A Highlander is Coming to Town

by Laura Trentham

  “I’ll find her.” He didn’t shy away from Ms. Meadows’s gaze, and considering their last interaction, she surprised him by reaching out and squeezing his hand. Hers was cool, the skin soft and fragile.

  “I’ve become fond of the girl. I’ll blame myself if something has happened.” The emotion in Ms. Meadows’s voice was unexpectedly raw.

  “I’ll find her,” he repeated.

  He set the CD player on a porch chair and patted her hand before ducking through the rain to his truck. His tires spun on his quick reverse up the lane. He flipped his wipers to high and drove toward town, scanning both sides of the road.

  What if she’d wrecked on the slick pavement? Or what if she’d been hit and thrown into the woods or down into the field? His stomach cramped and his palms grew clammy on his steering wheel. With his imagination traversing dark roads, he almost didn’t spot her in the shadows of the trees.

  A curse born of relief snuck out. He slowed the truck and pulled it to the side of the road. Leaving the truck running, he hopped out and skidded down the pebbled slope toward her. While the trees had offered some protection from the onslaught, her hair was plastered to her head, her hoodie was hanging heavy and wet, and her jeans were a shade darker from the soaking.

  She looked like a disgruntled cat forced to take a bath. A wave of affection overwhelmed him. He wrapped his arms around her before he had a chance to think it through.

  Instead of shoving him away, she burrowed into him, her cold hands finding their way between his pullover and his T-shirt.

  “You scared me,” he murmured, his lips glancing over the top of her head.

  “I was scared too.” Her voice was muffled against him.

  “What happened?”

  “A truck full of arseholes ran me off the road.” While anger heated her voice, she trembled in his arms. Was it fear or cold?

  He tightened his hold on her. “Did they hit you?”

  “No, but they went out of their way to scare me.” In a smaller but no less furious voice, she said, “They must have seen me go over the handlebars, but they didn’t even stop.”

  Holt was ready to bang some heads together. Chances were he knew them, or their parents. “Did you get a good look at the vehicle?”

  “A black truck.”

  “Make and model? License plate number?”

  She pulled away slightly and gave him a look rife with mockery. “I was a little busy trying to keep my head from cracking open.”

  Even though she was joking, the very real possibility she could have been seriously injured shot his knees with jelly. “How did you land?”

  “Hip and hand.” She held up her right hand. The palm was covered in road rash, but the scratches weren’t deep.

  “You didn’t hit your head?”

  “Wait? Who are you again?” Did her teasing lilt make him feel better or worse?

  He cupped her cold damp cheek. “You can’t keep biking to town.”

  “You’re right.”

  Satisfaction shot through him. He’d won.

  “Not until I get the chain fixed,” she added.

  His satisfaction deflated, and he took her shoulders in a little shake. “Don’t you give a damn about yourself?”

  Her shoulders tensed. “I’ve taken fine care of myself for a long time before I met you.”

  Holt harrumphed. “Why is it so hard for you to accept help?”

  She opened her mouth then closed it, her gaze turning unsure behind her usual brashness. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and he wondered what she saw in him. A friend? A foe?

  He didn’t know what to say to get through to her, so he didn’t say anything at all. Instead, he did what he’d dreamed about doing, what he’d thought about doing every waking second since meeting her.

  He kissed her.

  Keeping his hands on her shoulders, he loosened his grip, not wanting to imprison her if she chose to escape. He let his lips linger on hers, tasting the freshness of the rain. The scent of the pine needles underfoot and loamy forest surrounded them.

  Her hands looped around his neck and drew him closer. With her permission given, he wrapped his arms around her, lifting her slightly off the ground and into his body. Although her stature was slight, she possessed the energy of compressed atoms ready to explode.

  He mapped the delicacy of her spine and the curve of her hips with his fingers. She gasped when he gave her ass a squeeze, but wiggled closer, fitting her hips against his as if they’d been carved from the same piece of wood. It had been a long time—maybe ever—since he’d fit so well with someone.

  Her tongue daubed against his lower lip, and he opened to welcome her in to play. A noise between a sigh and a moan rose from her throat. As their kiss was hitting overdrive, the blare of a horn shattered the sense of intimacy. He stepped away from her and shifted toward the road, where a truck was pulling over.

  The passenger window rolled down, framing Dr. Jameson, his expression a mystery from the distance. “All right there, Holt? I got worried when I saw your truck.”

  Holt waved two fingers over his head and fumbled for words. “Truck’s fine. We’re fine, Doc. I’m … We’re…”

  Dr. Jameson put him out of his misery. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  He rolled up the window and pulled away, leaving the sound of the rain through the trees to fill the silence.

  A raindrop slid down the back of his neck into his shirt. He shivered. Claire must be a million times more uncomfortable.

  “Let me get you home before Ms. Meadows calls in reinforcements. She’s beside herself.” He picked up her bike and hauled it up the slippery slope to put in the bed of his truck.

  Claire scrambled up close behind and swung herself into the cab before he could offer her a hand. When he joined her, he ratcheted up the heat, taking note of the way she hunched and tucked her hands under her thighs.

  A mournful country song filled the ride back to Ms. Meadows. “I knew you didn’t listen to rap,” Claire murmured.

  The truck ate up the distance in minutes. Ms. Meadows was waiting on the porch when he pulled in. If she hadn’t had mobility issues, Holt had no doubt she would be pacing.

  Claire hopped out and ran-walked to the cover of the porch. Ms. Meadows pulled her in for a hug, not caring that she was soaked to the bone. Holt lifted her bike from the bed and pushed it to the porch. Claire leaned into the embrace and rested her forehead on Ms. Meadows’s shoulder for a moment before pulling away and wrapping her arms around herself.

  She might profess her desire to stay above the fray of human frailty, but she was starved for affection and support. That need was something Holt understood.

  “What happened?” Ms. Meadows asked.

  “The chain on the bike snapped, and then the rains came. I was waiting it out under some trees when Holt found me.” Claire cut a glance toward Holt with a clear request. She didn’t want Ms. Meadows to know she’d taken a tumble.

  It was difficult to remain silent when confronted by Ms. Meadows’s sharp gaze. “Come in and warm up, Holt.”

  He hesitated at the bottom of the steps, not sure if Claire wanted him there. Their kiss had left behind a discordant undertone. She didn’t meet his eyes, and he waffled, worried if he let her stew on the kiss she would talk herself out of dinner Saturday night.

  A smile erased the earlier worry and took a decade off Ms. Meadows’s face. Holt could imagine she’d been quite a catch back in the day. “Are you scared of a little old lady?” she asked.

  The shot of humor and unexpected welcome drew him forward. “In case you’re interested, I left my last will and testament on my kitchen table so the police could find it.”

  “I promise not to touch my gun.” Ms. Meadows barked a laugh and led the way through the screen door. “You go take a hot shower, girl, while Holt and I have a drink.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The deference in Claire’s voice surprised him, although anyone with eyes could see
her relationship with Ms. Meadows went beyond caregiver and client. In fact, it wasn’t clear who was caring for who.

  Holt followed Ms. Meadows and only caught a glimpse of an old-fashioned wooden dresser and colorful quilt before Claire disappeared inside her room with a last inscrutable look aimed in his direction.

  Ms. Meadows led him into the heart of the house—the kitchen. She sat heavily at a wooden table with a scarred top. He hesitated at the door, remembering what had brought him to the house to begin with.

  “Hang on, I left something on the porch for you,” he said. “Did you notice?”

  Ms. Meadows’s brows rose over the top of her glasses. “I didn’t pay it any mind. Too preoccupied.”

  Holt retrieved the CD player from the chair on the porch. His feet slowed in front of Claire’s door. The shower was running. Forcing all thoughts of Claire naked under the hot water out of his head, he returned to the kitchen and set the player on the table in front of Ms. Meadows like an offering.

  “I hope you can get some use out of it. It’s been collecting dust in the office,” he said.

  “I appreciate the thought, but what’s it for?”

  “Uh-oh, I ruined Claire’s surprise. She checked out a couple of audiobooks for you.”

  “That was mighty sweet of her.” Ms. Meadows’s smile was shadowed. “I didn’t want help around here, but after my fall in the spring, Preacher Hopkins insisted. Claire has been an unexpected blessing.”

  Holt cursed himself for not knowing she’d had a fall. He was her nearest neighbor, and he’d failed. “Did you hurt yourself badly?”

  “Nothing broken, thank the Lord, but I was bruised. Body and ego. I feel forty up here”—she tapped her temple—“but my body reflects every year.”

  Holt couldn’t think of anything comforting to say. No one could outrun the march of time. Ms. Meadows cleared her throat and jabbed her cane toward the counter. “Why don’t you make yourself useful?”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “First off, there’s a bottle of whisky in the top cabinet. Pour two glasses.”

  That was an order he would happily fulfill. He gave her a mocking salute. “Yes, ma’am. I’d taken you for a teetotaler.”

  The half-full bottle had a fine layer of dust. He retrieved two heavy tumblers and poured them each two generous fingers. He set one in front of Ms. Meadows.

  “Samuel, my late husband, and I enjoyed an evening tipple while we snuggled in front of the TV.”

  He hesitated with the glass halfway to his mouth. He’d known she was a widow, of course, but the affectionate mention of her husband made him curious. Instead of asking questions he had no right to, he threw his whisky back in one go. The warmth banished some of the chill spreading through him from his rain-dampened clothes. He poured himself another tot while Ms. Meadows sipped.

  “Do you know how to make corn bread?” she asked.

  “Erm … no.” A bag of cornmeal and a carton of eggs were on the counter. A cast-iron skillet was oiled on the stove.

  “What is the world coming to? I seem to remember your mama was a fine cook. She always brought a tasty casserole to the church potlucks.” A grudging respect was in Ms. Meadows’s tone, but she ruined it by tsking and adding, “Now I question her parenting choices for not teaching you to make corn bread.”

  Holt let the jab go considering he deserved worse. He was pleased not to be making his first corn bread at gunpoint. “Are you willing to make up for the deficiency?”

  She harrumphed and banged her cane on the floor once. “I suppose I must if we want corn bread to go along with our soup beans.”

  She walked him through the process. It was a simple recipe, and the skillet was in the oven in a few minutes. He joined her at the table and nursed his remaining whisky.

  “Of course, there’s a spicy version with peppers and cheese and a sweet version with sugar, but I like the plain, old-fashioned kind.” She barked a laugh. “That about sums me up too. Not spicy or sweet, but plain and old-fashioned.”

  “I ran across Jessie Joe and Jessie Mac in town. They send their regards. You were one of their favorite teachers. What grade did you teach?” he asked.

  “High school biology. I only taught a few years.” Her good humor dimmed, and Holt regretted his attempt at small talk. It seemed Ms. Meadows’s past was littered with conversational mines.

  Claire shuffled into the kitchen wearing black yoga pants and a bulky red Highland sweatshirt. Only the tips of her fingers were visible from the sleeves. Her hair was wet and tucked behind her ears, and her face was makeup-free and rosy from the hot shower.

  “Holt made the corn bread,” Ms. Meadows said. “As soon as it’s ready, we can eat.”

  Holt tried to demur, but Ms. Meadows patted his hand. “It’s the least I can offer for returning Claire home in one piece.”

  “It was less a rescue and more a mission of mercy,” Claire interjected with more humor than heat. “That was a cold rain.”

  “Would you like a glass of whisky?” Holt half rose to retrieve another glass, but Claire waved him back down.

  “I don’t actually like whisky if you can believe it.” She laughed and shook her head. He felt as if he were missing out on a joke.

  “Don’t mention that in front of Dr. Jameson. He’s a fanatic,” Holt said.

  She merely hummed and glanced toward the oven. “Holt checked out a cookbook at the library today. French gourmet. Does he have a chance of pulling off a soufflé?”

  Ms. Meadows looked at him with a pointed interest that made him squirm like she really was a teacher, and he was a student who had put tacks on her chair. “From not even knowing how to cook corn bread to a soufflé … That’s quite a leap.”

  “I like a challenge.” He tried to infuse his nonchalance with confidence and not incompetence.

  “Who are you threatening with this experiment?” Ms. Meadows asked.

  Holt leaned back in his chair with a slow smile. “Claire. I invited her over Saturday night. If it’s okay with you, of course, Ms. Meadows.”

  “I don’t have to go if you need me here.” Claire worried her bottom lip. Was she recalling their kiss?

  “I’ve lived for years on my own. I can handle one evening by myself, girl. You should go and have fun.” Ms. Meadows thumped her fist on the table like a judge’s gavel. “That’s settled then. Holt, you will make Claire dinner Saturday evening.”

  “But what about—”

  “I’ll cozy up in bed with one of these fancy audiobooks you checked out for me.” Ms. Meadows tapped the CD player. “I don’t suppose I can see what you chose.”

  “I’m such a numpty. I forgot all about them. And the buttermilk. I left them in the bike basket.” Claire disappeared.

  The oven beeped, and Ms. Meadows directed Holt. He was doling out the soup beans and corn bread in bowls when Claire returned.

  “They’re none the worse for my adventure.” Claire handed the audiobooks to Ms. Meadows.

  The delight with which the older woman examined the cases made him glance toward Claire. They locked eyes, exchanging a smile. It was the first time she’d really looked at him since their kiss. The tension across his shoulders loosened enough for him to enjoy the simple meal.

  In fact, the last meal he’d enjoyed this much had been with his parents. He wasn’t sure whether it was the food or the company that was so satisfying. Taking the cookbook had been a shot of providence. Cooking for himself was depressing; cooking for someone else was exciting.

  The conversation meandered safe subjects including the upcoming Burns Night street festival.

  “I’m not sure I would even recognize Main Street,” Ms. Meadows said wistfully. “I haven’t been able to drive in years, and the church van goes the back way.”

  “It’s as pretty as ever and especially so this Christmas. Anna is going all-out on decorations. Why don’t you allow me to escort you both to the festival?” Holt asked.

  Claire glanced
toward Ms. Meadows to take the lead in answering. “It’s hard for me to get around. I’m not sure it’s feasible.”

  “I’m sure I can borrow a wheelchair or a walker to make things easier,” Holt said.

  “I don’t know…” Ms. Meadows’s voice trailed off. “But regardless of what I decide, you should certainly go, girl.”

  “It depends.” Claire’s answer was vague. Probably deliberately so. He decided not to push her. There was time to win her over.

  “Think on it. You can let me know later.” Holt scraped up the last of his soup beans with corn bread, then sat back and patted his belly. “That was amazing. Can I help clean?”

  Claire popped out of her chair as if a fire ant had bitten her bottom. “That’s not necessary, I can—”

  “What a fine idea.” Ms. Meadows patted Claire’s hand. “A word of wisdom. Never turn down a man’s offer to clean. Now if you two will excuse me, I’m going to figure out how to work this thing.”

  Ms. Meadows tucked the CD player and the books under her arm and hobbled out of the kitchen, more spry than usual, her excitement palpable.

  Holt wasn’t sure if Ms. Meadows was playing matchmaker or not, but he was grateful she had skedaddled. Claire had gone back to not looking at him. The awkwardness that sprang up between them would steal the oxygen needed to turn their spark into a fire if he let it.

  “Was I that bad?” Holt propped his hip against the counter and leaned over to see her face.

  “Bad?” She tucked her hair behind her ears before turning the water on, plugging the sink, and adding a squirt of dish soap.

  “Bad at kissing. I reckon it’s been a while, but I’ve never had any complaints.”

  The pink wave making its way up her neck and into her cheeks was fascinating to watch. “I didn’t complain.”

  “No, but you’re acting like I have cooties now.”

  He won a speculative glance from her. “What are cooties?”

  “Sticky, gross boy germs.”

  “You aren’t sticky or gross.” Her lips quirked. “Or a boy.”