A second later, he opened the door and she noticed he held the collars of two humungous dogs. They weren’t barking at her, but they were definitely eager to make her acquaintance by the way they were panting and trying to break free.
Tuck nodded to his charges. “This is the Wallace and the Bruce, Scottish Deerhounds.” He cocked his head, gesturing to her. “Come in. I believe the Laird is upstairs.”
Ryn reached out a hand to each dog, let them sniff her, and then she scratched them behind the ears. She laughed, wishing the rest of Scotland was this welcoming.
The entryway could’ve been in a magazine for Scottish architecture, all rich dark wood. The walls sported stately portraits, intricate tapestries, and a substantial coat of arms. The windows were adorned with heavy draperies, being held back with regal pull ties. The crowning glory of the entryway was the dual staircases with the newel posts caps carved into horses’ heads and thick balusters lathed perfectly in the Baroque style. Ryn ran a hand over one of the horse heads, as if she was giving the horse a good boy rub, but really, she just need to make sure she wasn’t imagining all of this.
An older woman, wearing an apron over her dress, rushed in with a bone in each hand. “Come here, boys.”
Tuck let go and the dogs bounded after the woman. “Mrs. McNabb, Kilheath Castle’s cook,” he explained.
He gestured to the stairs, allowing Ryn to go first with him following behind. They found the group in a large, floral decorated bedroom with massive windows.
“Laird, I did as you asked.” Tuck didn’t wait around to introduce her, but backed out of the room without glancing her way.
The man Tuck nodded to was the same one who’d whisked Tuck away in the Smart Car. He must be the Laird.
The Laird and the young woman beside him both offered Ryn a welcoming smile. But the person she’d come to Scotland to see didn’t acknowledge her existence. Maggie was bouncing a fussy wispy-curly-red-headed baby in her arms while gazing out the window.
The sight made Ryn’s heart clinch. All the babies on the plane and now this. Why did Maggie have to have a baby, too? God must enjoy throwing curveballs at Ryn.
In high school, after the incident, she’d stopped babysitting. She’d done a pretty good job since then of keeping her distance from small children. Occasionally, when she saw babies in the grocery store, Ryn would quickly maneuver her cart away before they got too close. She looked side to side now, but saw no way to escape to a safe distance.
The young woman beside the Laird smiled and stepped forward, offering her hand. “I’m Sophie McGillivray.” Her tone put a question mark on the end as if to say “And you are?”
“I’m Ryn Breckenridge.” Ryn hesitated. “Maggie’s cousin.”
Maggie glanced her way at the mention of her name, but she seemed too distracted to absorb what Ryn had said.
She had been so anxious to meet Maggie and give her the Goodbye quilt. Now Ryn was anxious for another reason. And after what Tuck told her, now wasn’t the time to blurt out that Ryn’s mother—and Maggie’s childhood friend—was dead.
“You caught us at an awkward time,” Sophie said.
Ryn fit right in as she felt awkward, too. “I’m sorry for barging in like this.”
“Nonsense.”
At that moment, there was a ruckus and whoever caused it was coming up the stairs and their way. Two women appeared with a boy between them. The taller one had the boy by the collar, and he was struggling to get away.
“I don’t know what ye’re going to do with him,” the taller one said.
The boy ran to Maggie—she must be his mother—and wrapped his arms around her waist, though he had to work at getting his hug by shifting the baby’s legs. The little girl squawked in protest.
Maggie cocked her head at the shorter woman. “Sinnie, take Irene.” And she handed off the baby.
Maggie knelt down and put her arms around the boy while she gave him eye contact. The distant woman of a moment ago was present for her son. Her pinched eyebrow relaxed and a softer side of Ryn’s cousin became clear. “Dand, I know this is a big change.”
“I don’t want to be here,” he cried.
Maggie smoothed back his dark hair. “This isn’t easy for any of us. I need ye to be a big boy for me and for yere da. Ye’ll have to be the man of the house until Da gets back and on his feet.”
It was the perfect thing to say. The boy’s expression went from pitying himself to determination. He stood taller and nodded at his mother.
“Thank ye.” She kissed him on the head and hugged him tight.
Ryn felt really uncomfortable now. She was an outsider, standing in the middle of an intimate family moment.
“How about we give Maggie a minute alone before she has to leave?” Sophie said. “We’ve biscuits and tea in the kitchen.”
Dand perked up, wiggled out of his mother’s arms, and was the first one out the door.
None of this was the way Ryn had imagined. She had expected the storybook version of her coming to Scotland, where she’d be accepted into the family fold with a jolly family dinner with hugs and laughter all around. She likely would’ve heard stories about her mother and the antics the two cousins had gotten up to. Before coming, there was no doubt in Ryn’s mind that she and Maggie would’ve had an instantaneous bond. But the truth was Maggie was eight years older and seemed to have little in common with Ryn, besides sharing the same family tree.
Maggie was a wife and mother, and at a totally different place in her life. Ryn, though, would never be a mother…a decision that had grown over time and one that had nothing to do with terminating her pregnancy. And everything to do with how she’d grown up.
Ryn knew her mother loved her, but Mom never embraced parenting. Mom, though, always held motherhood at arm’s length and treated Ryn more like a younger sister than a daughter. Kind of like the Gilmore Girls, but without the warm-fuzzies. Early on, Ryn understood she was a lot of work for her mother—on bad days a nuisance and on good days a tolerable roommate. At times, Ryn felt cheated, like when she visited her friends’ homes and their mothers acted motherly.
Despite her mother’s shortcomings, Ryn loved her mother. When Ryn was little, she used to think it was her fault her mother was always on edge. But she’d come to realize that Mom was doing the best she could in a bad situation. Mom had been only eighteen when she’d given birth to Ryn, and nurturing just wasn’t Mom’s thing.
And getting married isn’t my thing. Ryn’s track record with men was dreadful. She’d come to the conclusion that good men weren’t only hard to find…they just didn’t exist! Besides, she’d done fine on her own these last two years, and only lonely some of the time.
Suddenly Ryn’s mood plunged, making her feel more cut off than before, and it didn’t help that Maggie continued to ignore her. Sure, it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with the circumstances surrounding Maggie’s husband’s accident. But knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.
“Come.” Sophie stood at the door with pinched eyebrows, her concerned gaze fixed on Ryn.
Ryn gave Maggie one more glance, held her tote tight, then followed Sophie out the door.
“Are ye hungry?” Sophie said.
Ryn nodded, still a little shell-shocked.
“We’ll get ye something more substantial than biscuits, then I’ll find a place for ye to stay. I believe the potter’s cottage is ready.”
“The potter’s cottage?” Ryn asked.
“Hugh has plans to turn Whussendale and the woolen mill into a tourist hotspot. He wants to bring in artisans to round out the village, offering more than just woolen products.”
Ryn followed Sophie down the stairs into the kitchen, which was a huge open room, big enough to house a full kitchen staff. Near the open hearth was a simple long dining table made of oak. There Dand sat, scarfing down a stack of cookies.
Sophie turned to Ryn. “I should introduce you to yere other cousins.”
�
��Other cousins?” Surely she meant the boy, Dand.
The taller woman took the baby from Sinnie. “I’m Rowena, Maggie’s sister. And this is Sinnie, the other sister—the baby of the family.”
Sinnie rolled her eyes at her sister.
Once again, Ryn felt discombobulated, and it wasn’t just because the baby in the room stared at Ryn with pure curiosity. Why hadn’t Mom said something about the sisters? She’d only talked of her wee cousin Maggie.
Rowena peered at her, as if she understood Ryn’s confusion. “Sinnie and I are after thoughts. We came along much later. I expect that we’re closer to yere age. I’m twenty-six and Sinnie is twenty-two.”
“Almost twenty-three,” Sinnie piped in.
Ryn nodded. “I’m twenty-eight. Three weeks ago.” She’d spent her birthday alone, packing up her mother’s things.
Sinnie smiled at her. “I’m sure we’ll be fast friends.”
Those were the most comforting words Ryn had heard since she’d set foot in Scotland.
Dand stood and wiped crumbs from his clothes. “I’m going to the loch.”
Rowena set Irene to her feet, and like a newborn colt, the little one wobbled toward her brother. “We’ll go to the loch together.”
“I don’t need ye to go with me,” Dand whined. “I’m not a baby.”
At that, Irene began fussing. Sinnie gave her a cookie and the red-haired angel smiled.
“Aye, ye’re not a babe, Dand,” Rowena said. “But I’m going with you anyway.”
Dand complained all the way out the door, but Rowena stubbornly stayed close, as if bound to the boy with invisible thread.
Sophie turned to Sinnie. “I’m taking Ryn to the potter’s cottage. Do you and Irene want to come along?” She glanced upward as if thinking of Maggie in the rooms above.
Sinnie picked up Irene and adjusted her on her hip, kissing the top of her head. “What do you think, little bug. Would a nice walk put ye to sleep?”
They all returned to the front door and retrieved Ryn’s luggage. Outside, the sky was gray and the air thick with humidity.
“It’s dreich today,” Sophie said. “Dreary weather.”
They hadn’t taken four steps from the castle before Sinnie began her interrogation. “So, Cousin Ryn, where do ye hail from in America?”
“Dallas, Texas, these last five years.” Ryn had been transferred there with her big corporate job. When they’d downsized, she’d gone on her own and had made a decent living until Mom needed her. “But five months ago, I moved in with my mother in Minneapolis.” The winter had been hell—both the weather and watching her mother die.
“What brings ye to Scotland?”
That was a loaded question. But Ryn answered anyway. “Did you know about my mom? She and Maggie were close at one time.”
Sinnie frowned. “No. I knew we had relations in the States but nothing more.”
Since Ryn was a young girl, she’d dreamed of meeting her family in Scotland. But apparently, her Scottish clan hadn’t given a thought to her or her mother. Ryn felt embarrassed and kept facing forward so they wouldn’t see her disappointment. Maybe this trip was for naught. A fool’s errand.
Sinnie touched her arm. “Hold up. I have to tell you something about Maggie. She doesn’t share things easily. Because of our age difference, she tends to act more like a mum to me and Rowena, instead of a sister.”
That did appease Ryn’s bruised feelings.
The crunch of gravel from behind, had them stepping to the side of the road as Maggie in the white van passed.
“Maggie’s off to see John,” Sinnie said. Irene had indeed drifted off to sleep on her aunt’s shoulder. “He had an accident and is in the hospital.”
“Tuck told me. I’m so sorry.”
Nothing else was said as they walked the rest of the way to the wool mill compound. Ryn took a moment to glance along the row of buildings. Some had signs out front—like Dye Shed, Mill, and Weaving Shed—while other buildings remained unnamed. Sophie led them to a path that wound behind the complex.
“So how is my cousin…” Sinnie paused as if searching for a name.
“My mom’s name is Kathy,” Ryn provided. This was the time to say something about her mother’s death, but the whole ordeal felt too raw just to say, ‘she died.’ Since losing Mom, Ryn couldn’t count on keeping her composure, as her tears had a mind of their own, streaming from her eyes at the most inopportune times.
“Are ye all right?” Sinnie asked, touching her arm.
Ryn didn’t realize that she’d stopped in the middle of the path. “Yes. I’m fine. It’s just—” she took a deep breath “—my mother passed away last month.” Repeating those words felt surreal and she’d never get used to saying it. She’d been by her mother’s side when she’d taken her last breath, she’d picked out a casket, and surprisingly Ryn didn’t completely lose it when she stood over her mother’s grave. But still, every cell in Ryn’s body proclaimed it was only a bad dream. How could it be possible her mom was gone?
“Oh, no.” Sinnie moved closer, reaching out a hand and gently touching Ryn’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”
As if closing ranks, Sophie sidled up to Ryn’s other side, patting her back.
Just then, it occurred to Ryn what Sinnie and Rowena were suffering through also. She touched Sinnie’s arm. “I’m so sorry to hear about your father. Tuck told me.”
“Thank you,” Sinnie said, looking stoic instead of sad. “We’re okay. He wasn’t an easy man.”
Ryn understood firsthand how parent-child relationships could be complicated.
“Come now,” Sophie said. “Let’s get ye to the cottage.”
The three of them went silent. What little comraderie between them was now riddled with sadness and thoughts of the ones they’d lost. Ryn had ruined it with her announcement, and it hadn’t helped that her words were choppy while doing it, and her voice hitched here and there. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t glance over and catch either one of their eyes right now, as she felt way too self-conscious for being an emotional mess.
Sophie led them to the first cottage on the left side of the little horseshoe of homes. Oddly, the potter’s cottage sported two doors, sitting close together—the left one red, the right one blue. Sophie took them to the red door, but pointed to the blue. “The blue one’s Tuck’s cottage. For now.”
Ryn wondered what she meant by for now, but didn’t ask. As she glanced down the row, she realized several of these duplex cottages existed amongst detached ones, but each door had been painted a different bright color.
Sophie pulled out the key and unlocked the door. “The inside has been refurbished and the electrical updated.” She pointed to Ryn’s sewing machine. “I’m sure ye’ll put the electrical to good use.” She held the door wide.
Ryn stepped in first and stopped. Light flooded in through the windows, highlighting the cheery interior, speaking to her girly side. “It’s perfect.” Each window had been covered with different fun plaid fabrics, set on the diagonal. Someone had wanted to instill a bit of whimsy in this one-room cottage and the room wore it well. A bed sat at the far wall, a kitchenette on the right side of the cottage, and a loveseat was placed in front of an empty hearth.
“So ye like it?” Sophie beamed at her, knowing full well that Ryn did. She held out the key. “It’s all yeres.”
“What about the potter?” Ryn asked, though she was looking a gift horse in the mouth.
“We haven’t found him or her yet. You enjoy it for as long as ye’re here.”
Baby Irene sighed in her sleep.
“Why don’t ye lay her on the bed?” Sophie said to Sinnie.
Sinnie strode over and carefully laid the child down. Next, she stacked pillows around her, as if building a protective wall. When she was done, she turned to Ryn and put her hands on her hips, smiling.
“Now, Cousin Ryn…tell us why ye’re clutching yere bag the way that ye do.”
* * *
; John was sick to death of lying in this hospital bed. “Day twelve,” he muttered to himself. He looked out the window. The damned the nurse had pulled the curtains for him to see the rain beat against the glass, punishing it, exactly as he was being punished.
He glanced down at his upper arm, where half of it was missing, and then down to the empty space where his right hand used to be. The doctors said he was lucky, but he sure as hell didn’t feel lucky. “More like cursed.”
He’d worked hard at being a good man all his life. He’d become a fisherman, following in his da’s footsteps. John had watched out for his brothers when Da had died suddenly of a heart attack, four-plus years ago. John had been a faithful man to both his wife and the Almighty. He hadn’t missed a Sunday service in years. Yet, here he laid, less than a whole man. He looked up at the ceiling, searching for heaven. What had he done to deserve this?
The rain came down even harder, making him think of rough days at sea on the family fishing boat. “It was better than this.” Anything was better than being trapped in this net of an effing hospital. He couldn’t get anyone to tell him when he could leave this damn place…or when he could go back to work. Every time he asked, the doctor would sidestep. Then afterward, he’d hear Maggie and the doctor whispering in the hallway. Something about a possible second surgery. Even whispering more about fishing. Surely, they wouldn’t keep John from doing the work he loved. The work he was born and bred to do.
A knock sounded on the frame of his open door. “Come in.” He didn’t look to see who it was. He was tired of the villagers giving him pitying glances when they thought he wasn’t looking.
Father Andrew, in his blasted white cleric’s collar, strolled into his peripheral vision. The young Episcopal priest took up his post directly in front of John, blocking his view of the storm outside. “How are ye today?”
John wasn’t in the mood for niceties. “How do ye think I am?” He sounded bitter, and why shouldn’t he? The Almighty’s representative had both of his appendages and didn’t need help steadying his left hand as he brought his shaky spoon up for a bit of broth. John glared over at the tray with the cold bowl and offending spoon, which waited to be taken away.
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