But as he set the tray on the coffee table, his heart went into his throat. Aye . . . she’d set up their tea by spreading out her guzzy on the floor. Her new ragdoll was propped up into a sitting position with the help of a few books from the shelf. Hannah sat on a pillow and had laid out a pillow for him as well. But it was the other person attending the tea that really had Brodie speechless.
Joe.
His cousin’s picture took the fourth spot at their make-believe table, the picture resting on its kickstand with clean-cut Joe overseeing the proceedings.
“Ye did dress up,” Hannah said, surprising him.
Brodie glanced down at his kilt. “It’s not a party dress like yereself, but it’s the best I could do.” He took his place like a proper gentleman.
“I like it. It’s a pretty skirt,” Hannah said innocently.
Brodie tsked her harshly. “Nay. ’Tis a kilt. Warrior’s attire.” He pounded his chest with one hand, right where the partridge was, but he softened his tone with an inkling of a grin, and added a wink so as not to scare the child.
Hannah nodded approvingly, but then turned her gaze to Joe’s picture. “Was my daddy a warrior, too?”
“Aye.” At one time when they were lads. “When we played clan wars, he would insist on being the Chieftain.”
“What’s a chieftain?”
“He’s the head of the clan.”
“And what part did ye play?” she asked.
“Whatever yere father told me to be. He was the older one.” By nineteen days. Joe had a way of always taking control, which had been fine as kids, but became a problem as they grew into men. Not just for Brodie. Others saw it, too. Joe always wanting his way, never having compassion toward others as he should’ve. Or empathy. It could’ve been what happened to him, or it could’ve been who he really was. As an adult, Joe had a smooth, hard outer shell. One of the reasons Brodie knew from the start that Rachel wasn’t right for his cousin. Joe needed someone who wanted the same things . . . wealth, status, shallow dreams. Rachel seemed to only want . . . love. The thought made Brodie’s chest hurt. Or maybe it was the truth.
In the end, Brodie found out he’d been wrong about her.
He motioned to the picture of Joe. “Do ye take the picture with ye wherever ye go?”
Hannah shrugged. “I’ve never been anywhere but here. Daddy sits right beside my bed in our hotel room. Mommy and I say a prayer for him every night that he’s happy in heaven.”
Brodie wasn’t exactly sure that was where Joe had gone. Which wasn’t the Christian thought he should have toward the dead, and his cousin ta boot. But Brodie knew more things about Joe than others did. On his stag night, Joe seemed pretty sober when he’d led the entertainment upstairs to the room over the pub and didn’t return for some time. Brodie wondered if infidelity kept you out of heaven or not.
“So yere mother,” Brodie broached carefully, “she loved ye da very much?”
Hannah took a sip of her tea. “Nay.”
Nay? Her Scottish burr was cute as hell, but Brodie was reeling from her answer.
“Mommy said she and Daddy didn’t live together.”
“Didn’t live together?” Brodie said incredulously. Was that an American thing?
“I was little and don’t remember, but Mommy says we lived at the hotel where we live now, and Daddy lived in his house.”
What a strange arrangement. But then again, Yanks did have their odd thinking.
“Mommy and Daddy were getting a divorce.”
An anchor fell on Brodie’s chest.
The girl reached over and laid a hand on his cheek. “It’s okay. Mommy said they both loved me very much. She talks about it all the time.” And then as if reciting, “Just because two parents can’t be married, doesn’t mean you weren’t loved. Even now in heaven, your daddy loves you very much.”
Brodie felt both strange relief and a little choked up. Rachel had kept Joe alive for their little girl. It was the most heroic thing he’d ever heard of—for Rachel to put aside any animosity she felt for Hannah’s sake. Brodie knew Joe and was sure there had been animosity. Plus, he’d seen what others had gone through. When the MacMurrays separated, they fought and put their kids in the middle. When they finally moved away with the two of them divorced, their family and their children had been ripped to shreds. Rachel, from Hannah’s account, was a saint compared to the dysfunctional MacMurrays, and Brodie’s opinion of her rose a little from the muck and mire he’d buried her in the last six years.
“Can ye pour Daddy a cup of tea? He looks thirsty.”
Brodie frowned at the lass, but did as she asked. Next, dolly needed a cup of tea and two biscuits, because she is extra hungry. He noticed the girl was helping Dolly knock off her snacks. For a moment, he worried he was letting the lass spoil her lunch, but what did he care. It was Rachel’s problem, and Deydie should take the blame.
Hannah corrected him repeatedly about how to hold his pinky, and regaled him with the adventures from the hotel. He started to relax and enjoy himself.
Brodie decided the girl wasn’t so bad after all. She was his cousin and he could like one of his relations without betraying himself. He could separate mother and daughter in his mind . . . because at the end of the day, he still didn’t give a rat’s ass about Hannah’s mother. But his resolve didn’t bring any comfort and he felt all alone in his turmoil. Surely no one else was as miserable as he was in his unforgiving heart.
Chapter Five
Grace Armstrong was miserable as she pushed a loaded wheelbarrow through Gandiegow, heading to Quilting Central. She couldn’t help glancing this way and that, hating herself for looking about like some lovesick seal, searching for her mate. She’d been in town a day, but had yet to see retired Reverend Casper MacGregor. She needed to stop being such a ninny. So they’d spent time together after Andrew and Moira’s wedding—talking and laughing—into the wee hours of the morning. That had been five months ago and she still couldn’t get him out of her mind. The fact that Casper had moved to Gandiegow to help with his grandchildren—Gabriel’s boy, Angus, and Dominic’s daughter, Nessa—had nothing to do with her deciding to move home. Without Glynnis to care for, Grace had no reason to stay in Glasgow. She was needed here to help with her own grandchildren, even though John and Maggie, her daughter-in-law, seemed to have things well in hand with Dand and baby Irene. Grace looked up at the steeple of the kirk. It was only coincidence that her decision to move home happened after Casper was already settled here.
She sighed. Really, she was too old and too wise to believe the time she’d spent with Casper had been magical. The wedding had played a trick on them, like weddings had a tendency to do. Besides, she was the fifty-eight-year-old widowed mother of three grown men—John, Ross, and Ramsay—all married, and settled.
She let her eyes fall on the things in the wheelbarrow—her sewing machine, her projects-in-progress, and a container of sewing notions. These things were enough. These things and her family. Her grandchildren and working at the Kilts and Quilts retreat would occupy her time. She had plenty to do without losing sleep and wasting precious hours worrying over a man.
This feeling will pass. She said these words so often to herself that they had become her mantra.
The door opened to the General Store. Adrenaline rushed through her system and she spun around fast enough to make a top dizzy. But it was only Dougal, the postie, coming out with his mailbag over his shoulder.
She felt utterly stupid for letting her feelings run rampant like some hormonal teenager. Rome wasn’t built in a day. A complicated quilt couldn’t be pieced together overnight either.
She put Quilting Central in her sights and steamed ahead without looking this way and that anymore. It would take time, but her little crush on Casper MacGregor would fade. He was just a novelty to her. A crazy fantasy playing tricks with her heart. She was
a strong Scottish woman, and she would get over Casper if it was the last thing she did.
* * *
Rachel nodded at Grace as she came through the door, but then turned back to Deydie, who was onstage welcoming the out-of-town quilters to the retreat.
She still couldn’t believe she’d let the old woman make her get rid of Hannah like that. She had enough guilt about her daughter growing up in daycare, and now, the first vacation she’d had since Hannah was born, and her poor daughter was once again thrust upon strangers.
But Abraham isn’t a stranger; he’s family. Rachel only wished she’d told Brodie to call when he dropped Hannah off.
Bethia joined Rachel. “The lass’ll be fine. Just fine.”
“Why wouldn’t Deydie let Hannah be here with me?” It seemed such a small thing.
Bethia patted her hand. “If I had to guess, it’s because yere daughter reminds her too much of Joe. Deydie didn’t take Joe’s death well. It was hard on her . . . still is. Did ye know she cared for him as an infant when his mother ran off? And she helped out with him as a lad, too. She was attached to that boy. We all were.”
Yes, it was a reason, but it stung that Hannah was not included but instead cast out.
“Give Deydie some time.” Bethia glanced across the room to where Moira gave her a half wave. “Excuse me. I have to speak with her for a moment.”
As she hurried off, two gray-headed twins, dressed in matching red and green plaid dresses, rushed over to Rachel, each with a brown sack in their arms. They kept glancing over their shoulder nervously in Deydie’s direction.
“I’m Ailsa,” the green plaid lady said.
“And I’m Aileen.”
Ailsa leaned in conspiratorially. “Sister and I have brought you a gift.”
“They’re extras. But ye can’t let Deydie know we gave them to you,” the red plaid twin said.
They shoved their sacks at her. Rachel started to peer inside, but Ailsa stilled her hand.
“Not here.”
Aileen shook her head, glancing around, more nervous than before. “Later. Look at them later.”
Ailsa grabbed her sister’s arm and they scurried off.
Rachel was more than curious, but she didn’t get a chance to take a peek.
“Rachel!” Deydie hollered from the stage. “Stop yabbering. Do ye need to use the copy machine to make the templates for that tree?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“Hurry it up then. Be sure to make a test copy. Ye never know with copiers if the size will be correct. It’s always better to measure twice,” Deydie said to the room. All the women nodded.
Rachel retrieved the template for her Christmas Tree quilt, the one she’d traced last night. When she saw the color copier, she was struck with an idea of what to get Abraham for Christmas. She’d print out the family picture they’d taken together and have it framed. He would love it. But Rachel might have to make another deal with the devil . . . or his closest relative in Gandiegow—Deydie. The old woman was scowling at her from the front.
Moira joined her, sheepishly handing over a list. “Fourteen quilters would like to work on the Christmas Tree quilt. You might make twenty templates, though. Once the Christmas Tree blocks go up on the design walls, others are bound to want to make one, too.”
Rachel printed out the first template. Moira handed her a ruler to make sure it measured correctly.
“I’ve got a question.” Christmas was only a few days away. “Who should I ask if I want to use the copier to make a photo for Abraham?”
Moira smiled. “Help yereself. Cait said we should all consider the equipment as our own. Deydie is certainly putting ye to work for it.”
“Thanks.”
Rachel ran off the next nineteen. Just in time, too. Deydie was ready for her to take the stage.
Rachel spent the morning showing the quilters how to make the star at the top of the tree, using half-square triangles. She also admired the UFOs the others had brought with them. Most were complicated patterns from kits, though many of the Gandiegow women were designing and sewing their own quilts, too.
At one point, Deydie ordered Rachel off the stage so she could make announcements about the rest of the day. Rachel took the opportunity to grab her coat, the two sacks from the matronly twins, and slip out the door. She needed to check on her daughter, no matter what Deydie said.
Outside, the storm had kicked into high gear. She held the bags close, hoping whatever was in the sacks could withstand getting wet. To be safe from the crashing waves, she took the path behind the houses instead of the more direct walkway.
When she arrived at the cottage, she quietly let herself indoors, and slipped out of her wet overcoat. She peeked inside the first bag and was shocked to see tartan scraps neatly arranged in a stack. She looked in the other bag and found more plaid fabric. The gift was thoughtful. But what was Rachel going to do with these scraps?
She snuck down the hall to spy on Hannah and Abraham; the two of them had already formed a special bond. But when she peered into the parlor, she didn’t see the elderly man in his chair or on the sofa. What she did find was so unexpected and surreal that she stopped breathing.
Hannah was chattering away about her daddy and her dolly. Brodie sat on the floor next to her little girl, a full participant in the crazy tea party. He was listening intently with a smile on his face while sipping from a very feminine teacup with his pinky raised in the air. But there was nothing feminine about him, quite the opposite. The scene only accentuated his masculinity to the point of making Rachel’s heart turn gooey. God help her, she was a mess over him. What woman wouldn’t fall for a man who was being so good to her daughter?
She started to step away, go back down the hall to let her presence be known, but her eyes fell on the barrette clipped in Brodie’s long hair. Her heart squeezed and twisted and she must’ve sighed or done something to draw his attention, because he spun around and saw her.
He set his cup down and pulled the clip from his hair. “Party’s over. Yere mum’s home.”
Hannah jumped up and ran to her, hugging her, and talking a mile a minute.
“Dolly and Daddy had tea with us, too. Brodie tried to be a warrior, but I told him only gentlemen can come to tea parties. He let me fix his hair and I taught him how to drink tea properly.”
Brodie stood, giving Rachel a full view of his outfit. His tight T-shirt. His kilt. His muscular legs. The sight of him set off a series of hot sensations pulsing throughout some very personal places on her body. She thought about stepping back outside to cool off in the winter storm.
“I’ll be going.” He walked from the room, but stopped in the doorway, his expression serious. “But you and I need to talk.”
“Wait a minute,” Rachel said. “Where’s Abraham?”
“Hospital.”
“What? Is he all right?”
“Aye. Just an X-ray.” But a worried expression crossed his hard face.
Rachel chewed her lip, worried, too. “When will he be back?” And she couldn’t leave Hannah with Abraham if he was so sick as to have to go to the hospital.
“I don’t know.”
She couldn’t take Hannah with her to Quilting Central either. Not that she was worried about Deydie lecturing her. But Rachel wouldn’t put her daughter in a situation where she would feel unwanted.
“What do you have going on right now?” Rachel ventured.
Brodie’s eyes narrowed. “Why are ye asking?”
“Well . . .” Rachel paused, reaching for the right words. “My time at Quilting Central isn’t quite done.”
“And that’s my problem, how?” His eyes fell on Hannah, and he did seem truly perplexed.
“I need someone to watch her.”
“We could make a fort,” Hannah said, taking Brodie’s hand, while still han
ging on to Rachel’s.
With the three of them physically linked together, Rachel couldn’t help seeing the vision more vividly than before—she, Hannah, and Brodie could be a family.
“It will only be awhile longer, until Deydie lets me go.”
Hannah tugged on his hand. “We could use Grandda’s quilts over there in the corner. I’m sure he won’t mind. When he comes back, he and Doc can sit in it with us.” She batted her eyelashes at him.
Rachel wondered where she’d learned that. And her baby girl was picking up the Scots accent as if she’d been born to it. She stood back and let her daughter’s magic do its work.
“I have some books ye could read to me.” Hannah yawned. “I’m not tired at all.” She yawned again.
Rachel turned to Brodie. “I’ll put her down for a nap.”
“Mommy, I said I’m not tired,” Hannah whined.
“But Brodie is. We’ve talked about the importance of beauty sleep.”
Hannah scrutinized Brodie. “He doesn’t need beauty sleep. He’s already pretty.”
“Handsome,” he growled, and then playfully added, “ruggedly.”
Ruggedly handsome was the perfect way to describe him, but Rachel kept the sentiment to herself. “Do as I ask, then you and Brodie will make your fort after he gets some rest. He looks all tuckered out,” she added for fun.
Even though he hadn’t quite agreed to it, and he was frowning at her for good measure, she knew she wasn’t putting him out too much. “I’ll owe you.” Several not so innocent ways of how to repay him crossed her mind and her cheeks heated up.
Brodie was watching her as if reading an open book . . . one with large print. But he didn’t look as happy about the private thoughts playing out in her mind as she would’ve liked. The kisses they’d shared six years ago still burned in her memory. Their time at the ruins of Monadail Castle had been magical.
Hannah raised her arms to him. “Up.”
He didn’t hesitate but lifted her baby girl. For the third time today, Rachel was waylaid. Nothing in the world was sexier than a warrior gently holding a child. Especially when the child was her own.
It Happened in Scotland Page 8