Unwrapped Bundle with You Don't Know Jack & Bad Boys in Kilts

by Erin McCarthy

  It mattered little that the reason for the call was a joyful one. Far be it from Brodie not to use the rare occasion of a conversation with the youngest Chisholm to point out his failures. Failures according to Brodie, anyway. Ungrateful, the lot of them, he thought grouchily. His brother would be lucky if he brought so much as a bottle of wine as an engagement present. Cocky bastard. How a fine young woman like Kat Henderson had ever agreed to latch herself to his miserable hide for all eternity…well, if Tristan didn’t know better, he’d think she’d been sipping too much ale at Brodie’s pub. Lord knows he’d have to be falling down pissed to even consider tying himself to anyone.

  “I dinnae need to be scolded like a wet lad,” he informed Brodie when his older brother finally took pause for a breath. “I’m perfectly capable of seeing to my own needs, carnal and otherwise, thank you very much. And ye wonder why I prefer the company of my flock.”

  He rolled his eyes heavenward when Brodie made the obvious joke, but didn’t bother to rise to the bait. He was long since used to this treatment.

  Sighing wearily, knowing he was more disgusted with himself, really, after another disappointing afternoon of trying to coax his muse to the surface, Tristan listened to Brodie continue his very amusing soliloquy on the state of his youngest brother’s love life, or sorry lack thereof. He finally lost patience with both brother and the age of technology that made invading his privacy out here in the wilds as easy as punching in a few numbers into a plastic keypad. He didn’t bother to ring off. He merely clicked his mobile phone closed and pocketed it. Handy thing, that little automatic OFF button. Let them call him a social misfit—he was perfectly happy with that moniker if it meant he got to stay out here, far away from the maddening crowds, aka his brothers and the other nosey villagers. If his siblings wanted their brotherly attentions reciprocated, they’d soon learn not to ride him every chance they got.

  He stared down at the mess of charcoal streaks masquerading as the distant, late afternoon skyline and shook his head as he flipped the cover back over the pad. He’d thought perhaps returning to the more rustic rudiments of charcoal would free him up a little. Watercolors hadn’t done it the week before. Nor pastels the week before that. He refused to even consider a pallet of oils. Autumn was turning the hills into brilliant rainbows of color, second only to the rebirth of spring for inspiring his artistic soul. Through at least half of his twenty-seven years, he had documented each of them in the way that moved him most. No two seasons, no two renderings, had been the same. He took great pleasure in finding something new at the turn of each and every season, each and every year.

  For some time now, however, it appeared as if inspiration had finally deserted him. He couldn’t even rediscover the old, much less tap into anything resembling fresh and new.

  “Jinty!” Tristan whistled for his four-legged companion, then when the border collie pricked her ears and looked in Tristan’s direction, he gave her the signal to begin rounding up the sheep. With Jinty barking and yipping as she raced to and fro, Tristan gathered up his things. He stowed them in his pack and began climbing down the back side of the rocky outcropping, before hiking around the base of it, back toward the glen. He was halfway down when he heard the first true grumblings roll across the heavens. It took another twenty minutes to hike the path that led around to the field where Jinty was still collecting strays and to regain a view of the setting sun on the horizon.

  The encroaching storm wasn’t so distant now. He’d gauged the front to be moving far slower than it was, which was unusual for him, as it was his business to be able to read those kinds of signs. It wasn’t much beyond half past three in the afternoon, but this time of year it was full dark by five, and with the storm darkening the skies, that timetable would be accelerated. Apparently he’d been more distracted by the call than he’d realized, even as he admitted it was likely the frustration with his sketches that had caused him to lose track of time. Brooding again, his brother Reese would tell him. But Tristan didn’t brood. Thinking, pondering, wondering, those things he did. Entirely different.

  He whistled again and gave a sharp hand signal. Jinty shot toward him, raced around his legs, then took off to her post on the far side of the field. Picking up the pace, he and the collie moved as a team, herding the small cluster of sheep he’d come up here to round together so he could push them back down the valley where they could rejoin the main thrust of the herd.

  Lightning strikes streaked east and west through the rapidly darkening sky, but Tristan kept his steady pace. He’d get them back to the front fields before the worst of it hit, but he’d likely take a bit of the brunt of it himself before he saw the inside of his own four walls this evening. Ah well, it wouldn’t be the first time. And there was nothing in his backpack worth worrying about preserving, that was for sure. A little rain might even improve his lines a little.

  By the time he and Jinty had shuffled the stragglers through the narrow pass into the lower valley, it was dusk bordering on dark, and thin drops of rain began to spit from the skies above. Stacked stone fences sectioned off the valley floor like a giant game of tic-tac-toe. He shoved the gate closed behind him as he entered the first of several walled fields spread out ahead of him, each a good twenty acres square, content to leave the gang here for the night. He’d get them the rest of the way tomorrow.

  “Come, Jint!” He slapped his thigh, then reached down to give her a good scratch as she fell happily into step beside him. The rain began to pick up pace, and so he did, too, jogging for the far wall, with Jint easily pacing him, racing to and fro, barking for the sheer joy of being alive. Och, to have such a carefree heart, he thought. The lightning strikes came closer together and hit closer to home. Thunder vibrated the very air around them. “Come on, girl. Let’s get home.”

  Home was a large stone croft with a soaring, traditional thatched roof that required constant maintenance, but which Tristan had resisted replacing with more current textiles. He didn’t mind the extra work. He’d often thought he’d been born in the wrong century anyway, a tenet also held by his brothers. Not that he didn’t appreciate some of the more modern amenities, such as indoor plumbing and running water, but he liked the look of the place, knowing that those who had come before him had come home to much the same stacked stone gate, the same hand-laid stone walls, and the same thatched roof. All built by Chisholm hands.

  It had been added onto over the past two centuries, as various managers and their families had lived there, and current amenities had been installed. It was a rambling, one-story affair, all told. The whole of the place currently housed three bedrooms, two full bathrooms and a half of another, an open living area complete with a large, peat-burning stove for heating, and an expansive kitchen with a rustic oak table suitable for at least eight people with room to spare, plus an outdoor oven pit as well. Tristan had created half of a second floor by constructing a loft space, which he used as his art room. He’d put in a skylight and a large inset window at the peak of the roof for light. Not that the loft had seen much use of late.

  It was all far more than Tristan needed, but it was the manager’s croft for a reason. Location and access. Tucked up against the rocky hills that framed the eastern boundary of the Chisholm grazing property, it looked out over the lower valley, which was marked with fenced-off sections of land, some dotted with smaller crofts that were leased out to farmers and other flock owners. It was Tristan’s job not only to maintain the Chisholm flocks, but also to manage the leased properties and the concerns of all the tenants.

  The far boundary of the lower valley was marked by the loch, which fed a narrow tributary that ran alongside the main road and helped to irrigate the crop fields. A single-track road ran between stream and field, and was the only access to the area from Glenbuie, the local village and home to the Chisholm clan for more than four hundred years.

  By the time he and Jint scooted through the final gate and made their sprint across the last field heading home, the setti
ng sun and the storm had joined to render the sky full black; no hint of stars or moon, making it nigh on impossible to see more than a scant yard or two in front of his face. But he knew this ground as he knew his own self and he navigated it easily.

  Jinty had an even keener sense of where the best path lay, so he followed her lead, arms up to brace his face against the wind-driven needles of rain. She kept circling back to him, herding him home much the same as she did with the rest of her flock. It was raining hard now and he’d long since become soaked to the bone. As soon as he had Jinty fed, a long, hot shower was next on his list. Lightning strikes continued to light the black sky, and thunder literally shook the ground at his feet.

  As he reached the steps leading to the back door and mud room, a loud, shrieking noise pierced the sound of the storm. He paused, but with the thunder and heavy rain, it was impossible to know what he’d actually heard. Typically the only sounds that floated through his valley, other than those created by Mother Nature, were the sheep baaing and dogs barking as they went about their chores. Whatever that had been didn’t fall under any of those headings.

  When the sound didn’t repeat itself, he opened the rear door and shuffled inside, shooing Jinty in before him, then closing it with a heavy rattle behind him as the wind helped drive it shut. He’d go investigate if need be when the rain died down a little. Probably just a tree down and the wind having its way with the wayward limbs. It was amazing the odd echoes of sounds the valley and mountains could create.

  The dog gave a good shake as Tristan dropped his pack and grabbed a towel off the stack. “Good work out there,” he praised her. She wriggled under his ministrations, loving nothing more than a good towel rub. With another shake when he was done, she bounded from the room and set to prancing in circles in front of the kitchen pantry just beyond.

  Tristan chuckled. “I’m coming, just hold up a minute.” He took a second to drag his boots and socks off, then peeled out of his sodden shirt and pants as well, leaving him in cold, wet boxers. “The hell with that,” he grumbled, and dragged them off as well. One of the blessings of living out in the midst of nowhere. And he much doubted any of his tenants would be dropping by with a grievance this stormy evening.

  Giving his own shoulder-length hair a good rub with a fresh towel, he shook it out much as Jinty had hers, then wrapped the towel around his hips as he padded into the kitchen. “What’s on the menu tonight?” he asked her, as he opened the doors to the pantry and looked at the canned meat on the shelves. He dumped some dry kibble in her dish, the mere sound of which made her all but quiver in paroxysms of pleasure, then cranked open a can of corned beef and dumped some of that in as well. She worked hard, so if he spoiled her a little, well, who was to know?

  She danced out to the kitchen with him and sat next to her water dish, tail going like a propeller against the hardwood floor. Tristan popped her dish to the floor and gave a dry smile as she dug in with gusto. If only it were so easy to please everyone who depended on him, he thought. “Cans of corned hash for all!” he announced with flair, waving his arm in a beneficent gesture in front of him, as if king to kingdom. Shaking his head at his own folly, he contemplated heating the rest of the can up for himself, then decided a shower sounded like the better option at the moment. Maybe if he felt half human, he’d find the energy to actually cook something up.

  He paused by the peat stove and stuffed in a few fuel bricks, feeling a chill in the air that went beyond his damp, mostly naked state. Though warm enough during the day, the late October nights were considerably cooler of late. He wound his way through the living area toward the rear bedrooms. He’d converted the smaller of the two into his personal office—even though there was an outbuilding housing his official one, he liked being able to work here when he could—leaving the larger bedroom with the en suite bathroom for himself. There was another bedroom off the far side of the main house, with a second full bathroom wedged between it and the kitchen, ostensibly for guests. Though, over the years, it had housed only his brothers on the rare occasion that one or the other came out to share a bottle of the family whisky and opted not to head home until morning.

  He was halfway through the front room when he noticed oddly angled shafts of red light piercing the rainy night beyond his front windows. Backtracking, he peered through the panes of glass, but the heavy rain made it difficult to see. Then a crack of lightning split through the gloom and he got a momentary flash of the track road leading to his house. And that’s when he remembered the screeching noise he’d heard before stepping inside.

  The red beams of light belonged to the brake lights of a small car, the rear of which was presently jacked up on the low stone fence that ran alongside the track road, next to the storm gully, which handled the overflow of stream water during heavy rains.

  A second flash of lightning showed that those storm waters were rapidly rising. And that the front end of the car was already submerged.

  Chapter 2

  Well, won’t I have the last laugh now?

  That was the last thought Bree Sullivan had before she lost control of her car completely. She could see the headlines now:

  INTERNATIONALLY FAMOUS AUTHORSWERVES TO MISS SHEEP, DIES A WATERYDEATH BEFORE DELIVERING NEXTBLOCKBUSTER NOVEL.

  Followed, of course, by the one millionth article explaining, in detail, why nothing she might have written could ever have hoped to match the phenomenal, best-selling, record-breaking sales of her first and only novel, Summer Lake, anyway.

  If only she’d done something clever, like have six more connected books already outlined and ready to go, sales all but guaranteed. But no, the former small-town Missouri librarian hadn’t thought ahead to her obvious future as a sudden celebrity. She’d totally failed to foresee that the entire free world would be rushing out to buy her first book, thereby turning her little world completely upside down. And silly her, she hadn’t foreseen that she would spend a whirlwind ten months plugging her suddenly hotter-than-DaVinci novel on locations around the globe she’d never dreamed of visiting, while being interviewed by celebrity newscasters she’d formerly only seen on her television set. Where they’d been interviewing actual famous people. Not quiet little Bree Sullivan from Mason, Missouri.

  Now, almost eighteen months after Summer Lake had first hit the shelves, she could hardly remember the woman she’d been back then. The one who’d led such a sheltered life that she’d been bowled over by an invitation to do a local radio talk show about her book. The same woman who’d all but swooned, certain she’d really hit the big time when she’d been invited on that local morning talk show in St. Louis. Sure, she’d dreamed of having some modest success, enough to hope that someday she could quit her day job and write for a living…but even her fertile writer’s imagination hadn’t extended much beyond that. Hell, she’d been thrilled just to see the book in print.

  Then the invite had come to be on The Dave Stevens Show. Oh, wow, she remembered thinking, to be flown to the big city and be on national television? Well, her world just couldn’t get any bigger.

  Ha.

  If she’d only known then what was about to happen, she’d have stayed in Mason and kept her day job. She’d have clung to her normal, middle-class, Midwestern lifestyle with everything she had. But no. Hot, edgy, controversial talk show host Dave Stevens had seen the local St. Louis spot and picked up a copy of her book. Hosting the first daytime show geared toward men, Dave had intended to use his ratings-grabbing, confrontational format to needle her about the value, or lack thereof, of sappy romance fiction. He would drill her on why women fell for such delusional claptrap, after which they’d give the men in their lives a hard time for not measuring up to the book’s fantasy hero.

  Only instead, when he’d read the book in preparation for the show, he’d shocked himself by liking it, and had ended up doing a twist on his own format by making himself the butt of his own confrontational style, putting Bree in the interviewer’s seat—and grabbing the highes
t ratings ever for a daytime talk show. He’d ended the show by daring his male viewers to pick up the book and read it with a significant other.

  “Guys, if you want to understand what women want—and trust me, if you want to get any on a regular basis, you do!—read this book. It’s like an instruction manual for clueless men.”

  She couldn’t have devised a more brilliant marketing campaign if she’d thought it up herself. Her publisher was over the moon, her agent immediately began to field offers. In less than one week, all hell had broken loose. Summer Lake sold faster than they could print and ship it out. It topped every best-seller list and stayed there. Going from the summer’s must-read beach book, to everybody’s book club pick for the fall, to the must-have stocking stuffer for the holidays. You weren’t considered cool and in the know if you couldn’t debate in detail which of the three lead heroines you most identified with, or which of the three heroes you’d most like to sleep with. By spring, she’d been the subject of one of David Letterman’s Top Ten lists, made the cover of People magazine—not once, but twice. She’d attended actual film openings in Hollywood and London, wearing clothes by designers she’d only read about, and had her book fought over in a much-publicized battle by two major studios for film rights, which had eventually gone for over seven figures, with all six lead roles claimed by the hottest reigning box office stars.

  But no—for some silly reason, Bree had stupidly never foreseen that particular, mind-blowing, once-in-a-lifetime, winning-lottery-ticket-like future, and so she had only written a single, stand-alone novel, with no obvious follow-up spin-off. What had she been thinking?