In Brodie’s gut, he knew something was wrong. The way Rachel was acting was so strange. He was still reeling from the kiss and her request for forgiveness, but the paper hat on the porch took priority. Besides, he couldn’t talk about how she unbalanced him. Later he’d contemplate how he’d lied to her. He could barely admit to himself he was starting to forgive her—just a little—though he had no mind to absolve her altogether. What reasonable man would ever forgive Rachel for what she had done?
He ushered her back into the house and followed her into the living room. He switched on every lamp because the room was too damn cozy with just the Christmas tree lights twinkling. It’d taken everything in him not to kiss her when she’d shown him the tree. The tree he couldn’t help putting there. The partridge . . . it was an accident. While on the boat today, he’d passed the time whittling a chunk of wood. He’d been one surprised bastard when he’d seen what he’d carved.
She sat on the sofa. He stood at the mantle. He’d done so well staying away from her earlier this evening, hiding out on the boat until he saw her walking across town to Thistle Glen Lodge.
Rachel was silent, looking guilty.
“Tell me,” he ordered.
“Everyone is saying that things are missing. They believe it’s Tuck.”
“I don’t listen to gossip.”
“But I know you’ve heard.”
He nodded.
She chewed the inside of her cheek, not looking at him. “It’s not Tuck. The mystery person isn’t tall enough to be him, and his shoulders aren’t as broad.”
Jealousy pierced Brodie as if his chest was gashed by an oversized treble hook. He detested that Rachel was in Gandiegow and the things she made him feel. He especially detested her describing Tuck. And he detested Tuck, because all the women commented on how well the Almighty had put him together. Gads!
Brodie brought his focus back to the issue at hand. “How do you know this person isn’t as tall as Tuck?” Or as broad.
She shook her head.
Brodie was getting a sinking feeling and stalked toward her. “Explain.”
“I saw him,” she confessed.
“Who was it?” Brodie asked. “Where were you? When was this?”
She didn’t look happy that he was bombarding her with questions, but he couldn’t help it. He had to know. So he could keep her safe.
“Out with it.”
“Fine,” she said, sounding exasperated. “Last night when I was leaving Quilting Central. It was late.”
“How late?”
“After eleven.”
“Were you by yereself?”
When she nodded, his stomach felt sick. Something terrible could’ve happened to her. He was steaming mad. How could she be so reckless? “Tell me everything. Everything that ye saw.”
“There’s not much to tell. It was just a man. When he saw me, he stepped into the shadows . . . as if he didn’t want to be seen.” She hesitated. “For a second, I thought it might be you.” She turned her head away. “Watching out for me.”
God, he wished he’d been that smart.
She exhaled and faced him again. “But the man in the shadows couldn’t have been you. Too thin. Not big enough. Not nearly.” She skimmed Brodie’s exterior, seeming embarrassed, but also not stopping until her eyes had thoroughly looked him over from top to bottom.
Brodie puffed up, although he didn’t care that she was assessing him, or that she seemed to approve of what she saw. But he had to admit he felt appeased, but only slightly. But then the impact of it all had air escaping his lungs. “Ye didn’t think to tell me about it sooner?”
She straightened up and looked him square in the eye. “You’ve been AWOL. Remember?”
“Hell.” His plan to stay away from her could’ve gotten her hurt. He was royally ticked off. He crumpled the origami note in his hand. “What was this all about? I assume ye wrote it?”
“I think he’s hungry so I fixed him a plate after dinner. I fixed one for you, too. Did you get it? I left it in the oven at the cottage.”
It had been nice to get a warm meal when he’d returned home from freezing his arse off on the boat. It was thoughtful of her, but he wasn’t going to say it now. He was livid.
“God, woman! How did ye know this stranger isn’t out to harm you? Yere kindness to the thief could very well be deadly. Leave milk out for stray cats, but for God’s sake, stop inviting danger! What ye’ve done is to only ask him to come back for more.” Brodie glanced down the hall to where Hannah—young, small, and vulnerable—slept behind the door. He wanted to bellow at Rachel that she and her daughter had no choice but to come back to Abraham’s now. Brodie could keep them safe there. But he stopped himself from roaring. He wouldn’t scare the little one awake. He tamped down his fury and hurled the paper into the empty hearth instead. “Why don’t you have a fire going? It’s freezing in here.”
She wrapped her white robe around her, tightening it. “I—I don’t know how.”
He stared at her in disbelief. Holy effing hell. He’d let them come back over here and she didn’t have one ounce of survival skills to stay in a cottage on the northeast coast of Scotland? What had he been thinking?
“Don’t look at me that way! I grew up in a hotel. My grandfather switched the wood-burning fireplace with a gas insert when I was a girl. We just had to flip a switch.”
This was another glaring difference between them. She was a flip a switch type of woman and he was a grunt and muscle man—cutting down the trees, chopping logs, carrying them in, and building a damned fire. Just another reason why he couldn’t wait until she was gone. God, he still cared for her, though. But the gulf was too wide. Too deep. He’d drown trying to get to her. He would effing drown.
But he couldn’t think about that now. He walked straight to the hearth, squatted down, and grabbed the paper from the bin. He began crunching them into balls.
“Don’t start a fire now,” she hissed. “I’m going to bed soon. It wouldn’t be safe.”
“It’ll be fine.” His words came out more of a curse than as a comfort. “I’ll be here to make sure.”
“What?” Her pitch had risen.
He looked back at her. “I’ve no choice in the matter. You and wee bit need to be watched after. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
She sighed exasperatedly, sounding so much like one of Hannah’s melodramatic snits. “Seriously, Brodie, the food snatcher is harmless.”
He stood, going to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. He gazed into her brown eyes, willing her to see the truth. “Ye don’t know that for sure. I couldn’t . . .” He faltered. “We couldn’t—Abraham and the rest of the village—we couldn’t have anythin’ happen to you.” Brodie’s eyes bore into her, making sure she knew it all. If something happened to her, it would kill him. It would crush his soul. He would be totally lost. “I mean it.” His voice sounded hoarse, like Grandda’s after one of his coughing fits.
She nodded and started to reach up with her hand.
Brodie let go and stepped back. “Stand over here so I can teach ye what every Scottish lass is taught before she’s three years old.” Hannah’s lesson would begin tomorrow. “Grab a handful of tinder from the box and spread it over the paper.
It was hell to have Rachel shoulder-to-shoulder with him, but at least she was nearby where he could keep her safe.
He guided her through the rest of the steps on how to build a fire, having her do each part on her own. Finally he stood when the fire was blazing, bringing warmth and comfort into the room.
“You can’t stay,” Rachel said, going to the sofa, sitting down, and pulling her legs up to her chin.
He disagreed. “Why?”
“Hannah.”
“I’ll be gone before she wakes. I have to do the morning run on the boat.”
“I know Gandiegow,” Rachel said. “The gossip will be thick if they find out you’re here.” She looked at him as though it saddened her that he couldn’t stay.
His chest warmed, as if the idiotic partridge had been swaddled in a quilt.
“Let me take care of Gandiegow,” he murmured. “As I said, they wouldn’t want anything to happen to ye.”
She stood and stared at him, as if it was a dare. “And you? Do you care, too?”
He held on to the mantle to keep from crossing the room and pulling her into his arms. “I care for the girl.” That was the only thing he would admit. But he cursed himself that his declaration took all the air from her sails.
He looked at the clock on the wall. “I have to rest before I get up in a few hours.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Why did you come here tonight?”
He didn’t point out that her red handbag sat in the kitchen as testament as to why he’d come. She didn’t know the rationale he’d used to bring it to Thistle Glen Lodge either. What if she has an emergency and needs her purse in the middle of the night? He couldn’t have her traipsing across the village in that robe of hers to get it. By the way she was acting, did she think he’d stopped by for some other reason? But she was wrong, completely wrong. He wasn’t so weak that he needed to make excuses to see a woman.
Her robe and tousled brown hair didn’t go with the fierce glare she was firing at him. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her anger away. But the answer to her question as to why he’d come here tonight flickered across his mind as a lighthouse beam passes over the rocks, illuminating them, leading the way to safety. He cocked an eyebrow at her, making sure he got in the last word.
“The Almighty sent me here. Ye’re in need of a watchdog tonight.”
* * *
Rachel stood transfixed as Brodie pulled the quilt out of the tall corner basket. She wanted more from him than to be some kind of guard dog for her. She wanted a true love. She wanted to kiss him once more. Maybe twice. If she took the initiative again, she’d do nothing but make herself look foolish. Or desperate. He’d been clear. He was never going to forgive her.
She didn’t say good night, or thank him for staying over, but left him to stretch out on the couch. She grabbed her notebook before she walked down the hallway. She didn’t want to think about what had just passed between them. While she washed her face and brushed her hair, she forced herself to think of something pleasant, like the empty lot next door.
First she imagined the interior of the B and B . . . a warm beachy atmosphere, but it had to feel like a Scottish cottage, too. As she picked out everything in her mind from the window coverings to the sheets on the bed, the obvious question popped up. The cost.
She took her notebook to the bedroom next to hers so as not to wake Hannah. As she flipped to a clean page, past all the quilts she’d designed since arriving in Gandiegow, Rachel did her best to pretend Brodie slept at the Arctic Circle instead of only a few steps down the hall. She sat cross-legged on the bed, writing out everything it would take to run a B and B here. Then she made a list of questions which needed to be answered . . . such as who owned the land? Was it for sale? Finally, but most important, did Gandiegow have the traffic to make this whole venture possible?
When Rachel’s yawns were making her eyes water, she shut her notebook and headed to her room. She quietly put her nightgown on in the dark and crawled into bed. The idea of her own bed and breakfast had done the trick to keep her brain occupied. But now her mind wandered. Down the hall to the man stretched out on the sofa.
It was nearly unbearable to have him so close, but not be able to crawl into his arms and be with him, and convince him that her feelings were true. But she’d asked him, and his words still haunted her . . . I care for the girl. The message couldn’t have been any clearer. Loving him was hopeless. She needed to start accepting that he would never come around.
She sighed. Late at night was no time to make rash decisions, though. In the morning, things had to look brighter.
But then she remembered her mother was coming to town.
* * *
Sixteen-year-old Harry Stanton watched Thistle Glen Lodge until the lights went out. All of Gandiegow was asleep so it was safe for him to go to bed. He shouldn’t have waited here so long. He should’ve stayed outside Quilting Central, to make sure no one had returned.
He’d thought again about sleeping on a boat, but it was a cold and tricky thing. He’d tried to stow aboard a few times, but the fishermen had a tendency to return to their boats unexpectedly in the evenings, checking God-knows-what. Also, the fishermen were always up early. After sleeping several nights in an old woodshed with a quilt he’d nicked, Harry had found that Quilting Central’s door was always open, was warm inside, and had a lovely sofa to lie on. Having a proper restroom for which to clean up was a treat and more than he could’ve hoped for . . . though the room was meant for lasses and not men. The danged flowers on the wallpaper could be seen in the moonlight.
He felt for the scissors in his pocket, the ones he’d borrowed from Quilting Central. Christmas was only two days away and he needed to finish the rest of his presents before the day arrived.
As he slipped through the shadows back to the hostel—as he’d taken to thinking of Quilting Central at night—he looked at each of the houses he’d categorized. The preacher’s, the doctor’s, the tinker’s. Like every night, he wondered which cottage held his father.
As he passed the kirk, he caught a reflection of himself in the stained-glass window. Since his mother’s death, he never passed a mirror when he didn’t wonder if he might look like his da.
Harry didn’t have much to go on. For his whole life, his mother told him absolutely nothing about his da . . . until she lay dying in her hospital bed in Edinburgh. In the end, his mother only told him a few things. His dad was tall with dark hair. She cared for his father very much. He never knew about you, she’d said. When Harry asked more, she’d only given him one clue . . . yere da’s from Gandiegow. She’d drifted off to sleep then. If he had known, he would’ve tried to wake her. Instead he hurried off to a café to do an Internet search to find out where Gandiegow was. An hour later, Mum was gone.
He looked around carefully, scanning for movement about the village, and when he was sure all was safe, he ran for Quilting Central and slipped inside.
He never turned on the lights, and most nights he sat on the floor under the window, using the streetlamp to read one of the books on the shelf. He wished they would stock something other than books that women would like, for Harry loved to read. It helped him to get away from his own world. But tonight he couldn’t flip through the pages. He had work to do.
He went to the desk, pulled out the middle drawer, and found more sheets of thick paper. Last night, he’d made a bird for the pie he’d taken. Tonight, he had to make the rest. He took them over to his place by the window and got busy. He needed something special for the owner of the General Store. He’d been desperate. His trainers weren’t keeping him warm. It was cold this far north, colder than he’d expected. He only borrowed the items. He would pay back the store owner one day. He’d get a job after he found his father. He’d pay back the lady who’d hung the flannel shirt out on the line at the cottage with the blue door. He’d give back the scissors when he was finished with the presents, too. Of course, he needed to do more for the lady with the kid who left him the only real meal he’d had since coming to find his da.
They’d talked to him at the hospital. It was the law. He would have to go into foster care as he had no relatives. That they knew about anyway. This was the reason Harry ran away to Gandiegow. Maybe he should’ve strolled into the village and asked about his father straightaway, but he was afraid they would call the authorities. No, Harry had done the right thing—stayed out of sight, hiding in various sheds, learning as much as he could about the people who lived here. He had to find his father first so he wouldn’t be stuck in some home until he turned eighteen.
But in the meantime, he needed to thank those who’d helped him get by.
He’d read about origami in a book once, but it all seemed too rigid for him. He’d put the book aside and did as he liked. He liked making things with his hands, shapes out of paper, but used scissors to make it become more of what he wanted.
He worked on the presents, fashioning a bear for the lady at Thistle Glen Lodge, thinking her kid could play with it. When he was done, he hid his new creations, with the others, in a plastic container under one of the tables, making sure to put it back exactly where it was. Tomorrow night, like Father Christmas, he would go from house to house and drop off his gifts to thank the people of Gandiegow.
* * *
Rachel drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming of Brodie. In her dreams she was even braver than she was in real life. In her dreams, she boldly went to the couch, climbed into his arms, and convinced him they were meant to be together. She woke up when he said, I do. The bedroom was dark with moonlight shining through the window. She’d been so happy to finally hear Brodie say the words that would bind them together forever. But it was only a dream.
Maybe she could make it a reality. She could get out of this bed, slink down the hall, and take advantage of him. She’d show him just how much she cared about him with her body, because dropping hints and leaving him clues hadn’t worked so far.
She rolled over and spied Hannah across the room, lying in her twin bed surrounded by her dolls. No. I can’t do as I please. Not anymore. She was a mother. Her job was to remain in her own bed and set an example for her child.
Soon after, she heard Brodie in the kitchen. But when she snuck out of bed to at least tell him good morning, she only caught a glimpse of his backside as he walked out the door. From across the room, she could see the lock had been set.
She padded back into her room and crawled into bed. When she awoke, Hannah was lying in her bed talking to Dolly.
“Grandma Vivienne is coming today. She’s really nice. I bet she’ll bring us a present for Christmas.”
Rachel reached for her phone, but there was still no text message from her mother and she was beginning to worry. She slipped out of bed, deciding if she didn’t hear from her mom by ten, she’d send the police, the fire department, and perhaps all of Gandiegow to find her mother.
While Hannah readied for the day, Rachel made breakfast and planned how to finish her Christmas projects in time. She was still groggy from her dream-filled night and wanted nothing more than to grab her daughter’s guzzy and slip back in bed. Instead, she hurried across town to Abraham’s to drop off Hannah.
When Rachel finally made it to Quilting Central, everyone was talking. At first she worried it might be about Brodie sleeping over at the quilting dorm, but then she realized the news was more substantial than a bit of gossip.
She went to Bethia, knowing the elderly woman would tell her what was going on . . . and be kind about it. Deydie, on the other hand, might say it was none of her damned business.
“Our trust is broken,” Bethia said sadly. “We haven’t had a robbery in fifty years.”
“What robbery?” Was another pie stolen?
“The General Store.”
“What? No. What did they take?” Rachel couldn’t help thinking about the store’s unlocked door and how tempting it might be for someone in need. From what she’d seen, several Gandiegowan families needed a lot.
“Amy is at the store, checking the entire inventory. When she got in first thing this morning, she noticed a pair of wellies were gone from the shelf. Also, a hat, gloves, and socks. She came to tell us the news, but then rushed to get Coll to watch baby Wills while she went over the store with a fine-toothed comb.”
Rachel’s stomach plummeted. The pie thief had stepped it up a notch. “Who would do such a thing?” But she already knew. The thin man in the shadows.
“None of us,” Bethia said, with an emphasis on us.
“You and the others can’t surely think Tuck had anything to do with this. He can’t be the wellies snatcher.” If only she had a way of telling Bethia to get off Tuck’s scent without telling her about what she’d seen. But then Rachel had an idea. “What size boots are missing?”
“I dunno. But that’s a very good question.” Although Bethia had always been nice to her, she stared at Rachel with somewhat new eyes. “Will ye excuse me? I need to speak with Deydie about this.”
Rachel saw what was coming next . . . a version of Cinderella and the glass slipper, except this involved a bunch of fired-up Scots and a pair of stolen wellies.
Rachel checked her phone again. No message from her mother that she’d left the hotel and was heading for Gandiegow. For now, Rachel put her mother out of her mind; she had plenty to do. She took her place behind her sewing machine, needing to work on her mother’s patchwork lap quilt. She only had a bit more to go.
While stitching-in-the-ditch, Rachel kept her eye on Bethia and Deydie, who’d put their heads together. Two more joined them, Amy and Moira. Rachel sewed faster—almost done. Simultaneously, all four of the quilters looked in her direction. What the hell? Moira was even worrying her lip.
Deydie led the group toward Rachel. Amy looked as if she was dragging Moira with her arm looped through hers. The look on Moira’s face said she’d rather be disemboweling a fish than part of whatever was going on here.
Rachel snipped the last thread and pulled the nearly completed quilt from the machine. The only thing left was the binding, but making a getaway right now seemed more urgent than finishing a gift for her mother. As Rachel pushed back her chair, Deydie hollered.
“Rachel! Lass! We’ve something to tell ye.” She said it so loud that Rachel couldn’t pretend she hadn’t heard her over the sewing machines. Besides, the rest of the room had gone quiet to see what the commotion was about.
She held the simple patchwork quilt close, not much protection as the ladies gathered around. She stood. “Yes? What is it?” She tried to sound friendly, but her concierge’s voice came rolling out of her mouth, the one she used when the proverbial poo was about to hit the fan.
“It’s about yere idea,” Bethia said gently.
Deydie moved closer, putting her hands on her hips. “Hell’s bells. There’s no time to beat around the bush. I’ll tell her.”
“Tell me what?” Rachel was trying to remain cool and calm.
“We’ve decided, since ye came up with the idea, that ye’ll be the one to make the announcement at the kirk tonight after the Christmas Eve service.”
Rachel elected to play dumb. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Deydie huffed, the raging bull in the ring, and about to run Rachel through with her horns. “At the end of the service when Father Andrew calls for the announcements, ye’ll git up and ask which one of us wears a size forty- four.”
“Forty-four?” Rachel asked, feeling more than a little dumbfounded.
“Aye,” Amy answered. “The size of the missing wellies.”
Deydie continued on as if Rachel was going along with this crazy plan. “I’ll make sure beforehand that the good Father knows ye have something to say.”
Rachel shook her head. “I’m not going to church. My mother’s coming into town today.”
Deydie turned red as if Rachel admitted to being best buds with Lucifer.
Bethia touched Rachel’s hand. “Everyone attends service here.”
“Everyone,” Amy chimed in.
Moira gave her a sad smile as if she wouldn’t go to church either, if she had to stand up and accuse one of their own that they were a thief. And Moira was married to the pastor!
“Ye understand why it would be best if it came from you, don’t ye?” Bethia said.
“Because it would be easier coming from someone outside of the community?” Rachel’s question was rhetorical. She knew the answer. So much for planning a B and B in Gandiegow. Her fledgling dream went up in flames before the blueprints could’ve been drawn. Her public accusation would taint everything Rachel did from here on out . . . especially becoming one of them.
“Just be firm,” Deydie said. “Tell them ye volunteered to get to the bottom of things.”
Rachel shook her head, not wanting to know the answer, but she asked it anyway. “What happens if no one says they wear the same size wellies?”
“Then tell the whole damned congregation—men and women—that they won’t be allowed to leave the building until ye make them try on a size forty-four.”
Rachel looked down at Deydie’s army boots. Though the woman had a personality the size of Paul Bunyan, her feet were small. The way Deydie was glaring at her, there was no sense arguing. No sense in telling them what she saw the other night. Someone was guilty.
She gazed at all four women and chose Bethia, figuring she might answer her truthfully without the pain of getting hit with a broom. “So having me do this is really about some cockeyed retribution?” For stealing Joe and making him live in the States with her and then bringing him home in an urn?
Bethia avoided her gaze.
Deydie pounded Rachel on the back. “Damned straight ye are. As sharp as a needle, too.”
* * *
Sitting at the dock in the wheelhouse of his boat, Brodie gazed out at the sea. He glanced down, his pencil hovering over the logbook; he forgot what he was supposed to write . . . again! He was effing useless this morning, as tired as he was, and not because he was distracted. Tuck had just left. Good riddance.
The fish didn’t cooperate today. Tuck’s help had been appreciated, but his incessant blather wasn’t. All in all, it had been a rotten morning on the sea. Brodie wished to reboot the day. But he wouldn’t regret last night, though he was wiped out now. He’d stayed awake, watching over Rachel and Hannah at the cottage. A stranger in Gandiegow was keeping an eye on Rachel. Well, Brodie was keeping an eye on her, too. He was determined to catch the bastard and find out what game he was playing at. Brodie must’ve been squeezing too hard because the pencil snapped in two.
With the lead half, he scribbled in the low numbers for the morning and then stalked off the boat. He’d kept his eye out earlier this morning for the man who was lurking around town, and he was going to keep scanning for him nonstop. But if Brodie didn’t get home and get a little shut-eye, he’d be driving the boat in his sleep this afternoon.
As he got to the walkway, he spied a woman with two very large roller bags coming from the parking lot.
“What in the world?”
It was a woman dressed in a long coat made of the MacFarlane tartan of red, white, and blue. She wore a matching tammie on her head. She was the same height as Rachel but a little thicker around the middle . . . and the last person I want to see. It was too late to pretend he’d forgotten something on the boat, because she’d already seen him, too.
Her look of shock was priceless and he felt satisfied, though it wasn’t exactly the Christian thing to think. Of course, her expression caught up with how she felt about him, transforming from stunned to general disapproval, which inhabited every nook and cranny on her face. The last time he’d seen that look of disgust was during Joe and Rachel’s wedding, leaving him no doubt Rachel had filled her mother in on the details of what they’d been doing at the ruins of Monadail Castle. What Brodie didn’t understand . . . was why.
But he knew why Vivienne Granger was wearing the MacFarlane tartan. The Clachers were part of the MacFarlane clan. Rachel’s mother was making a statement to one and all. She stood with Joe Clacher. But Joe was dead.
She marched toward Brodie with an eyebrow raised, the type of woman to lead the charge into battle. He could see that trait in Rachel, too. Vivienne lifted her nose a little. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
“Aye.” What else could he say? He wasn’t happy to see her either, but he could be courteous. “I’ll show ye where to get settled. May I?” He held out his hands to take her bags, happy he’d cleaned up on the boat. Fish guts and her bluidy luggage wouldn’t go well together.
“I wasn’t expecting a bellboy, but you’ll do.” She stood back while he grabbed her bags. “Where will I be staying? At Rhona’s like I did before?”
“Nay. Rhona has moved to Dundee to help care for her grandbairns.” Brodie nodded his head in the right direction. “Gandiegow has two converted cottages which serve as the quilting dorms for the Kilts and Quilts retreat.”
“The what?”
Gads, he didn’t want to explain, but it would be rude to grunt instead of reply. While they walked, he told her about Cait’s venture and how the whole town had gotten involved. “Even yere daughter,” he said. “She’s been teaching her Gandiegow Christmas Tree quilt.”
For a second, Vivienne looked puzzled, but then nodded, putting the pieces together about which quilt he meant.
At Thistle Glen Lodge, he opened the door, remembering again the man who had been lurking in the dark. He would have to talk to Cait about making Rachel lock the doors during the night and the day. He held the door wide to let Vivienne go first.
He pointed down the hallway. “The bedrooms are beyond the living room. Unless, of course, ye’d like to sleep in one of the bedrooms upstairs.”
“Down here will be fine.” She frowned at him as if she didn’t know whether to give him a tip or not.
He dipped his head at her. “I’ll wait outside to take you to yere daughter.” He wasn’t happy about accommodating her either. Rachel was one Granger too many, as far as he was concerned. But he thought about his duty to keep her and Hannah safe, and he wondered how Vivienne would view him sleeping on the couch tonight, watching over her, too.
As the loyal dog that he was, he waited for Rachel’s mother. He could’ve left her to find her daughter on her own, but that didn’t seem right. He’d take her there, dump her off, and be done with the mess of them. Until tonight at Abraham’s.
Vivienne returned outside a few minutes later in her ridiculous coat. “How is your grandfather?” It seemed to pain her to be nice.
“He’s managing.” Brodie pointed the way for them to go. “Seeing his great-granddaughter has raised his spirits considerably. The lass appears to make Grandda spry indeed.”
She slowed down. “I hope my visit doesn’t cut into your grandfather’s time with Hannah.” Which was a very sensible and thoughtful concern.
Brodie couldn’t help himself. “There’s enough Hannah to go around. The lass is a handful.”
She nodded and picked back up the pace. “Yes, she is.”
A minute later they were at the entrance of Quilting Central. He wondered if he should give Vivienne a heads-up that she may not receive the warmest of receptions, but he decided to keep quiet. She’ll figure it out. He opened the door.
He had no intentions of going in. He wanted to walk the perimeter of the village and then get a fortifying nap. He thought about how Hannah’s naps made her a new person. That was exactly the kind of outcome he needed to get through Christmas with Rachel and her mother here. But he found himself walking in behind Vivienne, as if he wanted Rachel to see who’d brought her. On a subconscious level, was he trying to ingratiate himself to his dead cousin’s widow?
Rachel looked up and saw him first. Their eyes locked. For a second, he let himself gaze upon her, take her in. Seeing her safe calmed him. No. It was more than that. Seeing her made him feel powerful, like he could take on the world. Her gaze became intense and he saw the extra message in her eyes. She might be safe, but she was pleading with him to rescue her from the women of Gandiegow. Deydie and Bethia stood near her. Amy and Moira, too. He started to be her hero, but it wasn’t his job to save her from them. Right now, his only job was to deliver her mother. He nodded his head almost imperceptibly toward Vivienne.
Rachel’s attention shifted. “Mom!” She shoved a quilt behind her sewing machine and ran toward her mother, hugging her. So Vivienne gets to be the hero. But Rachel glanced at Brodie over her mother’s shoulder while they embraced . . . with gratitude? Nay. The look Rachel gave him was clear: Life just got more complicated. He didn’t like that he could read Rachel so easily. When she pulled away, she was fully focused on her mum again.
He turned and left. But he didn’t get out the door quick enough.
“Brodie?” Vivienne slightly lifted her nose in the air. “Thank you.”
He nodded and stalked out, feeling uncomfortable. It was almost easier sometimes to think people never changed. It wasn’t as if Vivienne had altered her position on how she felt about him, but he never expected her to be halfway civil. Not after what he tried to do . . . steal Rachel from Joe.
He started his patrol down the walkway, keeping his eyes on the places between the buildings, but in his tired state an old wound surfaced.
For the past six years, Brodie hadn’t been able to forgive himself for trying to do what Vivienne had thought . . . steal Rachel from her fiancé. Brodie felt tortured from all directions when it came to Rachel and what they’d done. It was the same old argument in his head . . . he had tried to claim Rachel for himself. Not because Joe had stolen away every lass Brodie had wooed when they were lads, but because Brodie had loved her, heart and soul. But it still wasn’t much of an excuse. He was an honorable man, and loving Rachel had been an unforgivable sin when it came to someone like himself.
He passed Deydie’s house and moved to the rear of the town, seeing no one or anything out of place. Stealthily, he made his way along the back edge of the village, working his way, circling the town, hoping to make it back home for that nap.
As he walked, he came up with a way to catch the thief. Of course, he wouldn’t do it alone. Brodie counted on Rachel being Rachel—which was something he couldn’t stop, even if he tried. Or even if he wanted to.