I looked forward to seeing Maggie each week for our sessions. Besides bringing her high energy and knowledge, she made a point of bringing a batch of Pete’s fresh baked scones. Although I didn’t get around much, and so couldn’t confirm the validity of my opinion, I would vouch that Pete, Maggie’s chef and right hand, made the best scones in Ross-shire. (I liked to call it simply the shire; every time I remembered I lived in a shire a goofy smile would take over my face and I got a little giddy.)
Topped with homemade jam and clotted cream, Pete’s scones were unbeatable. If I thought I could steal him away from Maggie to work at Glenbroch . . . but that wasn’t going to happen. Pete’s loyalties belonged utterly to Maggie. And my relationship with Maggie was far more important to me than trying to steal her chef. Besides, she had a chef in mind for Glenbroch.
Getting out and working on the estate had become the best part of my day. Who would have thought I’d enjoy the hard physical work of the estate so much? Still, I welcomed the breaks when they came. The couple of trips to Aberdeen to meet with the marketing team were long, but the picturesque drive across the country was well worth it, and the journey made a nice change in my routine. Both times I’d gone over I’d stayed the night, giving me much needed downtime and a chance to do some shopping and see a movie. I appreciated a city much more now that I didn’t have to live in one.
The marketing team proved to be sharp and insightful, and with Jim and Maggie’s help, bookings began to fill the first season’s calendar. Once the initial flurry of getting the plan organized and off the ground was over, most of my meetings with the Aberdeen team would be by phone or video call as we headed into winter. I might not need to make a trip over to the big city again before spring.
Jim and I had decided to install a shearing operation in the old barn so we wouldn’t have to transport the sheep elsewhere. The twenty-minute trip out to the barn took me along a road shrouded by trees most of the way. It was a beautiful drive—one I was happy to have to myself. Leaves dropped onto the road as if poured from a bucket, warning me that fall would pass as quickly as it had come.
The old barn stood alone at the edge of a field. Only a few stones remained, nearly buried amidst the ferns and tall, sundried bracken, to prove a little home had also existed once. The building had housed people, probably a family, likely MacKinnons. Centuries of history lay in the fields of the estate, but there had been no time to explore after my first couple of days here.
I wiggled my key into the barn door’s lock, nearly breaking it off.
Note to self—buy a replacement lock.
The thought that people locked barns more often than houses made me chuckle. Opening the barn’s sliding metal door turned into yet another struggle. I shoved my weight against it and then tried to pull from the other edge of the door, but it scarcely budged. I didn’t care to be found waiting for the guys to show up to open the door. I strained against the metal until it gave a deep groan and screeched a few inches along its track. I had nearly wedged my body into the narrow gap for leverage when a motorcycle roared around the curve of the road. The rider parked, clicked off the engine, swung himself off the bike, and pulled off his helmet.
What was Ben doing here? I ignored him and kept working on the door.
“Need some help?” he asked.
“It’s stubborn, but I can manage.” I retrieved a hammer from the Beast and banged on the door’s edge.
Ben yelled over the hammer’s loud clanging. “Jim mentioned meeting you and Henry to clean out the barn for shearing instead of using Henry’s place. I said I’d muck in and lend a hand.”
My brows knitted together. “I can’t imagine why we would need your help.”
Ben grabbed the hammer mid-swing and leaned in, too close. “Let me try. Step back.”
I didn’t move. “I can manage.”
“Aye, I know you can. But we don’t have all day, now do we?”
Narrowing my eyes in disgust and frustration, I stepped away. He was right. I couldn’t budge it any further.
Ben grunted, sweat breaking out on his face as he heaved his body against the door’s edge. Watching him struggle gave me a measure of satisfaction. Whether it was the biker vibe or watching a man break a sweat from hard work, for a moment I forgot he was Ben MacIver. He was a fine-looking man after all.
He caught me smiling at my wayward thoughts and shot me a grumpy look. “Since you find it so funny, why don’t you have a go at it again?”
I shrugged, relaxing my face in my best attempt at a bored expression, even though it amused me to stand and watch. “Better you break a sweat than me.”
Jim’s truck appeared, rescuing me from my wandering thoughts. He and Henry stepped out and then Bethanne. I had not expected to see her and forced a smile, trying to clear the disappointment from my face. Working together at the house was proving more than enough of a challenge.
Bethanne ignored me and approached Ben. “Well, fancy seeing you here. Won’t be such a bad day after all.”
She set her eyes on me, sweeping a glare up and down, condescension replacing her attempt at sultriness. “I spoke too soon.”
My eyes met Jim’s. He gave a faint shake of his head, a reminder of his advice that echoed Calum’s—I couldn’t afford to buy out her contract right now.
Leave her alone until you get Glenbroch open and running; fend off the MacIvers and then you can deal with her contract and sort out a way to make her position redundant, Jim had said.
Redundant was a word made for Bethanne Ferguson. If ever I could prove she’d cut the gate, I could break her contract. But I couldn’t prove any of my suspicions . . . yet.
Sauntering over to Henry, I looped my arm through his. I was glad to have him present. I needed all the support I could summon to help me deal with the nutter throwing her nasty comments around and sidling up next to Ben.
”You tell us all what we need to do,” I told Henry. “You’re the expert.”
“It’ll not be too difficult. We’ll get it cleaned out and then set up two holding areas along with a paddock. With all of us here, we should be finishing the job well before dark.”
Henry joined Jim and Ben in unloading lumber from the truck’s bed.
“Okay, you heard Henry. Let’s knock this out,” I said, looking at Bethanne.
Bethanne and I both reached for the pitchfork in the back of Jim’s truck. I held the tool with a firm grasp and pushed the handle of a shovel toward her. “Henry will give you your instructions. Take this and go with him.”
She stood still, not releasing the pitchfork.
“Take the shovel and go to work, or walk back to the house and go home, without pay,” I said in a calm, level voice.
She shook her head, her eyes frigid. Her expression communicated she wasn’t done with me. I braced for the tension between Bethanne and me to set off an explosion.
Ben’s voice, coming from the barn, lifted above our dispute. “I don’t agree with how you’re planning to do this, Henry. We need to set up the pens at this wall.”
Henry gave a sharp laugh. It didn’t sound like he found anything funny. “I’ve worked out the plan. We’ll be sticking to it.”
“And how is it your property or your decision?” Ben asked, his voice losing its diplomacy.
“How is it yours, MacIver? Ellie will decide.”
“I have a financial interest and I’m telling you your plan doesn’t make sense. We need to put the pens against this wall,” Ben said.
“I don’t care how much money you have in this place. It’s not yours. Back off. We’re following my plan.”
Leaving Bethanne outside, I strode into the barn with the pitchfork in my hands and came to a stop between them. “What’s going on?”
“MacIver doesn’t agree with my plan to set up the holding pens.”
“Let me hear the options,” I said.
After hearing both of their plans, I had to agree with Ben. I loathed siding with him over Henry, which is
what it would look like. But this was business.
Taking Henry’s arm, I led him away. “You know the last thing I want to do is agree with a MacIver, but what Ben’s saying makes sense.”
Henry’s jaw clenched and his face turned bright red. I thought he might pass out or explode. “You’re making a mistake, Ellie. This isn’t the right decision.”
Digging the end of the pitchfork into a pile of hay, I stood my ground. “It seems right to me. I’m sorry, but we’re doing it how Ben suggested.”
Jim approached and touched Henry’s shoulder. Henry’s entire body jerked back from Jim’s hand, but Jim stepped in front of him to break the angry stare he was aiming in Ben’s direction.
“Henry, give it a rest, eh?” Ben said, moving toward Jim and Henry, gearing up for a confrontation.
“Ben, let it go,” I reached out and touched his arm. Henry’s eyes locked in on my hand and his forehead creased with concern. I withdrew my hand from Ben’s arm, wondering myself what I was doing. Anything I did, when it came to Ben, escalated tensions.
After Jim had managed to direct Henry outside, Ben turned to me. “What has wound him up?”
“I don’t know.”
Bethanne leaned on her shovel, watching us. I dragged my fingers down the pitchfork handle in a warning to her.
“Let’s go out the back of the barn,” I said, tilting my head in Bethanne’s direction and Ben nodded. I shot Bethanne a look that dared her to follow.
When Ben and I stood outside, I leaned my pitchfork against the side of the barn and wiped the sweat, which had sprouted from nerves rather than heat, off my brow. The cold air mixed with stress and sweat made me shiver.
“Henry doesn’t care for MacIvers anywhere near Glenbroch. Can’t say I’m wild about it, either.”
“Speak your mind, why don’t you!” Ben’s jaw pulsed with anger. “I’m trying to help and all you see is an enemy. I understand why you might, but you need to get one thing clear: I’m not my father. If you could see—och, no never mind.”
Ben stormed away, brushing off Bethanne’s grab on his arm. He strode through the barn and out the front. I heard the motorcycle’s engine rev and the rough spin of tires. I turned the corner at the back of the barn and watched Ben disappear around the bend in the road.
Re-entering the barn, I found Bethanne standing inside, a smirk curving her lips. “I don’t need to get in your way. You’re making a right bourach of it all by yourself.”
Lifting the pitchfork that was still in my hands, I met her eyes. She and I glanced down at the tines, facing toward her, and back up at each other. Taking in a long, slow breath, determined not to act on my thoughts, I then let out a loud exhale and plunged the fork into a pile of dirty hay, tossing the clutch into the wheelbarrow.
Let her think what she will.
October wore on, bringing more bitter temperatures. I now understood about the heating and didn’t often turn on the central heat—the cost of utilities ran much higher than in the States. In my effort to keep expenses down, I was getting used to old-fashioned means of keeping warm and took a hot water bottle, sometimes two, to bed each night. I had come to prefer the “hotties,” as Maggie referred to them, and radiator heat over forced air.
But today was the first time I’d driven anywhere with one of the faux fur-covered hotties perched on my lap. The Beast’s heater seldom warmed up until I’d driven down the road a good ten miles and most days I didn’t go much farther than that. Anna usually came to Glenbroch with Jazz and we headed out into my fields to work with him. More than a week ago, she extended an open invitation for afternoon tea, and I’d mustered up the courage to visit the MacIvers.
Did John or Ben know Anna and I spent time together?
The MacIvers’ lane led away from the loch, sheltered by trees still releasing the last of their color. Leaves in shades of russet, saffron, and coral fell on the Land Rover, designing a bright collage on the hood. The sparse branches afforded me a clearer view of the curving hills stretching out across the horizon. I could imagine the stark silhouette of bare tree limbs frosted with clumps of snow, the road’s sloping edges filled with drifts, hills draped in thick gauze, fields hibernating. I rolled down the window and breathed in the smell of cool, wet earth after a soft rain, the sharp scent of pine needles, the mustiness of disintegrating leaves.
Thanksgiving was six weeks away, then my first Christmas in Scotland, and right after would be Hogmanay, the Scottish New Year’s Eve celebration. Although excited to experience Scottish traditions, I had never counted the holidays among my favorite times of the year. I endured them; they were designed for people who had people. And I didn’t.
Glenbroch’s potential new chef, Jenna Cooper, the woman Maggie recommended, met with me and we agreed to do a test run on a Thanksgiving dinner. We would see how we worked together and how Jenna handled unfamiliar dishes as she had not prepared a Thanksgiving meal before. I would get to sample a couple of her signature dishes as well.
Jenna was a tiny ball of pure energy who had spent the previous ten years working in resorts across Europe. She had developed her own approach to food, ran a successful blog, and was a whiz with social media. She would attract guests simply because of her reputation, but it was her ideas for growth and the chemistry between us that excited me most. Jenna was the kind of person I could partner with. And I figured the only way I could possibly keep Glenbroch was by working with people who offered more than help. I needed people who stood with me, people I could learn to count on. Jenna understood what I was up against with the MacIvers and wanted to support the cause to save Glenbroch in any way she could.
Maggie thought she would be perfect, and I was glad Jenna thought Glenbroch was a great opportunity. It was to my benefit that she had grown up in a neighboring village and wanted to put down roots near her parents.
Jenna spoke to the butcher and grocer to order the turkeys and fresh cranberries. Glenbroch’s gardens would furnish the organic vegetables for Jenna’s rumbledethump, a concoction of potatoes, onions, and cabbage. She had brought a batch over one day to sate my curiosity. The dish was pure comfort food, thick and satisfying, like an amped up version of mashed potatoes.
Rumbledethump—now that was a name for a dish. Hearing Jenna or anyone with a soft Highland accent pronounce the word with the guttural “r” and different turn of the vowels brought a smile to my face.
The Thanksgiving dinner idea had grown, along with people’s curiosity about the new chef, until nearly everyone working on the renovation had been added to the invite list, including Ben. It made good sense from a community point of view to invite Anna and John, but I couldn’t sit down to a Glenbroch dinner with that man. It was too civil. Yet, people here had a history of extending kindness and meals to friends and enemies alike. And not inviting Anna and John would look inhospitable, not a good trait for the owner of a local guesthouse. I would ask Anna today.
I pulled up to the front of the MacIvers’ house, and Anna appeared at the door, Jazz bounding past her. As I stepped out, he pulled up short in front of me, trembling with barely contained excitement. Ruled by his training, he refused his urge to jump up on me.
“Morning, handsome.” Squatting down, I buried my face in his neck—he smelled of a fresh bath—and stroked his silky hair. His body grew quiet with contentment. “Ready to work today?”
He whined softly in confirmation.
“Hi, Anna.” I opened my arms for her embrace and quick kiss on each cheek.
“Come in, see the house. Then we’ll have us some tea and a quick catch-up before we take Jazz out.”
“Sounds lovely.”
Eager to see the house, I quickly stripped off my wellies at the door. Of course I was intrigued by the MacIver home. Truth was Ben still occupied a space inside me. This was the house he’d grown up in. And I was curious.
The blend of elegant fabrics, timeworn furniture, and fishing and sports photos showed this house was loved by a woman and shared with
outdoorsy men. In a large sitting room, baskets of coal and wood sat next to a fireplace, its fire lit and stoked. Anna ushered me into an open plan kitchen—its centerpiece a white, five-oven Aga like the one in Glenbroch’s main kitchen—and onto one of the stools gathered around a large, gray marble-topped island.
“While the water is coming to the boil for our tea, let me show you the upstairs.”
“Right behind you.”
I followed her, appreciating the thick, soft wool of the stairs’ runner under my socked feet. My relationship with Anna picked at an old longing. Being with her drove up the few memories I had of my parents and made me long for the life that might have been if that guy hadn’t gotten in his car drunk and jumped over the lane, hitting my parents’ car head on. He’d taken everything from them and deposited a solid mass of pain in me that squatted down, refused to leave, and over time wound itself around my heart, staking out a permanent home.
Anna was more effusive and outspoken than my mother, from what I could remember. Although quiet and not terribly demonstrative, my mother had loved me, and I was sure Anna loved her boys at least as much. I wanted to know what had led her to choose John as her husband. The choice didn’t make sense to me, but it wasn’t a line of questioning one should broach.
“I’ll warn you the boys’ rooms haven’t changed since they were at home. I need to redecorate eventually. Ben only moved into his cottage a couple of years ago after he finished its renovation. I was happy to have him in the house as long as I did, although he was never around much. Logan and Andrew’s rooms are here, side by side.” She opened the nearest door. “This is Logan’s.”
Tidy, simple. Medals and sports equipment covered walls, shelves, and corners.
She opened the next door over. “Andrew’s room.” The space was nearly the same as Logan’s room, although photos of a horse and a young man riding it decorated the walls.
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