Men in Kilts

by Katie MacAlister

  Some important Scottish holiday?

  He reached for it, then handed it to me. “Take a keek. Do you see anything missing from the last few months?”

  “I’m not in the mood to play a guessing game with you, Iain. I’m ill.”

  “No, love, I don’t think you are ill. Not really.”

  I stared at him. Had he missed the many recent sessions when I had dragged my flu-riddled self in to pray to the porcelain god? Fine. He wanted to play games, I’d play his little game. “What exactly am I looking for?”

  “Something that’s missing.”

  I looked at the calendar again, flipping back a few months. Appointments, farm notations, MMV, reminders to buy things or pick things up, notes to call people back. Everything was fine.

  “What?”

  “Now look at the last two months.”

  I rolled my eyes, but did as he asked. It had the usual collection of appointments, dinners with friends, notations of when I had called my agent.

  Typical stuff.

  “And I’m supposed to see… ?”

  “Compare the two, love. What’s missing in the last two months?” I flipped back and forth, getting a little annoyed. I have never been good at the

  “spot the differences” type of puzzles. Suddenly a cold sweat started at my scalp and washed downward, flickering little chills down my spine, making goose bumps stand up on my arms. I flipped back to June and July. There they were—MMV. I looked at August. No MMV. September—no MMV. My palms started to sweat. I wracked my memory. Wasn’t it during the last week of July that I had gloated to Iain in the garden that he was in my complete power?

  The same evening that balmy summer winds (unusual in the Highlands, even in July) made us both more than a bit romantically inclined as we lay on a soft woolen MacLaren plaid blanket, staring up at the stars? Wasn’t it on that evening we, acting on the spur of the moment, had thrown caution to the wind and…

  “Aaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhh!”

  There was no notation on the last two months. It wasn’t penciled in, it wasn’t scribbled on the margin, it wasn’t stuck on with a sticky note. Two solid months without the least little mention of Mister Monthly Visitor .

  Iain wrapped his arm around me and pulled me back to the warmth of his chest. “Ah, love, you’re going to make a fine mother despite being on the threshold of your twilight years.”

  We celebrated that night, celebrated the news that simultaneously scared the dickens out of me, and filled me with a strange anticipation. I hadn’t ever thought I’d want children, but seeing how Iain doted upon Baby Amy did a lot to change my mind.

  So that evening we celebrated. In a manner of speaking. I was sure Iain was feeling a bit concerned about starting a second family at his age, and I wanted to prove to him that although he might be older than many expectant fathers, he was in perfect shape physically, emotionally, and mentally. I particularly wanted to emphasize his physical perfection and stamina. I figured mere was only one way to really prove that.

  “Now, let me see… have we done this one, I wonder?” Iain, lying on his belly in front of the fire, moaned an answer. I studied the book. “It says you’re supposed to communicate with me in a verbal or nonverbal fashion to indicate whether you want the stimulation increased, decreased, or stopped. Don’t forget to do that, now.” I picked up a feather. “So, we were go on the feather, yes?” He moaned gently into the blanket I had laid in front of the fire.

  “Yes. And the faux fur just got sticky on the massage oil, correct?” I slid down from where I was sitting on his behind until I was perched on his calves, and applied the faux fur. Iain moaned again.

  “Right. No go on the faux fur.” I consulted the book again. “Use gliding, fluid strokes down your partner’s back, legs, and feet. Done that.” Iain groaned. I snatched back the feather I was tapping on him.

  “Oh, sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean to tickle you just there. Um… I think you are supposed to turn over now so I can do your front side.” He groaned louder and heaved himself up and over onto his back. I sat next to him, warming the bottle of massage oil between my hands. “Oh, look, Iain ! It says I get to tease your thighs!”

  Iain grabbed handfuls of blanket on either side of him as I loomed over him with my feather at the ready. “I’m thinking it’s your turn, love.”

  “No,” I said, abandoning the feather. There were just some things fingers did so much better. “The book says it’s very important to complete one massage before you start another. Something to do with not blocking the chakra or something. I skipped that part. Now, let’s see if I understand the instructions correctly…”

  “Aaaaaaaah!”

  “Yes, good, I believe you were supposed to do that. At least, the look on the man’s face in the book corresponds to the one you’re wearing now, so I assume that’s correct.”

  Iain muttered something in Gaelic.

  “You’ll be happy to know, sweetie, that I’m not supposed to tickle you. The book says that violates the premise of an erotic massage, and that it leads the massagee into distrust of the massager’s motives. I wouldn’t ever want you to distrust my motives. This is supposed to be highly pleasurable. You aren’t forgetting to communicate with me verbally or nonverbally, now are you, Iain?

  Because the book also says it’s very important that you’re supposed to give me a signal before blasting off for the moon. Iain? Are you all right?

  “Sweetie, the book doesn’t say you’re supposed to be panting at this point. I think it would tell me if you were supposed to. It tells everything else, even down to the look on the guy’s face. See?”

  “If you have any mercy, love, you’ll end this torment!” I removed the book from where I was showing him the illustration accompanying the particular massage stroke and consulted it once again.

  Hmmm. I flipped ahead a few pages. “Oh, yes, begging, here it is. That’s OK, you can beg. You’re just a bit ahead of me. Hang on a mo, and let me just catch up to where you are.”

  Iain’s eyes rolled back in his head while I caught up.

  “Did you know, sweetie—oh, you like that one, do you? Do you know that these massage strokes have names? This one is Climbing the Matterhom.” I paused for a moment at Iain’s reaction to Climbing the Matterhom. “I didn’t know you knew how to yodel. That was very good! I particularly like the high notes.”

  He grinned. Or tried to, it came out kind of a grimace.

  “You’re not forgetting to breathe, now are you? It says right here,” I tapped on the page as I held it in front of his face, but I don’t think he saw it. His eyes appeared to be crossed. “It says right here that you are to remember to breathe, and I’m to remind you if you stop. OK, now, the next page has… oh, my.” I looked at Iain. He rolled one eye over to look back at me. “Feeling fit tonight, are you, sweetie? Heart nice and strong? No history of strokes in your family?”

  “Oh, god, what is it? What horrible thing has that bluidy book wantin‘ you to do to my poor, helpless body?”

  I read the instructions and made a little moue of consideration. “I think it’s best if I just show you.”

  Iain grabbed even bigger handfuls of the blanket.

  “It’s got a curious name, though. This wouldn’t happen to be a Scottish holiday, would it? Like St. Andrew’s Day?” I started to reach for the book.

  “Love, if you stop, you’re going to kill me.”

  “Oh, sorry, I was just curious about this name. Here, I think I can do this one handed. Well, maybe if I just hold that with my chin. Look, this one here. Is that a holiday name?”

  I propped the book up on his heaving chest. He cracked one eye open to look at where I was pointing. “Aaaaaaaaaar-rrrrrrrr. Nooo.”

  “No it’s not the name of a Scottish holiday, or no you’re giving me a verbal communication?”

  “Uuuuurrrrrrr.”

  I looked at the book. It didn’t say anything about the massagee making an uuuurrring noise, although the guy in the pict
ure did have his face screwed up in a way that would indicate he could possibly be saying uuuuurrrrrr . I shrugged and went on to the next page.

  “Now, this one I think you’ll like. I believe from the name it has something to do with perpetual motion. Oh, yes, I can see you do like it. Who knew physics could be so fun, hmmm? Mercy, will you look at that! You’ve got amazing muscle control, Iain. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone do that before.” I flipped forward through the book. “Oh, wait, my mistake. You’re just ahead of me again. The guy here in this picture seems to be doing that as well, although he’s lacking your panache.”

  “Love.”

  “Yes, Iain?”

  “When I die, which is probably going to be in about two minutes if you continue doing that, be sure to tell our ween that I was sorry I couldn’t live long enough to see him born.”

  I frowned and looked back at the book. “I must not be doing this right. I don’t think you’re supposed to be able to speak coherently. Maybe if I add a little wrist action…”

  “Gaaaaaaaaarrrrr!”

  “Yes, that’s the response you’re supposed to have. OK, on to the next one.” I flipped to the following page. “Oh, looky! This one is named after a Beatles song! You’ll like this!” I started humming.

  I was right. He liked it. By the end of our session he was willing to admit that if he could survive my erotic massages and still retain all of his faculties, he would have no problem raising another child.

  A cold snap hit our area a few weeks later, but as long as it wasn’t raining, I wasn’t about to complain. I took full advantage of my new status as mother-in-waiting to loll around late in bed in the mornings, warm and comfy and full of happy thoughts of our future. One morning I tumbled out of bed a couple of hours later than normal, showered, dressed, grabbed a blueberry muffin, and headed off to make sure the chickens had been fed and their eggs collected.

  Iain had his battered old pickup truck out, the one he used to haul sheep around. He and Mark were setting up a ramp and some temporary panels to serve as a funnel into the back of the truck.

  “What are you guys doing?” I asked them, stuffing the last of the muffin in my mouth as Mark heaved another panel into place. He didn’t look at me. Iain’s jaw went a bit tight. The hairs on the back of my neck started to stand on end.

  I looked behind him into the holding paddock and saw it filled with lambs. I searched them, and sure enough, there she was, butting her head against an empty grain bucket. My heart congealed into a dense lump and dropped to my stomach.

  “No. Iain, you can’t do this. I won’t let you.”

  Iain put down the plank and nodded to Mark, then walked over to me and put his hands on my shoulders. I tried to twitch them off, but he clamped down hard.

  “Kathie, I’ve told you over and over again the lambs aren’t pets. I know this will be hard for you, so I think it’s best if you were to go up to the house.”

  “No, Iain, dammit, why not? Why can’t I keep Bathsheepa? Just give me one good reason why!”

  He wiped a tear off my cheek. “Because you won’t just have one, love. There’ll be more lambs next year, and more the following, and more each year after that. You’ll help them be born and you’ll warm them and you’ll feed them, but you can’t keep each one.”

  “I don’t want to keep each one, I just want to keep Bathsheepa!” I was wailing, but I didn’t care. Mark knew how much I loved Bathsheepa as much as Iain did. This was nothing new to him.

  “Ah, love, I know you. You’ve got the softest heart of any woman I’ve met, and that’s something you just can’t have if you expect to live on a farm. They’re just animals, not children.”

  “Bathsheepa is like a child to me!”

  “That’s what I mean, Kathie. You’re too attached. You’re not reasoning clearly—you’re thinking with your heart and not your head.” I couldn’t believe he could be so callous. How could he be so cruel and heartless? How could he not see this was breaking my heart? How could he be so damned logical ?

  “Iain, don’t do this to me. Please, Iain, I’ve never asked you for anything before, and I swear I won’t ask for anything else, but don’t take my little lamb from me!”

  He just looked into my teary eyes and shook his head.

  “My God, Iain, do I mean so little to you that you can’t bend just once? Does our baby mean so little?”

  “This isn’t about the baby, and it won’t be just once, love. You know that.”

  “Love?” I took a deep breath and said the words I never should have said.

  “Iain, if you love me, don’t do this.”

  His hands dropped to his side. He was quiet for almost a minute. “It’s because I love you that I’m doing it. If I didn’t, your heart would be broken each time a lamb died, each time a sheep had to be put down. I don’t want you to go through that every year. The sooner you learn that they’re not pets, the easier it will be for you.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, you don’t have a heart!” I was lashing out, and I knew it. I didn’t really mean what I said, but I couldn’t believe he was going to take Bathsheepa away from me. I couldn’t believe he could be so stubborn, so stupid about one little lamb. My lamb!

  “Aye, I have one, and it’s grieving for you just as you’re grieving for the lambs.” He took my hands in his and rubbed my knuckles with his thumbs.

  “Kathie, I’ve tried to make this easy on you by taking the decision away from you and letting you blame me for the consequences, but you’re not letting me, love. So I’ll leave it up to you. You can have your lambs, the whole bleedin‘

  paddock of them. But we’ll have to sell off the flocks and find some other way to make the farm pay for itself. We won’t be able to raise sheep anymore.” His eyes were sad, so very sad. It almost hurt me to look into them. Oh, I knew what he was saying. It made sense in my head; either you accepted all that went along with raising sheep—the long hours, the hard work, the joys and sorrows, and inevitably, sending some of the flock off to market each year—or you got out of the business. There was no halfway point for a working sheep farm. Either you did it fully, or you didn’t do it at all.

  And this was Iain’s way of life, the life he loved, the life he had wanted since he was seven and first visited the farm. There was no way I could take that away from him. Oh yes, I knew that with my head, but not my heart.

  “Just one lamb would make so much of a difference?” I asked, my lips quivering, tears still snaking down my face.

  He pulled me up to his chest and wrapped his arms around me. “Would it be just one lamb, love?”

  I rubbed my cheek on his shirt and thought about all of the lambs I had witnessed born. They had all become special favorites of mine, ones I had named and purposely hunted out to see how they were faring. Most were being kept as replacement stock for the lesser-producing ewes Iain would sell a few weeks later. But not Bathsheepa.

  I thought of lamb 6288 and how I held her for an hour while she died, and of how I grieved over her for weeks afterward. I thought of all my bottle-fed babies, Blinkin, Toast, Marshmallow, Growler, Turtledove, and all of the others, all of the lambs who would come and nuzzle my hand for the bottles, and who later would run up to me for a handful of oats or corn. They were all so very dear to me. I knew some of them were probably in that paddock with Bathsheepa, and my heart shattered a little bit more.

  “They’re… not… pets,” Iain whispered into my ear, and tightened his arms around me. I had heard those words hundreds of times over the spring and summer, but never really understood them until that moment. I sobbed into his chest when I finally realized that he was right. I wouldn’t be able to stop with just one lamb. Each one that I had to warm, each one that I held in my arms while I slipped a feeding tube down its throat would become more than just a lamb to me.

  They’d become my special lambs, my friends, and my woolly little babies. It almost killed me to admit it to myself, but Iain was right. I would adopt ev
ery lamb I could if he let me, and would make us both miserable by grieving over the ones he wouldn’t let me have. Standing there in the yard, holding onto him, my face buried in his shirt made wet by my tears, I finally admitted the fact that if I wanted to live in happiness, I’d have to learn the first rule of sheep farming.

  They are not pets.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I have determined that there are times when life, the fates, kismet, whatever you want to call it, sucks. Royally. First it knocks the wind out of you, and when you finally catch your breath again, it drops you to your knees.

  Just as I was sobbing on Iain, learning the painful lesson that trusting him when I thought it would break my heart was not easy, but was right, Bridget showed up.

  She hadn’t been to the farm for a few months, since before shearing when she came with a group of co-op farmers for a meeting. We had both given up trying to prove her guilt with regards to the sheep poisoning, and since she had made no other threatening gestures, we had slipped into the assumption that our worry was for naught, and she had really given up on punishing us.

  I clung to Iain for a minute, not wanting to face her, but I told myself that was the coward’s way out. And God only knew, if I could admit that I was wrong about keeping Bathsheepa, I was no coward. So I pushed myself back from Iain and wiped my runny nose with his handkerchief.

  Mark had disappeared at some point. There was just Bridget, Iain, and me in the yard. She stepped out of her car, cool and elegant as usual. She looked between the two of us and raised a delicately penciled eyebrow. “Trouble? Not more EAE?”

  “We’ve no infection, Bridget, we never did have. What is it you’re wanting?” Iain asked wearily, and crossed his arms over his chest. I know he’s not in a good mood when he does that, but evidently Bridget had never learned to read his body language.

  “Darling, so gruff! I’m simply here to lend my support to you and poor Kendra. I know we’ve had our little disagreements in the past, but that is all behind us now that we are such good friends. And friends stand by one another in their time of need.”