Kilts and Catnip

by Zoe Tasia

  Mr. McNeil shook his head. “Your daughter told me, but I’m sure her eyes were playing tricks on her. No one on the island would allow a child out at this time.” He stopped so abruptly that I almost ran into him. “Did you see anyone?”

  “I thought I did, but now I’m not sure,” I answered.

  “Lack of sleep can do that. Good night. You get some rest. You dinna want to send the constable on a wild goose chase.” He waved as he straddled his motorcycle then revved the engine and motored away.

  Inside, I found Jessie sitting beside Tate on the bed in their bedroom. Tate’s eyes were at half-mast.

  Jessie patted her cheek to wake her and shivered. “Brrr! Mom, she’s so cold.”

  So happy to find her, I didn’t think to worry that something may be wrong with Tate. “She might be in shock.” I held the back of my hand to her forehead. She didn’t feel clammy. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

  Despite the warm summer weather, when I took her hand in mine, it was icy.

  Tate yawned. “I’m fine, Mommy. Just very tired.”

  I surreptitiously checked her pulse. It was strong and, if anything, slow. She didn’t appear to have any of the signs of shock, except cold skin. She was pale, but only a tad more than usual. I tilted her chin and examined her face. Her pupils weren’t dilated, and her breathing seemed normal.

  “This night calls for some cocoa. What do you think?”

  A ghost of a smile tipped the corners of Jessie’s lips as she nodded, but Tate didn’t answer.

  After patting Tate’s back, I told the girls I’d return and went to the kitchen. A few minutes of searching divulged a saucepan. Then I gathered the ingredients I had purchased and made hot chocolate. I coaxed Tate into drinking half a mug. Jessie, of course, finished hers and wanted seconds. I tried to question Tate as she sipped, but she merely yawned at my queries. When it was apparent that she would drink no more, I led her to bed and tucked her in.

  “Now, no more visiting the forest alone, Tate Elizabeth,” I said, my voice stern.

  She nodded and sighed then curled up in a ball with one hand tucked beneath the pillow and the other fisted against her chin. After a visit to the bathroom, Jessie also turned in. She allowed me to tuck her in, which gave away how upset she was.

  “Jessie, when you woke up and looked out the window—are you sure you saw a boy?”

  “I thought I did, Mom, but it was pretty dark. I asked Tate about it when you walked Mr. McNeil out. She doesn’t remember a little boy at all. I didn’t make it up, Mom. I really did think I saw him—but I guess I didn’t.”

  “I don’t think you were lying, sweetie. I thought I saw something too. I guess we were both just over-tired.” I kissed her forehead, eliciting a groan, and said good night.

  Once I crawled into bed, I reflected on the event. Jessie and I must have imagined the other figure leading Tate away from the cottage. Maybe she sleep-walked off on her own. I thought again of the man in the woods. Funny how, despite his gruffness and unwelcoming way, when he placed Tate in my arms, I realized he didn’t scare me. Though terrified on Tate’s account, I knew he wasn’t the trigger. Despite the feminist and experienced hiker in me chafing at the way he dismissed me, I felt surprisingly at ease with him.

  SETTLED INTO BED, THE girls’ window tightly shut, I thought back on our first day here. The people we had met on the island so far were curious, yet kind. When we rode here on the ferry, I hadn’t had the correct change. The ferry operator told me not to fret. I could pay what I owed when next I needed to go to the mainland. The only way on or off the island was by boat. Mindful of the prickly plants that lined the path, we walked to the sole village there called, appropriately enough, Thistle. Our first stop upon arriving had been the grocer. The note on the window read “Be Back Soon” in a rushed scrawl. The shop door had been unlocked. We hesitantly entered and gathered our supplies. Before we finished, Mr. McNeil, the owner, returned out of breath. He apologized several times with an adorable grin. I thought him very handsome with his just-shaved look, even the small nick at the dimple in his cheek charmed me. When he turned his head, his hair swept the top of his ears. I guess sleep flattened the curls since it appeared longer when he came to help find Tate. I admired his square jaw line, heavy-brows, and wide forehead. Strong features, I had mused. He explained his aunt called, complaining of palpitations, but couldn’t find her heart pills, so he ran up the road to find them for her.

  Smiling, I remembered his comment. “I’m thinking they’re naught but sugar pills. She’s healthy as a horse, but to hear it from her, she has one foot in the grave and one foot on a banana peel. She’s Doc’s best customer, and God forbid he send her home without a concoction of some sort.” His Scottish burr, melodic to my ears, had tap danced the chords on my long-forgotten libido. He had bustled about to find what we couldn’t and tallied up our bill in record time. Recognizing our American accent, he had helped sack our items, though I assured him I was quite capable.

  “Your trolley was chockablock with groceries for a weekend visit,” he noted. I explained that we were staying at the cottage for the summer. He smiled and nodded. “Aye, you must be the Shaw family. Mrs. Grant sent word of it.”

  He gave me his phone number and insisted I call if I needed anything. We didn’t have a car and had planned to walk, but the charming Mr. McNeil insisted that his nephew—a pimply, sullen lad with a scraggly beard—give us a ride. My acceptance was one of great appreciation. I had been tired and more than ready to arrive at the rented cottage. The landlady had informed us there were bicycles in the shed for our use, and a small bus made rounds a few times a day to pick up passengers around the island. I think she said it made about a half dozen stops, including a few places in the village, a couple around the countryside, and one at the pier. I looked forward to exploring the quaint village.

  When we arrived, the cottage was cleaned and neat. All items we could possibly need were readily available. While inspecting the contents of the medicine cabinet, I had dropped a travel-size tube of toothpaste. When I crouched to pick it up, I found an old-fashioned straight razor that had dropped between the toilet and the sink. The blade was badly rusted, but the ivory handle was carved with beautiful patterns. I could just make out the initial “G” on it. I wondered how such a thing found its way into the hiding place and to whom it belonged. Why would an elderly lady have such a thing? She hadn’t lived there in a while and, when she did, she lived alone for a long, long time. I knew a local friend of hers still cleaned and stock the place with a few necessities, like toilet paper, bread, and milk.

  Thoughts danced through my head and I gave up trying to sleep. My e-reader in hand, feeling like a decadent Roman, I sprawled on the thread-bare chaise in the bedroom’s alcove and sipped the dredges of my cocoa. Though the romance was written by one of my favorite authors, I remained distracted. Who was the raven-haired man in the kilt?

  Chapter 2

  I WOKE UP TO THE SOUND of a raucous meow. “What now?” I mumbled, skidding on the robe that puddled on the floor and stumbling to the cottage door.

  Gauging from the light shining in from the window, morning had dawned hours earlier, but I still craved more sleep. Pulling the white curtain from the window at the side of the door, I peeped out. Something tapped the window. Looking down, I spotted one of the largest black cats I had ever seen. The cat stared back, meowed again, then disappeared.

  Scritch, scritch. The sound of claws gouging the front door spurred me to unlock it and swing it open. The cat nudged me aside so hard that I stumbled. Turning, I watched it dart into the girls’ bedroom. I shut the door and followed. The cat sat on Tate’s bed, bumping its head against her chin.

  Tate woke with a yawn. A grin bloomed when she saw the cat.

  “You got us a kitty!” she squealed, flinging her arms around it.

  “Tate, be careful, honey, we don’t know anything about it. It might be sick.” To my amazement, not only did the cat remain on the bed, but it
purred and nestled closer to my daughter.

  “Hey, what’s going on? Sleeping here,” Jessie complained.

  The cat loudly meowed. Jessie sat up and tossed back her waist-long hair. Shortly before we left Houston for Scotland last year, she had, without my permission, dyed the bottom six inches of her hair bright red. She swore she had wanted ombre hair for “ages.” I think it was her way of protesting the move. Her hair was naturally straight and black like her father’s had been. Tate inherited my hair, wavy and brown.

  “Mom got us a kitty!” Tate gleefully answered.

  With a happy yelp, Jessie jumped from her bed and rushed to her sister’s. Tate relented, stopped hugging the cat, and the girls took turns petting the fawning animal. As they did, I noticed a white spot on the cat’s chest on the cat’s otherwise black body.

  “I bet she’s hungry,” Tate said.

  “Don’t get attached,” I warned the girls. “This cat must be someone’s pet. It’s too friendly to be a stray.”

  Jessie checked its neck. “No collar, Mom.”

  “I’ll contact Mr. McNeil. Perhaps he knows where she belongs. If not, I can text him a photo and see if he will put up a poster with my phone number in the grocery store.”

  In Aberdeen, Scotland, I had no issues with unwanted male attention. I still wore my wedding band and made very clear I wasn’t ready to date. I vowed to subtly cue Mr. McNeil in on this, hopefully nipping his attentions in the bud. My libido might be ready to date, but I wasn’t sure I was.

  “Can we keep her, if no one claims her?” Jessie asked.

  “Please,” both chimed in.

  “We’ll see. The thing is huge. Probably eat us out of house and home.”

  “She needs a name.” Jessie stroked the cat’s arched back.

  It rubbed its cheek against Tate’s and purred in her ear.

  “Her name is Kiera,” Tate said.

  “That’s a pretty name, Tate, but remember, we may not be able to keep her. Plus, Jessie may want to help name her.”

  “She told me her name’s Kiera, though,” Tate protested.

  “It’s okay, Mom. I’m good with Kiera.”

  I raised my eyebrows. If the cat means no more sibling fights, it’ll be worth putting out my life savings for a ton of cat food.

  The girls decided on bacon and pancakes for breakfast. They offered some to the cat who sampled a little of everything.

  “She must be someone’s pet. She acts like she’s already been fed,” I commented. I earned a frown from both the girls. Tate seemed much better this morning. While the girls explored and played with the cat, I admonished them to stay out of the forest and tried to text Mr. McNeil. After it refused to go through three times, I called using the old rotary phone. “Sorry to bother you, but a large, black cat showed up at the cottage. Do you know the owners?”

  “I know several families with cats, but they keep them inside the house. Animals tend to disappear ’round here. I’ll ask and see if anyone has a new black one,” he said.

  “Thanks. I’ll send you a photo too.”

  We said our goodbyes. I took a photo of Tate and the cat to send later. After I tidied up, I curled up in the chair by the window so I could watch the girls and flip through the information I received from the landlady. She was an elderly lady, I had surmised from the sound of her voice on the phone, who placed an advertisement about a summer home for rent. I thought it was a mistake when I saw the price for the cottage, but called immediately, not wanting to miss out on the opportunity.

  The cottage had been in Mrs. Grant’s family ever since it was built. She lived in the home as a child. When she married, she moved into town. After her parents passed away, she moved back to the cottage. She was an herbalist and did her work there. Three years ago, she moved to Peterhead to be with her daughter. I drove up from Aberdeen to meet her in person. She was a dear, but a somewhat quirky woman. She insisted upon reading my tea leaves.

  She had suggested visiting a nearby farm. She said if I used her name, the owner would rent out a couple of horses which we could ride. I explained that, with the exception of Jess, our riding skills were next to nonexistent, but she’d insisted that the gentleman in charge had several gentle nags to choose from—and helmets. She said he would be happy to take us out. I was reticent about calling, but Mrs. Grant promised to contact him beforehand to give him proper notice of our interest. The grocer certainly knew we were arriving, so I felt fairly sure that Mrs. Grant had indeed told everyone in advance.

  I stepped outside to talk to the girls. “How would you like to go horseback riding? I thought I’d call today and set it up.”

  “When would we go?” Tate asked. “I don’t want to leave Kiera alone.”

  “It depends on when is a good time for Mr. Samms. And don’t worry about the cat. I’m sure it will be fine.”

  “Don’t be a party pooper, Tate,” Jessie added. “I think it will be fun. I haven’t been riding since we were home in Houston.”

  Tate hugged the cat. She held still then smiled. “Kiera says to go.”

  I called the farm, and Mr. Samms’s generous voice insisted we come over. His son would take us out on the trail. The farm was within walking distance. After Tate reassured the cat that we would be right back after the ride, we left.

  The place, Samms Farm, had sheep, cows, and chickens, along with the horses. They planted rapeseed and rutabagas. Mr. Samms introduced me to his son, Gavin. He was sixteen with golden hair and sapphire-blue eyes. Jessie blushed when he helped her mount a horse, and I saw a summer love blossom in her eyes. Tate had begun lessons before we moved to Aberdeen and was excited to be back on a horse.

  “How do you like the cottage?” Gavin asked. His horse walked toward a path, and our horses dutifully followed.

  “Mom and Tate were lost in the forest last night,” Jessie said to her saddle pommel, too shy to look Gavin in the eye but clearly wanting his attention.

  “Best not walk around there, especially at night. Creepy stories about the forest and the cottage.”

  “Like what?” Jessie asked.

  My horse angled close to the edge of the path, and I barely managed to duck a low-hanging branch.

  “It’s supposed to be haunted,” he said, reining in his horse, a bay with a white star on her nose, to let us catch up.

  I made eye contact with Gavin, looked at Tate, and shook my head. He caught my meaning.

  “Aye, but they’re just stories,” he amended. The trail led into the forest. “We’ll not go too far in,” he assured us. “The horses know the path well. You hardly need to hold the reins.”

  My horse drifted toward a tree and my leg brushed against the trunk.

  Gavin noticed and clicked his tongue at the dun horse. “Honey, what are you doing?” The horse pawed at the ground and sidestepped. “I don’t know what’s on with her.” He frowned. “These three are our most docile horses.”

  We rode farther into the forest and reached a fork in the trail. Gavin’s horse took the left side. The other two, docile horses plodded behind. When I reached the fork, Honey neighed and yanked at her bit. I dug my heels into her sides. She shivered and shook as if a persistent horsefly bothered her.

  “Giddy up, Honey,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

  “Is everything all right, Mrs. Shaw?” Gavin called.

  The girls looked back at me.

  “She doesn’t want to go.” I clicked my tongue and nudged her again with my heels. The horse walked backward, then, with a start, she bolted down the other fork. Losing the reins, I clung to the pommel for dear life and tightened my legs. A few yards farther, there was an opening to the left. The horse veered through it and wove between the trees. “Whoa!” I yelled.

  Honey reared, and I slipped off, landing with an “oof” on the ground. The horse resumed galloping until she vanished.

  Gavin quickly found me. “I’m so sorry. Honey has never acted like that.” He hopped off his mount. “Are you hurt?”


  “No, I don’t think so. Shook up some, but not hurt.”

  The girls reined up near me.

  “Tell you what, we’ll return to the stable, and I can saddle another horse. Honey knows her way home and should make her way back soon enough. If she hasn’t returned by the time we get back from our ride, I’ll go back out and look for her.”

  “You know, Gavin, I think I’ll pass on the ride.” Looks of disappointment showed on the girls’ faces. I continued, “If the girls want to go, can you take them out for a short trip?”

  “Sure.”

  “We haven’t ridden that far. You go on. I can walk back and wait for you at the farm.”

  “Are you sure, Mrs. Shaw? I don’t mind taking you back.”

  “I’m sure. You go on and have fun.” I smiled reassuringly at the girls and watched as they continued back to the fork and took the correct path. I brushed off my rear, removed my helmet, attached it to a belt loop, then ambled back, admiring the beautiful leaves of every shade of green imaginable. Well, perhaps not neon. I smiled at the thought of a psychedelic forest. I hadn’t made the fork yet, when I heard a pained neigh. Maybe Honey stepped in a hole and hurt herself. I walked back up the correct fork and called out, “Gavin? Hey, Gavin! I think I hear Honey!”

  No answer.

  “Back to where you belong!” a voice shouted angrily.

  I doubled back and up the other fork.

  “Hello?” I yelled. “Is everything okay?”

  I started when a large, male body loomed too close in front of me. He was turned away, but I recognized the dark locks and broad shoulders.

  “’Tis fine now. The dunnie is back where he belongs,” the man from last night said as he turned back to face me.

  “Dunnie? Her name is Honey. Is the horse okay?”