The room reverberated with nervous laughter.
“No. I want them now.”
Deydie squinted over at her broom, leaning against the wall. Did she mean to whack Rachel with it?
“Fine,” the old woman finally agreed.
Rachel nodded as if they’d shaken hands. “Thank you.” Without waiting for Deydie to tell her again, Rachel let the Christmas Tree unroll as she held it high in front of her. The room oohed and ahhed, and for Rachel, this was nearly the best part about quilting, second only to designing her own patterns.
Deydie took one end of the Christmas Tree and held it out for the room to see. It struck Rachel that she and Deydie had hit upon some common ground, which was something she’d never expected. Not in a million years.
Brodie crept back in her thoughts. Now if only she could convince Brodie that they should work together, too. Rachel wondered what bargaining tool she could use with him. It would take more than a Christmas Tree quilt. It would take luck and some serious persuasion on her part . . . and a miracle.
Deydie was talking to her.
“Excuse me?” Rachel said.
The old woman sighed exasperatedly. “I said ye’ll start first thing in the morn.”
“That doesn’t give me much time.”
“Then I suggest ye get busy figuring out yere lesson plan.”
Rachel hadn’t come to Scotland to teach quilting, though she’d taught quite a few people at the hotel how to sew. People she’d worked with, even a couple of men who wanted to learn to hem their own pants. But mostly, she’d taught a small group of her staff how to quilt so they could make gifts for the ones they loved. She also hadn’t come to Scotland to be bossed around. Or to see Brodie. Or for a second chance. But it looked like she was getting more than she imagined when she’d left Chicago.
She folded up the quilt as best she could and snatched the stack of tartans from the desk before Deydie could change her mind. But she didn’t get to rush out the door. Bethia and Sadie waylaid her at the exit. Not exactly waylaying, but giving her a notebook, a ruler, and plenty of encouragement that she would do fine when she began her quilt class in the morning. Deydie stood on the other side of the room.
“Don’t worry about her,” Sadie said. “Her bark is worse than her bite. She just doesn’t take to outsiders very easily.”
“Don’t I know it,” Rachel scoffed, remembering her last two visits to this town.
Bethia tilted her head toward Deydie. “She’s had a rough go. I think she’s remembering others who’ve left Gandiegow and never returned.”
The subtext was there . . . who left Gandiegow and never returned—alive. For a moment, Rachel relived walking up the bluff to the cemetery. The cold urn in her arms hadn’t been able to compete with the frosty treatment the villagers had shown her.
Bethia patted her hand, her touch seeming to coax Rachel to understand Deydie’s point of view. All their points of view. Rachel got it, and a sliver of comprehension seeped in to soothe her bruised feelings. Perhaps there was more to Deydie than glares and being crotchety. Perhaps there was a loving soul underneath all her thorny barbs.
Chapter Four
Brodie wasn’t the type to escape into the whisky, but the call to get stinking drunk was powerful right now. He stood at a crossroads—go to the pub and knock back a few so he could survive the night with Rachel in his house, or go home and help Grandda survive the evening with a little girl running about. A third option—disappearing again—was the most compelling, but Brodie wasn’t one to shirk his responsibilities, especially when it came to his grandfather. He headed home.
When he walked in, he heard Abraham coughing. He hurried into the parlor. Hannah was covering up the old man with a quilt Deydie had made for him. Brodie thought the quilt made up of boat blocks had been insensitive of the old quilter since Grandda could no longer fish, but Abraham always seemed comforted to have it near.
“I’ll get ye a cup of honey lemon tea,” Brodie said from the doorway.
The girl looked up and gave him a concerned nod, as if she were the old man’s matronly nurse. “That would be grand.” She climbed up next to Abraham and patted his arm.
The cough calmed. “Thank ye, lass.”
She leaned up against her grandda, and something in Brodie’s chest tugged uncomfortably. He shifted his gaze and left for the kitchen.
Once the kettle was on, he stared out the window. He’d have to talk to Doc MacGregor about what could be done for his grandfather, though he already knew the answer. He’d been under the care of the doctor for months. It didn’t help it was winter now, which was making his cough worse.
When the tea was ready, he fixed a tray and returned to the parlor. Abraham had dozed off. Quietly, Brodie set the tray on the side table beside the old man, remembering to leave the vial there from Bethia as well. He didn’t make eye contact with the little girl, but took the wing chair across from them.
Hannah slipped off the couch, grabbed her guzzy from the coffee table, and boldly came across the room to him. Without his permission, she scrambled into his lap and stuck a thumb in her mouth. Brodie didn’t know what to do. He sat there like a wooden chair. She snuggled in deeper. He glanced down at her face and saw she’d closed her eyes. Finally he wrapped one arm around her . . . to make sure she didn’t fall off his lap.
A million thoughts zoomed through his mind. Why was this little girl acting this way with him? And was she always so trusting of strangers? He’d have to talk to Rachel about this, but the prospect of talking to her about anything seemed unlikely. He didn’t trust himself when it came to her—Rachel set his blood to boiling for what she’d done to him in the past, and at the same time, he wanted to know why she was wearing his locket. Frankly, he was afraid of what the answer might be. He had to remain strong. Fight off this urge to be near her and find out the inner workings of the woman she’d become.
He looked over at his grandda, wondering if Abraham would sleep long. He glanced down again at the little girl . . . Hannah. She was a gentle little thing. Rachel must’ve babied her and someone should toughen her up. Maybe Brodie should take her fishing in the summer. His chest felt tight, more uncomfortable than before at the realization Hannah wouldn’t be here long. Besides, he shouldn’t be the one to teach her how to fish. That was a father’s job. It should be Joe here holding his daughter, not him.
The front door opened.
“I’m back,” Rachel said, and the child stirred awake.
Instinctively, he slipped the girl from his lap, nearly dumping the lass on the floor. He couldn’t let Rachel find him holding her daughter.
“Mommy?” She found her feet and ran for the doorway the minute Rachel appeared. “Guzzy took a nap.” She peered back at Brodie, smiling. “Only a wee one.”
The child was quick; he’d have to hand it to her. She’d picked up on the word from Abraham and said it with just the right lilt.
“It’s good ye’re back,” Brodie said quietly, but firmly. He got to his feet. Rachel watched his every move, her eyes traveling up the length of him. He tried to ignore her, and at the same time, he needed to deliver his message concisely and clearly. “I’ve things to do. Babysitting isn’t one of them.” He moved toward the doorway.
“Thank you for watching Hannah,” Rachel said, just as quietly.
“And guzzy,” the child added.
Rachel stepped in his path. “From now on, I’ll make sure to take her wherever I go.”
“Nay,” Abraham said with a scratchy voice, his eyes still closed. “The wee bit is no trouble.”
Brodie was a little taken aback. Had his grandfather been awake the whole time?
“Go on now, lad, and check the boat,” Grandda ordered, pinning him with rheumy eyes. “The lasses and I have things to discuss.”
The words stopped Brodie in his tracks. But he left the hous
e anyway, wondering, What is the old man up to?
* * *
Thirty minutes later, sitting across from Abraham, Rachel still clutched Deydie’s plaid scraps, frustrated with Hannah’s great-grandfather. No amount of argument would dissuade him from his tack. But she had to convince him that what he proposed was wrong. Very wrong. She moved over to where he sat while Hannah wrapped her guzzy around the doll Glenna had gifted her. Rachel laid a hand on the old man’s arm. “I promise we’re fine. Better than fine.” She lowered her voice. “The life insurance was substantial.” Though she hadn’t touched it in the three years since Joe’s death.
“It’s the right thing to do,” Abraham said. “When I leave this mortal coil, half the fishing business will go to Hannah. End of story.”
Rachel shook her head. Not only because she disapproved of what he was trying to do, but she could only imagine how Brodie would take the news. “If you’re going to be stubborn”—she could be hard-nosed, too—“then you’ll just have to live forever.”
The old man laughed heartily, but then she regretted her jab when his merriment turned into a coughing fit. She grabbed Bethia’s vial from the side table, opened it, and put it into his hand. “Here. Sniff this. It should help.”
After a while, he calmed down. Hannah retrieved his water cup, spilling only a little in the process as she handed it to her great-grandfather. As Rachel wiped the dribble from the hardwood floor, she thought about Brodie and how she would broach the subject of the fishing business with him. If anyone could convince Abraham to rethink his asinine plan, Brodie could. Hannah owning half the fishing business while Brodie did all the work was wrong.
Speaking with Brodie about picking up where the two of them had left off six years ago would have to wait. Abraham’s bombshell took precedence. Best to clear that up first.
In the past, Rachel would do anything to avoid confrontation and difficult conversations, but there was something about Scotland that had her feeling more capable and confident. As soon as she could get Hannah into bed, she’d find Brodie, and at least this one thing, they’d get settled between them.
And maybe while they did, she could further her cause and let him know she still cared for him.
The front door opened and slammed shut. Brodie appeared in the parlor doorway. He took in the scene.
“What’s wrong?” he asked her.
“I’m off to bed,” Abraham said, coughing as if emphasizing his sudden need to lie down.
Rachel didn’t believe it for a second because it didn’t sound like the genuine fit of earlier. “Are you afraid he’ll talk some sense into you?” she said to the old man as he passed.
He kept walking, but he did respond, firmly, but not unkindly. “Mind yere elders. Ye’re in Scotland now and ye can’t sass whenever ye like.” He disappeared.
Rachel was left alone with Brodie and Hannah.
“Can I have a snack?” Her daughter had great timing. Hiding out in the kitchen would be good, for Brodie was sure to yell the cottage roof off when he learned what his grandfather intended for the business.
“Biscuits are on the table,” Brodie said.
Hannah frowned at him.
“Cookies,” Rachel provided.
Hannah took her doll and headed from the room.
Rachel placed her tartan scraps on the side table and then moved closer to Brodie, gathering her thoughts—possibly courage—and not meeting his eyes.
“Out with it,” he said. “What’s troubling ye?”
She turned around slowly, choosing her words one at a time. “Has your grandfather spoken with you about the future? What he has in mind?”
Brodie frowned. “Concerning?”
Rachel was getting used to that frown. “Concerning the fishing business. After he’s gone.”
“What about it?” His mouth transformed into a hard straight line, as if bracing himself to hear a bad weather report.
Rachel sat, crossed her legs, trying to look relaxed. “He thinks Hannah, being Joe’s daughter, should get half the fishing business when he passes on.” There. She’d spit it out.
Brodie’s body expanded, or at least that’s what it felt like. He was red in the face, too. Scots were known for their tempers, and she wished he would remember there was a little girl in the other room before he exploded. He turned, giving her his back, and was silent for a long moment. Finally, he spoke. “Aye. It’s only right the lass gets half.”
“What?” Rachel shouted. “You agree with him?”
“It’s her birthright,” Brodie said.
“You Scots are all nuts. Hannah needs half of a fishing business as much as she needs a Ferrari and an e-cigarette factory.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Well, I’m Hannah’s mother, and I say she can’t have it.”
Brodie raised an eyebrow as if she was the one who was cracked instead of him and Abraham.
“We don’t need your money,” she said. “I do fine on my own.”
“This has nothing to do with money,” he said. “Weren’t ye listening? It’s what is right to do. Joe is gone. Hannah will get his half.”
“But it’s wrong.” Rachel looked Brodie over, from one bulging muscle to the other. “You’re the one doing all the work.” She didn’t need to say it; it was glaringly apparent.
Hannah wandered back into the room with a cookie in each hand and crumbs around her mouth.
“How many did you have?” Rachel asked.
Hannah shoved another cookie in her full mouth as if to get rid of the evidence.
“Where’s your doll?”
Hannah smiled and more cookie crumbs fell out. “Left her in the kitchen. She likes these cookies.”
“You need a bath,” Rachel said.
He cleared his throat. “Towels are in the linen closet.”
Rachel scooped up Hannah and glanced back at him. “We’re not done talking.”
He gave her that eyebrow-raising thing again, which said, I think we are.
“Not by a long shot.” She took Hannah up the stairs with every intent of picking up where she left off when her daughter was in bed. But after a good scrubbing, retrieving dolly from downstairs, and reading a story, Brodie was gone. Either he’d left the house or was hiding behind his closed bedroom door.
Chicken. She wanted to tell him why she was wearing the locket. But actually, she felt a little relieved not to have to do it yet. It was one thing for her to be hell-bent on having a future with Brodie, but it was quite another to blurt it out and take him off guard. He might reject her outright just from the shock of it. Wearing his locket was the perfect subtle hint that they belonged together. It was best if he had time to adjust to the idea first before they had their heart-to-heart talk.
She went to the whisky cabinet and made herself at home by taking down a tumbler and pulling out the Glenfiddich. She wasn’t tired in the least—jet lag—but knew if she didn’t get some sleep that teaching at Quilting Central in the morning was going to be tough. Also, she’d need all her strength to deal with Deydie, who was sure to critique her every move.
“Want to make me one, too?”
She jumped at the rumble of Brodie’s baritone.
“It’s not polite to sneak up on people.”
He gave her a look that said he wanted to remind her of the impolite things she’d done to him. “How long are ye staying?” It sounded more like, When are ye leaving?
Rachel wasn’t one for taking a vacation. She’d accrued an enormous amount of time off. Before leaving Winderly Towers, she’d handed over the reins to the capable assistant manager, and had left her return date open-ended. She’d guessed she’d stay a week or two. But now, standing here with Brodie in front of her, she wanted to answer him with, I’m staying for as long as it takes.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly.<
br />
His eyes dropped to her chest, where subconsciously she had been rubbing the locket between her fingers.
It would’ve been the perfect time to bring up how she hated the way she’d left things between them six years ago. But she needed that drink first. More air in her lungs, too.
She took down another tumbler, poured in a bit of whisky in both, and a splash of water. She quit biting her lip before she turned and gave him his glass.
“What should we drink to?” she asked bravely.
He gave her a hard stare. “How about to winding up yere business here quickly and to ye going home?” He didn’t wait to clink glasses, but knocked his drink back as he walked from the room.
* * *
Brodie set his glass in the sink, turned on the faucet, and didn’t realize he’d let the water run so long until his fingers were nearly scalded. How was he going to survive Rachel’s visit in Gandiegow? Hell, how was he going to survive the night?
He washed the tumbler and set it in the drainer to dry. He wanted to go to the pub and knock back a few more, but he had an early morning ahead and Tuck on the boat to contend with as well. As long as Tuck did his job and didn’t want to talk about Rachel, they would get along fine.
Brodie had to pass the parlor on his way to the stairs. He wouldn’t let himself look in to see if Rachel was still drinking alone or if she’d gone up already. He was grateful the little girl was in the cottage. Having Joe’s daughter here was a great deterrent, keeping Brodie from checking in on Rachel and tucking her into her bed. Or tucking her into mine.
Brodie trudged up the steps, thinking it might be a long sleepless night. At the top, he didn’t expect the bathroom door to open and for Rachel to run into him.
“Oh!” She pushed away from his chest, but he caught her arms to keep her from stumbling.
Oh hell. She smelled great. Woman and soap. Her scrubbed face had been washed of the makeup she wore. She looked young. Enticing. All it would take was one pull on the tie of her robe to reveal what she had on underneath. In her hand, she held a small case. On her feet she wore fuzzy slippers, and he could see the bottom hem of her flannel pajamas—sheep lining the cuffs. The pajamas shouldn’t have looked sexy to his crazy eyes, but they were.
It Happened in Scotland Page 6