A Highlander is Coming to Town

by Laura Trentham

  Hadn’t she? The long silence that followed made her question her sanity.

  “Glennallen,” Holt said softly. “Like the whisky?”

  “Exactly like the whisky. As in that’s my family. I’m due to inherit a percentage of the company in a few weeks.”

  “Ah. Hence your comments about complicated families and responsibilities.” The crackling fire filled the quiet. “Do your parents want you to come home?”

  Home had been an unfamiliar construct most of her life. It was only since coming to Highland that she understood what a home should feel like. Warm and welcoming and somewhere she could be herself.

  But Holt wasn’t asking her to wax philosophical. “My parents need me home.”

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  “It isn’t, but I don’t know what my parents want. We’re not close. We never have been.”

  “Why?” The simple question was difficult to answer. How long had it taken Newton to determine why the apple had fallen on his head?

  “I wasn’t what they expected. I showed no special talents. I didn’t stand out amongst their friends’ children. I was a disappointment.”

  “Is that what they told you?”

  “Not in so many words, but it’s how I felt.”

  “Did you leave in order to rebel?” There was no judgment in his voice. His arm snaked around her shoulders, and she notched herself into his warmth and laid her cheek against his chest.

  “Maybe? I really did love music though.” She hesitated and dug deeper for the truth. “I’ll admit I took great satisfaction in telling my parents I wasn’t going to university. My father almost had an apoplectic fit. My mother cried.”

  “They were shocked and probably worried about what would happen.”

  Claire closed her eyes. Was he right? Maybe, but at the time she’d only seen anger and disappointment. “I was probably being unfair, but they didn’t make it easy to reconcile. It’s like they were waiting for and wanting me to fail. Father expected me to fall into line like my cousin Lachlan.”

  “What’s your cousin like? Are the two of you close?”

  “We used to be fairly close. He loves the distillery. It’s his passion. Whereas I could pick up that bottle and smash it against your stone hearth with not a moment’s remorse.” She huffed something resembling a laugh. “Except for the broken glass.”

  “I would imagine there’s quite a bit of money involved in your inheritance.”

  Normally, she never discussed the pounds and pence of her inheritance, but with Holt, she was comfortable, knowing he wasn’t a money-grubber like some of the boys who’d come sniffing around before she’d joined the Scunners and assumed a different name. “Which is why no Glennallen comes into their inheritance before they turn twenty-five. It’s supposed to give us time to mature and finish university.”

  “It’s not too late. You could still go to university,” he said.

  “Ugh. I’m terrible at maths.”

  His laugh rumbled at her. “I skipped college too.”

  She rolled her head back on his shoulder in order to see his shadowy profile. “You didn’t need to go, did you? You knew you were going to manage the farm.”

  “Yeah, but it was hard to see all my friends go off to college and come home with stories about parties and tailgating when nothing had changed for me.”

  She wrapped an arm around his chest and gave him a hug. “Do you wish things had turned out differently?”

  He ran a hand up and down her arm, causing a shiver to pass through her that had nothing to do with cold. He seemed to be seriously considering her question. “No. This is what I’m meant to be doing. I’m a good manager. A great farmer. I understand animals. Working the farm was my destiny, and most days I love it. What about you?”

  She pulled her hand back into her lap. “What about me?”

  “Is Glennallen your destiny?”

  “Does it matter? It’s my reality. My great-great-grandfather founded Glennallen Whisky, and I’m expected to take up the mantle.” The truth was bitter on her tongue.

  “But is that what you want?”

  “What choice do I have?” She couldn’t live in Highland forever, especially not with Ms. Meadows choosing to move to an assisted living facility. Neither did she have any desire to go back on the road and tour. She had no skills to survive a regular life.

  “Surely there are options.”

  Impatience with herself shortened her words. “I’ve spent the last five years selfishly chasing something I could never have—my freedom. I made a promise to Lachlan, and I won’t let him down.”

  Holt made a chesty sound of acknowledgment. Of course he understood duty. Claire sagged against him, relieved. While she had strived to be opaque, he had always been transparent. The relief at stripping away her secrets had left her with a lightness of spirit that she hadn’t experienced in so long, she had forgotten what it felt like.

  “What would have been your second choice of career?” she asked.

  “I’ve thought I’d make a good veterinarian like Doctor Jameson. Or even a lawyer.”

  An image of Holt as a British barrister in the traditional black robes and white wig made her giggle. “I have no doubt you’d succeed at any profession you tackled. Do you ever regret taking over the farm?”

  His pause was pregnant with futures that would never be, but in his voice she could only hear his certainty. “I don’t. What about you? What would you be if you weren’t on the hook with the distillery? What do you love?”

  She stared into the glowing orange embers in the fireplace and pondered his question. She had spent so long running from something, she had never considered a destination. Maybe because she knew anything other than working at Glennallen Whisky was an impossibility.

  What did she love? Music. She loved music. While algebraic equations had seemed unnecessary to her life, music had been like water or air. Necessary to her survival. “I love music. I wrote a few songs for the Scunners. They were good, but there’s not a huge market for Scottish rock music, believe it or not.”

  “I can imagine there’s not.” His laugh tickled her heart. “What about teaching music?”

  “Teaching? Like kids?”

  “Or adults. The community college offers adult education classes. Fun stuff like dancing and photography and music.”

  She picked over the implication. Was he saying he wanted her to stay in Highland? But no, it was impossible. They barely knew each other. It was too complicated. “I couldn’t teach. I’m not—”

  “Stop it right there. You are smart and strong and talented and anyone who says you aren’t can stuff it where the sun don’t shine.”

  Leave it to Holt to get her laughing through her stifling insecurities. He was sorely wrong about one thing: She wasn’t strong. She wasn’t strong enough to walk away, and neither was she strong enough to tell him what she really wanted.

  But she could show him. She scrambled into his lap, settling astride him, and took his face between her hands. The stubble on his cheeks rasped against her raw hands. It only made her feel more alive.

  His kiss was more intoxicating than any whisky ever made.

  He threaded his hand through her hair and tugged her head back. With his lips on her throat, he murmured, “What happened to being just friends?”

  “Dash that.”

  Her borrowed shirt ended up over the whisky bottle, the shorts on the floor. Holt’s clothing was tossed at the end of the couch. Either the fire had warmed the room, or they kindled their own heat. She ended up back in his lap, riding him. It had the ingredients for quick and dirty sex. Instead, it was slow and sexy.

  Claire let her lips travel over Holt’s cheeks, eyelids, jawline before settling on his mouth. With the lies stripped away, Claire could love him the way she’d wanted to for a long time. This time, she met his gaze as she orgasmed and didn’t hide the tear that trickled down her cheek.

  He wiped it away with the pad of his thu
mb and joined her in a pleasure so intense, it left them gasping and limp. The chill eventually returned and instead of covering them with the blanket at his hip, Holt picked her up and carried her to the four-poster bed in his room and tucked them under the covers.

  Her last thought before drifting into an exhausted sleep was she felt like she was home. Finally.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Holt jerked out of the black nothingness of sleep, blinked, and attempted to place himself in the universe. His bed. Snug under the covers. A woman curled into his side. Naked.

  He turned his head. Claire Smythe—no, Claire Glennallen—lay next to him, her hand curled under her chin and all the worry of the weeks before erased from her face. She was beautiful in her innocence, but he preferred the sarcastic light in her eyes and the wry twist of her mouth. She was complicated, and he liked that.

  Yes, she’d lied to him, but he’d known she’d been hiding something. He hadn’t come close to guessing she was a whisky heiress, though. Glennallen Whisky was his favorite and had worldwide recognition. And she didn’t even like the stuff. He grinned.

  His insides rearranged themselves the more he dwelled on Glennallen Whisky. It sounded as if she were resigned to accepting her inheritance. Who was he to argue? Hadn’t he done the same?

  She had family in Scotland, and no matter the state of their relationship at the moment, he hadn’t missed the note of longing in her voice when she spoke of them. Her inheritance would bring her wealth and security. There was no reason for her to stay in Highland.

  What did he have to offer? Nothing to compete with what waited for her in Scotland.

  Sunlight filtered through clouds diffused through the room, lifting the darkness of their blackout. He glanced over. His bedside clock blinked. The power was back on.

  His phone chirped with a message. He muttered a curse and grabbed it. The voicemail was from Marilee and gave no information, only a request to return her call. Holt hit the number and waited through three rings before Marilee answered with a clipped, “Hello, Holt.”

  “How is Ms. Meadows?” Holt kept his voice low, but it woke Claire anyway.

  She bolted upright, the sheet clutched nearly to her chin. He regretted being the one to force reality back on her. She swung around and stared at him with wide eyes, waiting for the answer.

  “Her heart has returned to a regular sinus rhythm.” It sounded like Marilee was only half invested in the conversation. Beeps and the sound of voices were in the background.

  Holt lifted the phone from his ear and hit the SPEAKER button. “I assume regular sinus rhythm is good news?”

  “Yes. The drugs worked, and she converted around five AM. She’ll be on blood thinners and needs to see the cardiologist to determine next steps.”

  “When will she be released?” Claire asked.

  If Claire’s presence was a shock for Marilee, no surprise filtered through the phone. “Probably tomorrow. I’ve ordered more tests to make sure we aren’t missing an underlying problem. Visiting hours don’t start until ten, but I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you both then. Keep in mind, though, that she’s had a long night.”

  “We’ll be there. Thanks for everything, Marilee.”

  “It’s my job, but I’m glad I was on duty. My shift is ending, but I’ll check in later this evening when I’m back.” Marilee hung up.

  Holt dropped back into the pillows and wished he could pull the covers over their heads for a little longer, but duty called.

  “I’ve got to see to my chores before I can run you up to the hospital for a visit.” He slipped out of bed and stretched.

  “Blimey! Put some clothes on before you have to take me to the hospital for heart failure.” Her words were muffled, but when he turned, she had only pulled the comforter over her nose, leaving her eyes peeping over.

  “Are you telling me you’re feeling shy after last night?” Heedless of the embarrassment his nakedness was causing her, he put a knee on the mattress and leaned over to kiss her forehead.

  “It was dark and stressful. The blackout. Ms. Meadows.” She sighed and leaned closer, dropping the comforter down enough so he could transfer his lips to hers for a brief kiss. “Last night was…”

  He tensed as he waited for her verdict. A mistake or magical?

  “Weird.”

  “I’m hoping weird means something different in Scotland.” Holt tried to keep his voice light and free of hurt. After her confessions, he had no idea where he stood with her.

  Although her lips curved in a smile, it was weak and more than a little sad. She caressed his cheek. “I wasn’t planning on telling anyone who I really am, and now I’ve gone and told you and Ms. Meadows. Last night started out terrifying and then turned weird and wild and amazing. But if I’m honest—and I want to be honest with you from now on—I’m feeling off-kilter.”

  “I get it.” And he did, even though he would bet her honesty would end up breaking his heart. “I know what will help.”

  She cocked her head. “What’s that?”

  “Keeping busy. Come help me with the animals.”

  “My clothes are dirty.”

  “You can borrow some of my mom’s clothes while we give yours a quick wash.”

  While he was at the big house rummaging through his mom’s dresser for something appropriate, Claire prepared toast and poached eggs. When he returned, his stomach leapt at the smell. They shared breakfast on his couch while watching the morning news and the reports of storm damage.

  “A few degrees warmer and it could have been much worse,” he said.

  “I prefer Scottish mists and blizzards over storms like last night.” Claire stood with his mom’s clothes in her hands. Holt would be sad to see her out of his thin cotton T-shirt. “I’ll be ready in a jiff.”

  He had just cleared their plates when she returned and did a quick twirl before striking a pose that made him grin. The jeans were too long but otherwise fit well. The flannel shirt and down vest made her look like she belonged on the farm.

  His grin grew brittle and he turned away to give himself a mental talking-to. He could not let himself imagine her belonging to the farm or to him.

  She cleared her throat. “What comes first? I’ve always wanted to learn to milk a cow.”

  Surprise wiped away the discomfort of the moment. “Have you really?”

  “Ever since watching The Quiet Man. Maureen O’Hara gave John Wayne hell.”

  “I’ve never seen it, but I think my parents have it on DVD.”

  “Oh, we need to watch it sometime.”

  “Okay. It’s a date.” He raised an eyebrow and watched, fascinated, as pink spread from her neck to splotch her cheeks. How could a force of nature like Claire be so easily thrown off-balance?

  Guiding her toward the door, he said, “The milking is done by machines these days. A few men work on the farm to herd the cows into the milking barn, but you’re in luck. We currently have one cow who needs some TLC. First, though, we have to feed the gluttonous goats.”

  Holt did so, and Claire lingered to laugh at their antics. “They’re natural comedians.”

  “It’s a good thing they’re cute and funny because they’re not good for much else.” Although he said it good-naturedly, it was the truth. His mom had abandoned her idea for goat yoga in favor of traveling, and he wasn’t interested in getting into specialty goat milks or cheeses.

  She leaned an elbow on the fence and turned to him. “Does every animal have to pull their weight on a farm?”

  “Yep. Even the cat has a job.” He sighed. “Look, farming is hard work, and the profit margins are slim even in the best years. We went all organic two decades before it got trendy. Our milk fetches top dollar, but it’s a tough business. We can’t afford to feed animals that don’t bring in money.”

  “That’s harsh. Entertaining you and making you laugh and feel good isn’t enough? They have to make you money or you’ll throw them out like rubbish?” The tenor of the question w
as tart.

  He opened and closed his mouth, wondering where he had gone wrong.

  Before he could formulate an answer, she continued. “Why don’t you kick them out to fend for themselves, eh? I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

  Her hands were curled around the top rail of the fence, her knuckles white. He put a hand over hers. “I would never throw them out like rubbish. I’m not cruel. They do make me laugh and keep me entertained. The goats will be perfectly safe and happy with me, I promise.”

  She closed her eyes and muttered through clenched teeth, “Bloody hell, I’m the Glennallen goat.”

  “What?” Confusion fed the knee-jerk question.

  She turned to meet his gaze. “I’m entertaining, but useless. I’m a bloody goat.”

  “You do make me laugh and keep me entertained, but you’re also immensely talented and smart and kind.”

  “I’m none of those things.” She proceeded to tick off her fingers. “Firstly, singers like me are a dime a dozen. I’m nothing special. Secondly, I didn’t even pass my A-level maths. Thirdly, I took the job with Ms. Meadows not because I wanted to help an old lady, but because I needed a place to crash for a few weeks.”

  “You may have taken the job for your own reasons, but only someone who cares would take off through the woods in the middle of a storm to find help. That took real courage and heart.”

  “I was terrified the entire time. I’m a coward at heart.”

  “Quit calling yourself a coward.” Holt gripped her shoulders. “Being scared is not the same being cowardly. Doing what’s right despite your fears is the actual Merriam-Webster definition of bravery.”

  “It is?” A flicker of something—hope?—flared in her eyes. He actually had no idea, but she didn’t need to know that.

  “It is,” he said with more force than the question warranted.

  She shot him a considering look then stepped away, her back to the goats. “What’s next?”

  If she wanted to change the subject, he wouldn’t probe old wounds. “Next up is our troublemaker cow.”

  It was cozier in the barn. The sounds of various animals snuffling and shuffling were as comforting as a lullaby, and the earthy scents brought forth nostalgic memories of childhood and adolescence.