“That was really nice of you.” Suspicion added tartness to the pronouncement, but far from being offended, he fought the urge to smile.
“No problem. It’s all part of my evil plan.”
Her eyes flared and he could almost see her tallying up his deeds, both good and bad, before the hint of a smile lightened her countenance. “So you do admit you have an evil plan.”
He faked a gasp and covered his mouth. “Oops, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
“Now that you have, you might as well fill me in on the details.” The suspicion had been replaced with a much more interesting flirtatious tone. Still, even when she was inserting daggers into her voice, her Scottish lilt was sexy as all get-out.
“What if my evil plans include taking you out to dinner one evening?” He might as well shoot his shot while she seemed receptive.
Her initial reaction gave him hope. Her body leaned forward, and excitement sparked in her face. His shot turned into an air ball when her mouth firmed and her teasing gaze fell to her flat tire. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving Ms. Meadows for a frivolous reason.”
She pulled the door open, and he wheeled the bike inside, the wet tires squeaking on the linoleum. It was a rejection, yes. But he hadn’t imagined her interest. Was her concern about leaving Ms. Meadows real or was it an excuse to keep him a safe distance?
One side of Wayne’s Fix-It shop was filled with aisles of broken electronic equipment that Wayne cannibalized for parts. The other side was lined with a cornucopia of items to meet a small town’s electronic needs, like cables and wiring to laptops and batteries. He fixed cell phones and computers behind the counter running the length of the wall in the back of the shop, and in the backroom he repaired larger equipment like lawn mowers and leaf blowers.
Wayne Bocephus was somewhere between a redneck savant and a mad scientist. In his mid-fifties with a full head of snow-white hair and an untamable cowlick in the middle of his forehead, he had the air of a distracted college professor and the build of a retired pro wrestler.
As Holt pushed the bike through an overcrowded aisle, he spotted Wayne sitting on a stool behind the counter, hunched over a cell phone with its innards exposed. His thick fingers looked incongruous holding the smallest soldering iron Holt had ever seen.
Wayne didn’t immediately acknowledge their presence and Holt waited until he looked up, the pair of magnifying glasses he wore making him look comical. “What can I do for you, Holt?”
Holt thumbed toward Claire. “This here is Claire, and she needs a new tube and general tune-up of her bike. I don’t suppose you can get to it this morning?”
“Howdy do.” Wayne pushed his magnifying glasses to the top of his head and held out a hand toward Claire. His razor-sharp gaze lingered on her face, and he shook her hand for a beat longer than was polite. “Have we met before?”
“I don’t believe so. Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” The formality in her voice sounded as practiced and rote as the dances and manners he was forced to learn when his mother had made him attend cotillions when he was young.
“Likewise.” Wayne nodded his chin toward the curtained door behind him. “Roll it out back, and I’ll give one of the kids a holler. Give us an hour.”
Working for Wayne was better than attending a community college class, and he routinely took on young men and women interested in working in auto or HVAC or as electricians. In fact, a stint working for Wayne was regarded as more qualifying than an associate’s degree.
Holt deposited the bike out back, where a young man with a constellation of pimples on his cheeks took it out of his hands with a nod and smile.
Holt led the way back outside, but stopped under the overhang. “We’ve got an hour to kill.”
“I’ve got to pick up a script for Ms. Meadows at the chemist, but you don’t need to accompany me.” She shrugged his rain jacket off her shoulders. “You should—”
“No, I shouldn’t.” He grabbed the lapels, lifted the jacket back over her shoulders, and pulled the edges together at her chest. The position was unintentionally intimate. Instead of breaking the contact, she tipped her face up to his. Her lips parted as if she had a secret to impart. He tensed. A raindrop fell from the brim of his cap to land on her cheek and coast down like a tear.
The moment fractured and she stepped away, scrubbing at her cheek with the heel of her hand. He wanted to draw her back around to look at him, but he didn’t. She was strong, yet fragile. Under the flashing neon FUCK OFF above her head was a HANDLE WITH CARE in small print.
“Follow me.” Holt plotted a course to reach the Drug and Dime by sprinting from store overhang to store overhang. Claire’s giggles were contagious, and both of them were breathless and laughing by the time they reached the last overhang and had to make a break across the street.
He reached for her hand and tugged her from out of relative dryness into a jog across to the Drug and Dime. Water seeped through the shoulders of his plaid button-down and Henley T-shirt. Even after they were across the street, he didn’t drop her hand, but more surprising was the fact she didn’t pull free.
“After you.” He reluctantly let her go to open the door.
The chill of the pharmacy incited a course of shivers. He tagged after her, not needing to pick anything up. Claire pulled out a cache of small bills to pay for Ms. Meadows’s medicine. As if sensing his calculating gaze on her, she shifted so he couldn’t see her stuff the remaining money back in her pocket.
She tucked the white bag into the pocket of his rain jacket and gave it a pat. “Do you think my bike’s ready?”
“Nope. And I need a drink.”
Her eyes went wide and unblinking. “Isn’t it early for a drink?”
“I meant a coffee. Or hot tea, if you prefer.”
Her shoulders visibly relaxed. “Oh, yes. That would be brilliant.”
“I’ve never been called brilliant before. I like it.”
“Don’t get a big head. In Scotland, it merely means exceptionally fine and is not commentary on the size or quality of your brain.”
“Unfortunately, what’s not so brilliant is that the Brown Cow is back thataway. Come on.” Once again, they held hands on their sprint back across the street.
Holt made sure not to even glance toward their joined hands. If he mentioned the insurgency taking place, he had a feeling Claire would snatch her hand away and deny any pleasure at his touch. Once again, they only broke apart on entering the Brown Cow Coffee and Creamery. The creamery portion of the store was closed during the week through the slower winter months, but the scent of rich coffee had him heading straight for the line.
Locals filled the tables and milled about in conversation. Mr. Timmerman, the owner of the Dapper Highlander, a tailor shop catering to the kilt-wearing Scots wannabes, and Iain Connors were at the closest table.
As soon as Holt and Claire placed their orders—coffee for him and a mug of tea for her—Holt guided Claire over to where Mr. Timmerman and Iain chatted. The closer they got, the more she dragged her feet.
Iain stood to greet him with a handshake and slap on the back. The two of them had bonded over the summer Highland Games and had become good friends over the course of the fall. Iain was Anna Maitland’s live-in boyfriend, which had caused quite a titter when she was running for mayor, but Holt expected they would make it official with a marriage license soon enough.
“Come and join us,” Iain rumbled in his broad, thick brogue. He gestured to the two empty chairs, turning his smile toward Claire, who resembled a rabbit ready to bolt.
Mr. Timmerman turned in his seat to favor Claire with one of his jolly smiles, but she didn’t smile back. Claire looked from Holt to the table and back to Holt before she acquiesced and perched on the edge of one of the empty chairs. Pulling off his ball cap, he took the fourth chair, ruffled his damp hair, and took a bracing drink of his coffee.
She scooched her chair closer to his until her knee brushed his. Aiming
a tight-lipped smile at her tea, she took a sip.
“Claire, this is Mr. Timmerman, owner of the Dapper Highlander, and Iain Connors,” Holt said, pointing at each man in turn and watching her from the corner of his eye. It was obvious she wanted to be anywhere else.
“Are you new to Highland, Miss Claire?” Mr. Timmerman asked.
“Fairly new,” she said.
Iain perked up. “Ah, you’re a Scot too. Where do you hail from?”
Holt ran a hand down his chin, trying to decide if this meeting was a stroke of genius or devastating to his cause of ferreting out her secrets. All three men looked at Claire with different levels of anticipation.
“Glasgow,” she said shortly as if she were giving up the information under threat of torture.
“I worked in Glasgow for a bit. It’s a big place,” Iain said leadingly.
Not picking up the bait, Claire hummed, nodded, and didn’t meet anyone’s eye.
“You look familiar.” Iain’s brows were drawn low as he stared at Claire.
“No. I don’t think so.” Claire’s body was strung tight, and she glanced toward the door.
Iain snapped his fingers and pointed. “You sang at the festival. The Scunners, am I right?”
“Yes. Yes. That’s right. The Scunners.” She was suddenly eager to answer and her relief planted a red flag for Holt. What was she hiding?
“Are you settling down here?” Mr. Timmerman asked.
Again, Holt stared at Claire, waiting for her answer to a question he’d wanted to ask too.
“No. Or … maybe? But, no, it would be an impossibility. I think.” Her waffling wasn’t offering any insight.
“Claire is living with Ms. Meadows doing chores and errands and such,” Holt said.
“I haven’t seen Ms. Meadows at church in a possum’s age.” Mr. Timmerman stroked his beard thoughtfully. “It’s certainly kind of you to help her out.”
“She’s paying me,” Claire said suddenly. “I’m not doing it out of the goodness of my heart or anything. It’s a job.”
Awkwardness descended. Claire firmed her chin and sat back in her chair. She was like a turtle trying to protect a soft underbelly with a hard outer shell of indifference. He noticed something else, though. Her accent was the same, yet different from Iain’s. In fact, Claire’s accent more closely resembled that of Alasdair, who had been raised in both Scotland and England and with money. Yet another mystery to explore.
But not in front of Iain and Mr. Timmerman. Holt cleared his throat. “How’re are the plans for the Burns Night festival coming along?”
Claire visibly relaxed into her seat.
Iain turned his attention to Holt. “Great, actually. Anna has everything well in hand. Except this blasted rain. The tree was supposed get decorated today, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.”
“Forecast is calling for a gully washer tonight. High winds too. I hope Jessie Mac and Jessie Joe secured the decorations along the street.” Holt’s thoughts turned to the farm and any preparations he should tackle.
Mr. Timmerman shook his head, a wry smile breaking through his well-trimmed beard. “The cousins might do things their own way, but they don’t do a shabby work.”
Holt finished the rest of his coffee and turned to Claire. “You ready to go see if Wayne and the boys are done?”
She stood and surprisingly stuck her hand out toward Mr. Timmerman and then Iain, shaking both hands. “It was nice to meet you both.”
“I don’t believe I caught your last name,” Iain said.
“Claire … Smythe.” The hesitation was slight and he might have missed it altogether if his senses weren’t attuned to her. Iain and Mr. Timmerman didn’t seem to notice, turning back to their conversation after nodding and smiling them off.
Holt ushered her out the door. This time, Claire didn’t take his hand as she began the sprint from overhang to overhang. The connection had been severed by the conversation with Iain and Mr. Timmerman.
Other, more practical worries surfaced. If the pelting rain continued all day and night, the south pasture might flood. Should he move the animals? If his dad had been there, they could have discussed the merits, but he was on his own.
By the time they ducked into Wayne’s shop, Holt fought shivers. Her bike was leaning against the side of the counter in the back of the shop. Not only had the flat tube been replaced, but a new grip covered the formerly exposed metal of the handlebar and the chain had been oiled and tightened. No one was there.
A note had been taped to the seat, the printed handwriting almost childlike. Bike done. Easy fix. No charge.
“He shouldn’t have fixed the handlebar. How much is he charging me?” Claire stuck her hand into her pocket and pulled out a few crumpled bills.
Holt took the note and handed it to her. Bewilderment flitted across her face. “What about the new tube and the labor? Surely this is a mistake.”
“Knowing Wayne, he appreciates getting some spare parts out of the way while giving one of his trainees some practice. He’s a nice guy.”
Claire harrumphed and shot him a teasing side-eyed glance. “Highland seems to be chock-full of those.”
Holt grinned, took the bike by the handles, and rolled it toward the door with Claire on his heels. Making quick work of loading the bike in the bed, he cranked the heat as soon as he was behind the steering wheel. He peeled off his outer shirt and took off his dripping hat while Claire stripped off his rain jacket, folding it neatly at her side. The front of her jeans was wet, but at least she had on leather boots.
“Do you think he’s angling for something?” Claire’s brow knitted, her confusion obvious.
“Who?”
“Him.” She pointed at the shop. “Wayne.”
Her question left him nonplussed. His experience growing up in Highland had left him with a healthy respect and appreciation for the capacity of people to be generous to their neighbors and to strangers alike.
Not that people didn’t fight and argue and gossip—his dad’s feud with Ms. Meadows was a prime example—but if someone needed a tarp on a roof that had been ripped off by a tornado or if their house burned down, people would turn up to help patch the roof or with clothes and food without being asked.
He wasn’t naive, though. The world wasn’t always such a kind place. “I doubt he wants anything from you, but if makes you feel better, I’ll drop by later and slip him a few bucks.”
She dug in her pocket and held out what looked like less than five dollars. “Do you think this would cover it?”
He wanted to tell her to keep the money, but pride was delicate and wounded easily. He could try to explain the psyche of a typical Highland resident, but it would be like explaining to a child why the sky was blue. “That’s plenty. Tuck it into my dash.”
She did, and then sat back with crossed arms and a tapping foot. Casting her a glance from the corners of his eyes, he asked, “Hasn’t anyone done something nice for you just because?”
Her shrug left her shoulders in a tense scrunch. “I’ve found most people have ulterior motives.”
“Even your family?”
Her bark of laughter held only irony. “Especially my family.”
An unhappy childhood then. He couldn’t relate. His parents were great. Oh, he’d gotten in his fair share of hell-raising trouble as a teenager, and they’d shown him tough love, but always love. He’d known he could count on them no matter how much of a rebellion he’d staged back then.
While he searched for something to say that didn’t sound like a pathetic platitude, she surprised him by offering more crumbs. “My parents didn’t beat me or anything—I don’t want to give you the wrong impression—but sometimes I wonder if they only had me because it was the thing to do.”
“How do you mean?”
“You know, after university, you get married to a suitable partner, then after three years of marital bliss, a child should follow. That child should be attractive and accomp
lished. I don’t think I was what they expected.” The brittleness in her voice made him want to stop the truck in the middle of the road and draw her into a hug, but he didn’t.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I take it you aren’t close with them?”
Rain pelted the truck and filled the silence with white noise. When she spoke, he had to lean over to hear her. “I’m not sure how to answer that. They don’t understand me, and I don’t understand them. It’s like I was a changeling child.”
The rain weighed down the overgrown bushes and obscured the lane leading to Ms. Meadows’s house. The mailbox acted as the beacon guiding him onto the lane. He inched forward, the branches scraping along the sides of the truck.
“Thank you for giving me a lift. I’m sure you had other things to do.” Her speaking pattern slipped into the same formality she’d adopted in the Brown Cow faced with meeting Iain and Mr. Timmerman.
“You’re welcome. I head that direction several times a week. It wouldn’t be a bother at all to give you a ride. You should put my number in your phone.”
She tucked her hands under her legs. “I don’t have a mobile.”
He did his best to hide his surprise. “Well then. I’ll bet Ms. Meadows has a landline.”
He pulled to a stop in front of the house. Reaching across her, he opened the glove box, not missing the slight intake of breath or the tensing of her body. He tore off the flap of an envelope, grabbed a pen, and jotted his number down. Their fingers brushed on the handoff. She blinked at the number for a long moment before stuffing it into the front pocket of her jeans.
Ms. Meadows came out using the shotgun as a cane. She stared toward the truck as if she had developed Superman’s ability to laser people in half.
Claire cracked the door open, but before she could slide out, he caught her wrist. She turned with an unvoiced question in her eyes.
“Are you in trouble?” he asked in return.
Her lips parted and everything about her suspended except for her pulse, which fluttered faster against his thumb. When she finally spoke, her gaze dropped to where his hand circled her wrist. “Not exactly.”
A Highlander is Coming to Town Page 4