It Happened in Scotland

by Patience Griffin

  Five minutes later, Graham walked into their bedroom. “Can I turn on the light?”

  “No.” She was being irrational, but he deserved it.

  He came to her in the dark and climbed in beside her. “Come here.” He pulled her to him and she instantly felt better.

  She’d missed him. She’d missed making love to him these last several months. She kissed him, and as she did, her hands weaseled their way to his pants and she began unbuttoning his fly.

  He stilled her hand. “No.”

  She pulled away. “Why? I’ve been waiting impatiently for ye to return home.”

  “We can’t,” he said gruffly.

  He was being ridiculous. She ran her hand down the plane of his stomach. “Ye’re contractually obligated to satisfy me. I’m yere wife, remember?”

  He clutched her hand before she got to the goods. “No. No sex. Not until after the baby.”

  * * *

  Brodie woke up in his own bed the next morning, not rested, but the harrowing deed was done. Now he could put all his energy into avoiding Rachel until she went home to America. Aye, he was a realist. Gandiegow was a village, smaller than most, with only sixty-three houses. Not seeing or running into Rachel was impossible, but now he didn’t have to sit across the table from her at meals, and he certainly didn’t have to worry she might wander into his bedroom at night. Their one chance together was history. Every other moment, though, he couldn’t help thinking of them and how they’d been together.

  But thinking and doing were two different things, and there wouldn’t be a repeat.

  Brodie climbed out of the rack and went across the hall. He tapped on the door. “Harry, time to wake up.”

  He talked to the teen after he returned home last night. The kid would help him and Tuck on the boat, keeping Harry occupied until Brodie could find a way to help him figure out which man in Gandiegow was his da. If any.

  They hurried to the boat, but thirty minutes and several mishaps later, Brodie was regretting his decision to have the kid aboard. The teen knew as much about fishing as Brodie knew about cosmetology. The kid had never been on a boat, didn’t know how to swim, and was clumsy as hell. Even worse, Tuck wouldn’t leave off with his sunny disposition and his nonstop talking.

  How had Brodie gotten himself into another tangled mess?

  Tuck hollered up to him. “Rough holiday? Ye look as if ye might run the boat up on the rocks to end it all.”

  Brodie glared at him, then put his sights on the water ahead.

  “Don’t worry,” Tuck said. “I’ve got this.”

  Brodie didn’t know what he meant. An hour later, he did. Tuck stepped up and took Harry under his wing. With patience no man should have, Tuck showed the kid the ropes, and every time he screwed up, Tuck corrected him with kindness.

  Maybe Tuck and Father Andrew really were related.

  When they arrived in Gandiegow, back from the morning run, Brodie was on the lookout for pitfalls . . . those concerning Rachel. What he hadn’t expected was Deydie.

  She waved her broom at him. “Git over here, Brodie. Bring that boy, too.”

  Oh, God. “Come on, Harry.” He glanced over at the kid. “Yeah, ye should look worried.”

  “Inside,” Deydie ordered, waddling through the doorway.

  Brodie motioned for Harry to go in, which gave him the opportunity to scan the room first before entering. His eyes immediately landed on Rachel. Quickly, he looked away. “What can we do for ye, Deydie?”

  She thrust a paper dragon in Harry’s face. “Rachel says ye’re the one responsible for these.”

  “These?” Brodie asked.

  Harry dropped his head. “I made one for each of the folks who lent me something.”

  “Lent?” Deydie bayed. “Is that what ye call it? Reiving is more like it.”

  “Sorry,” Harry said. “I was hungry and cold.” He shuffled his feet. “I can give back the quilt I borrowed.” He glanced over at Rachel as if to acknowledge that she’d given him his own quilt on Christmas Day. “I left it in the container over there. I took good care of it.”

  Deydie nodded with a frown. “Aileen will be glad to have it back.” She eyed him with a stare of withering accusation. “Why are ye here, boy? We don’t take well to strangers. Especially those who steal when we aren’t looking.” The old woman gestured to her desk as if pointing something out.

  Brodie did a double take. A pair of scissors had been secured with a padlock.

  One look at Harry and Brodie wished he’d warned the kid to keep quiet. Talking about his da could be a touchy subject. Especially if his Gandiegowan father was a married man.

  But Harry was a kid and had no better sense than a baby seal being preyed upon by a shark. He lifted his chin. “I’m looking for my da.”

  That shut Deydie up. The room went still, the women frozen in place . . . all except for one, and she was making her way over to them like an ambulance to an accident.

  Rachel sidled up next to Harry, wrapping her arm around him protectively. “Are you okay?”

  He looked over and nodded.

  “Well? Who’s yere da?” Deydie asked.

  Harry’s eyes dropped to the floor. “I dunno.”

  Deydie grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him in front of a window.

  “Don’t,” Rachel protested, following. “What are you doing? He’s just a boy.”

  Deydie gripped Harry’s chin and turned his head this way and that. “I don’t see that ye look like anyone of us, but me eyes aren’t what they used to be.” She turned to the other women in the room, who had stood and were inching their way to them as if being pulled in by a slow-moving net. “Git over here and take a look. All of yees.”

  They needed no more permission than that. They scuttled over and peered closely at Harry as if he was a complicated quilt.

  Brodie was suddenly propelled into action and stepped in front of the kid, but bumped into Rachel, who was doing the same thing.

  “Leave off,” Brodie said to the gawping women. “Harry, head on back to the cottage. Put the tea on for Abraham.”

  Harry gave Brodie a glance of gratitude before he tore out of there as if a rocket was strapped to his back. When the door slammed behind him, Brodie addressed the room.

  “Leave the lad alone. I’m going to help him get to the bottom of this.” He sucked in a deep breath, thoroughly disgusted that somehow he’d appointed himself the chief investigator. No one in Gandiegow would thank him for the sacrifice either. Hell, just the opposite.

  For the next several days, Brodie kept a low profile—from Rachel and the townsfolk. But the gossip mill was in full swing and speculation was running rampart, like a contagious fever. He never paid attention to the chin-wagging about others, but this was hard to ignore as everyone was up in his face asking questions about the lad. Brodie had to even withstand several complaining husbands who had been accused, banished from their beds, and forced to sleep on their cold boats. Hell, even Brodie was having trouble going home and relaxing in his own cottage; Rachel, Vivienne, and Hannah had taken to mothering poor Harry to the point even Abraham was peevish about the attention the kid was taking away from him.

  But Brodie didn’t have any real beef with the kid, except he was no fisherman. Harry was excellent with Grandda, a companion for him when Brodie couldn’t be. Harry made sure Abraham had his tea and was taking his medicine on time. Brodie would have to talk to Kirsty about getting the kid into school. Maybe he’d catch her before the festivities tonight, the Hogmanay céilidh, their New Year’s Eve dance.

  He put the boat’s log books away and left the wheelhouse, staring out at the dark evening sky. Gandiegow’s Hogmanay was known far and wide for its rowdy celebration of ringing in the New Year. Brodie’s only problem was that Rachel hadn’t left yet. Even more disconcerting . . . she seemed
to be settling in.

  Brodie hurried home and was relieved when it was only Harry and Grandda who were there.

  He headed into the parlor. “Hey.”

  Harry was putting another log on the fire. “I was getting ready to bring in a sandwich for yere grandda. Do ye want one, too?”

  “Sure.” Brodie needed the space to speak with his grandfather in private.

  When Harry left the room, Brodie sat in the chair next to Abraham. “What does Rachel say about returning to the States?”

  Grandda scratched his chin as if trying to remember. “I don’t know. I don’t recall any talk of it lately. Only Vivienne speaks of leaving and visiting the south of France. Why do you ask?”

  Because I want my life to get back to normal.

  I’m tired of hiding out.

  Having Rachel here is too hard on my heart.

  “No reason. I was just wondering.”

  Abraham’s eyes turned unusually sharp, reminding Brodie of his younger days when he’d been caught stealing a turnip from Mr. Menzies’s garden. Grandda’s scrutiny made Brodie extremely uncomfortable. He went across the room and stood.

  “Ye’ve been avoiding Rachel,” Abraham said. “Why?”

  “I haven’t been avoiding anyone,” he lied, turning his head toward the logs burning in the fireplace.

  When he glanced over his shoulder, Abraham was assessing him with the shake of his head.

  Brodie wanted to remind his grandfather that he was the one who’d told him, Women can’t be trusted. Drilled it into his head his whole life. Brodie was only protecting himself from Rachel. Keeping his distance and staying away seemed the only sensible thing to do. But arguing with Grandda about what he’d taught him was disrespectful, especially for all the kindness his grandfather had shown him.

  Abraham glanced at the doorway. “I wish I was going to the céilidh tonight. It’s been a while since I’ve danced a jig.”

  “Ye must be on the mend,” Brodie commented aloud. He was eternally grateful Grandda had dropped the subject of Rachel.

  Abraham inhaled deeply. “I’m breathing easier.”

  Brodie, too, just hearing him say that.

  Grandda gave him a knowing gaze, the one which reminded him that he could look into his soul. “I think it’s because the lasses have come to visit. They’ve been good for me. Good for ye, too. I think Rachel and Hannah should stay.”

  Brodie didn’t think so.

  Abraham nodded determinedly. “I believe I’ll speak with Rachel in the morn about remaining in Gandiegow permanently.”

  “Don’t!” Brodie boomed, immediately regretting the force with which he’d said it.

  Abraham slapped his knee, clearly pleased. “Ye fancy the lass.” Then he took to watching Brodie more closely than if he were baiting a hook.

  “Och, do what ye want.” Brodie turned to walk out, but Harry stood in the doorway, transfixed, with the tray in his hands.

  Great. An audience. Brodie had just wanted to get some information from his grandfather, but he definitely got more than he’d bargained for. Abraham now seemed determined—since I went and opened my effing mouth—to have Rachel stay forever.

  Plus, Brodie had given the gossip mill more than a wee bite to chew on for the foreseeable future. Maybe he should find some duct tape and gag Harry’s mouth. The kid had shown, on more than one occasion, that he couldn’t keep anything to himself.

  * * *

  Harry watched as Brodie stomped out of the cottage. Until now, Harry had spent little time around men. He never realized they could be so moody.

  “Harry?” Abraham said.

  He’d forgotten he had the tray in his hand with the old man’s tea on it. “Here.” He set the tray beside him.

  Abraham gestured toward the doorway. “Deydie asked if she could borrow our Crock-Pot for the gathering tonight. Do you mind taking it to her? At this hour, she’ll be at the grand dining room above the restaurant.”

  Harry really liked the old man. Abraham told him straight out he could stay here for as long as he wanted. But it was how the old man did and said things afterward that let Harry know he really meant it. Harry felt like part of the family. “Sure. I’ll get it.” Our Crock-Pot. It was little things like that.

  But Harry wasn’t thrilled about meeting up with Deydie again. The hag was hard to avoid as she kept stopping by the cottage to wait on Abraham. She made Harry help put up the new curtains in the front windows, barking at him the whole time, and about bit his head off when he’d said to himself the curtains were too girly. He guessed they made the entryway cheery like Abraham said. The old man asked Deydie to sit with him a while afterward, too.

  A funny thought hit Harry. Brodie might fancy Rachel, but he wondered if Abraham fancied Deydie. A shiver went up his spine. “Ooo.” He opened the cabinet door. Abraham was sharp, but he’d lost his mind to think so highly of that bossy old woman. She was mean. She’d embarrassed Harry by pulling his face this way and that every chance she got, trying to see if he looked like anyone in town.

  Harry retrieved the Crock-Pot and returned to the parlor. “I’ll be back.” He left out the front door and walked across town, warm and toasty in his new clothes. Brodie had dropped a bundle on his bed a few days ago, grumbling, The women of Gandiegow sent these over for ye.

  Brodie might be moody, but he’d taken Harry in, too, and given him a job on the boat. He wondered if Brodie might be in a better mood every now and then if he and Rachel got together.

  Harry stopped in front of the restaurant, Pastas & Pastries, a white three-story stone building. The bottom level was the restaurant, the second floor the grand dining room, and the top floor was where Dominic and Claire lived with their baby.

  Man, Dominic was one hell of a cook, and Claire’s scones were the best. It was great not to be hungry anymore.

  Harry opened the door, went in, and headed straight up the side stairs. There were tons of people roaming about, setting up for tonight. The town was celebrating Hogmanay with a céilidh. Harry knew nothing about dancing. When he’d said as much around Hannah, the little girl said she’d teach him. He smiled. I really like her. She was the little cousin he’d never had.

  He didn’t have to look for Deydie as she zeroed in on him the second he stepped into the grand dining room. She barreled in his direction. His first instinct was to make a run for it because she had her broom in her hand. He held the Crock-Pot out in front of him as protection.

  “How’s Abraham today?” Deydie barked.

  “Uh . . .” Harry wasn’t used to her asking questions. Whenever she saw him, she was usually bossing someone around—including him—or frowning because she couldn’t figure out whom he belonged to.

  “Spit it out, boy. Abraham, is he well? I thought he looked a might peaked yesterday.”

  “He’s okay. He was reading the news on his iPad when I left.” Because he thought he should say it, he added, “I made him some tea before I brought this over.”

  Deydie bobbed her head once and took the Crock-Pot from his hands, frowning. “We’ve had no luck in figuring out who yere da is.”

  He’d heard the whispers that short of DNA testing all the men in town, his father remained a mystery.

  Harry looked up as Bethia joined them. He liked her. She was nice, the opposite of Deydie.

  “I heard you two talking.” Bethia gave him a sad smile. “Harry, did ye ever think maybe yere father had moved away long ago?”

  He had, many times. But now that he was feeling settled in, the thought of his da no longer living here didn’t make him feel sick as when he first arrived in the village.

  Bethia patted his arm. “We can put our heads together and make ye a list who has left over the past eighteen years.”

  He might as well be honest. “Sixteen.”

  “Aye, sixteen years,” Bethia
said. “But ye may consider just staying in Gandiegow.” She smiled at him as if he were a cherished grandson.

  “Aye,” Deydie agreed, which surprised him. “Abraham needs watching after. Besides, ye’re a child of Gandiegow. We take care of our own.”

  A blanket of warmth covered Harry as if he were seven again and being tucked into bed. He hadn’t felt like this—safe, secure—since before Mum got sick.

  Bethia wrapped an arm around him. “Let’s go get some cocoa.”

  “I could use another scone,” Deydie said.

  Harry could feel the stupid grin on his face, but he couldn’t help it, as the two old women led him away.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rachel scanned the grand dining room. The room was abuzz as the people of Gandiegow decorated for the big shindig tonight to celebrate their New Year’s Eve. But there was no Brodie in sight.

  Since Christmas, she’d had a constant ache in her heart; she missed him. But every day there were signs—having nothing to do with Brodie—that something new might be coming together for her—a Gandiegowan here and there being nice to her or including her in their activities. Rachel was working hard to assure herself that her Brodie-in-shining-armor vision was a thing of the past. She was coming to realize that it was entirely up to her to fix her own broken heart. She couldn’t mope forever.

  Kirsty waved to her from across the room and then made her way over. “I was wondering if Hannah would be attending school after the holidays.”

  Rachel had been pondering the same thing. “Yes. I think Hannah would enjoy that.” Last night, she’d read online the requirements of enrolling Hannah into school full-time. She’d need her birth certificate, which could be sent. Thanks to Joe, Hannah held dual citizenship in both the US and the UK. Joe had been adamant about his daughter having her passports ready to visit Abraham when she was big enough. The passports had arrived, but only after Joe had died.

  Kirsty touched her arm. “Good. I’m glad we’ll have Hannah in the classroom. She’s such a delight.” She grinned at her fiancé, Oliver, who was hanging streamers. “I better go help him before Deydie thinks I’m slacking off.” She rushed back to her beau.