Ian Travis MacDowell
1817–1867
Laid to rest in the valley where
there is perfect harmony in all things.
Alex stood a polite distance from the gravesite, allowing Scotty privacy. It had been the only thing she’d asked of him—to spend a few minutes at her father’s grave.
He thought back to those moments before when she’d agreed to become Katya’s companion and tutor. He knew it was because of the hotel and the land. She was no fool, it was the perfect solution for her. Earlier, when he’d appeared on her doorstep, she’d shown no emotion, only wariness. He was the fool. In an absurd sort of way, he’d missed her. He’d thought that once he’d made his decision about her, he could stop thinking about her.
He shouldn’t have teased her. She’d always gotten flustered when he’d teased. Her burr became stronger when she was upset or angry, and he found it damned charming. He’d had no intentions of staying the night in her cabin. Hopefully, no damage had been done by his one night of indiscretion. However, he’d have thought that once his desires had been awakened, as they certainly had been with Scotty, he’d have gone looking for new companionship. He hadn’t. He was a fool, of course. And a randy one, at that.
His gaze moved back to her as she knelt by the grave. He’d known full well that if he hadn’t kept an eye on her, he might not have known where she’d gone. He knew she wouldn’t stay until he returned. He’d seen that look of panic, and that quick-thinking expression that always crossed her face when she was making up life as she went along.
Now, studying her small, graceful back, he realized that his insistence that she not marry while she was staying at his home was something he’d made up on the spur of the moment. Not unlike something Scotty, herself, would have done, he thought with a grim smile.
Jamie Bowers bothered him. It was nothing personal. Hell, no. But Bowers was the new breed of thug that had infiltrated San Francisco since the war. Young men without roots who elbowed their way into as many layers of society as they were allowed. Sniffing out weakness; looking for trouble. He didn’t want to see Scotty married to a boy like that. In spite of the clever and typically female way she’d tried to get him to change his mind about her eviction, she was still just a girl.
Part of him told him it would serve her right to be pawned off on a hooligan like Bowers. After all, Alex still didn’t know if she was as innocent as she appeared. Each time he softened, he remembered their last conversation the day he left the valley. She’d as much as admitted that she’d tried to use her body to change his mind about evicting her. No, she wasn’t innocent, but Alex didn’t want Bowers hanging around his place once Scotty was there. What she did once she left was up to her.
He shifted uncomfortably, wondering why the thought of her marrying the ruffian bothered him so much. It was probably because Bowers, unlike Alex himself, hadn’t already experienced the clever wiles of women. Yes, that was it, of course. Why, in the long run, he felt sorrier for the ruffian.
Scotty reached out and ran her fingers over her father’s name, etched so strongly into the granite. “I feel good about this, Papa,” she said, barely above a whisper. “We were wrong about the government, trust me. We wanted to save a small part of the valley, but Alex—the government man—is really fighting to preserve the whole thing.”
She rested on her knees and slowly scooped the snow away from the base of the gravestone. By spring, the wildflowers her father had loved so much would bloom over the grave. “I’ll be back, Papa. Soon, I’ll be back for good. Then, I’ll never leave you again.”
Sitting back on her haunches, she studied the clearing where they would build the hotel. She couldn’t quite imagine it, but Alex had assured her that it would, indeed, come to pass. He had even shown her the paperwork. It was what she wanted. It was the reason she’d agreed to his proposal. She couldn’t possibly ask for anything more.
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Alex waiting patiently under the trees. At least he’d given her time to put everything right before she left. Tupi had promised to care for Muggin and the rest of her animals. He’d even vowed to stay at her cabin a few nights every week, just to make sure nothing went wrong.
She smiled, rather sadly. He’d been far more obliging than poor Jamie. Jamie had stormed off the minute she’d made it clear that she would accept Alex’s offer. She couldn’t seem to make him understand that it had nothing to do with Alex or with him. It only had to do with her, her promise to her father, and the land she loved so much.
Now, she was ready. No sense in moping about, allowing old memories to make her cry. She gave her father’s grave one last wistful glance, and walked away. Into a life that scared her to death, but one she knew she must bear in order to return home.
They had spent the night in Mariposa. The following morning, they struck out on horseback over the trail that wound across the ridge and down onto the flat plain. It took them nearly three days to reach Stockton. From there, they took a boat to San Francisco.
It seemed that Alex had made the arrangements ahead of time, obviously certain of Scotty’s decision. That had rankled a bit, but she let it pass. She really didn’t want to start trouble.
Now, as their horse-drawn buggy climbed Russian Hill, Scotty felt the knots in her stomach reach all the way up into her throat. She glanced down at her clothes, and suddenly her face was on fire. She looked like a beggar in her father’s baggy trousers and her own oversized fleece-lined jacket. It wasn’t until she met Alex that she’d even given a thought to how she dressed. But now, it was important. She wasn’t going to like it, but she’d somehow have to dress like a lady. It wouldn’t be easy, since she only owned two dresses. And meeting Alex’s household staff looking like some kind of woodland tramp left her feeling even worse. She pictured Alex’s wife, a petite beauty, dressed in silks and satins, rushing out to meet him, and being swept up into his strong arms. Her stomach continued to make waves.
She gave him a nervous, sidelong glance, wondering if he’d even considered how ridiculous she would look to the rest of his household. Well, she thought, pushing down her discomfort, it couldn’t be helped. Her dresses were shoved into an old, worn trunk along with the rest of her paltry belongings. They would have to do.
The buggy continued up Russian Hill. She remembered vividly going on and on about the shameful bohemian residents who lived in this part of San Francisco. It’s a wonder he didn’t laugh her out of the cabin, for she’d condemned the very people who were probably his neighbors.
“Do they call it Russian Hill because all the Russians live here?”
He raised an eyebrow in her direction. “All unconventional, arty bohemians aren’t Russian, Scotty.”
Her face flamed again. So he’d remembered, too. “I don’t profess to know everything,” she mumbled. “But, why do they call it Russian Hill?”
“I believe it’s because someone found bones buried on the hill that belonged to some Russian sailors.”
“Well, now that’s certainly gory, but not very dramatic, is it?”
He chuckled. “No, it’s not very dramatic.”
“Maybe if they’d found a treasure buried nearby, and the sailors had been killed trying to steal it from someone—now that would be dramatic.”
Alex gave her a slightly amused look—one that told her she’d been babbling on and on again—as the buggy turned onto a side street. She turned away and squinted up at the sign, which read Green Street. They stopped in front of an oddly shaped two-story house. She’d never seen anything like it. Why, it wasn’t square at all, but had many sides. There were wooden steps and a porch. Bushes grew beneath the windows. Her stomach quivered. She wanted to run from it all, back to where she was comfortable. Back to where she really wanted to be. But it was too late for that.
Alex got out, then reached for her hand. She took it quickly, as though it were her lifeline, and stepped from the buggy.
“No need to be nervous, Scotty.”
She shot him a hasty glance. “Who says I’m nervous?”
He lifted a black, satanic eyebrow, a habit that was becoming very familiar to her, then looked at their hands. “Your grip is commendable.”
She pulled her hand from his and let her gaze flutter to the ground before meeting his again. “Truth to tell,” she admitted candidly, “I’m a damp sackful of apprehensions.”
He smiled, the rarity of it sending her heart into flip-flops. “Mrs. Popov will make you feel at home.”
“And your wife? What about your wife?” She’d had to ask. It had been on her mind since the moment he dropped the proposal into her lap.
Suddenly his smile was gone, replaced by the forbidding scowl she’d come to know so well.
“I have no wife.”
She frowned, bewildered. If he had a child, he’d had a wife at one time. She wondered if the poor woman was dead. Alex’s grim expression told her that was probably the case, and she’d foolishly reminded him of it. Oh, may the good Lord save her from putting her foot in her mouth again. Her bluntness would be the end of her. She did feel a bit of selfish relief, though.
“Well? Come on, then.”
She blinked, realizing that she’d been rooted to the ground, unable—or unwilling—to take the flight of stairs to the house. Suddenly the building took on monstrous qualities, the imposing windows and dormers that jutted from the roof seemed to prey on her like vultures.
The front door opened, and a tall, gaunt man with beautiful silver hair and a hawklike nose stepped out onto the porch. His cold gray eyes looked down that imposing nose at Scotty, and she swore she could hear his sniff of disapproval.
“Winters,” Alex called, “come down and give me a hand with Miss MacDowell’s trunk.”
The valet’s bushy eyebrows lifted and he made a slight face, as if to indicate that touching Scotty’s belongings was beneath his station. “It would make my day, sir.” His dry, sardonic tone belied his words.
Scotty stood on the porch, feeling like a derelict awaiting a handout, when suddenly a short, plump woman bustled out to meet her. The woman’s face, round and rosy and full of smiles, exuded warmth. She took Scotty’s hands in hers.
“Well, now aren’t you a pretty one? Come along, meelenkee, out of damp air. Are you chilled? We’ll have little rest by fire. Gospady! That Sasha. He didn’t tell me you had such beauty.”
Scotty paid little mind to the woman’s thick Russian accent as she tried to swallow the lump of tears in her throat. Her emotions were all a-tumble. Everything was so new and she felt so very much out of place. Yet, here was a friendly smile, and, although it had been years and years since her mother’s death, she realized she missed her intensely. She’d always had someone, until Papa died. Suddenly she felt lonely, out of place, and vulnerable. She didn’t much like the feeling.
She was drawn into the dim, colorless foyer, then whisked into a large room where a roaring fire blazed in the fireplace.
“Now, dear, sit here. Oh, I am Mrs. Popov. I’m Sasha’s housekeeper. I’ve made some tea. Would you care for some?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered on a quick breath. “I would love some tea.” As the housekeeper fussed with the tea service that sat on the table in front of the fire, Scotty glanced around the room. Her gaze was drawn to a portrait above the fireplace. It was of Alex and a sweet, yellow-haired girl in a baby blue frock with lace at the neck and sleeves. Scotty felt herself go warm inside. So, she thought, that was Alex’s daughter. In the portrait, he was looking down at the girl, smiling the most magnificent smile…. If only he would look at her like that….
Blinking furiously, she looked away, and studied the rest of the room. The furnishings were old, but sturdy and well made. The sofa on which she sat had a curved, three-part back and a dark wooden frame. The damask floral upholstery was well cared for, and had obviously been expensive, for it showed little wear. There were matching armchairs on either side of the fireplace, with oval backs and handsome, scrolled arms. To one side, closer to the fire, was a large leather chair with a matching ottoman. It looked well-used, much like her father’s chair. She knew it was Alex’s, and sensed he’d found her father’s chair quite a comfortable temporary replacement.
The rug that covered the wood floor was a deep shade of burgundy with clusters of purple grapes woven into it. It, too, was old, for Scotty noticed that the path from the door and the area around the furniture showed wear.
As she accepted the cup of tea, she noted the heavy velvet curtains that framed the windows. They appeared like armor, anxious to keep the outside light from entering the room. Although the room was warm and comfortable, Scotty felt as though she were in a dungeon. She wanted to whip back the heavy velvet and air out the room. It would all take getting used to, she knew that. No more ventures out into the fresh, clean valley air. At least, not for a while. She pressed a hand to her chest, hoping to still her anxious heart.
There was some commotion in the hallway. She could hear Alex speaking softly with someone—undoubtedly his daughter. Scotty’s stomach plummeted. The child sounded churlish and petulant.
The door opened, and Alex came into the room backward. It was then that Scotty noticed the wheelchair, and the tiny child sitting in it He swung the chair around so they were both facing her. Scotty’s heart nearly broke when she saw the wee little thing. Her golden hair hung to her shoulders in long, loopy curls, and she did, indeed, have the face of an angel—until one met the dark fury in her eyes. Petulance personified.
Scotty put her cup, down on the table. “Well,” she said, sitting forward as Alex wheeled the child to her. “And who is this little bundle of fidgets?”
“This is Katya. Or Katushka, as I like to call her. Katya,” Alex said, bending close to her ear, “this is Scotty MacDowell. I told you about her, remember? She’s going to be with us for a while. She’ll be your companion and your tutor. Remember? We’ve already talked about this, sweetheart”
The child glared at Scotty, hate pinching her features. “I don’t want a tutor. I don’t want a ’panion.”
“Now, Katushka, why don’t you tell Scotty what you got when you put your tooth under your pillow?” Alex asked patiently.
The child crossed her doll-like arms firmly across her chest and looked away. “I don’t want to. I don’t like her. She dresses like a man, and I don’t like the way she looks at me.”
Scotty caught herself before raising both eyebrows in surprise. She’d always been drawn to the underdog and the disadvantaged. She surely would have thought this child fit into that category. It didn’t take long to realize she was different.
“Now, Katya,” Alex said, his voice firm, “you don’t even know her. I want you to—”
“I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!” Katya grabbed a vase off the table beside her and flung it against the sofa, her little pout deepening when she discovered she hadn’t broken the object.
Scotty kept her feelings well hidden. The child was spoiled, rancid to the core. It wasn’t entirely her fault, of course. Being a cripple had something to do with it. No doubt everyone in the household catered to her every whim. And if she’d lost her mother, that was another reason to excuse her behavior. Alex doted on her. Mrs. Popov, whose expression during the child’s tirade had gone from anguish to weariness, obviously couldn’t discipline the child at all—didn’t want to, or maybe, she thought looking at Alex’s hard features, didn’t dare.
“Oh, poor lamb,” Mrs. Popov crooned. “Here, let me take her back to room. She’s tired, that’s all.”
Scotty’s eyebrows went up this time. Yes, they all fawned over her and catered to her. Katya Golovin had quite a nice thing going for her.
When they had gone, Alex looked at Scotty, his expression somber. “I’m beginning to think this wasn’t such a good idea. I had no idea she’d react so strongly to having you in the house.”
Scotty felt a sense of panic. Somehow, she had to make this work. She needed this job if she was going to get back home, where she belonged. Although she could see through the child’s actions, it was obvious that no one else did. She chose her words carefully, hoping not to show her own fear.
“Oh, I can make it work, Alex, really,” she said quickly. “We’ve got to give her some time. It’s all new, you know. The wee lass hasn’t had time to think about it. Please, let’s give her some time, all right? I’ll take things slowly, get her used to a routine a little bit at a time.”
Alex rubbed his hand over his chin, his expression thoughtful. “Mrs. Popov said she’d been a bit hard to handle lately. I hadn’t noticed it until now.”
Scotty did feel sorry for the lass. She was only six, after all, and none of the things that had happened to her were her fault. She, like everyone else, was the product of her environment. It would be up to Scotty to somehow change it. She hoped she was up to the challenge.
The following morning, Scotty pulled her two-piece yellow calico with the lace inserts and leg-of-mutton sleeves out of her beat-up trunk. With a glance turning ever rueful, she examined the garment. Somehow, it had gotten damp, and it smelled of mildew. The lace inserts were a bit ratty, too. She shook her head and sighed. Well, nothing could be done about it. She felt a twinge of panic, for if the yellow calico was in such bad shape, she knew the other dress, which had been basically forgotten in the bottom of the trunk for years, would be worse.
With a helpless shrug, she pulled on her old under-things, shook the dress repeatedly to air it out, and slipped into it. As the mildew smell hit her nostrils, she wrinkled her nose. She should have aired the dress out the night before.
Before leaving the room, she studied herself in the mirror and grimaced at the way the dress now fit. She’d grown a bit since she’d last worn it. Lord, she thought, tugging at the bodice, she couldn’t even remember when that was. The blouse clung to her bosom, pushing it up, leaving nothing to the imagination. She tried to pull it away from her chest, but to no avail. With a resigned shrug, she stepped into an old pair of slippers and left her room.
After going through the material Alex had provided, she went to the window in the study, staring outside as she waited for Mrs. Popov to bring Katya to her.
What a dull, dreary day. Fog lay heavily on the air, and even from inside it appeared oppressive. It seemed to push against the windows in an effort to come inside and dim each room with its gloomy muck. A body couldn’t see beyond the street for the thickness of it. There were no sparkling snowcaps, no trees laden with fresh snow, and the birds she did see were dull and drab, just like the weather. An intense feeling of homesickness struck her, and she shuddered. Now she felt like a prisoner.
The door opened behind her. She turned and watched Mrs. Popov roll Katya into the room. The child, dressed in a white woolen garment, still had the face of an angel. Her gaze met Scotty’s, and for a moment there was the same fury as she’d seen the day before, then suddenly it was gone, replaced by a blank stare.
“Katya is ready to begin lessons, Scotty,” Mrs. Popov said with enthusiasm. “I’ll just leave her to you—”
“No, Poppy,” Katya pleaded, her gaze focused on Scotty. “I want you to stay with me.”
“Oh, but my little mouse, I have work to do.”
Katya stared up at the housekeeper with soulful eyes, and her lower lip began to quiver.
Scotty watched the display, marveling at how skilled the child had become in only six short years.
“Oh, my sweet girl,” Mrs. Popov said, nearly in tears.
“I think we’ll get along just fine, Mrs. Popov. I’m sure you have a lot to do. And I’m anxious to see what Katya knows. I’ll just bet she knows more than many children her age.”
It was the right thing to say. Katya puffed out her little chest. “I know my letters and lots of my numbers, and I can even count to fifteen in Russian.”
“Well, isn’t that fine,” Scotty answered warmly. “Maybe you can teach them to me. What do you think?”
Katya plucked at her white skirt. She shot Scotty a quick look that hinted of interest, then glanced away. “Maybe.”
Scotty felt a tiny triumph. “Mrs. Popov, why don’t you bring Katya over to the desk? I have some things set out there.”
Scotty could see that in spite of herself, Katya appeared interested. With a little bit of force, Scotty ushered Mrs. Popov from the study. As she returned to the sofa, she realized that she would have her hands full—not only with Katya, but with everyone else who appeared to believe the little lassie’s “poor me” act.
That evening, Alex called her into the study. When she entered, she found him staring outside. She wondered what he saw out there. Certainly not the same dull, gray, monotonous landscape that she did.
He turned slightly, his gaze raking over her. It stopped at places that she remembered he knew well, and she felt that old, familiar flush rush into her face—and all those other areas.
“We’ll have to do something about your awful wardrobe,” he said, his voice flat and uninterested.
Truth to tell, with one look and a comment, the little self-confidence she’d bolstered vanished, making her feel as out of place as a toad at a banquet.
“It happens to be the best dress I have. I … I only have one other,” she added, angry that his words hurt so.
He stood with his hands behind his back and his feet apart, still staring out the window. “If it’s anything like the one you have on, don’t bother to wear it.”
The comment stabbed her in the heart. She suddenly felt inferior and incompetent, and she didn’t like the feeling one bit. “And just what is it that you propose I wear?”
He continued to present her with his broad back. She wondered what in bloody hell he saw outside, for not only was it dark, but it was foggy. Even from where she stood she could see the haze moving like gauze through the night air.
“It presents a problem, doesn’t it?” he answered tersely. He turned briefly, his gaze wandering over her again before he looked away. He was hurting her, and doing a fine job of it. Would it have been so hard for him to say something nice?
True, she was out of place here. She wondered why he couldn’t see beyond that, and remember the night they’d spent together. He’d kissed her, teased her with his caresses, his mood violent when he spoke, yet tender and exciting when he touched her. She wondered if he remembered that he’d fondled her breasts, promising that he would only touch, nothing else….
Just thinking about it made her blood run hot. He was so big and warm and hairy. From the very beginning she’d wanted to curl up against him, even when she’d thought he might be a criminal. But her instincts had been right. He was no criminal—unless one considered that he’d stolen her heart.
She frowned at her folly. He’d stolen her heart, but in the process of leaving with it, had tossed it away. She felt he’d dismissed her, but she didn’t want to leave. “What happened to your wife?”
He spun around and faced her, his face etched with anger. “What?”
“What happened to your wife?” she repeated, standing her ground in spite of her fear at his reaction.
His eyes turned glacial. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“Well, I do. How am I to communicate with your daughter if I don’t know what happened to her mother?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
Furious, Scotty answered, “It has everything to do with how I’m to get through to her.”
Alex turned back to the window. After a long, tense moment he said, “She’s no longer with us.”
Scotty let out a pent-up breath and swallowed hard. So. The woman was dead. She knew how difficult it was to simply say that about someone you loved. It still bothered her to say it about her father, although it was the truth. However, saying “he’d passed away,” or “he was no longer with her,” was so much softer, more cushioned.
Alex’s hard, terse answer told her that he missed the woman terribly. No doubt he was still madly in love with her, and tried desperately to keep from remembering. That was easy to understand, too. She was sorry she brought the subject up, for now she had new hurts heaped upon the old. She made a face. Leave it to her and her big mouth to remind him of his pain.
Now, even though he was alone, Scotty knew that her foolish little dreams of the two of them getting together was so much nonsense. When a loved one dies, it’s almost impossible to replace them in a person’s heart. Yet, she wanted to comfort him. To let him know she was there for him.
“I’m very sorry, Alex.”
“I don’t need your pity,” he growled, not turning to face her.
But do you need my love? The thought tumbled in from nowhere, leaving her shaken and miserable. But … love? Nay, it couldn’t be that. If it were, she would ultimately be more miserable than she already was, and somehow, she couldn’t quite imagine that.
Making her way to the door, she turned one last time to gaze at him. He’d already forgotten she was there, for he continued to stare out into the night.
Scotty hadn’t slept worth a bloody darn. Foolish romantic visions of Alex kept creeping into her pleasant sleep, and she’d awaken, angry that her girlish daydreams were spilling over into the night.
Checking the clock on the night stand, she decided she had time for a quick walk through Alex’s dull, gray neighborhood before she had to meet with the pretty but spoiled Katya Golovin. She climbed back into her ugly yellow dress, drew her hair up into a coil on top of her head, pulled on her old jacket and crept silently from the house.
She sucked in air, wrinkling her nose at the fishy smell that rode the wind up from the bay. Try as she might, she had to look hard to find something in the landscape that pleased her. The dirt roads cut into the earth, leaving ragged edges of weeds on either side. Some of the homes, like Alex’s, had flower gardens in front; most did not.
As she trudged back up the hill toward the house, she saw a woman run from the house next door into the small front yard. Pausing briefly, Scotty noticed that the woman was terribly distressed. She hurried toward her as she was circling the yard, wringing her hands.
“Excuse me,” she called. “Is something wrong?”
The woman turned quickly, her face pinched with fear. Nodding frantically, she said, “There’s … something in my house.”
Alarmed, Scotty reached her and pulled gently on her arm. “A burglar?”
The woman, who was a stunning beauty wearing a lavender silk dressing gown, tried to laugh, but it came out a hysterical giggle. She ran her fingers through her long, titian colored hair. “Oh, it’s not human, if that’s what you mean. It’s … well, it’s flying around in there, and my husband isn’t home, and my housekeeper won’t be here for another hour.”
Scotty studied the house, noting the high, narrow third-story attic that held a broken window. “Do you have a fireplace?”
“Yes,” the woman answered. “On the other side.”
Scotty craned her neck, catching a glimpse of the large chimney. “I think I know what you’ve got.”
“What is it?” The woman wrinkled her nose, clearly afraid to hear the news.
“I think it’s probably a bat.”
The woman shuddered and pressed her fingers to her mouth. “I was afraid of that. Well, I’m not going back in there until it’s gone. If it means standing out here until my housekeeper comes, so be it”
“Oh, you dinna have to do that. I’ll get it for you.”
Recognition cleared the woman’s features and she clasped Scotty’s hand. “You’re the companion Alex hired for Katya.”
Scotty smiled and gripped her hand. “Aye, I’m Scotty MacDowell.”
The woman smiled in return, her beauty intensifying. “And I, the woman who is afraid of anything that crawls, wriggles or flies, am Alex’s neighbor, Camilla Janus.”
“Well, now, Mrs. Janus—”
“Please, call me Camilla.”
“Well, Camilla, let’s take care of your intruder, shall we?” Scotty was off toward the house before she realized her new neighbor wasn’t behind her. She turned, finding Camilla back on the grass. “Oh, come on. The wee thing is probably more afraid of you than you are of it.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“Please, I dinna feel right going into your house without you. I’d feel like an intruder, myself.”
“Well, all right, but I’m not happy about this.” Camilla led the way, her eyes darting about nervously.
Scotty glanced at the windows, noting nothing until she walked into the large study that held the fireplace. There, hanging upside down on a curtain rod, was the culprit.
“There,” she whispered as Camilla came up behind her.
Camilla grabbed her arm, pulling her close. “What are you going to do?”
Scotty chuckled. “I can’t do anything with you holding on to me so hard.”
Camilla stepped back, away from Scotty and the window. “Do you need anything? A stick? A gun, maybe?”
Laughing again, Scotty answered, “Have you got a pillow slip handy? And a chair?”
Camilla scurried from the. room, returning with a lovely hand crocheted pillowcase. She shoved it quickly at Scotty.
Scotty quietly marveled at the stitching. “Are you sure you want me to use this?”
“If you have to beat it to death with a pillowcase, be my guest,” Camilla answered as she left the room again.
With a shake of her head, Scotty smiled and crept close to the animal. It hung there, head down, quietly devouring a moth. Scotty watched as the last of the insect disappeared, then continued to observe the little brown bat as it groomed itself with its long red tongue.
She felt the back of the chair Camilla had brought against her legs and carefully stood on it, her face level with the bat’s. She stood there for a long minute, studying the creature with the beady little eyes and big naked ears. When it looked ready to leave the perch, Scotty covered it with the pillowcase and lifted it off, feeling it flutter about nervously inside the enclosure.
“You have it?” Camilla stood by the door, wringing her hands again.
“Aye,” Scotty answered, stepping off the chair. “Poor thing, it’s shaking with fear.”
Camilla gave the pillowcase a nervous look. “You’re kidding, of course.”
“Oh, no. It’s afraid, believe me.” Scotty stroked the animal through the cloth until it settled down. She followed Camilla back outside. “I just hope it isn’t injured.”
“And if it is?”
Scotty sighed. “Then I’ll have to take it with me and nurse it back to health.”
Camilla exploded with laughter. “In Alex’s house?”
“Aye,” Scotty answered, puzzled. “Where else would I take it?”
“What’s a bat’s worst enemy?”
Scotty paused, then answered, “An owl, I guess.”
“Well,” Camilla said, still smiling, “your little bat would have a better chance of survival with an owl than with Alex.”
Scotty reached into the case and lifted out the critter, holding it gently with one hand while stroking it with the other. “I guess I knew that,” she answered quietly, remembering how Alex had reacted to her animals. The bat began to relax beneath her touch.
Camilla peered over her shoulder at the bat. “Not that I really care, but is it all right?”
Scotty nodded. “Aye, I think so. I had a pet bat once. Did you know that they can be trained? Look,” she ordered, lifting the bat toward Camilla. “It’s watching us. It’s a curious little creature.”
Camilla shivered and stepped away. “I’ll take your word for it. At any rate, thank you so much for getting it out of my house.”
“I think it got into the house from the chimney. That happens sometimes. I dinna like to frighten you, but I think it lives in your attic.”
Camilla shuddered again. “Well, remind me never to check to make sure.”
“Aye, that’s probably wise,” Scotty answered with a smile. She lifted her hands into the air, and the bat flew off directly toward the attic window, and disappeared inside.
“Well, I guess I’d better get back. Katya is probably waiting for me.” Not happily, she was certain, but waiting to throw another little temper tantrum.
“I hope I’ll see you again soon,” Camilla said, grasping Scotty’s hand again. “Come over and have tea.”
Scotty smiled. “I’d like that. Thank you.” She left, feeling a bit lighter and a bit more positive about her stay in Alex’s house. She’d found someone to talk with. Perhaps not a kindred spirit, but at least a friendly one.