Brodie wasn’t the type to escape into the whisky, but the call to get stinking drunk was powerful right now. He stood at a crossroads—go to the pub and knock back a few so he could survive the night with Rachel in his house, or go home and help Grandda survive the evening with a little girl running about. A third option—disappearing again—was the most compelling, but Brodie wasn’t one to shirk his responsibilities, especially when it came to his grandfather. He headed home.
When he walked in, he heard Abraham coughing. He hurried into the parlor. Hannah was covering up the old man with a quilt Deydie had made for him. Brodie thought the quilt made up of boat blocks had been insensitive of the old quilter since Grandda could no longer fish, but Abraham always seemed comforted to have it near.
“I’ll get ye a cup of honey lemon tea,” Brodie said from the doorway.
The girl looked up and gave him a concerned nod, as if she were the old man’s matronly nurse. “That would be grand.” She climbed up next to Abraham and patted his arm.
The cough calmed. “Thank ye, lass.”
She leaned up against her grandda, and something in Brodie’s chest tugged uncomfortably. He shifted his gaze and left for the kitchen.
Once the kettle was on, he stared out the window. He’d have to talk to Doc MacGregor about what could be done for his grandfather, though he already knew the answer. He’d been under the care of the doctor for months. It didn’t help it was winter now, which was making his cough worse.
When the tea was ready, he fixed a tray and returned to the parlor. Abraham had dozed off. Quietly, Brodie set the tray on the side table beside the old man, remembering to leave the vial there from Bethia as well. He didn’t make eye contact with the little girl, but took the wing chair across from them.
Hannah slipped off the couch, grabbed her guzzy from the coffee table, and boldly came across the room to him. Without his permission, she scrambled into his lap and stuck a thumb in her mouth. Brodie didn’t know what to do. He sat there like a wooden chair. She snuggled in deeper. He glanced down at her face and saw she’d closed her eyes. Finally he wrapped one arm around her . . . to make sure she didn’t fall off his lap.
A million thoughts zoomed through his mind. Why was this little girl acting this way with him? And was she always so trusting of strangers? He’d have to talk to Rachel about this, but the prospect of talking to her about anything seemed unlikely. He didn’t trust himself when it came to her—Rachel set his blood to boiling for what she’d done to him in the past, and at the same time, he wanted to know why she was wearing his locket. Frankly, he was afraid of what the answer might be. He had to remain strong. Fight off this urge to be near her and find out the inner workings of the woman she’d become.
He looked over at his grandda, wondering if Abraham would sleep long. He glanced down again at the little girl . . . Hannah. She was a gentle little thing. Rachel must’ve babied her and someone should toughen her up. Maybe Brodie should take her fishing in the summer. His chest felt tight, more uncomfortable than before at the realization Hannah wouldn’t be here long. Besides, he shouldn’t be the one to teach her how to fish. That was a father’s job. It should be Joe here holding his daughter, not him.
The front door opened.
“I’m back,” Rachel said, and the child stirred awake.
Instinctively, he slipped the girl from his lap, nearly dumping the lass on the floor. He couldn’t let Rachel find him holding her daughter.
“Mommy?” She found her feet and ran for the doorway the minute Rachel appeared. “Guzzy took a nap.” She peered back at Brodie, smiling. “Only a wee one.”
The child was quick; he’d have to hand it to her. She’d picked up on the word from Abraham and said it with just the right lilt.
“It’s good ye’re back,” Brodie said quietly, but firmly. He got to his feet. Rachel watched his every move, her eyes traveling up the length of him. He tried to ignore her, and at the same time, he needed to deliver his message concisely and clearly. “I’ve things to do. Babysitting isn’t one of them.” He moved toward the doorway.
“Thank you for watching Hannah,” Rachel said, just as quietly.
“And guzzy,” the child added.
Rachel stepped in his path. “From now on, I’ll make sure to take her wherever I go.”
“Nay,” Abraham said with a scratchy voice, his eyes still closed. “The wee bit is no trouble.”
Brodie was a little taken aback. Had his grandfather been awake the whole time?
“Go on now, lad, and check the boat,” Grandda ordered, pinning him with rheumy eyes. “The lasses and I have things to discuss.”
The words stopped Brodie in his tracks. But he left the house anyway, wondering, What is the old man up to?
* * *
Thirty minutes later, sitting across from Abraham, Rachel still clutched Deydie’s plaid scraps, frustrated with Hannah’s great-grandfather. No amount of argument would dissuade him from his tack. But she had to convince him that what he proposed was wrong. Very wrong. She moved over to where he sat while Hannah wrapped her guzzy around the doll Glenna had gifted her. Rachel laid a hand on the old man’s arm. “I promise we’re fine. Better than fine.” She lowered her voice. “The life insurance was substantial.” Though she hadn’t touched it in the three years since Joe’s death.
“It’s the right thing to do,” Abraham said. “When I leave this mortal coil, half the fishing business will go to Hannah. End of story.”
Rachel shook her head. Not only because she disapproved of what he was trying to do, but she could only imagine how Brodie would take the news. “If you’re going to be stubborn”—she could be hard-nosed, too—“then you’ll just have to live forever.”
The old man laughed heartily, but then she regretted her jab when his merriment turned into a coughing fit. She grabbed Bethia’s vial from the side table, opened it, and put it into his hand. “Here. Sniff this. It should help.”
After a while, he calmed down. Hannah retrieved his water cup, spilling only a little in the process as she handed it to her great-grandfather. As Rachel wiped the dribble from the hardwood floor, she thought about Brodie and how she would broach the subject of the fishing business with him. If anyone could convince Abraham to rethink his asinine plan, Brodie could. Hannah owning half the fishing business while Brodie did all the work was wrong.
Speaking with Brodie about picking up where the two of them had left off six years ago would have to wait. Abraham’s bombshell took precedence. Best to clear that up first.
In the past, Rachel would do anything to avoid confrontation and difficult conversations, but there was something about Scotland that had her feeling more capable and confident. As soon as she could get Hannah into bed, she’d find Brodie, and at least this one thing, they’d get settled between them.
And maybe while they did, she could further her cause and let him know she still cared for him.
The front door opened and slammed shut. Brodie appeared in the parlor doorway. He took in the scene.
“What’s wrong?” he asked her.
“I’m off to bed,” Abraham said, coughing as if emphasizing his sudden need to lie down.
Rachel didn’t believe it for a second because it didn’t sound like the genuine fit of earlier. “Are you afraid he’ll talk some sense into you?” she said to the old man as he passed.
He kept walking, but he did respond, firmly, but not unkindly. “Mind yere elders. Ye’re in Scotland now and ye can’t sass whenever ye like.” He disappeared.
Rachel was left alone with Brodie and Hannah.
“Can I have a snack?” Her daughter had great timing. Hiding out in the kitchen would be good, for Brodie was sure to yell the cottage roof off when he learned what his grandfather intended for the business.
“Biscuits are on the table,” Brodie said.
Hannah frowned at him.
“Cookies,” Rachel provided.
Hannah took her doll and headed from the room.
Rachel placed her tartan scraps on the side table and then moved closer to Brodie, gathering her thoughts—possibly courage—and not meeting his eyes.
“Out with it,” he said. “What’s troubling ye?”
She turned around slowly, choosing her words one at a time. “Has your grandfather spoken with you about the future? What he has in mind?”
Brodie frowned. “Concerning?”
Rachel was getting used to that frown. “Concerning the fishing business. After he’s gone.”
“What about it?” His mouth transformed into a hard straight line, as if bracing himself to hear a bad weather report.
Rachel sat, crossed her legs, trying to look relaxed. “He thinks Hannah, being Joe’s daughter, should get half the fishing business when he passes on.” There. She’d spit it out.
Brodie’s body expanded, or at least that’s what it felt like. He was red in the face, too. Scots were known for their tempers, and she wished he would remember there was a little girl in the other room before he exploded. He turned, giving her his back, and was silent for a long moment. Finally, he spoke. “Aye. It’s only right the lass gets half.”
“What?” Rachel shouted. “You agree with him?”
“It’s her birthright,” Brodie said.
“You Scots are all nuts. Hannah needs half of a fishing business as much as she needs a Ferrari and an e-cigarette factory.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Well, I’m Hannah’s mother, and I say she can’t have it.”
Brodie raised an eyebrow as if she was the one who was cracked instead of him and Abraham.
“We don’t need your money,” she said. “I do fine on my own.”
“This has nothing to do with money,” he said. “Weren’t ye listening? It’s what is right to do. Joe is gone. Hannah will get his half.”
“But it’s wrong.” Rachel looked Brodie over, from one bulging muscle to the other. “You’re the one doing all the work.” She didn’t need to say it; it was glaringly apparent.
Hannah wandered back into the room with a cookie in each hand and crumbs around her mouth.
“How many did you have?” Rachel asked.
Hannah shoved another cookie in her full mouth as if to get rid of the evidence.
“Where’s your doll?”
Hannah smiled and more cookie crumbs fell out. “Left her in the kitchen. She likes these cookies.”
“You need a bath,” Rachel said.
He cleared his throat. “Towels are in the linen closet.”
Rachel scooped up Hannah and glanced back at him. “We’re not done talking.”
He gave her that eyebrow-raising thing again, which said, I think we are.
“Not by a long shot.” She took Hannah up the stairs with every intent of picking up where she left off when her daughter was in bed. But after a good scrubbing, retrieving dolly from downstairs, and reading a story, Brodie was gone. Either he’d left the house or was hiding behind his closed bedroom door.
Chicken. She wanted to tell him why she was wearing the locket. But actually, she felt a little relieved not to have to do it yet. It was one thing for her to be hell-bent on having a future with Brodie, but it was quite another to blurt it out and take him off guard. He might reject her outright just from the shock of it. Wearing his locket was the perfect subtle hint that they belonged together. It was best if he had time to adjust to the idea first before they had their heart-to-heart talk.
She went to the whisky cabinet and made herself at home by taking down a tumbler and pulling out the Glenfiddich. She wasn’t tired in the least—jet lag—but knew if she didn’t get some sleep that teaching at Quilting Central in the morning was going to be tough. Also, she’d need all her strength to deal with Deydie, who was sure to critique her every move.
“Want to make me one, too?”
She jumped at the rumble of Brodie’s baritone.
“It’s not polite to sneak up on people.”
He gave her a look that said he wanted to remind her of the impolite things she’d done to him. “How long are ye staying?” It sounded more like, When are ye leaving?
Rachel wasn’t one for taking a vacation. She’d accrued an enormous amount of time off. Before leaving Winderly Towers, she’d handed over the reins to the capable assistant manager, and had left her return date open-ended. She’d guessed she’d stay a week or two. But now, standing here with Brodie in front of her, she wanted to answer him with, I’m staying for as long as it takes.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly.
His eyes dropped to her chest, where subconsciously she had been rubbing the locket between her fingers.
It would’ve been the perfect time to bring up how she hated the way she’d left things between them six years ago. But she needed that drink first. More air in her lungs, too.
She took down another tumbler, poured in a bit of whisky in both, and a splash of water. She quit biting her lip before she turned and gave him his glass.
“What should we drink to?” she asked bravely.
He gave her a hard stare. “How about to winding up yere business here quickly and to ye going home?” He didn’t wait to clink glasses, but knocked his drink back as he walked from the room.
* * *
Brodie set his glass in the sink, turned on the faucet, and didn’t realize he’d let the water run so long until his fingers were nearly scalded. How was he going to survive Rachel’s visit in Gandiegow? Hell, how was he going to survive the night?
He washed the tumbler and set it in the drainer to dry. He wanted to go to the pub and knock back a few more, but he had an early morning ahead and Tuck on the boat to contend with as well. As long as Tuck did his job and didn’t want to talk about Rachel, they would get along fine.
Brodie had to pass the parlor on his way to the stairs. He wouldn’t let himself look in to see if Rachel was still drinking alone or if she’d gone up already. He was grateful the little girl was in the cottage. Having Joe’s daughter here was a great deterrent, keeping Brodie from checking in on Rachel and tucking her into her bed. Or tucking her into mine.
Brodie trudged up the steps, thinking it might be a long sleepless night. At the top, he didn’t expect the bathroom door to open and for Rachel to run into him.
“Oh!” She pushed away from his chest, but he caught her arms to keep her from stumbling.
Oh hell. She smelled great. Woman and soap. Her scrubbed face had been washed of the makeup she wore. She looked young. Enticing. All it would take was one pull on the tie of her robe to reveal what she had on underneath. In her hand, she held a small case. On her feet she wore fuzzy slippers, and he could see the bottom hem of her flannel pajamas—sheep lining the cuffs. The pajamas shouldn’t have looked sexy to his crazy eyes, but they were.
She stared at him, searching his face. He wondered what she saw there. Could she see he was at war with himself? He should let her go. But as he wrestled with the decision, she reached up and gently pushed his hair away from his face, then left her hand resting on his cheek.
“Brodie?” Her voice was filled with earnestness.
Her hand was warm and it was as if six years had slipped away . . . to when they’d kissed. A torturous time warp. But six years ago, she hadn’t been wearing his locket.
“No.” He stepped back, being the one who stumbled. He couldn’t do this to himself. Not again. He held his head high and stomped to his door, slamming it behind him. Immediately he regretted it. He might’ve woken Grandda, and the little girl.
He stood fuming in his room for a long moment, wanting to go back in the hallway, wanting her to implore him with her eyes again. Wanting her to touch him as she had. She was putting him through hell. But it was the call of nature that had him venturing from his room. He entered the loo and flipped on the light switch and stopped cold. God help him, her black bra was looped over the towel rack, displayed like some peepshow advertisement. He nearly roared. Had she done it to torment him further? Like she’d done by wearing his locket?
He couldn’t leave her sexy contraption here. He pulled the hand towel from the rack, and without touching the offending bit of lingerie, he used the towel like oven mitts to pick up the bra. He didn’t know what to do next. He couldn’t very well knock on Rachel’s door and give it to her right now. He’d wake the girl. Instead, he hid the garment within the towel, shoved it under his arm, and walked across the hall. He hooked it on her doorknob, not caring one damn bit if she was embarrassed about it hanging there when she discovered it in the morning.
He still needed to take a piss. He stomped back to the bathroom, thinking about how life had become a lot more complicated since the two females had arrived. What the hell would tomorrow bring?
Indeed, Brodie had a sleepless night. Mornings come early to fishermen, but with little to no sleep, it made getting up for the boat more of a chore than what it was normally—a blessing. In the hallway, outside Rachel’s room, the bra still hung on her doorknob. Not touching it, Brodie laid his ear against the door, wondering if she’d slept like a babe while he’d been tied in knots all night. He heard nothing from the other side and forced himself to get on with his morning.
Soon Brodie stood on the dock, waiting for Tuck. “Screw it.” He stepped onto his boat, ready to cast off.
“Hold up.” Tuck was waving his arms and running toward the boat. He hopped aboard just in time.
Brodie walked to the wheelhouse, talking over his shoulder. “Do I need to remind ye the catch waits for no man?”
Tuck laughed, but got right to work. Once underway, the bloke was such good help that Brodie nearly forgot about him being late.
As they made their way to the next fishing spot, a storm unfortunately blew in, cutting the morning run short. Unfortunate for both Brodie’s bank account and his peace of mind.
When they pulled back into Gandiegow, Tuck jumped off and secured the lines as well as any seasoned fisherman. But no sooner did Brodie have that thought than his day worker went and ruined it.
“How’s about I come back to yere house and have a cup of coffee. Or tea.” He shot Brodie a cocky grin. “I hear the bird and her daughter are at yere cottage. I’m feeling thirsty.”
“No,” Brodie said with force.
“I see.” Tuck laughed. “Want to keep her all for yereself?”
That wasn’t it at all. Brodie wanted to wipe the deck with Tuck’s grin. Instead he ignored the bastard and stepped off the boat, marching toward home.
His mood didn’t improve once he opened the front door either. The scene hit him like gale force winds. The cottage had been transformed from good old-fashioned male starkness to bluidy female warmth.
Hannah’s pink backpack hung over the newel post and her guzzy was draped over the banister. Her new ragdoll was sitting on the bottom step like it was resting there before making the climb upstairs. Her cute pink puffy coat hung on the hook. His eyes fell on her black boots with the multicolored stars, sitting right where he’d told her to leave them yesterday. But they irritated the hell out of him. It all irritated him. Why? Because it looked like Hannah had bluidy well moved in. But it wasn’t only Hannah’s things. Evidence of Rachel was everywhere. Her coat hung next to her daughter’s. Some sort of woman’s novel was resting on the side table, which should only have the day’s mail and an extra set of the keys for the boat on it. And the smell! God help him. Rachel’s scent had taken up residence in his nostrils and he hadn’t walked two steps indoors yet. It was enough to make a man want to run for the hills . . . and become a monk.
Laughter drifted to his ears in the entryway—wee laughter, followed by adult female laughter. Could he take much more?
He sat on the bench, removed his boots, and chucked them onto the mat. He stalked into the kitchen and found the blasted females entertaining his grandda around the small table loaded with the most delicious-looking breakfast. Made more delicious because he hadn’t been the one to cook it. Scrambled eggs topped with cheese. Toast. Mugs of coffee. The girl’s must have been cocoa. They all smiled up at him as he blew into the room.
But it was Rachel’s smile that affected him strangely. The partridge on his chest warmed as if she was a bit of sunshine on this gloomy winter day.
He poured a cup of coffee for himself and stood at the counter, farthest away from her.
Abraham pointed at the slatted basket. “When ye walk the lasses to Quilting Central, take that along for Deydie. It was my mother’s, ye know. Her prized possession. Deydie’s had her eye on it for some time. I think she wants to stack fabric in it. I might as well pass it along now, as I won’t get a chance to do it later.”
His grandda had changed, turned maudlin while Brodie had been hiding out at Here Again Farm. The moment Brodie got wind that Grandda was ill, he moved home to take care of him and the fishing business. The congestion in his chest seemed to never get better and Brodie suspected that being ill for so long had done a number on his grandfather’s mental state, too. One by one, Grandda had been giving away the possessions he thought others might want. At first, Brodie tried to ignore the final orders his grandda gave him, about what to do with this bit and that. But over time, Brodie had started to accept the truth. Maybe the old man’s time was nearing. But what the Almighty didn’t understand was that Brodie couldn’t let his grandfather go; he just couldn’t do without him.
Begrudgingly, Brodie went to the basket. “Are ye ready then?” he said to the females.
“Aye,” Hannah said, hopping up.
“Aye?” Rachel said to her daughter, shaking her head and smiling. She stood and faced his grandfather with concern on her face. “Will you be all right?”
It was shite like this that really inflamed Brodie. She shouldn’t give a whit about his grandda. She hadn’t given a whit about me back in the day. Also, Abraham had drilled it into Brodie’s head from the time he was a wee lad that women cared only about themselves—always leaving, never sticking, never standing by their men. Rachel was behaving as if a leopard could change her spots.
“I’ll be fine. Doc said he’ll be by to check in on me.”
Brodie didn’t like it either that Grandda had stopped walking to the surgery. The exercise was good for him, but at the same time he understood how the frigid weather wasn’t always kind to weak lungs.
With basket in hand, Brodie stalked to the front door. Rachel and Hannah could find their own way to Quilting Central, but he found himself waiting anyway.
The girl chatted all the way to where the quilters gathered on a daily basis. Brodie only half listened. When they walked in the door, Deydie frowned in their direction.
“What’s up with her?” Rachel asked. “She told me to come to teach.”
Deydie waddled over to them. “Young One, go get a scone over there at the table. Amy will pour ye some hot tea to go with it.”
Hannah skipped away with her ragdoll held tightly to her chest. When she was out of earshot, Deydie turned on Rachel. “She wasn’t part of the deal.”
What the hell. “What do you have against the girl?” Brodie blurted.
Rachel appeared muted with bewilderment. Two seconds later, her face reddened as the old woman’s meaning sank in. Rachel spun on her as if she wasn’t scared of Deydie’s notorious broom in the least. “Why can’t Hannah stay?”
“Because she can’t.” Deydie seemed unwavering. “Before ye go off in a huff, we have a deal. Ye’re the one who made it.”
“Forget the deal,” Rachel said on a growl.
“What deal?” Brodie said, before he remembered this had nothing to do with him. It was as if some twisted sense of gallantry had charged forth and taken over.
“What’s it to ye?” Deydie said, eyeing him. She jabbed her thumb in Rachel’s direction. “She said she’d teach a class for a stack of tartan scraps.” The matriarch quilter glowered at Rachel. “A deal’s a deal, dammit.”
Rachel glared, not backing down. “My daughter stays with me.”
Brodie admired the lass for standing up to the quilting harridan. He couldn’t think of another person who was fool enough to do it.
But then the old she-badger swung on him. “Brodie, take the girl to Abraham’s.”
“Why me?” But he knew the answer.
“Because ye’re family,” Deydie said.
Why the hell had he come in with them? He looked down at his grandfather’s basket still in his hand. “Here.” He thrust it at Deydie. “Grandda wanted ye to have it.”
The old woman took it, nodding.
Brodie looked from Rachel to Hannah, then back to Rachel. He felt like the only levelheaded one in the room, but he wouldn’t do anything without her permission. Rachel was, after all, Hannah’s mother. “Ye know Grandda would love to spend the day with the lass.”
Rachel was silent. He could tell she hated giving in to Deydie, and at the same time, he was making a lot of sense. “I give my word no harm will come to yere bairn.” As soon as he said it, he wanted to kick himself. He owed Rachel nothing. Nothing.
But at his words, Rachel’s shoulders relaxed. Her eyes went all soft on him and it was too effing late to renege. He guessed he could get Amy or Moira to look in on Abraham and the girl to make sure they were okay while Rachel was busy.
She chewed her lip, looking from him to Deydie. “All right. But tell Abraham to call if he needs me . . . for any reason. Any reason at all.”
Brodie thought about Doc coming to check on Grandda, a piece of information that Rachel must’ve forgotten during the quarrel. Hell, he could watch the kid for a few minutes while Gabe took Abraham’s temperature and blood pressure, and listened to his chest. “I’ll let the lass know she’s to leave with me.” Anything to get away from Rachel while she gazed upon him as if he was her champion . . . her knight in shining armor. He wasn’t; he was just going to walk her daughter down a few houses and leave her with Abraham.
He stalked over to the small café table. The little bit was stuffing a big chunk of blueberry scone in her mouth when he sidled up to her.
“Slow down there. Ye don’t want to choke.”
She gave him a smile filled with crumbs that spilled into her lap.
“Ye’re to come away with me, back to sit with yere great-grandda for the day. Do ye ken?”
She crinkled up her nose. “Ken?”
“It means, do ye understand. Come now.”
She hopped out of her chair and planted her hand in his as if he’d offered. Which he hadn’t. She acted like she’d known him forever. Which was so far off the mark. He might be family, but didn’t she know a stranger? Was she always this trusting of everyone?
He wanted to shake her grip loose—perhaps shake Rachel, too, for getting him in this mess—but he supposed he was stuck.
On the way to the door, Hannah stopped in front of her mother. “I’m going back home to sit with Grandda. Do ye ken?”
Brodie sighed exasperatedly as Rachel stared at him. As if he had anything to do with what the lass said. He put his hands up. “Don’t blame me.” The lass was a gifted parrot, he’d give her that. She’d said it perfectly with the same inflection he’d used.
Hannah grinned at her mother. “See you later, alligator.”
“All right, you. I’ll let you go, but be good for your grandfather. Please.” Rachel might have a smile for her daughter, but she gave Brodie a meaningful glance as the wind howled outside. He interpreted it with ease . . . take care of my girl.
Outside, he kept a grip on Hannah’s hand, hyperaware that she could blow away as strong as the wind was and with her as little as a mite. He wasn’t strong enough for this kind of worry. Once Doc was done with Abraham, Brodie would hand the girl off and be free. He had no big plans. Maybe he could make himself useful and wait tables at the restaurant. Or drive just outside of town, up to the North Sea Valve Company, and take on extra chores there.
But back at home, he found Doc helping Abraham on with his coat. “What’s going on here?” Maybe they were headed over to the surgery. “Gabe, did ye forget one of yere instruments?” Brodie glanced outside; Abraham shouldn’t be exposed to this weather.
Gabe shot Brodie a serious expression, like the engine on the boat needed a complete overhaul and not just a couple of spark plugs replaced. “I’m taking yere grandfather to Inverness for an X-ray.”
“X-ray? Why?” It was a dumb question, but panic made Brodie ask nonetheless.
“As a precaution,” Gabriel said. “I want to make sure he hasn’t developed pneumonia.”
“I’ll take him,” Brodie said. Grandda was his responsibility.
“Nay,” Gabe said firmly. “I have to be there. I’ll want to read it myself.”
Now Brodie was really worried.
Hannah tugged on his hand. He’d forgotten about her.
“Grandda is going to be fine. Right, Doc?”
What was it with this kid that she had to copy him at every turn?
“Listen to the child,” Doc said. He knelt down beside her and stuck out his hand as if she were an adult instead of a bit. “I’m Gabe.”
“I’m Hannah. Brodie’s cousin.” She grinned at him with her irresistible smile that could charm a hungry polar bear.
“I heard ye’d come to town, Hannah,” Gabe said. “I promise to take good care of yere great-grandda.”
“I know ye will,” Hannah said, her brogue perfect.
Gabe patted her head and stood. He addressed Brodie. “Maybe Hannah would like to play with Glenna over at the parsonage?”
“Ye’re a genius.” Brodie breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” He could dump her there, then catch up with Gabriel and head to the hospital with them.
Hannah hugged Grandda and then took Brodie’s hand again as they walked to Father Andrew and Moira’s house. But when they got there, Andrew was pulling his front door shut with him on the outside. “What can I do for you, Brodie? I was heading out to make a call.”
Brodie glanced down at the child beside him. “I was wondering if Glenna was home.”
Andrew gave him a confused look. “Nay. She’s at school.”
“Oh,” Brodie said, feeling stupid. “Of course she’s in school. Thanks.”
As Andrew walked away, Brodie frowned down at the girl. “So . . . what do ye want to do?”
She screwed up her little face as if she was thinking hard. Finally, she answered, “Have a tea party.”
“Tea party?” He wasn’t quite sure what that entailed. He guessed he could make her some tea.
The girl seemed to read his mind. “We’ll have one like Mommy and I have.” Hannah hopped up and down. “We’ll have so much fun. But ye’ll have to do what Mommy does.”
“What does yere mother do?” he asked, circumspect.
“We both put on our pretty dresses, sit on the floor, and drink tea with our pinkies up.” The kid demonstrated how she sipped tea . . . as if she were the blasted Queen!
“Ye expect me to put on a dress?” he asked, horrified.
“Aye,” the girl said. “Why shouldn’t ye?”
“Because I’m a bluidy man.”
Hannah raised an eyebrow at him as the wind nearly picked her up and blew her away. He clutched her hand tighter. He shouldn’t have raised his voice and he shouldn’t have sworn.
“Let’s get home,” he groused, worried about her, even though she wasn’t his. He felt sorry for the girl also. Did her mother abandon her often to strangers? Brodie suspected she did. He was stirred up and indignant for the little girl and decided he would tell Rachel how she was doing things all wrong.
All the way back to the cottage, Hannah chattered away as if she didn’t have a clue he was stewing. When they were safe inside, she slipped off her boots and gazed up at him.
“I’ll put my party dress on, then we’ll have our tea.” She paused as if looking for the right word. “And biscuits?”
“Aye, biscuits.” Her cuteness was starting to grate on him because he felt himself being sucked in. He hung up his coat and then frowned at her. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
She grinned at him. “Ye make the tea, and I’ll set up the parlor.”
He rolled his eyes and stomped up the stairs. What had Deydie gotten him into?
Brodie went into his room and changed for the girl. But not into a damned dress. He returned downstairs to the kitchen without her seeing him. He made the tea, carried the tray to the parlor, hoping the child would tire of this game quickly.
But as he set the tray on the coffee table, his heart went into his throat. Aye . . . she’d set up their tea by spreading out her guzzy on the floor. Her new ragdoll was propped up into a sitting position with the help of a few books from the shelf. Hannah sat on a pillow and had laid out a pillow for him as well. But it was the other person attending the tea that really had Brodie speechless.
Joe.
His cousin’s picture took the fourth spot at their make-believe table, the picture resting on its kickstand with clean-cut Joe overseeing the proceedings.
“Ye did dress up,” Hannah said, surprising him.
Brodie glanced down at his kilt. “It’s not a party dress like yereself, but it’s the best I could do.” He took his place like a proper gentleman.
“I like it. It’s a pretty skirt,” Hannah said innocently.
Brodie tsked her harshly. “Nay. ’Tis a kilt. Warrior’s attire.” He pounded his chest with one hand, right where the partridge was, but he softened his tone with an inkling of a grin, and added a wink so as not to scare the child.
Hannah nodded approvingly, but then turned her gaze to Joe’s picture. “Was my daddy a warrior, too?”
“Aye.” At one time when they were lads. “When we played clan wars, he would insist on being the Chieftain.”
“What’s a chieftain?”
“He’s the head of the clan.”
“And what part did ye play?” she asked.
“Whatever yere father told me to be. He was the older one.” By nineteen days. Joe had a way of always taking control, which had been fine as kids, but became a problem as they grew into men. Not just for Brodie. Others saw it, too. Joe always wanting his way, never having compassion toward others as he should’ve. Or empathy. It could’ve been what happened to him, or it could’ve been who he really was. As an adult, Joe had a smooth, hard outer shell. One of the reasons Brodie knew from the start that Rachel wasn’t right for his cousin. Joe needed someone who wanted the same things . . . wealth, status, shallow dreams. Rachel seemed to only want . . . love. The thought made Brodie’s chest hurt. Or maybe it was the truth.
In the end, Brodie found out he’d been wrong about her.
He motioned to the picture of Joe. “Do ye take the picture with ye wherever ye go?”
Hannah shrugged. “I’ve never been anywhere but here. Daddy sits right beside my bed in our hotel room. Mommy and I say a prayer for him every night that he’s happy in heaven.”
Brodie wasn’t exactly sure that was where Joe had gone. Which wasn’t the Christian thought he should have toward the dead, and his cousin ta boot. But Brodie knew more things about Joe than others did. On his stag night, Joe seemed pretty sober when he’d led the entertainment upstairs to the room over the pub and didn’t return for some time. Brodie wondered if infidelity kept you out of heaven or not.
“So yere mother,” Brodie broached carefully, “she loved ye da very much?”
Hannah took a sip of her tea. “Nay.”
Nay? Her Scottish burr was cute as hell, but Brodie was reeling from her answer.
“Mommy said she and Daddy didn’t live together.”
“Didn’t live together?” Brodie said incredulously. Was that an American thing?
“I was little and don’t remember, but Mommy says we lived at the hotel where we live now, and Daddy lived in his house.”
What a strange arrangement. But then again, Yanks did have their odd thinking.
“Mommy and Daddy were getting a divorce.”
An anchor fell on Brodie’s chest.
The girl reached over and laid a hand on his cheek. “It’s okay. Mommy said they both loved me very much. She talks about it all the time.” And then as if reciting, “Just because two parents can’t be married, doesn’t mean you weren’t loved. Even now in heaven, your daddy loves you very much.”
Brodie felt both strange relief and a little choked up. Rachel had kept Joe alive for their little girl. It was the most heroic thing he’d ever heard of—for Rachel to put aside any animosity she felt for Hannah’s sake. Brodie knew Joe and was sure there had been animosity. Plus, he’d seen what others had gone through. When the MacMurrays separated, they fought and put their kids in the middle. When they finally moved away with the two of them divorced, their family and their children had been ripped to shreds. Rachel, from Hannah’s account, was a saint compared to the dysfunctional MacMurrays, and Brodie’s opinion of her rose a little from the muck and mire he’d buried her in the last six years.
“Can ye pour Daddy a cup of tea? He looks thirsty.”
Brodie frowned at the lass, but did as she asked. Next, dolly needed a cup of tea and two biscuits, because she is extra hungry. He noticed the girl was helping Dolly knock off her snacks. For a moment, he worried he was letting the lass spoil her lunch, but what did he care. It was Rachel’s problem, and Deydie should take the blame.
Hannah corrected him repeatedly about how to hold his pinky, and regaled him with the adventures from the hotel. He started to relax and enjoy himself.
Brodie decided the girl wasn’t so bad after all. She was his cousin and he could like one of his relations without betraying himself. He could separate mother and daughter in his mind . . . because at the end of the day, he still didn’t give a rat’s ass about Hannah’s mother. But his resolve didn’t bring any comfort and he felt all alone in his turmoil. Surely no one else was as miserable as he was in his unforgiving heart.