by Hannah Reed
“You’re in for a treat,” Alec explained with obvious pride after meeting me in the parking lot. “Golf originated here in Scotland during the Middle Ages, then it spread to the rest of the United Kingdom and on to the US, so visiting golfers are keen as mustard to play the greens here.”
Yeah, right. I sure hoped it would be a once-in-a-lifetime event, though I meant it in a different context than Alec would have. The absolutely only reason I was going to suffer through a game of golf was for Vicki’s sake.
This coastal golf course wasn’t like any I’d seen in the States. It was what Alec called a links course. There were no trees to circumvent, little water other than the deep blue sea far across the course, and all the sand dunes were covered with fragrant heather (and its wicked companion, gorse, which I identified immediately and planned to stay far away from).
We teed off. And teed off again. And again.
Even without rain, at this rate we wouldn’t see another hole before night closed in on us and forced us to quit. In spite of the sweet refreshing smell of salt air and the light breeze stirring my hair, I was annoyed with myself and majorly frustrated.
Alec was charming, though, and if he was frustrated with me, it didn’t show. As the inspector had warned me, Alec was quite the lady’s man. He was intensely focused on me and my every need, and I allowed myself to be pampered and appreciated, in spite of the game I knew he was playing. A little attention never hurt a girl’s ego. And these Scottish men really knew how to flirt. It was harmless and fun.
But surprisingly, I didn’t feel any attraction to him. Maybe it was his charm. He had a lot of it. So had my ex-husband.
“Like this,” Alec said, coming up behind me, wrapping his arms around my arms and putting his hands on top of my hands, which were tense as I white-knuckled a golf club. He guided me through the various parts of the swing once again.
“Keep your eyes on the ball. Don’t let them drift. Swing”—our arms went up into the air together—“and follow through.” His arms lingered around me for a few seconds longer than necessary. Then he broke away. “Now, you try.”
There were too many instructions to remember all at once—keep your feet planted this way, knees slightly bent, arms stiff, shoulders relaxed; tilt a wee bit to the right, elbows locked, head down, eyes on the ball. My head was spinning with information overload.
Alec stepped clear. I held my breath, forced my eyeballs to stare at the ground, and swung through, connecting with the ball for the first time. I peered into the distance to follow its trajectory over the fairway, really praying that it traveled straight and true like an arrow, like a bird, like a . . .
Where had it gone?
Alec moved quickly, lunging forward. He reached up over my head, catching the ball as it shot down from directly above. It would have bopped me right on the top of my head. I gave him an embarrassed but grateful smile of thanks.
“My hand and eye coordination is awful,” I murmured unnecessarily after he’d saved me from my next almost self-inflicted injury.
“No one is perfect when they start out,” he said at one point, with white teeth contrasting against his tan skin. “But a woman with a few flaws is much sexier anyway.” He winked.
“It’s going to rain any minute,” Alec finally announced at the second hole to my great relief. “Why don’t we wrap it up for now and have a whisky in the clubhouse.”
I agreed quickly.
Once inside the club, a bald man with an angry expression on his thin, pinched face approached Alec.
“I need a word,” he said, addressing Alec.
“Not now, Warren,” Alec replied with hostility in his voice. “As you can see, I have a guest.”
The man backed away, his face flushed, and we continued into the bar area.
The members of the club wore blatant symbols of wealth—in the style of their haircuts, in the fine jewelry they had on display, in their casual yet pricey golf attire. Even the walls of the clubhouse dripped with elegance.
I felt less than comfortable in this place, immensely preferring my humble table in the back of the Kilt & Thistle surrounded by my writing tools. But I was here on a mission, and that was more important than my comfort level.
Alec’s eyes didn’t wander to the other women in the clubhouse. I was sure of that because I watched him carefully. He might be a player, wooing many women without ever making any kind of commitment, but he was a considerate one. And obviously well-heeled.
While we sipped a locally produced whisky, I made my appeal, not claiming it on Vicki’s behalf, but rather on my own, where I felt I had a better chance of success. First, I went into how his sister and brother-in-law were going after control of the farm in court on Friday, including my assessment of the solicitor’s lack of concern for his client’s best interests. I suspected that Alec probably already knew most of this, but he didn’t let on if he did.
“John Derry has ordered me to leave the farm,” I said next. “And Paul Turner is sure that they will win in court on Friday and have the authority to make that happen. I don’t have any place to go. If only Kirstine would give me a little more time.”
Alec’s expression had given nothing away while I presented my case. When I finished, he said, “Kirstine and I didn’t—and still don’t—see eye-to-eye on the best way to handle the situation after my father’s will spelled out those unfortunate terms. And John is an instigator through and through. His mouth opens before he knows what’s going to come out, but I’m sure he will give you time to find suitable accommodations.”
Not exactly what I’d hoped for. “Finding out about your father’s will must have been a horrible shock for all of you,” I said.
He shrugged as though it hadn’t been that bad, but I noticed that his voice was tight as he responded. “Life is full of surprises.”
“If only your father had thought to update his will before he passed. I’m sorry for all the complications your family has had to deal with.”
“Things have a way of righting themselves. The disposition of the family property and business, for example. A short while ago, we thought we’d lost all claim to our family’s estate. Now it looks like the problem will be solved for us. At great personal cost to a family friend, I must remind you. Gavin Mitchell shouldn’t have lost his life in the process. But in the end, justice will prevail.”
I’d expected him to take his family’s side to some extent, but I’d hoped he’d consider intervening for my sake if not for his stepsister’s, but his response dashed my hope.
Alec smiled as he raised his glass to his lips, took a sip, and said, “Vicki will pay for her crime.” He must have seen the distress on my face, because he quickly added, “But let’s not discuss that. Otherwise, we’ll be back where we were earlier, at a standoff. And I hate to see you upset.”
“I just wish Kirstine would wait a little longer,” I said, “and not try to take advantage of Vicki while she’s a hospital patient, at least give her a chance to defend herself. And I’m not sure where I would stay if John followed through with his threat.”
Alec still wasn’t picking up on my plea, or if he was, he wasn’t rushing in to offer his services. Besides, his sister and her husband seemed to be calling all the shots. Alec was way too busy sporting around.
Shortly after, I made my escape. The skies had opened up while we’d been inside, but I’d refused his offer to get my car for me. As much as I hated driving—and although driving on the left after dark was a new experience, one that scared me—I was glad to have my own transportation. I wasn’t about to get trapped in a confined space with an overly testosteroned male like Alec.
Back at the farmhouse, alone with the two Westies but safely inside with the doors securely locked, I watched the storm rage outside the bedroom window. At some point I must have dozed off. Then some sound startled me awake. I wasn’t sure what it was.
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The sound came again, like nails scraping on a window. Or chalk screeching across a chalkboard. Pepper and Coco rose up on the bed, hearing the unfamiliar sound, too. They began barking, their little bodies trembling with fright.
Just a tree branch scraping against a windowpane, I told myself.
“Shhhh,” I said to the dogs, petting them until they quieted.
Outside, the wind howled.
It was pitch-dark. I turned the switch on the lamp beside my bed. Nothing happened. The farm had lost electricity. The scratching sound came again, and I decided to investigate to reassure myself that there was nothing to worry about.
The canines didn’t follow, content to let me handle any monsters under the bed or in the other room.
After feeling my way along the wall, I paused outside the bedroom when a gush of outside air blew at me. Wind? What was going on? Something clanged to the floor. My eyes began to adjust to the darkness.
Vicki’s knitting needles had fallen from an end table. They’d make a decent weapon if it came to that, so I scooped them up as I rushed to an open window, where the curtains were billowing. I hadn’t left it open; I was sure of it.
A flash of lightning struck close by, framing me in the window, exposing my position to a would-be attacker. I wanted to duck and hide, but instead I held the knitting needles high, gripped like a knife, hoping I looked scary rather than just plain scared. Then I quickly slammed the window shut and locked it in place.
Holding out for a rational and harmless explanation, I roamed the house quietly in the dark, but didn’t find any tree branches close enough to any of the windows to produce the sound I’d heard. And it never came again. If someone had been trying to frighten me, they’d done a good job of it. But if they were trying to scare me away, they didn’t know me well. I was more determined than ever.
Eventually, after making sure all the windows were bolted, I attempted to go back to sleep.
But it was a long night.
CHAPTER 37
The sun rose in a big ball of glory on Thursday morning. Sheep grazed on the hills outside and birds flittered about singing happy songs. A pair of bullfinches called to each other in a thin, piping whistle. And, best of all, the electricity was back on.
Last night had been like a bad dream. Had it really happened? Had someone really been trying to spook me, or had I left the window open without realizing it?
I stood in the open doorway enjoying the scenery when a rugged but muddy Jeep four-by-four pulled up, and a tall young woman wearing jeans, a thick braid down her back, and strange footwear jumped out.
“Charlotte Penn,” she said, walking up, and extending a hand. “I’m Gavin Mitchell’s apprentice sheep shearer. Or . . . rather . . . was his apprentice. Ye must be Vicki.”
I took her offered hand and found that she had a firm grip. “I’m Vicki’s friend, Eden Elliott.”
Charlotte looked past me into the house. “Is Vicki home?”
“I’m sorry, no. She’s in the hospital.”
My visitor looked surprised. “I ran intae Alec MacBride in Inverness on Tuesday,” Charlotte said. “He told me that she had inherited his father’s farmhouse and was living here, but he didn’t mention any medical issues.”
“Would you like to come inside and have some tea while I explain what happened?” I asked, wondering whether to go into specifics of all the drama surrounding Vicki or simply skim the surface. Skimming sounded best. Perhaps she already knew some of it anyway. “Or there’s coffee, if you prefer?”
She shook her head. “Nothing fer me, thanks. I really just stopped by tae introduce myself. I’ve been all over the countryside in the last few days since Gavin’s death, breaking the bad news tae the outlying farmers and shearing their sheep.”
So she hadn’t heard about Vicki. If her Jeep’s condition was any indication she really had been all over the Highlands.
“Hey, Jasper!” Charlotte had turned toward the barn and, sure enough, Jasper was venturing out farther than I’d ever seen him. He was heading right for her. She met him halfway and scooped the big tomcat into her arms.
“You’re a natural with animals,” I told her, smiling and walking over to join them. “Jasper isn’t the friendliest cat I’ve ever met, but he sure likes you, I can tell.”
“Jasper and I are good friends.”
“He was wild at some point, right?”
The big guy started purring as she worked her hands over his fur. “Jasper wasnae a heather cat,” she said. “If that’s what ye thought. This guy gets his wary nature because he was mistreated in his first home. James MacBride rescued him from a life o’ torment.”
So that explained Jasper’s cautious behavior.
I was studying Charlotte’s footwear, which seemed to be some sort of moccasins. When I looked up, she smiled.
I explained my curiosity. “You’re the first person in Scotland I’ve seen wearing moccasins.”
“They’re made o’ felt. I always wear them when I’m shearing so I don’t slip, which is easy tae do with all that oily wool underfoot. Moccasins make moving around much safer. I made several pairs o’ them myself, including these.”
Which I could sort of tell. “They look comfortable.”
“Aye. I wear them most o’ the time.”
Charlotte flipped Jasper onto his back, cradled him like a baby, and stroked his chest. The big feline could have been a rag doll cat; he was that easygoing and mellow with her.
“How long have you been helping Gavin shear sheep?” I asked.
“I’ve been his assistant for several summers . . . or had been . . .” Charlotte teared up. “There aren’t many taking up sheep shearing these days, so I’m the only one around fer now. Gavin does . . . did . . . about sixty farms, and I’m not sure I can keep up by myself. We’d worked our way through many o’ the farms fer this year, but next is going to be difficult.”
Sixty farms! And if each of them had as many sheep as this one! For the first time, I considered the scope of the shearing business. “How many sheep would you say are in the Highlands?”
She put the big cat down and swiped at her eyes with her fingertips. “Counting all the lambs, yearlings, rams, and ewes,” she sniffed, “I’d say several million at least.”
“Amazing!” It really was.
“Nobody knows fer sure,” she said, with a weak smile. “Whenever we get tae counting, we fall asleep.”
We both laughed, and I realized I wanted to get to know this woman better, so I extended an invitation one more time. “Are you sure you don’t want tea?”
“Okay, sure. That would be nice.”
Inside, I put the kettle on, and while the water heated I put out all the trimmings—milk, sugar, and a plate of almond biscuits. While that was going on, I asked Charlotte more about her work, and she went on to explain how important the shearing was for the sheep’s health. “Besides finding the wool useful, a good, close trim keeps flies and maggots away from them.”
“And keeps them cooler in the hot summers?”
“If ye can call our summers hot.” Charlotte grinned.
“You should be in Chicago about now,” I told her, vividly remembering July in the city. “The sidewalks practically sizzle. So count yourself lucky. Especially since you work outdoors.”
As we stirred our tea, I also told Charlotte a little bit about Vicki’s accident, that she must have lost control and gone off the road, and had suffered injuries, but that she would heal with time.
Charlotte would hear the other details of the sordid mess soon enough, I was sure, since the accident was recent local news. “She’s pretty beat-up and both her legs are broken,” I finished, then to stay optimistic, added, “It could have been worse.”
“That’s awful! The poor woman! But there is a very nice rehab facility inside the hospital. She’ll
have the best care.”
Somehow, until that moment, I hadn’t realized what difficulties the immediate future held for Vicki. She had a long road to recovery ahead of her, months and months. And how did a person manage with two broken legs? By wheelchair, of course. And she’d need someone to assist her with daily routines until she could walk again. I could help temporarily, but then I’d be returning to the States.
So much for my commitment to avoid caregiving in the future. But Vicki’s situation was completely different than the nursemaid role I’d played in the past. My friend would recover.
“Does the hospital provide in-home care as well?” I asked, suddenly concerned that Vicki wouldn’t be able to return to the farm for quite a while. What would that do to the claim she had staked at the farm? Would the other MacBrides manage to strip away all her rights to her inheritance, with Paul Turner firmly on their side? Or at the very least, would they manage to take away her control? They certainly were making a bold play for more power.
Charlotte sipped her tea before replying. “I assume the hospital will provide her with whatever she needs. Maybe they’ll want tae keep her in the in-patient rehab program as long as possible.”
A moment of silence stretched across the table before I asked, “Are you going to shear the sheep on this farm soon?” Although the sheep on the hills surrounding the farmhouse weren’t at all shaggy, like some I’d seen coming and going from Glenkillen.
“No, they’ve had their haircuts,” she said. “But I’ve got a few other farms in the area tae finish up.”
“What do you do when you’re not shearing sheep?”
“I’ve finished up my last year o’ veterinary medicine studies in Glasgow,” she told me. “And decided tae leave the care o’ household pets fer others and go intae treating large domestic animals—sheep, cattle, horses. Working with Gavin has helped pay my expenses, as well as keeping me active in the countryside, where I practice with the local vet, who is thinking o’ retiring soon. I never thought I’d take over fer Gavin, but fer now, until someone else can be found, I’ll do it.”