the ewe and dragged her over to the barn. This was obviously not the most opportune time to tell him that his favorite cat was dead.

  Mark and Foster went off to their cottage at the south end of Iain’s property. I stood in the rain wringing my hands and watching Iain toss fencing supplies into the back of the Rover as he swore to himself. The third time he turned around to find me lurking directly behind him, he snarled at me in an exasperated tone, “What is it you want, woman?”

  “I need to talk to you,” I wailed.

  “Then talk, but do it out over there, out of my way.” He grabbed another chunk of fencing and hauled it over to the Rover.

  I wiped the rain out of my eyes. My hands were shaking with cold and nerves, but I figured I’d best get it over with. “Iain, I know we didn’t talk about this, but I took your cats in to the vet today.”

  He pulled his hat off, wiped his face, and replacing the hat, asked, “Why would you be doing that? Were they hurt?”

  “No, I took them in to be spayed.”

  He didn’t say anything, just gave me a long look and walked back over to the fencing and got another armload.

  Oh, god, I’d done it now. If he was pissed about me having them spayed, he’d be livid about Clara’s death. He’d never forgive me. I might as well just rip my heart out now and stomp it into the mud, because my life with him was over. I took a deep breath and tried to explain my reasoning.

  “Iain, it’s not right that they should have litter after litter of kittens. It’s not good for them, and it’s not responsible ownership.” He fetched two more loads of fencing before nodding at me. “Aye, you’re right.”

  I was? Oh, no, I wasn’t. The tears welled up again. I was surprised I had any left.

  “There’s more, Iain.” I waited until he was on a return trip empty-handed, and took a deep breath. “Clara died under the anesthetic. Dr. Bruner says it doesn’t happen often, and there’s no way of knowing beforehand, but she still felt very sorry that it happened and apologized. She’s going to do an autopsy to see if mere was something else wrong with Clara.”

  He didn’t say anything, just looked at me with those lovely brown eyes that had gone almost black in the rain, then turned back to the fencing.

  “Iain,” I grabbed his arm and stopped him. “I’m so sorry. I can’t begin to tell you how guilty I feel—if I hadn’t taken her in to be spayed, she’d be alive now.

  I know how much she meant to you, and I’m really, really sorry. I feel terrible about it, and I know nothing I can say will make you feel any better, but I want you to know how I feel…”

  He nodded, shrugged off my hand, and reached for another load of wire.

  “Iain, I know you’re angry with me. Please don’t feel like you can’t yell at me. I have it coming, God knows I do, and I think it would make you feel better if you did. I know it would make me feel a lot better.” He finished loading his supplies, slammed closed the Rover’s door, and started toward the barn. “It’s just a cat, Kathie, not the end of the world.” Just a cat? His Clara? I stared after him for a minute, stunned by what he said, then started yelling at his back. “Iain, dammit, I know you loved that cat. I know how much she loved you! Why can’t you just admit it? Why can’t you yell at me and be angry? Why can’t you, just once, say that you love something?

  I know you don’t want to admit your feelings about me, but you can bloody well admit that you loved that cat without a loss to your precious male dignity!” I was screaming the words at him, tears streaming down my face, rain soaking us both, but I honestly didn’t care. If he could be so cold and uncaring about the needless death of an animal I knew he adored, what did that bode for us?

  He turned around slowly. “What is it you are bletherin‘ on about now?” If I could just get him to admit he cared for Clara, I’d know it would be all right between us. “Clara—”

  Two long steps and he was directly in front of me, scowling something fierce beneath the brim of his brown hat. “This isn’t about Clara, love. What’s this about me not wanting to admit my feelings for you?” I goggled at him. He looked so indignant. How could he look so indignant when he was the one who suppressed his emotions? I sniffled. “You don’t. You know you don’t. I tell yo
u I love you every day, and you’ve never… once…

  said… it.”

  “I bleedin‘ well have!” Iain wasn’t indignant anymore, he was furious.

  I goggled at him even more. “You have not! When have you ever told me you love me?”

  “I tell you every damn day!”

  I continued to stare at him, the rain running down my forehead into my eyes, my mind turned to treacle. He told me he loved me every day? Had I missed something? Did he whisper it when I was asleep?

  “When do you tell me? Iain, you’ve never once said—” He grabbed my arms and gave me a little shake. “Are you daft, woman? I tell you every morning when we wake up. I tell you at night when we cuddle up reading together. I tell you every time I love you. I tell you every time I kiss you, you daft hen !”

  The world stopped spinning. It slowly ground to a halt, and sat waiting, breathlessly, for something profound to sink into my thick head. Standing there in the mud, rain pouring down over us, it suddenly, unexpectedly, finally became clear.

  Iain had told me he loved me. He had been telling me he loved me in everything he did, every look, every touch, every action, only I was too caught up in my own image of the perfect man to see it. Why was I waiting for mere words to be uttered when everything he did proclaimed a thousand times over that he loved me?

  I didn’t think it was possible, but I cried even harder. I had killed his cat and completely misread the depth of his character, but still he had the patience, and love , to stand there and explain it all to me and not strangle me as I deserved.

  I threw myself in his wet arms and kissed his adorable rain-soaked face. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m the stupidest woman alive, but oh, Iain, I do love you more than anything in the world.”

  He waited until I took his handkerchief and blew my nose before giving me a swift kiss, then headed out to fix the fence. I watched him drive off, sending fervent thanks that I’d found him.