Elias In Love

by Grace Burrowes

  “Let’s find the air conditioning controls,” Elias rejoined, following Dunstan up a narrow, turning set of steps. “Angus assured me all American houses have air conditioning.”

  “Angus lied, of course. Though most houses in Maryland have at least a few window units.”

  The upstairs was even hotter, and because only one window opened on the main hallway, dark as well. Dunstan opened a door revealing a bedroom, the bed unmade but the appointments commodious in a rural fashion. A small fireplace was flanked with worn armchairs, the rug a faded pattern of cabbage roses. A porcelain wash basin sat on top of a heavy bureau, and more cabbage roses adorned the curtains.

  “You’ll want to sleep on the other side of the house,” Dunstan said. “The sun won’t wake you as early.”

  Elias followed him across the hall. “Since when do lawyers concern themselves with sleeping late?”

  “I’m a happily married lawyer,” Dunstan said, his smile smug. “Sleeping late goes with the territory when Jane gets in a particular mood. Now this is lovely.”

  They’d found the master bedroom. The bed was an enormous brass article under a fluffy white eyelet coverlet, a door to the left led off to a full bath. A pair of white wicker chairs faced French doors that opened onto a balcony, and a dead fern sat in a brass pot in a spacious fireplace. The rugs were pale green on polished hardwood, a dusty cheval mirror reflected afternoon sunlight against the far wall.

  “And there’s your window unit,” Dunstan said. “What more could a belted earl want?”

  Elias was too grateful for the sight of the air conditioner to object to Dunstan’s taunt. “That claw foot tub looks good right about now, so I’ll see you on your way.”

  They trooped downstairs, which was relatively cooler, but still filthy with dust. The neglect bothered Elias but so did something else.

  “Where are my camels?” he asked.

  “Your what?”

  “I know the land is mostly farmed by lease, but Angus told me there was significant profit resulting from alpacas or llamas or something of that sort. I don’t see them, I don’t hear them.”

  “And I don’t smell them,” Dunstan said, leading the way out the back door.

  Across the driveway, the barnyard was deserted. No livestock to be seen, though Bruno sat on a fence post like a feline vulture.

  “The bastard sold my livestock before he took off, Dunstan. Angus told me those animals were worth twenty thousand dollars a breeding pair.”

  “Then somebody owes you a quarter of a million dollars for receiving stolen goods,” Dunstan said. “I can help you swear out a complaint against the caretaker.”

  If Elias had had a fine bottle of single malt at hand, he’d have drained the contents at one go, and bashed Dunstan’s hard head with the empty bottle.

  “I’m hot, I’m tired, I flew over the Atlantic Ocean this afternoon, and I’m preparing to share a manky old farmhouse with a shedding frenzy of a cat, Dunstan Cromarty. Spare me your lawyerly posturing. Miss Hughes said the caretaker gambled, and that means my quarter of a million is long gone. Thank a merciful Deity that eight hundred developable acres will be worth many times that amount.”

  And thank the same benevolent God that Elias would soon have privacy, because Angus Whyte was overdue for a sound verbal beating.

  “A few hairy beasts more or less won’t make a difference once the farm is sold,” Dunstan said, as the cat hopped off its fence post. “Make sure you have cell service before I leave. This end of the valley can get a bit dodgy, especially when the weather acts up.”

  Elias swiped his phone on. “Three bars, though I’ve roamed enough that I’m about out of battery. See you Monday, and my thanks to you and Jane.”

  That was Dunstan’s cue to shove Elias’s shoulder or punch his arm in parting. Instead, Elias was pulled in a hug, thumped on the back, and squeezed hard.

  “The Atlantic’s a wee ocean,” Dunstan said, “as oceans go, but I’m glad you’re here.”

  In the next moment, Dunstan grabbed the bag of groceries from behind the truck seat, shoved it into Elias’s arms, and drove the big black truck down the drive.

  The quiet was different from Scottish quiet, but it was still country-quiet. The birds in the hedgerow across the road sang different songs, the scent was more freshly cut hay and less turned earth, but it was still the scent of open fields. The Appalachian Mountains weren’t the Highlands, but they sheltered Damson Valley with the same geological dignity that characterized the Highlands.

  “I lied to my cousin,” Elias informed the cat who appeared to be once again contemplating abuse of Elias’s tailoring. “I’m not sharing my house with you. You get more than eight hundred acres to enjoy, and I’ll bide without your company at the house.”

  The cat went on ahead toward the back door, though the beast was in for a rude surprise. Elias let himself into the house and shut the door in the cat’s disgruntled face.

  A fellow learned to live with life’s little disappointments, like an entire herd of valuable animals being liquidated by a thieving rotter.

  “Nothing to do about that now,” Elias said, setting the bag of groceries on the counter. First order of business was to charge up the cell phone, grab a shower, eat something and take a damned nap. Tomorrow was a day to rest and recover, but then Dunstan had scheduled a meeting with a real estate attorney for Monday morning, and by then Jane’s car—in the shop for brake work—would be available to borrow for the balance of Elias’s visit.

  “And then I’m home,” Elias said to the empty kitchen. The thought gave him a pang, because generations of Scots had gone forth to new lands, never to return home. This sortie to buggy, hot, humid, thief-infested Maryland would have loomed like a penal sentence had Elias’s ticket been one way.

  Home would be another transatlantic flight, but a red-eye, so perhaps he’d be able to sleep through part of it.

  Elias fished his adapter and power cord from his backpack, jammed the adapter into an outlet above the counter, and attached the phone and cord to it.

  Nothing, not a cheery little beep, not a chirp, not the charging icon. He tried another outlet, flipped a light switch, opened the fridge.

  No power, which meant no air conditioning, no water, no lights… no shower.

  “Probably just a fuse,” Elias muttered, except that a trip to the fuse box on the back porch, some flipping of breakers, and a lot of vigorous swearing produced no evidence of electrical current.

  Elias went back into the house, ready to call Dunstan, except… Dunstan and Jane were newly wed, and their house was in an uproar.

  Miss Hughes had invited him to prevail on her for neighborly consideration, after all. Elias had done his share of camping as a youth, and Monday was soon enough to get an electrician out to the property.

  He went upstairs to retrieve an item from his suitcase—he would not arrive to Miss Hughes’ front door empty-handed—then came back down to the kitchen.

  “I’m overdue for some good luck,” he reminded his reflection in a dusty kitchen window. “Scots are resourceful, and we’re determined. What’s a little heat, a little dust and inconvenience, when a man has his wits, determination, the legendary Brodie charm, and a ticket home?”

  He headed for the back door, as a torpedo of orange fur came hurtling through an open window.

  Perhaps American felines had wit and determination too. “Guard the castle,” Elias said, as the cat hopped onto the table. “If you’re a Brodie, then guarding the castle is what you do best.”

  Elias left the cat on the table, snatched up his backpack, phone, adapter and power cord, and prepared to charm his neighbor.

  * * *

  “What brings you into the office on this fine Saturday afternoon?” Maxwell Maitland asked.

  Bonnie Shifler didn’t even look up. She’d been able to type 110 words per minute before Max had learned to crawl, and mere conversation with an attorney wouldn’t slow her down.

  “Derek need
ed his transcript by Monday morning, I needed to go out dancing last night. Ergo, I’m in the office on Saturday.”

  Wrecking Max’s solitude. He’d heard her lacquered nails clicking away on the keyboard, and that had been the end of his ability to concentrate on the new real estate listings.

  “Do you ever consider telling Derek to go to hell when he makes these last-minute demands?”

  Bonnie was a shared resource, meaning Max paid half her salary. She looked well put together even in jeans and a Terrapins T-shirt, and the staff at the courthouse liked her. Derek Hendershot, the other attorney in the office, was responsible for all of her overtime and most of her complaints.

  “I curse Derek Hendershot nightly,” Bonnie said, clicking away, “but I need my paycheck.”

  Stop whining. If Max couldn’t find a good-sized chunk of developable land in the next six weeks, Bonnie’s paycheck would be cut in half, assuming the newly divorced Hendershot didn’t trade her in for a pair of twenties.

  “I’ll leave you to your transcript,” Max said, heading down the hallway to his office. The building was a converted row house in the historic part of town—meaning a leaking roof, creaking floors, and stuck windows came at a premium.

  Bonnie’s typing paused. “Oh, Maaaaax.”

  He didn’t turn around. “Bonnie?”

  “Saw something interesting as I drove in here today.”

  Bonnie lived out in the valley, among the farms and fields west of town. “A loose horse qualifies as interesting to you.” A guy in cowboy boots who could boot-scoot his belt-buckle off interested her more. Bonnie never wanted for lunch dates, which was fine with Max. He got more done when he had the office to himself.

  “So be a shit,” Bonnie said, “and I won’t tell you what I saw. I drive right by the Hedstrom farm though.”

  In country fashion, the locals still referred to the property by the name of the family that had owned it for more than a century. The present owner’s name was Zebedee Brodie—or had been. The old guy had passed away a few weeks ago, and while Max had liked him, he hadn’t liked having his good faith offers for the property tossed back in his face.

  Hadn’t liked that at all.

  Max turned and held his ground twelve feet from Bonnie’s work station. “I can drive by the Hedstrom farm myself.” Though why torment himself? The farm was a developer’s wet dream, in terms of size and location, but not for sale meant not for sale.

  “I saw a guy in a kilt standing around in the driveway,” Bonnie said, flipping over a page of her steno pad. “Saw two guys, actually. Turns out the guy in the kilt was Dunstan Cromarty. He’s married.”

  And thus, even in a kilt, he only registered on Bonnie’s radar because he was an attorney, and legal assistants tended to know the attorneys in a small jurisdiction. Moreover, Cromarty was married to another lawyer, Jane De Luca, and God Almighty probably didn’t turn his back on Ms. De Luca when she was on cross-examination.

  “Cromarty is Scottish,” Max said, propping a shoulder against the wall. “Zeb Brodie was Scottish, and I seem to recall a connection there.”

  Max kept his tone casual, but current was zinging around his mental circuit board. The Hedstrom property had been on his watch list, but the prospect of squabbling heirs, probate, and the pernicious influence of Violet Hughes right next door had made the watching a pessimistic undertaking.

  “Zeb Brodie was hot, for an old guy. That accent, you know.” She winked at Max, and she had a cute wink. He did not wink back.

  “What else did you see beside Cromarty’s knees, Bonnie?”

  “The other guy was very well dressed, tall, had that look, you know?”

  Damn all manipulative women, and the men who disempowered them into being that way.

  “What look?” If she told him the guy looked like a developer, Max would drive his fist through the wall.

  “He looked around as if he owned the place, as if he owned the whole valley. I’d like to see that guy in a kilt, or out of one.”

  “Hostile workplace, Bonnie,” Max said, lest she think he wanted the details of her love life. “So you saw Cromarty and another guy on the Hedstrom property. Thanks for sharing. Unless a drill rig was in the driveway, or you saw perc tests in the hay fields, I’ll get back to work.”

  Bonnie rose and put her hands on her hips. “Why are you such a bastard, Max? In the first place, nobody will do perc tests until the first cutting of hay comes off in the next couple weeks. In the second place, you need to get out more. You’re not ugly, but you sure as hell lack for charm.”

  “Charm,” Max muttered, wrinkling a nose that nobody had ever called handsome. He was six foot two, dark-haired, and prone to working out his frustrations at the gym. Violet Hughes had called him a monster.

  “Charm,” Bonnie said, “is when you take an interest in people. Even Derek has pretensions to charm, though he’s about as transparent as a four-year-old boy eyeing the cookie jar.”

  Charm would not create a project to wave at the board of directors for New Horizons, Inc. Charm would not put the Hedstrom place on the market or give Max more time. The deadline for presenting a new project was July Fourth, and Peter Sutherland did not grant extensions.

  “Derek is a manipulative SOB whose former wife should have dumped him at the altar,” Max said. “What else did you see at the Hedstrom place, Bonnie? We both have work to do.”

  She sat back down, pulled up her document—Bonnie would never leave her chair without closing her file first—and resumed typing.

  “He had a suitcase. The GQ guy with the movie-star shades had a nice big suitcase, and he did not look in the least like a farmer.”

  Bonnie would know. Her people had been working the land for generations, and about all there was to do in Damson Valley was farm—and frustrate developers who might have brought some civilization to the place.

  “You’re suggesting the new owner might have come to see his property,” Max said, his mood shifting from frustrated to… determined. Cautiously determined.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m suggesting. Now, will you go dancing with me?”

  She was almost old enough to be Max’s mom. “Why? Are your cougar creds slipping?”

  “You are an asshole. Derek can’t help himself, but you… I’d go dancing with you, Max, because it’s fun, because you need to get out, because I might be able to introduce you to a sweet young thing you’d like to slow dance with. Forget I offered. You’re hopeless, and I wash my hands of you.”

  Bonnie washed her hands of him at least once a pay period, but the prospect of sharing a dance floor with a bunch of half-drunk, sweaty, horny fools had no appeal. Closing a deal on the Hedstrom property, now that had eight-hundred-forty-three acres of appeal.

  “Sorry to disappoint, Bonnie, but if the new owner is out at the Hedstrom property, then my evening is spoken for. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. You’re still hopeless, but you’re welcome.”

  No, Max was not hopeless. He would get to the Brodie heir—if that’s who this guy was—and whisper in his ear convincingly about large sums of money. Then he would plan the most impressive, beautiful, extensive development central Maryland had ever seen.

  Max would also pound the crap out of Derek if Bonnie had to put in any more unnecessary overtime. The woman earned her weekends, and the added expense was just plain stupid.

  * * *

  Summer nights in western Maryland had to be among the sweetest on the planet, but the nights of late spring were sweeter—before the heat and humidity became oppressive, before the annual bacchanal of spring flowers wound down, and the hardwoods were quite finished leafing out.

  Before the brutal hard work of high summer turned life into one sweaty, exhausted slog after another.

  Violet did her best thinking in the lee of the day, when the work was through, or her energy wrecked, and time on the porch swing beckoned. She’d run out of juice early today, having been up too late the previous night working on
a blog.

  “C’mon guys,” she called to Sarge and Murphy. Their toenails scrabbled against the pine floors of the dining room Violet used as one of her work spaces. “Don’t you ever tire of nosing around the same old yard?”

  The dogs replied by charging up to the screen door, their tails wagging furiously. Murphy had needed two years to learn that bolting through the door was not allowed, so he got an extra pat on the head for being a good boy.

  “Sit, please,” Violet said.

  Two doggy bottoms hit the floor, Murphy’s tail still wagging when he sat.

  “Good boys. Out you go,” Violet said, the spoken cue for leaving the house.

  They exploded off the porch as if freed from years of captivity, the same as they exploded off the porch at least eight times a day. Violet grabbed a knife and a bowl of strawberries from the table and followed.

  “Who in their right mind would live anywhere else, if they had the choice?” she asked the empty porch. At this time of year, the honeysuckle was perfuming the air, the last of the lilacs were blooming on the north side of the barn. Nobody was making hay yet, but the scent of mown grass wafted beneath the floral fragrances. The valley boasted infinitely many shades of green and gorgeous, and the roll of the cultivated fields was the signature of a land of plenty.

  High wispy clouds promised glory to the sunset, and for a moment, all was right with Violet’s world. Late mortgage payments, a hay crop that could be destroyed by a passing shower, and the constant threat of development faded as she sat on her porch steps and got to work capping strawberries.

  She’d snitched several excellent specimens and capped about half the bowl when something attracted Sarge’s notice. He stared across the road, his posture not anxious, but interested. Murphy left off rooting beneath the forsythia and came to attention as well.

  Elias Brodie emerged from the back of the farmhouse, his backpack slung over one shoulder. Not another guy in all of Damson Valley could have pulled off that look—three-piece suit and a leather rucksack—but on him it came across as… confident, natural, just what a well-dressed, well-heeled Scotsman would wear.