“Found a pump, but no tube.” Holt’s declaration ended the internal fisticuffs going on between her anemic conscience and her thirst for information.
She turned away from the silver box and waited outside for Holt. Brushing cobwebs off the brim of his cap, he held out an old-fashioned rusty metal implement she didn’t recognize as a pump.
Practical matters overtook her earlier speculation. Claire estimated how long it would take her to walk into town and back—two hours at a brisk pace. Assessing the stacked gray clouds, she calculated the odds of a soaking. Near a hundred percent.
Damp, chilly weather had been a staple during her years in Glasgow. She’d basked like a cold-blooded reptile in the Southern summers the last two years. Even the autumn months boasted several warm sunny days.
Unfortunately, today was not one of those days. The sooner she set out, the sooner she’d get back. First, though, she had to get rid of Holt before Ms. Meadows caught wind of him. She pushed the shed door almost to a close, leaving it open a sliver so she could get back in later if need be.
“Thanks for the peanut butter. It was exceedingly kind of you and I really do appreciate it.” Picking up the new jar of peanut butter, she shifted it from hand to hand, still uncomfortable with the thought of accepting the gift. Did it make her beholden? “I’ve got things to take care of now, so you can take your leave.”
When had she become a rude git? It didn’t seem that long ago when she was carefree and happy and wild. That girl was being held hostage by the cautious woman she’d become.
“If the thing you’re taking care of is your busted tube, you’ll need a ride into town.” Holt was like rubber, her discourtesy bouncing off him harmlessly. “Unless Ms. Meadows has a car stashed somewhere?”
The big American-style coupe parked on the other side of the house was a giant squirrel nest. Weeds had grown up around the flat tires, and leaves covered the bonnet. Claire had no idea the last time it had been driven, but ashes to ashes and dust to dust didn’t apply only to people. The car was disintegrating back into nature.
“Not one that runs.” Not to mention her lack of a valid license to drive in the States. “I can walk.”
“I know you can walk, but once again, I’ll point out that you don’t have to. I’m headed into town anyway. Come on.” He nudged his head toward the front of the house, stuck his hands in his pockets, and strolled away.
She was left to follow in his wake, knowing her practical streak was stronger than her pride. Even a one-way trip would save her loads of time and keep her from getting blisters. Her military-style boots were tough to look at and even tougher on her feet. Now that she’d made her decision, she picked up her pace. They needed to leave before Ms. Meadows woke.
“It would be churlish of me to turn down your kind offer of a lift to town. Therefore, I accept gratefully.” Her voice was stiff and as formal as if she were accepting an invitation to share tea with the queen.
Which she had once when she was five years old. It was a blur in her memories. All she remembered clearly was losing her balance on her curtsy and a white-haired woman wearing a pillbox hat smiling at her in a kind but distant sort of way.
“Exceedingly churlish.” While his voice was equally as formal, his blue eyes sparkled with laughter she suspected was aimed at her.
“Let me leave Ms. Meadows a note.” While she stepped toward the house, Holt stowed her bike in the bed of his truck.
The front door creaked open before she even made it to the bottom of the porch steps. Claire took a hair too long to decide whether to call out a warning to Holt or something reassuring to Ms. Meadows.
“Are you stealing Claire’s bike, you low-down, dirty thief?” Ms. Meadows yelled from the shadows of the porch. The barrel of a hunting gun came into view. Ms. Meadows shuffled out, balancing on her cane and holding a gun under her arm. It waved unsteadily.
Holt raised both hands in the air, a tense smile coming to his face. “It’s Holt Pierson, ma’am. I’m not here to steal anything. Just being neighborly.”
Ms. Meadows snorted. “Is that what you Piersons call it when you try to steal my land right up from under me?”
“No one is trying to steal your land. My daddy has made fair offers in the past. You’ve declined every one and that’s been the end of it as far as I know, ma’am.”
“Fair? Attempted chicanery is what it was. Which is what you’re trying to pull now unless my eyes deceive me.”
“I don’t think chicanery falls under high crimes.” Even though his hands were still in the air, his stance relaxed.
Ms. Meadows tucked the gun higher under her arm. Considering Holt’s truck was big and shiny and expensive, the accusation of being a bike thief would have been almost comical if it hadn’t been for the gun aimed at his heart.
“Don’t get her fashed. She might accidentally pull the trigger,” Claire muttered, then stepped forward into Ms. Meadows’s line of sight, but not the aim of her gun. “Holt wasn’t stealing the bike. He offered to run me into town to get a new tube for it. We didn’t find a replacement in the shed.”
Ms. Meadows stared at Claire while still keeping the gun trained on Holt. “We? Was this man rooting around in my things?”
Damn and blast. She should have tossed Holt out on his ear the second he made an appearance. Ms. Meadows’s feelings had been clear, and Claire had agreed to stay away from him not a half hour earlier. Although surely, a mere nod didn’t qualify as a blood oath.
She glanced toward Holt before inching toward Ms. Meadows. “You told me I could look in the shed for a tube.”
“You. Not him.” The barrel of the gun dipped toward the ground. “You promised to keep your distance from him.”
Ms. Meadows had nailed her there. “Holt did nothing untoward, I promise. He merely offered me a lift into town to get the bike fixed. But if you’d prefer, I can walk the bike to town this afternoon or tomorrow to get fixed. It will take me quite a bit longer than usual, though.”
Ms. Meadows set the gun down to lean against the porch rail. “The Drug and Dime called to let me know my medicine is ready to be picked up.”
That explained why her nap had been cut short. Claire could only hope the rain held off. “Of course. I’ll set off now. Can you take the bike out of your truck, Holt?”
Instead of moving toward the bed of his truck, he took two ground-swallowing steps toward the porch and Ms. Meadows, removing his hat and shuffling the brim through his fingers. “This is crazy. You and my family have attended the same church for years. I promise I’m not here for your land. I met Claire in town yesterday and simply aim to be neighborly.”
Ms. Meadows barked a laugh. “You’ve never offered to be neighborly before, but now that a pretty girl is living with me, suddenly you’re the soul of Christian kindness, eh?”
Pretty? Claire’s toes curled in her battered boots as she fought the urge to tug at her ragged auburn hair. Between her hair, lack of makeup, and boyish wardrobe, she veered more plain than pretty, which was what she’d been going for. She braced herself for Holt to scoff at the suggestion, but he didn’t. She stole a glance at him under her lashes.
His cheeks were flushed, and he hung his head, the picture of contriteness except for the roguish tilt at the corner of his lips. “You’re right to chide me, ma’am. I can only blame youthful ignorance for my behavior toward you all these years, but I’d like to do better now. If you’ll allow it, I’d be happy to give Claire a ride to get her bike fixed. There’s no shoulder until you hit city limits, and it’s fixing to rain.”
“I won’t be beholden to you or your family.” Even though the words were harsh, Ms. Meadows’s voice had softened the tiniest bit.
“I don’t have a hidden agenda, and I don’t expect anything in return.”
Holt and Ms. Meadows held each other’s gazes for a long moment. Claire might as well not have been there. Although she was the focus of their argument, their animosity had nothing to do with her. She rec
ognized old hurts when she saw them in others or in a mirror.
“I know where to direct the sheriff if anything happens to the girl.” Ms. Meadows crossed her arms over her chest in a grudging surrender.
Claire couldn’t help but feel like a pawn in an old feud, yet Ms. Meadows’s prickly defense also made warmth bloom in her chest.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll take good care of her.” Holt kept his face and voice bland, but the omnipresent twinkle in his eyes was ready to spark into a laugh.
“I can take care of myself, thank you very much,” Claire returned tartly. The statement landed disharmoniously in her ear. If she could take care of herself, why was she avoiding her life by hiding out in an old woman’s house? A question to examine another time.
Holt retreated to the truck and climbed behind the wheel. Ms. Meadows held on to the porch rail and took the steps one by one. Claire met her at the bottom to offer a hand. Ms. Meadows took it and squeezed. “You be careful now.”
“Do you really think Holt Pierson would hurt me?” Claire glanced over her shoulder at the truck.
Ms. Meadows rolled her eyes and sighed. “No. He was a hell raiser when he was young, but no worse than most young men, I suppose. You do know what to do if he gets handsy, don’t you?”
Claire blinked at the turn in the conversation. She had handled her fair share of handsy men while playing gigs all over the UK and America, but couldn’t help but be curious as to what Ms. Meadows thought was appropriate. “What would you suggest?”
“Punch him right in the balls.” Ms. Meadows nodded sagely. “Works every time.”
A laugh born of shock popped out. How many times had Ms. Meadows had to employ the method? The thought dried up any humor. Had nothing changed for women over the generations? “Don’t worry, his bollocks will be forfeit if he acts inappropriately.”
“Good girl. Now, since you’re going into town anyway, do you mind running by the Drug and Dime to pick up my medicine?”
“I don’t mind a bit.” Claire didn’t add that running errands was in her job description.
“Let me get my pocketbook.” With another squeeze of her hands, Ms. Meadows retreated to the house, then returned with an old-fashioned patent-leather purse, the shine gone from the worn edges. “Take this to pay for the bike repairs and my pills.”
Claire tucked the folded bills into her front pocket and walked slowly toward the truck, fighting the feeling that danger did indeed await her with Holt Pierson. Just not the kind Ms. Meadows was worried about.
Chapter Three
Holt watched Claire and Ms. Meadows discuss something, probably how best to murder him and dispose of his body. Relief squashed a portion of the adrenaline still coursing through him. He’d never had a gun pulled on him at all, much less by an octogenarian who strained to even hold it up. Later he would laugh about it, but at the moment his focus was on not scaring Claire off.
She disappeared from view as she circled the truck. He forced himself to unclench the steering wheel and toss her a smile on her awkward climb into the passenger seat. After her reaction to him lifting her in yesterday, he didn’t want to risk her wrath. He turned the ignition and the diesel truck rumbled to life, the noise doing a good job filling the silence.
The tires skidded on the gravel of the lane as he pulled onto the main road. Halfway to town, raindrops splattered the windshield, picking up in tempo.
“It would have been a nasty walk to town.” The awkwardness he battled around Claire was something new.
Charming girls had been a skill he’d developed at an early age. Maybe he was just out of practice. While he was hardly a Lothario, he’d dated extensively in high school and his early twenties. Mostly local girls who were fun and nice and familiar. Girls he’d known all his life and who had known him. His relationships never ended in a blaze, but petered out into uncomplicated friendships. It could be worse. At least he didn’t have to dodge wrathful exes every time he went to town.
Claire was many things—secretive, mysterious, puzzling—but not familiar or boring.
“I’m used to nasty weather,” she said.
“My friend Izzy moved to Scotland a year ago. She said the weather is unpredictable.”
Claire made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Unpredictable is a nice way of putting it. Winters are exceedingly dreary. At least in Highland, you get sunshine and blue skies on occasion.”
“Is that why you decided to stick around? Because of the weather?”
“Not exactly.” She crossed her arms over her chest. He didn’t need to be a body-language expert to recognize the fuck off vibes.
“How did you and Ms. Meadows get hooked up?” He flicked a glance in her direction, trying to read behind the meager words she offered.
She had mastered her tongue, but had less control over the emotions flitting across her face. Worry or perhaps fear had her chewing on her lip. Was she afraid of him or someone else?
“Did your father really try to steal her place?” As a defensive strategy, her lobbed question was good. He could hardly ignore it.
“Steal, no. Buy, yes. Our farm abuts Ms. Meadows’s land. A little creek bisects her land beyond the woods. It would be nice to have access to that water.” Holt couldn’t say much more because he didn’t know much more. The animosity between his dad and Ms. Meadows had exploded when he was young, and he hadn’t paid it much mind. His teenage self had been fixated on the issues that had mattered at the time, namely football and parties and girls.
“Ms. Meadows doesn’t like you.” Her lilting tone was speculative. Had she been the girl who dated the bad boy to spite her parents?
It was a shame Holt didn’t qualify as a boy or particularly bad. His list of transgressions harked back to high school and included minor rebellions like drinking and toilet-papering his principal’s yard.
“No, she doesn’t, but I think it’s my family name she takes issue with and not me in particular. Considering you’re sitting here, you must not share her poor opinion.”
“I’ve yet to decide about you.” Her voice veered surprisingly flirty. As if she noticed the breach, she sniffed and added, “But Ms. Meadows is probably right. Men like you are nothing but trouble.”
“Men like me?” He made the turn onto Highland’s main drag.
Over the last day, seasonal decorations had gone up. Reindeer and Santa hats that would light up at night were clamped to the wrought-iron poles lining the street. Each pole was wrapped in white twinkle lights and topped with a giant red bow.
The windows of the businesses were decorated in greasepaint drawings of Christmas scenes. Some looked professionally done and some looked like they’d given free rein to a class of kindergartners. In short, it looked like Santa’s elves had had a drunken midnight party.
Highland had always dressed itself up for Christmas, but this year, with Anna in charge and the first annual Burns Night Street Party fast approaching, the level of Christmas Crazy had reached new heights. Literally, considering the giant evergreen tree taking up the fountained alcove smack in the middle of town.
Jessie Mac and Jessie Joe stood at the base of the tree in red rain jackets untangling a string of lights. Jessie Mac was pointing up at the tree while Jessie Joe nodded. The cousins had been a Highland fixture for as long as Holt could remember. Given any task, they would get it done.
“It’s lovely.” Her eyes were wide with wonder and an innocent joy that surprised him. She wore the persona of a jaded tough woman so well. Was it all an act?
“You don’t think this is a step beyond what’s normal?” Holt asked. While he hadn’t forgotten about her men like you statement, he decided not to press her. There would be time to delve deeper into her psyche. He hoped.
“Maybe, but there’s enough drab and depression in the world. Why not spread color and joy?” She craned her neck to see back down the street.
He recognized her statement as rhetorical, yet couldn’t help but probe for more. “You’ve experi
enced gray, depressing times?”
“I’ve had my share.” If she’d known her clipped, defensive answer only made him more curious, would she offer the truth? “And you?”
He hadn’t expected her to ricochet the question, and he had the urge to squirm. “I suppose everyone does.”
Her attention swung to him, her dark-green eyes crystalline and cutting. “You live in an idyllic village on your family’s farm. You must be doing well to afford a truck like this. You don’t have everything you desire?”
Now he was the one attempting to hide the desert-like stretches of his soul. “Not everything,” he said quietly.
Her gaze continued to excavate through his silence until he turned into the parking lot of Wayne’s Fix-It shop at the end of the street. She squinted through the rain pelting the windshield. “They carry bike tubes?”
“Wayne does a little bit of everything and can fix about anything.” He shrugged out of his rain jacket and tossed it on her lap. “Put that on so you don’t get soaked.”
She was wearing jeans and at least three shirts, all made of cotton. The top was a green-and-brown-plaid flannel that looked warm enough but wouldn’t do anything to protect her from the rain. She hesitated as if the jacket finally exceeded her limit of accepting aid, but slipped her arms into the too-long sleeves.
Pulling the hood up, she hopped out of the truck. He did the same, beating her to the back of the truck to lift her bike out.
“What are you doing?” Rain dripped off the edge of the jacket’s hood as she blinked up at him.
“Helping you get the bike inside.” He ignored her huff and took off at a jog with the bike, stopping under the overhang at the door to shake the water off his cap.
“Why did you give me your jacket if you were getting out of the truck too?” she asked when she joined him.
“So you wouldn’t get wet. Duh.” He gave her a smile to indicate he was teasing, but she didn’t smile back.
A Highlander is Coming to Town Page 3