She looked around her surroundings, which felt foreign and unfamiliar. She found the ticket machine, bought a ticket, and waited. When she boarded, she was concerned whether she’d be able to catch her stop as the conductor’s burr was strong and hard to understand.
She shouldn’t have worried. The woman next to her on the tram took pity, giving her an idea of where to look for a new battery for her mobile, and alerting her when they arrived at the appropriate stop. Ryn thanked the woman and stepped off. She pulled out her map, but when she glanced up to see the name of the next cross street, she couldn’t believe what she saw in the charity shop window, only four feet away.
An old-fashioned black Singer Featherweight sewing machine!
And the sign propped against the treasure read twenty pounds. Twenty pounds!
Not believing her eyes, she couldn’t stop herself from going inside to inquire if the price was correct and if so, did the machine really work? She’d always dreamed of owning a Featherweight. They were made of all metal parts and known for their durability and straight stitches—perfect for a serious quilter. Her brain raced and she began rationalizing. She could put a Featherweight to good use while she was here in Scotland. Though she wasn’t the best hand-piecer, that’s exactly how she’d planned to piece her True Colors quilt. The cut fabric lay folded neatly in her roller bag ready to be sewn together. But instead of hand-stitching, wouldn’t the quilt come together much faster, and more accurately, with her very own Featherweight sewing machine?
At Ryn’s request, the shop owner retrieved the machine from the window, plugged it in, and it whirled to life. Before the clerk could change the price, Ryn paid the woman and left.
About ten yards from the shop, Ryn leaned against a stone building and questioned her rashness, as the sewing machine, in its cute black case, felt like dead weight, pulling her left arm from its socket. Just another example of something I should’ve considered before blindly taking action!
Ryn shook her head and wryly laughed. “This Featherweight should’ve been named heavyweight.”
She balanced the machine on top of her roller bag and precariously pulled it along, giving her left arm a break.
Down the next block, she found exactly what she needed—a store which sold cellphones. The only problem was that they didn’t have a battery that would work with her model. After negotiating with the salesman, she walked away with a used cellphone and new battery, her pockets now considerably lighter. But at least she could communicate with the outside world again, once she charged the phone.
As she exited the store, a bagpipe began to play. Ryn stepped out to see a piper dressed in a regal uniform of a red kilt, sporran, knee socks, tartan sash, and a tall black feather bonnet atop his head. This wasn’t the sort of thing she’d see in front of a shop in Minneapolis. Tourists gathered around, some taking selfies and then dropping money in his case at his feet. Ryn, too, left a pound for the performer, before walking on.
Her rush of adrenaline was waning and giving way to jet lag. She pulled her heavy luggage into a pub for a place to sit and for some sustenance.
After ordering soda and a half sandwich, Ryn prodded the middle-aged waitress for answers before she got away. “I need to get to Whussendale. Do you know the best way to get there from here?”
The waitress screwed up her face in concentration. “Aye. I know where it ’tis, but there’s no bus or train to the village. Let me call my brother.” She pulled out her phone.
“Your brother?”
“He owns a shuttle service. Maybe he’s available. Either he or one of his drivers could possibly get ye to Whussendale.”
At the mention of a shuttle, Ryn felt her wallet emptying further. But without the bus or train, it seemed her only option.
The waitress smiled at her as she put her phone to her ear. As she spoke, Ryn only picked up a few words because her burr was so thick. While the waitress listened, she smiled at Ryn and nodded her head. “Aye. She’ll be waiting for ye here at the pub.”
“The cost?” Ryn asked before she hung up.
The waitress nodded. “How much is it?” She listened before conveying the answer. “Hundred and fifty pounds.”
“A hundred and fifty?” The amount seemed astronomical, especially since Ryn was so short on cash. Again, she kicked herself for not being more prepared.
Her dismay must’ve shown on her face because the waitress nodded in understanding and then spoke again with her brother on the other end of the line. “Och, but Peter, ’tis on yere way home. What’s the family rate?” The waitress’ frown transformed into a wide grin. “Aye. Twenty pounds.” She looked at Ryn expectantly.
Ryn returned her grin. “Yes. Absolutely. That would be great.” The waitress hung up and Ryn couldn’t stop smiling. “You saved me.”
“’Tis no problem. Us, lassies, have to stick together. Besides, I can see ye’re not some rich golfer come for holiday. Ye seem like a lass on a mission.”
Ryn glanced over at her overfull tote which held the quilt. “Something like that. I really can’t thank you enough.”
The waitress nodded. “Not to worry. Now I’ll get yere food and drink.”
Forty minutes later, the waitress’ brother arrived. He waved to his sister, grabbed Ryn’s suitcase and sewing machine, and they were off to Whussendale with Ryn tucked in the backseat.
Her driver introduced himself as Peter, but he wasn’t nearly as chatty as his sister. That was fine with Ryn, as she wanted to take in the scenery. But the warmth of the sun on the window and the gentle rocking of the car lulled Ryn to sleep.
She woke to find them on a road not much wider than her compact computer desk, which she’d sold before leaving home. “Where are we?”
“Not five minutes from Whussendale.”
There were woods on either side of the road, reminding her of a state park in Minnesota. Which was weird since they were in Scotland. Around the next bend, a very small town came into view. It was nothing more than a row of cottages, a couple of businesses, plus a church surrounded by a stone fence, which enclosed a cemetery.
Peter looked back at her again. “There’s more, lassie.” He pointed to the left. “The wool mill is in that direction. Look through the trees. ’Tis famous. The best wool in all the Highlands comes from that mill, and of course, from the sheep at Here Again Farm and others in the area.”
That was the most her driver had said. Ryn looked and saw what he was talking about. The wool mill looked larger than the village itself. And it wasn’t like anything she’d seen in the States. It didn’t resemble a normal factory but was a group of architecturally interesting buildings—some wood, some stone. “What’s behind the mill?”
“The cottages for the employees.” He brought the car to a rolling stop. “Where do I drop ye?”
Ryn had no idea where to find Maggie. She glanced at her watch and then out the window. The wool mill seemed much more alive than the sleepy village. “Can you take me to the mill?”
“Aye.” Peter turned left and drove toward the group of buildings.
Now, Ryn could see the layout more clearly. A little walking bridge was over the small river to the right. And straight ahead she could see the waterwheel in front of one of the larger buildings.
“The waterwheel still produces electricity to this day. She’s a testament to simpler times.” His voice held nostalgia. “My auntie is from Whussendale and used to work in the kiltmaker’s shop.” He pulled the car in front of a small building which read Gift Shop and Tearoom above the doorway. “Will this do?”
A fresh case of nerves overcame Ryn. “Yes. This is fine.” She didn’t know for certain, if she would be fine or not, but she was here now and had no choice but to stay.
She slipped out of the car and dug around in her tote. From her wallet, she pulled two twenty pound notes and handed them to Peter, who had already retrieved her suitcase and sewing machine from the back. “Here.”
He frowned at her outstretched han
d. “Och, lass, ’twas twenty we agreed upon.”
She grinned. “The rest is for giving me the family rate.”
He smiled at her knowingly, as if he wouldn’t want to take charity either, and pocketed the money graciously. She waved to him as he pulled away. She worried his face would be the last friendly one she’d see in Scotland, but other worries bombarded her, too. What if Maggie wasn’t really here in Whussendale? What then? Where would Ryn stay? It occurred to her that maybe she should’ve asked Peter for a card, in case she needed a ride back to Edinburgh.
She positioned her tote and then pulled her suitcase-sewing machine bundle into the cafe. When she looked up and took in the new surroundings, she was taken off-guard and became a little breathless at what she saw.
Not six feet away, a man with blond hair conversed with a young woman, standing behind the café counter. He wasn’t just any guy. He was kind of perfect. He wore a black polo embroidered with the Whussendale Wool logo, and sported a red, blue, and green kilt with an accent of purple running through it. Lower still, he showed off his manly legs in thick, knee-high cream-colored socks, finishing off the look with army boots. Clearly it was a uniform, of sorts, as the female clerk wore a similar polo and her skirt was made of the same tartan, too.
What took Ryn off-guard was how Tall Blond and Kilted affected her. Sure, he was handsome, but she’d easily blown off the good-looking sports-jacket-guy at the airport.
The colorful kilt he wore couldn’t be the lure either. She’d seen several kilts in Edinburgh, including the bagpiper outside the cellphone store in all his regalia.
Ryn scrutinized Kilted more closely. His hammer and screwdriver, hanging from his belt, told a story: He wasn’t wearing a manly skirt to draw a touristy crowd, like the piper. Kilted was on a break from doing manual labor…real work. And dang it! Ryn hated how appealing that was to her. She’d sworn off men, especially the good-looking ones.
She tamped down her curiosity about Kilted. And got down to business. Now she just had to get the flirtatious clerk’s attention and stop her from twirling her hair and gazing upon her kilted customer unabashedly.
Both of them turned to Ryn. Kilted smiled. The clerk didn’t.
Ryn took a step forward, reminding herself, I’m not in Scotland to date or to hook up. Those days were over. She was smarter now. More enlightened, with the past laid to rest. Ryn’s job, for the next couple of days was clear. She was here to fulfill her dead mother’s last request. And that was all.
The clerk’s attention went back to Kilted, though he still stared at Ryn. The clerk, poor girl, regarded him as if she was making wedding plans…or perhaps the clerk had him in mind for her afternoon dessert. Either way, she devoured him with her eyes. Ryn might’ve, too, but seriously, she’d had enough heartache from men like him.
“Hallo,” Kilted said smoothly, as if he liked what he saw. His deep baritone didn’t surprise Ryn, but honestly, why couldn’t he have spoken in a falsetto or with a lisp?
Ryn nodded and remained quiet while she sized him up. Six-three? Early thirties? Dang his dimpled smile! Ryn had gone out with a slew of men like Kilted for practically all of her post-puberty life. After the incident in high school, her mother made Ryn return to dating right away. Mom’s voice still rang clear in her memory…one of the few times Mom acted like a mom. “Don’t let Joey Naut define who you are, or who you will become.”
And yet, in some ways, that’s exactly what Ryn had done. Ever since that fateful night in the pool house, she’d chosen the same type—good-looking men who were used to getting exactly what they wanted—as if her younger self wanted another chance to go back and do things differently, but most importantly, to not be so naïve again.
The same week she’d turned fifteen, Joey Naut singled her out at his graduation party, and took her to the pool house to make out. At the time, she thought she was so cool, the luckiest girl in the world, until he took her virginity without her permission. He’d kissed her slowly at first and then more passionately, so she barely noticed when he’d pushed her hem up and her underwear down. She vaguely only realized something pressed against her down there, but honestly didn’t know that it was it, until he forced his way in and there was pain. He’d finished almost as soon as he started, and laughed when she ran out. She ran away from him, the party, and what had happened. When she got home, she slipped upstairs, making sure her mother didn’t see her. No amount of showering could wash away Joey Naut. She had no intention of ever telling her mother or anyone. But luck wasn’t on her side. When Ryn missed her period, she had no choice. It was the hardest thing in the world to confess to Mom what Joey had done and that she was pregnant.
Ryn had finally learned it was best to keep the sordid details of her past close and use it to douse her proclivity for men like the one who stood at the counter now. Silently, she bolstered herself up as if building an impenetrable wall between them.
Over the last two years, she’d worked hard to break the cycle. Some might say she’d gone about it all wrong—going cold turkey and isolating herself with absolutely no dating. Lonely, yes. But the silver lining? There’d been no need to refill her birth control pill prescription. And lately, she’d been feeling resilient. Until this moment, she’d thought her Joey-esque days were a thing of the past. Ryn glanced at Kilted again and reminded herself to remain vigilant.
“Here, Tuck.” The clerk shoved a bagged pastry at the kilted man, who now had a name. Next, she gave Ryn a sideways nod and a frown. “Can I help ye with something?” Her words lacked conviction, except sounding somewhat annoyed.
“Are ye lost?” Tuck asked. Probably because Ryn stood there like an out-of-place pillar for way too long.
Ryn straightened. “I’m looking for my cousin.”
“Who might that be?” The woman’s head pivoted from Ryn to Tuck, as if weighing his million dollar smile against Ryn’s relatively simple attributes.
“Lass?” he said. “Who is it ye’re looking for?”
Ryn tightened a grip on her bag, which held the Goodbye quilt. “I’m looking for Maggie Armstrong.”
Tuck’s easy smile evaporated, his perfect face turning grim, and his mouth becoming a stubborn line pulled across his lips. “Why would ye be looking for her here?” His voice wasn’t sweet honey now.
If she was in her element—and in her own country—she would’ve been more bold and chucked his attitude back at him with a What’s your problem? Someone needed to cut his six-foot-three down to four-ten. Instead, she controlled herself. “Earlier, I spoke with Ross Armstrong on the phone. He said Maggie was headed to Whussendale.”
The blood drained from Tuck’s face. “Why?”
Ryn shrugged. “I don’t know. My phone died before I could get any details.”
Tuck turned into a feral mountain lion. Ryn didn’t even know if mountain lions existed in Scotland or not. Regardless, Tuck spun around, leaving his bagged pastry on the counter as he and his kilt marched toward the door.
“Tuck?” called the young woman from behind the counter.
But Tuck soldiered out, slamming the café door behind him.
Ryn and the young woman stared at the door, but for completely different reasons: Ryn was confused, and the clerk was disappointed.
“What was that all about?” Ryn asked.
But the young woman turned and flounced through the saloon doors to the kitchen, as if Ryn hadn’t spoken at all.
Perfect! Was this a preview of how it was going to be in Whussendale? This trip was going swimmingly so far!
So what am I going to do now? Ryn could search for someone else to ask. But what if they snubbed her, too? And where was she going to stay tonight? The village was too small for a hotel. And if Maggie wasn’t here, where did that leave Ryn?
4
Dammit! Tuck stopped just outside the door and exhaled. Gandiegow had caught up to him.
Ten days had passed since Easter. Ten days of driving back and forth. Ten days avoiding the peopl
e of Gandiegow. Ten days to start feeling like himself again. Why did the American lass have to go and ruin it? He stomped across the wool mill grounds toward the weaver’s shop.
One word from her and Whussendale no longer felt like a reprieve. Hugh had been thrilled to have Tuck in town, was fine with the odd-hour work arrangement, and even offered one of his petrol-friendly cars for the drive back and forth to Gandiegow. Tuck liked the young Laird immediately, especially since he hadn’t asked a lot of questions as to why Tuck had come here.
He wasn’t fooling himself. Gandiegow and Whussendale had close ties and surely everyone knew the circumstances as to why he was here.
In Whussendale, Tuck had been able to breathe, deep breaths even, without it hurting so much. Now though, the Yankee lass brought back the crushing guilt which made him feel like shite.
He had a lot of questions, but he didn’t care a whit why the American was here in Whussendale looking for Maggie. The less he knew about Maggie and her goings-on the better. But why had the American come to this small village to find her?
He turned back around and wished he hadn’t. The blasted Yank was hurrying toward him, dragging her roller bag over the yard. He’d never met her before, but he recognized her, which was ridiculous. Maybe he identified with the bone-weary tiredness resting behind her blue-gray eyes…the same weariness that plagued him. If she hadn’t mentioned Maggie, he might have thought she was cute, as she rushed toward him with her tote looped over her shoulder, the bulk of it bouncing up and down as she hurried along.
She wasn’t a classic black-haired beauty or a blond bombshell. This cinnamon-colored ginger with her long locks and smattering of freckles across her nose was just an average everyday lass of medium height. But it was her wholesome quality that pulled him in. She wore the-girl-next-door thing well. And she looked familiar. Really, really familiar. How strange…
Blame It on Scotland Page 4