A Highlander Walks into a Bar--A Highland, Georgia Novel

by Laura Trentham

  For all of Alasdair’s childhood, Gareth Blackmoor had been more than just his uncle. He had been a surrogate father and a friend and a general port in the storm. Alasdair had spent summers with Gareth while his parents traveled, and he’d chosen to retreat to Cairndow for many of his school holidays. Cairndow had been peaceful and grounding, and as much as Alasdair loved his parents, he’d hated navigating the chaotic mess his parents had created when they were together.

  His parent’s marriage had been tumultuous to put it mildly, ending when his father had lost control of his car on a curve and was killed on the road from Cairndow to Glasgow. Alasdair had been almost eighteen and headed to Cambridge, lacking the maturity to process the unearthing of his da’s secrets and lies. Raw and shocked and overwhelmed, Alasdair had exchanged harsh words with Gareth. Words Alasdair had wished back a million times in the intervening years.

  While they still talked sporadically—Alasdair was the heir to the title and the Blackmoor family estate—their once-easy relationship had acquired a patina of polite distance Alasdair hated but didn’t know how to break.

  How would Alasdair’s sudden appearance to fetch his uncle back home like a wayward sheep be received? Would he be welcomed, or would their fractious family dynamic crumble? Would Gareth accuse him of only being interested in safeguarding his inheritance, or would he recognize that Alasdair cared about the man more than the title?

  In fact, although he hadn’t admitted as much to his mother, Alasdair didn’t want the title anytime soon. Or at all, if he had the choice—which he didn’t because of Britain’s rule of primogeniture. The estate, however, could be willed to anyone, and Alasdair’s mother was adamant Alasdair inherit it.

  The estate, centered around the imposing Cairndow Castle, was striking and magical—and a money pit. Between repairs and modernizations, Gareth was forever brainstorming and implementing new strategies to bring in funds. Alasdair, on the other hand, lived in a no-maintenance flat in London and traveled monthly to New York for his work as an investment analyst. Even a houseplant had proved too much responsibility for him to handle.

  Perhaps Alasdair should encourage Gareth’s liaison with the “American tart,” especially if he was happy.

  Alasdair slowed, his mouth gaping as he took in the Welcome to Highland sign. It was a piece of art. Three to four meters square, the wood sign was hand-painted, the words in white calligraphy and set off with two men in Highland dress playing bagpipes while performing a jig (a near impossibility of lung capacity). Curlicues and scrollwork in greens and reds framed the picture. The detail was impressive, the colors vibrant, and he wondered at the time, energy, and cost it took to maintain the rustic masterpiece.

  A horn tooted behind him, as polite and unassuming as a horn could be, and he pressed the accelerator, continuing into Highland, but slowing once more as he tried to take in the town. He sent a mental apology to the car behind him, but it pulled into a parking place in front of MacLean’s Drug and Dime Store. Mimicking the look of the welcome sign, the Drug and Dime sign was wooden and old-fashioned, but not rundown. It was quaint, he supposed, if one appreciated such things. His flat in London embraced the black-and-white modernity of minimalism.

  Baskets full of colorful flowers spilling over the sides hung from black wrought-iron light fixtures that sat at intervals on both sides of the street. Tartan ribbon circled the posts like a dozen maypoles, the tied off bows fluttering. The Scottish Lass restaurant graced one side of the street while the Dancing Jig pub caught his attention from the other. A placard out front announced live music on the weekends. A huge banner was strung from the top of a storefront to the opposite side of the street, announcing the upcoming Highland Games. Authentic Scottish food, dancing, music, and athletics were promised. The banner rippled in the slight breeze. The date listed was two weeks away. He’d be well gone before the fun started.

  Tartan patterns of various hues were on signs and posters and used as bunting in most windows. Tartan was plastered on anything not moving—strike that. He spotted a man wearing tartan red trousers. It felt like a storybook street or perhaps even a movie set—he wondered for a moment if he was being filmed for an internet prank—but the people bustling along the sidewalks and ducking in and out of the businesses seemed real enough.

  Highland was more Scottish than any village in Scotland.

  Although it was a weekday, cars and trucks filled most of the slanted parking spots on both sides of the street. A coffee shop tucked into the row of shops called like the promised land. Alasdair wedged his rented sports coupe into a parking space between two massive four-by-four trucks.

  The thick air made him feel like he was moving in slow motion, and a heat mirage wavered on the pavement like a portal to another land. He shook the fanciful thought away, stretched himself out of the car, and slipped off his suit jacket. The heat made it difficult to take a deep breath.

  The air-con in the Brown Cow Coffee and Creamery veered toward arctic, giving him a shot of energy that he planned to boost with an espresso. Bagpipe music provided background noise, and the décor could best be described as Scottish kitsch.

  With an obsession of all things Scottish on display, surely locating an actual Scotsman wouldn’t be that difficult. Gareth would be a tourist attraction. The image of his uncle on a pedestal in the middle of town for all to admire plucked Alasdair’s sense of humor. He would begin the search as soon as he had caffeinated himself.

  The shop had a split personality. Along the left wall was the creamery, manned by a teenage boy bent over and scooping cones for a family of four, consisting of harried-looking parents, a young boy bouncing in anticipation, and a girl staring down at her phone and twirling her hair. The coffee bar took up the right wall across from the ice cream. Hot and cold.

  He veered toward the scent of freshly ground coffee, weaving through the round white tables dotting the middle of the shop. A half dozen were occupied by either pairs chatting or singles hunched over laptops.

  A twentysomething woman with pink streaks in her hair sat behind the counter and eyed him around a customer she was helping, chewing gum with a slightly open mouth. He smiled and stepped forward when his turn came, rubbing his hands together. “Hullo, miss, I’m desperate for an espresso. Could you oblige me, please?”

  “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit.” Her words drawled out like stretched taffy.

  “Pardon?”

  Americans might speak a corrupted version of English, but it was still English even if her string of syllables didn’t make sense. What did butter and butts and biscuits have to do with espresso?

  She turned her head but never took her eyes off him. “Izzy! ’Nuther one of them foreigners has showed up.”

  A woman he hadn’t noticed rose from a small table tucked to the side of the counter. An open laptop, papers, and a white coffee mug were strewn about. Her brown hair was twisted into a messy updo, tied back with a green and blue tartan scarf, wisps coming out in every direction in the back like a bird’s nest. Finely arched brows framed eyes of indistinct color.

  The woman approached, and the closer she got, the prettier she became, like a picture coming into focus. Her movements exuded a barely contained energy that reminded Alasdair of a brown wren.

  “Are you acquainted with Gareth Connors?” the woman asked in a drawl that was more honeyed than the barista’s but made about as much sense.

  Alasdair uh’ed and ah’ed a few times to cover his confusion. Connors? Why had his uncle Gareth assumed the surname of the Cairndow groundskeeper? Presuming he had a good reason for the deception, Alasdair wouldn’t rat him out to this stranger, but his hesitation at locating his uncle disappeared. Fair or foul, something was afoot.

  “I do. He’s … a mate of mine. I’m popping in for a visit actually. I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to give me his direction?” Alasdair deepened his brogue and smiled his most charming smile, reserved for receiving homemade jumpers from great aunts and his mum�
��s surprise visits to his London flat. Americans usually ate it up. Especially American women.

  The American woman in front of him looked not only unimpressed but as if she’d tasted something bitter. “Did he invite you?”

  If he had to pinpoint her expression and tone, he would guess she suspected he was a thieving murderer. Not good. What was Gareth up to? “I’m in the States on business and heard he was here. Thought I’d look him up.” Not a lie, although his loop from New York City to Atlanta to Highland was quite the detour to drop in on a “mate.”

  As the woman continued to stare at him as if he were the bearer of the bubonic plague, his smile faltered. He stuck out a hand. “I’m Alasdair Blackmoor.”

  Although he registered a split-second hesitation on her part, she took his hand. “Isabel Buchanan.”

  Her handshake was firm and no-nonsense, but her palm was soft and her hand small in his. On closer inspection, her eyes striated into all different shades of brown and amber, and freckles dusted her cheeks. He hung on to her hand for too long, but couldn’t seem to pry himself away.

  Breaking the spell, she wrested her hand from his, pulling it into a fist. Was she planning on throat-punching him? He rubbed his neck and took a step back, out of the radius of her magnetic energy, and her reach. On her approach, she’d seemed birdlike, insignificant even, but up close, he was having a hard time not staring like a first-class prat.

  He was punch-drunk with exhaustion. It was the only logical explanation.

  She stuck her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, stretching her red V-neck T-shirt tight. His gaze dipped instinctively and then stuck around to read the print on the pocket over the soft curve of her left breast: Highland. The Heart of Scotland in the Blue Ridge.

  She cleared her throat. His gaze shot to hers, and he blinked to try to refocus his thoughts. “I was admiring … I mean, reading your shirt.”

  “It’s not a novel.”

  His face heated. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d blushed this hot and fierce. “Did Gareth secure a room at the local inn?”

  “He secured a room at my house.” There was a dry sarcasm in her voice that he might have found appealing in other circumstances. He’d always found women with a bite more challenging, and therefore more attractive.

  As it was, Alasdair did his best to hide his consternation. While he couldn’t fault his uncle’s taste—Isabel was exceptionally pretty in a wholesome all-American way—imagining Gareth with her made his stomach stage a revolt. If his mum was correct, this woman was trying to seduce Gareth into proposing marriage.

  “Are the two of you”—he made a leading hand gesture,—“serious?”

  “Serious?” Isabel’s confusion morphed to a combination of outrage and embarrassment. Pink rushed into her cheeks as she put a hand to her throat. “We’re not together. Why would you think that?”

  “He’s staying with you.”

  “At my house. Not with me. Not like that. Actually…” Her eyes narrowed on him, but instead of finishing her thought, she said, “I can take you to see him. I don’t think they’ve left yet.”

  He was only slightly chagrined at the relief coursing through him. The source couldn’t be the fact that Isabel Buchanan wasn’t exercising her considerable wiles on his uncle, but the fact that he’d found Gareth with very little trouble. “Thank you. I’d be most appreciative.”

  With her gaze constantly darting up to make sure he hadn’t escaped—or maybe hoping he’d disappear?—Isabel retreated to her table to shove the papers and the laptop into a canvas bag.

  “You still want that coffee, mister?” The woman behind the counter had watched their interaction as if they were starring in a reality show.

  As Isabel didn’t seem inclined to be sympathetic to his caffeine-deficient plight, he shook his head. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to pass. Perhaps another time.”

  “Sure thing, handsome.” The woman grinned around her gum. “You come on back and see me sometime.”

  Alasdair did a double take at her slightly salacious tone, but he didn’t have time to worry over her intentions. With papers poking out of her satchel, Isabel swept by him on her way to the door. Something she’d said earlier gave his addled brain a kick in the hippocampus: I don’t think they’ve left yet. Who was they?

  He lengthened his stride to catch up with her, reaching the door the same time she did, their hands landing on the handle, his overlapping hers.

  She pulled to open the door, but he held fast. The position put them close. He took a deep breath, the scent of honey and wildflowers distracting him from his questions. Did her morning routine include rolling around in sun-warmed flowers? If so, he’d like to watch.

  “We’re not going anywhere until you let go of the door, Mr. Blackmoor.” In contrast to her sweet scent, her voice was tart.

  He shoved his thoughts of flowers and fields and Isabel aside. Focus. Where was his legendary focus? “You said ‘they.’ Who is Gareth with?”

  Her mouth thinned, her displeasure and disapproval radiating like shock waves. “My mother.”

  Chapter Two

  Izzy took advantage of Alasdair Blackmoor’s surprise and yanked the door open. The blast of heat and humidity was welcome after the chill of the coffee shop. Between the creamery and Mildred’s preference for Siberian-like temperatures, Izzy normally avoided working in the shop, but her mom and Gareth’s escalating PDA had driven her out of her own home.

  Alasdair Blackmoor caught her wrist and forced her to a halt. He was overdressed for the weather, and for Highland, in a dress shirt with actual cuff links, a gray silk tie, and well-fitting, slim-cut blue slacks.

  She tightened her hold on the strap of her bag and hoped he attributed her blush to the summer’s heat. Lord help her, but the man was attractive—her gaze traveled up and over broad shoulders to meet a pair of gray eyes—and tall. His wavy dark hair was tousled in a way that might be contrived or natural. Tall, dark, and handsome. A walking cliché straight out of Town & Country, British bachelor edition. Was he a bachelor? Her brain got hung up on the question.

  “I’m parked here.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “I’ll follow you.”

  For a hot second, she stared and knew she stared, but his ridiculously attractive accent had cast a spell over her as surely as Gareth had cast a spell over her mother. It was similar to yet different than Gareth’s. Still Scottish, but less rough and more cultured to match his smooth shave and easy elegance.

  Forcing a sharp edge into her voice to counteract her inappropriately gooey reaction, she pointed toward her daddy’s old Ford truck—a relic of happier times and an advertisement for Highland. “I’m at the end in the truck.”

  Sometimes she drove the truck for the memories engrained in the worn leather seats. Sometimes she drove it because she needed to haul stuff. This morning she was glad to have the excuse of picking up card tables for the festival.

  With her mother engrossed with all things Gareth, Izzy missed her daddy something fierce and wondered what he would say about the unexpected turn of events. The truck’s AC hadn’t worked in half a dozen years, and the engine had turned temperamental about catching in the last few months, but she refused to give her up. It would feel too much like moving on.

  Alasdair Blackmoor’s lips twitched. “That’s something I’ve never seen in Scotland.”

  Her daddy had commissioned a special paint job when he’d spearheaded the start of the Highland festival twenty-odd years earlier. A red and black traditional tartan pattern decorated the hood, a swath down each side, and the tailgate. The rest of the truck was gunmetal gray. At one time, the tartan was shiny and bright, but time had dulled the color and left chips in the paint.

  Tourists loved to honk in appreciation when she drove the truck to town, but she could imagine to an outsider like Alasdair, the truck looked garish and ridiculous. She was proud of Highland and what her family had helped build here, though, and a rare defensiveness rose.

&
nbsp; “It’s a one of a kind. People love it.” She shifted her laptop bag and squared her shoulders. It didn’t do much good. Alasdair was still a good six inches taller than she was. In a distinctly unhospitable voice, she said, “Well, come on if you’re coming.”

  Planning the festival put her in contact with vendors and suppliers and the public. She was an expert at putting on a Southern smile of welcome and calm professionalism. Nothing about this situation made her feel welcoming or calm or professional. Agitation and unease were a potent cocktail that got her heart thumping too fast. What did Alasdair Blackmoor want?

  She climbed into the truck, held her breath, and cranked the ignition, relaxing only when the noise under the hood settled into a low rumble. Alasdair had already pulled into the street and was waiting in his fancy silver sports car for her to lead the way.

  Nerves had her goosing the gas pedal, and the truck streaked out of the parking space. With a yelp, she hit the brake with both feet. The truck rocked to a stop. She peeked in the rearview mirror. Alasdair Blackmoor’s unhinged jaw was scarily close.

  Shifting to drive, she led the way to Stonehaven, taking care to keep the truck between the lines and under the speed limit. What was wrong with her? It was like she’d never seen a good-looking man before.

  She wasn’t a total bumpkin. Holt Pierson was basically wearing a fluorescent sign flashing “ready and willing” to be more than friends. She could do worse, lots worse. Holt was good looking in salt-of-the-earth kind of way, but boring. Oh so, boring. But, then again, maybe that’s because she’d known him since kindergarten, and he retained no mystery.

  She’d even seen Holt’s bare butt once (not half bad, if she was being honest) at a high school party on the river when enough alcohol had been imbibed to convince some of them to go skinny-dipping. Not her though. She’d stayed sober on the bank even though deep down, she’d wanted to jump in. She’d resigned herself to seeking adventure in her books instead.