by Camille Eide
She shivered. The rescue had left her a little shaken, but the thought of Ian heading into danger and risking his life on her account unsettled her more than she’d been in a long time.
From where she sat, Emily observed the two men. Ian seemed engrossed by what Gerald was saying. The old man’s hands waved in the air as though describing something immense. Must’ve been some fish tale. Ian laughed with him several times.
Emily smiled and looked around the room.
The rest of the seniors sat at a table, apparently in the middle of a game. Gerald was the only one not playing. In fact, he’d been sitting by himself, quietly watching the others play when Ian and she had first arrived. Ian must have noticed Gerald all alone and gone straight to him.
How many men would take the initiative to befriend a lonely, old man, especially a stranger? Kindness and patience shone from his handsome smile as Ian listened to the older man.
Warmth flooded through her. Breathless, she watched him, strangely drawn to his every expression and move.
As Ian spoke to the man, he glanced around the room, then held her gaze, a question burning in his eyes.
Heart racing, she tore her gaze away. Had he read her mind again? Did he know what she was feeling? She looked out the window and tried to focus on the setting sun, but all she could see was the probing question in Ian’s dark eyes.
The door opened and the rest of the seniors entered.
Emily jumped up and rushed to greet Grace.
Ian excused himself from Gerald and joined her.
Her aunt beamed. “Emmy! Have ye come to see the whales?”
“I brought someone who wants to meet you,” Emily said. “Ian, this is Grace Clark. Aunt Grace, this is Maggie’s grandson, Ian MacLean.”
Ian clasped Grace’s hand. “I’m pleased to finally meet you in person, Aunt Grace.”
Grace squinted up at him without a word.
An uneasy hush fell over the meeting hall.
Emily winced. What if Grace had a memory lapse now?
The old woman’s eyes cleared and she nodded. “Aye, Maggie writes me every week. Did she come too?” Her face lit up as her gaze swept around the room.
“No, she stayed home. It’s just me.”
“Just you?” She stepped closer and tilted her head to peer up at him. A broad smile widened her wrinkly face. “Och! So tall. But such a dear lad.” She patted his arm and turned to Emily. “Maggie adores him.”
Ian’s eyes widened and he shot Emily a quizzical look.
She shrugged. There were some things Aunt Grace just knew.
As they waited for dinner, Grace and Ian fell into conversation about Maggie and life in Scotland, connecting instantly. A steady hail of Scottish brogue overwhelmed Emily with names of places and people and things she’d never heard of.
Grace’s eyes glittered with a radiance Emily hadn’t seen in years. She quelled occasional bursts of anxiety that Aunt Grace might get too worked up. It would be okay. This was a special treat.
After dinner, the three retreated to a quiet corner near the fire and talked while the others played games. Emily resumed her role as useless spectator since Grace would soon tire after such a long, eventful day.
Actually, in all fairness, Ian did try to include Emily in their conversation. He probably sensed her unease, perhaps realized she felt like an outsider.
But feeling excluded from the talk of their homeland was the least of Emily’s worries. Ian’s presence had unleashed some kind of youthful energy in Aunt Grace. Insisting they all have another cup of tea, Grace bubbled over with questions and stories about Maggie. The number of things Grace remembered astounded Emily. Real things, things Ian actually knew about.
Yet the more her aunt chattered away with perfect lucidity, the more Emily wanted to stand up and scream.
At one point, Grace leaned closer to Ian. “’Tis such a comfort to know ye’re staying there with my sister. But it must get tiresome for ye, dearie. Living on that farm with only Maggie, after ye’ve traveled all over the world.”
Ian drew a deep breath and opened his mouth, but closed it without answering and stared long into the fire. “Aye, I have traveled,” he said more to the glowing embers than to either of them. “I’ve seen a good share of different people and places.” He turned to Grace. “A better share than most, I suppose.”
Grace let out a sigh and sat back, cheeks flushed.
Emily touched her aunt’s delicate hand. “How’re you doing, Aunt Grace? Tired? Are you about ready to turn in?”
Aunt Grace smiled at Ian. “Och, no. I’m talking to my great-nephew now.” She turned to Emily. “Have ye met Ian?”
“Um, yes, I have.” Emily cast a sideways look at Ian, who was downing the last of his tea. Had he caught that little chink in her memory?
Grace leaned close to Emily. “And he’s a very handsome mon, don’t ye think?”
Ian jerked his cup away just in time to avoid spewing a mouthful of tea. He cleared his throat and set the cup down. His gaze didn’t leave the cup, but a faint smile creased the laugh line beside his mouth.
“Yes, very handsome,” Emily said. You just said that out loud.
Ian went still and his cheeks reddened.
Was he annoyed or pleased? Ignoring her own blazing cheeks, Emily mustered a teasing smile. “But to be honest, I’m partial to fat, little, red-headed men with big, bushy beards.”
He threw her a sideways glance. A slow smile spread across his face, then he burst out laughing, drawing stares from across the room.
Emily laughed too—she couldn’t help it.
Aunt Grace smiled at each of them in turn. She probably had no idea what was so funny, but that never mattered. With her question answered, Grace seemed satisfied. She announced she was ready to go to bed.
Emily would take the extra bunk in Grace’s room and Ian, who said he didn’t mind, would get a sofa bed in the main hall.
Ian stood and helped Aunt Grace to her feet.
She patted his arm, thanked him for coming, and said goodnight.
As Grace shuffled away, Ian turned to Emily. “Thank you for bringing me, Emily. Grace is a kind woman. And sensible.” He smiled. “I can see why you’re so devoted to her.”
Yes, but what you haven’t seen is her mental instability. The kooky stuff. A ripple of guilt tugged at Emily.
Of course Ian had no trouble seeing her kindness and strength and all the other things that Emily loved about her great-aunt.
Their great-aunt.
Emily brushed so hard her gums hurt and the tooth gel turned to foam. She stared at her reflection in the beveled mirror above the sink. After her rushed hot shower, her hair had dried into wavy clumps and had all the appeal of beached seaweed.
The seaweed hair and red face combo must’ve looked ravishing when she grinned at Ian and called him handsome.
No. Very handsome.
She winced and spit.
That handsome face and those inquiring eyes sprang to mind. Could Ian see how frail Aunt Grace was?
Of course not. And that was the real issue. No one knew Grace’s condition like Emily. Not Ian. And certainly not Maggie. Maggie wanted Grace, but did she really need her? She had plenty of family to keep her company. Besides, Maggie was partially blind and too old to care for Grace. While Emily was still young enough and strong enough to—
She closed her eyes. She’d come home from school a week after her fifteenth birthday and found her mom lying in a tangle of sheets on the bedroom floor.
Mom was blue, her breathing shallow.
Emily barely remembered dropping her book bag and hitting the floor with her knees. But she would never forget the shrillness of her voice as she screamed for her dad. Or how quickly he had altered afterward; how he crawled inside himself and barred the door against her and God and the rest of the world, seemingly oblivious to the way his only child drifted without compass or rudder, left to navigate life alone.
When Aunt Grace and U
ncle Thomas returned from living in Scotland, Aunt Grace became Emily’s anchor. Aunt Grace made sure Emily went to church, finished college, set goals for herself, felt loved. Grace Clark always had a soft spot for the wounded—must have been the nurse in her—and carefully preserved the dignity of others. Now that she was the one in need, she deserved no less in return.
Emily hurried down the carpeted hall to the room she shared with her great-aunt. No one knew Grace like she did, and no one owed her more.
Grace was turning back the bedding with her good hand, face flushed and glowing. She straightened and smiled. “Here ye are, dearie. Wasn’t that a lovely visit? I would so much like to talk with him again. Such a kind young mon.”
“You’ll see him again tomorrow.” Will you even remember his name? Frowning at herself, Emily pulled bedding from the closet and worked on making up a bed.
“He’s from Scotland.” Grace gazed at the muslin-curtained window. “My home.”
Emily chucked a pillow at the far end of her bunk. When she turned, she expected to see Grace crawling into bed, but the old woman hadn’t moved.
She just stood there, gazing at the window, silent tears slipping down her dry cheeks.
Emily’s heart sank. “What is it?” She rose and touched Grace’s shoulder.
Her aunt’s drifting gaze didn’t register.
“Aunt Grace?”
She must have been back in Scotland, surrounded by cliffs veiled in mist, rolling hills covered in heather, gurgling burns, and lush, green glens.
“I forget things sometimes,” Grace whispered. She turned and met Emily’s gaze, tapping her chest with a crooked finger. “But some things I never forget. They’re in here.”
It was true. Aunt Grace had remembered plenty when she talked with Ian. “I know. You must miss it.” The soft words caught like splinters in her throat.
Grace looked toward the window. “In my heart, I never left.” With glittering eyes, she whispered, “I want to go home.”
A steely pang stabbed at Emily’s heart. She wrapped her arms around the frail woman, blinded by tears, no longer able to ignore the fact that Grace had long wanted to go.
This wasn’t the first time she’d pined for home. Putting her off had been for her own good. Until she was strong enough. But five years had passed since the stroke and, despite ongoing therapy, Aunt Grace had gained as much strength and function as she ever would.
And, if not for Ian, Emily would’ve kept putting her off indefinitely.
Emily pulled back and examined the wrinkly face of the angel who had loved her like a mother for the last thirteen years. Emily wouldn’t hesitate to do anything for her. All she wanted was to see Aunt Grace happy.
Then why haven’t you taken her back home?
Because it wasn’t safe.
Safe for whom?
Tears burned trails down her cheeks. She wiped them and took a deep, cleansing breath. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it? Maybe we should get some sleep.”
“Will we see Ian again tomorrow?” The pale eyes brightened.
Emily nodded, gave her a faint smile. “Yes.”
Grace’s smile dawned like a sudden, glorious sunrise. “Ooh! I’ll make us a picnic lunch. We can have it on the beach, after the service. Would ye like that, dearie?”
She gave another nod, swallowing a new lump of guilt. It was so like Aunt Grace to make sure Emily was happy. “Whatever you want, as long as you let me help.”
It didn’t take long for Grace to fall asleep. To the steady sound of her aunt’s breathing, Emily tried to read a chapter in her Bible, but she had a hard time focusing on the words. She finally closed the book with a sigh.
Lord, Ian will probably ask her tomorrow if she wants to move back home, and anyone can see that she aches to go. I should have taken her for a visit. Now they want her there for good. What am I supposed to do? Should I stop him?
Can I?
Emily stared at her closed Bible, but it was Ian’s face that filled her thoughts, and that fiery surge of warmth welled up again.
And what about Ian?
She jumped up and paced the tiny room, bare feet moving without a sound across the carpet. At the window, she pushed back the curtain.
A flood of moonlight illuminated the cliff overlooking the beach.
Emily could lose Grace to Ian MacLean, who was not only incredibly kind and brave but also stubborn.
And who, after tomorrow, would be gone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
5:00 a.m.
The clock above the fireplace had an odd way of ticking faster just before it advanced the hour. Which Ian had discovered firsthand throughout the night. He stared at the ceiling, hands clasped behind his head.
Morning was dawning, but the room was still dark, quiet. The ocean’s steady roar continued on as it had during the night, defying rest. Its endless breaking on the sand matched the churning in his heart and mind.
Today, he would talk with Aunt Grace and invite her to come home to live with Maggie. Based on their meeting the night before, nothing about her behavior suggested the move would endanger her. The idea of asking Grace to move didn’t trouble him. After all, that was his purpose for coming here, his plan. What he hadn’t planned on was Emily. Since she was so opposed to Grace’s moving to the farm, it was a dead cert she wouldn’t be pleased about the one wee matter he’d failed to mention: that he wouldn’t actually be living there. He’d have to tell her that part sooner or later.
And why was Emily so passionately opposed? Grace was old and slow, but she and Maggie came from hearty Buchanan stock. No doubt they would be far too busy making mountains of pies and watching morning talk shows on the telly to get into any real trouble. Why the fierce resistance?
Emily seemed like a rational, intelligent woman. Unselfish. And tenderhearted. And very ...
She was so ...
... breathtaking.
Ian closed his eyes and saw her sitting by the fire, silhouetted against deep golden hues of sunset, with that look in her eyes—the one that had turned his insides to pudding.
What had she been thinking just then?
He shot to his feet and paced the length of the picture window twice, running both hands through his hair. No. He certainly didn’t need the torment of falling for a woman half a world away. He’d already suffered the pain of separation once, and once was too much. Too much waiting, too much valuable time lost. Never again.
Sunlight peeked over the trees on the eastern ridge and danced across the surface of the sea, waking its depths. A forgotten warmth stirred deep in him. So deep and so warm it ached.
Perhaps Emily would come to Scotland.
Think again.
She had put her life and dreams on hold to care for an old woman. Emily’s life lay ahead of her, beckoning like a fresh, clean canvas. She deserved a good man, not a hell-bound rotter consumed with buried, blinding hatred.
Ian closed his eyes, held his breath. But it didn't help. In nine years, the antiseptic smell of those hospital hallways had never left his nostrils, and Edward Carmichael’s cold, callous face had never faded from his mind.
My daughter will not marry an artist. She’s a Carmichael.
Like a good, stupid lad, he’d accepted Edward’s terms without question. He didn’t care; whatever it took to marry Katy. A few more years of school, a business degree, an internship at McKinley, Carmichael, & Associates.
And then, her father’s last-minute addition of one more year.
Probationary period, Edward had called it.
Too late for treatment, the doctor had called it.
In a heartbeat, Ian was back in time, standing in a daze in that hospital lobby, listening as the surgeon spoke in low tones about Katy and his dreadful discovery. Listening to but not hearing his explanation of how invasive her cancer was and his recommendation that she go home and be made as comfortable as possible.
And home she went.
But not with Ian. Not to the new Lon
don flat they shared. Not to the young husband desperate enough to do anything and yet able to do nothing. Already agonized by a crushing sense of helplessness, he’d been shoved aside like rubbish. Dismissed.
Edward.
Temples pounding, Ian blasted out a breath as the face of Katy’s father taunted his mind. Steely bands rose from his gut and reached out like tentacles that ached to squeeze and squeeze until the face, the man, disintegrated. Edward should’ve paid for keeping Ian and Katy apart for so long. He should’ve suffered.
Maybe the beast eating away at Ian’s insides was revenge, not hatred. He’d lived with the cold, gnawing urge in his gut for so long he couldn’t tell the difference.
If the Bible counted hatred the same as murder, then Edward Carmichael was a dead man. And Ian MacLean stood condemned.
He yanked on running shoes, snatched up his jacket, and fled into the salty mist.
Emily’s footfalls pounded the packed, wet sand. Hard. Fast. An eerie predawn mist blanketed the empty beach, muffling the sound of water lapping against the shore. Her breaths came quick and steady, but the damp stuff filling her lungs felt like lead. She pressed on, ignoring the weight in her chest.
Lord, I need to make things work out so everyone is happy. I have to—
Wetness trickled from her eye toward her ear, blending with the salty film coating her cheeks. She wiped it and focused on the possible obstacles that lay ahead in the mist.
Ian is going to ask Aunt Grace today, I’m sure of it. Why wouldn’t he?
Emily picked up the pace. Maybe she could chase the image of the man and his stubborn, old grannie from her mind. Her pulse thumped in her wind-numbed ears, keeping double time with her pounding feet.
Lord, I need to make it up to Grace. Somehow. I don’t know how much longer she has.
A jogging figure loomed out of the mist.
With a gasp, she stopped dead cold. “Ian!”
Ian came to a staggering halt, probably just as startled as she was.
Emily worked to steady her breathing.