“Oh, man.” She stumbled from the bed and glanced around for her clothes, scowling. Who would have expected company—this early in the morning—in a teeny, end-of-the-road cottage in an equally tiny village by the sea?
Not her, for sure.
She considered not answering. After all, no one knew she was here. And even if somebody did, she didn’t know anyone who’d wish to speak to her. The only person she’d like seeing wouldn’t stand in the rain banging on her door.
He’d appear out of thin air, hands on his hips, and dazzling her with a smile.
So it wasn’t Bran.
It could be the village constable. Given the wild tossing of the sea—she could just see a wedge of it from the bedroom window—and the rain, it wouldn’t surprise her if the tide had risen and swept away her car.
She’d left it practically standing in the road, beside the tumbledown jetty.
Concerned, she dashed about, quickly pulling on her discarded clothes, albeit a bit haphazardly. Bending, she jammed her feet into her woolly slipper-socks, not wanting to take time to retrieve her hill-walking boots from the bath. Nor was she awake enough to fuss with lacing them.
She ignored her hair except to run her fingers through the tangles.
As for makeup, whoever disturbed her before ten a.m. deserved to see her as nature intended, naked faced and without mascara, though she did pop into the icy bathroom to gurgle a capful of mouthwash.
Thus prepared, she sprinted through the lounge and flung open the door.
It wasn’t the village bobby standing there.
It was the big, barrel-chested fisherman from the Hebridean House Hotel. The one with the shock of curly black hair who’d spoken to her in the hotel lobby, claiming that Wee Hughie MacSporran had come to Barra to search for the MacNeils’ mythic sword.
“Jock MacGugan.” He bobbed his dark head. “I hope I’m not waking you?”
Mindy blinked. The way he was scrunching the cap he held respectfully in his hands said he knew very well that he’d caught her still in bed.
“Ehhh . . .” She blinked again. She was so not a morning person and sometimes—like now—her voice just wouldn’t work right at such ungodly hours.
She secretly suspected that her vocal cords enjoyed their sleep even more than she did and that, wise as they were, they refused to perform until they’d had due rest.
“I mean, no—er, ah . . . yes, I was sleeping,” she finally managed, seeing no point in denying what he could plainly see by looking at her. “What can I do for you?”
“This is my cottage.” He thrust out his right hand, then, realizing he clutched his cap, switched it to his left hand and gripped hers in a firm shake. “I thought to make sure you felt at home. . . .”
“I do.” Mindy glanced behind her at the darkened lounge.
Even now, the little cottage had an air of coziness that charmed her.
Scotland’s pull, as Margo would call it, was indeed a force to be reckoned with.
Go figure.
Jock shuffled his feet. “I know the cottage is small—”
“It’s perfect.” She smiled, meaning it. “Would you like to come in?”
She made to step aside, but the fisherman—Jock—moved first, reaching to fetch a large, waterproof satchel he’d set beside the door stoop.
Unzipping it, he produced a box of groceries, which he handed her. “There wasn’t time to stock the kitchen for you last night, so the wife sent along some eggs and streaky bacon, mushrooms, and tomatoes. There’s also Irish butter, a bottle of milk, and”—he patted a cloth-wrapped packet—“some of her homemade breakfast scones, with bramble jam.”
He looked up at her. “The scones are still warm.”
Mindy felt her jaw slip. When he’d bent down, cold, gusty wind had caught her in the face and she’d needed only that quick glimpse of the road to see that the morning was even more damp and dark than she’d thought.
Yet now—given his kindness and the delicious smell of his wife’s fresh-baked scones—the day seemed brighter and more welcoming.
“This is so kind of you.” She put the food box on a little table just inside the door. “I don’t know what to say. Please tell your wife how much I appreciate—”
“Ach, there’s no need to be thanking us.” He made a jerky gesture with his hand. “The grocer’s doesn’t open until ten and I’m thinking you didn’t know that, as tenant of the Anchor, you’re welcome to a full Scottish breakfast up at Hebridean House, or”—he glanced down the road, back toward the center of the village—“you can also eat at the Islesman’s Pride.
“They open early for breakfast, serving us at the fishing, mostly. Though”—he turned back to her, frowning—“sometimes the good folk at the Islesman forget we have an arrangement for our Anchor guests. So if you go there one morning, don’t let the rascals be for charging you.”
Mindy started to smile, but caught herself. “I won’t. Thanks for letting me know. And—”
She broke off, glancing over her shoulder to where her purse sat on the floor beside the sofa. “No one told me what I owe you for staying here. I can pay you now, if you like, or—”
“Ach, there’ll be none of that, nae.” The fisherman shook his head, looking embarrassed. “I should have known last night that you were the American lassie come bringing back the stones of our tower. You’ll not be finding a soul on Barra who’d charge you a night’s stay here. However long you remain with us. See you, we—”
“But that’s not right—”
“It was the taking away of our tower that wasn’t right.” He turned to stare out across the bay and Mindy saw that raindrops clung to his black curls and netted the shoulders of his oiled jacket. The droplets glistened in the dim morning light, somehow looking so right and fitting.
As if he were as one with the blustery morning, a part of it in a way few others could be.
Except, perhaps, true Barrachs.
The thought pinched something inside her, and for a moment, she felt as if she’d come very close to understanding the magic of Barra.
To her horror, a lump started forming in her throat and she inhaled deeply, hoping to dislodge it.
“What they did, those years ago, carrying away the castle, tore the heart out of this community.” Jock turned back to her, speaking as if it had happened yesterday. “We’re all right grateful to you. If you be needing anything, anything at all”—his deep voice went gruff—“my mobile number is on a notepad in the kitchen drawer.
“Or just ask after Jock.” He smiled, swiped a work-reddened hand across his cheek. “There’s only one Jock on this island and that’s me. I fish the herring, and just now I’m heading up work on thon castle restoration, so folk know where to find me.”
“You’re working on the tower?” Mindy was confused. “Are you with the Glasgow firm I hired? MacFadyen and Sons? The Building Gaels?”
She’d been assured they were the best and fastest.
And they weren’t local.
She knew that for a fact. It shamed her now to admit, but she’d specifically sought a restoration and building company that wouldn’t have any ties to Barra and the MacNeils.
She looked up at the fisherman. “I’m sorry. . . . I don’t understand. I—”
“Could be the men of Barra hold that we of these isles have enough Gaels what are skilled with a hammer and trowel.” Jock the fisherman- cum-landlord-cum- castle restorer straightened. Already a large man, his thick wool sweater and heavy, rain- misted jacket made him seem gargantuan.
The spark of pride in his snapping blue eyes—did all Scotsmen have blue ones?—made him the most beautiful man Mindy had ever seen.
With the exception of Bran of Barra, of course.
When she found her voice again, it hitched. “I know the MacFadyens were here. I wired them money so they could get started. And”—she glanced across the water to Bran’s islet, where in the dim morning light, in addition to piles of stone and some walls, she could also see some structures covered in tarpaulins and scaffolding—“it’s obvious they’ve been busy. You can see—”
“I see the work my men have been doing.” The fisherman followed her gaze. “All good Barrachs, every one,” he said, his back fiercely straight. “We’ll do as fine a job, working as steady and good, if not better than the Glasgow men. Sandy Budge, our joiner, who also looks after our banking for us, has the money you paid the Building Gaels. They returned it to the pence before they headed back to Glasgow.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will once you’ve been here a while.” Jock the fisherman set his woolly cap back on his head, pulling it down around his ears. “It’s right and fitting that we of Barra rebuild our tower. With Barra hands and no other.”
He gallantly pretended not to see Mindy’s astonishment. “When you’re ready to visit the site, let me know. I’m also the one who runs the boat out to the islet and back.”
Mindy hardly heard the part about the boat. “You mean you sent away the builders?” She had to know. “And they just left, like that?”
“Aye, well . . .” Jock scuffed his boot on the wet pavement. “They left, is all what matters.”
“But—”
The fisherman touched his cap and nodded. “I’ll be on my way, then.”
And before Mindy could blink, he’d turned and he was striding up the road. She frowned and set off after him, slipper-socks be damned—they were already soaked through, anyway—but before she’d gone three paces, a deep chuckle behind her halted her in her tracks.
“He’s a good man, Jock is,” Silvanus’s voice boomed at her shoulder. She’d recognize his baritone anywhere. “But dinnae think ’twas his efforts alone what rid us o’ the Weedgies.”
Mindy spun around, not surprised to find nothing but the Anchor’s empty door stoop.
“Weedgies are folk from Glasgow,” Silvanus intoned all the same. “And”—Mindy could just imagine him setting his hands on his hips and taking a deep, gloating breath—“if you dinnae ken, a
flourish
such as we gave you can also be used to scare the beards off some buggers what aren’t expecting to see a ghost galley come flying out o’ the mist at ’em!”
“You did that?” Mindy spoke to the cold air, not caring how silly it seemed.
“We did!” The proud gusto of Silvanus’s answer rewarded her.
Then he appeared before her, just long enough to sketch a jaunty bow and vanish again.
Mindy stared at the spot where he’d been, then looked again down the road to where she could still see Jock the fisherman walking away.
Then she leaned back against the wall of the Anchor, cold and wet though its stones were, and clutched a hand to her cheek. She could feel the flutter of her heart and—again, she shouldn’t be surprised—the hot, thick lump of emotion swelling once more in her throat.
She’d always heard that Scotland was a land of heroes.
Now she knew it was true.
Mindy felt her nerves quiver the instant she stepped over the Anchor’s threshold. Her cheeks warmed and tingles danced over her skin. She knew why when she saw that Jock’s box of groceries was no longer on the little wooden table beside the cottage door.
The table was empty.
And in the soft gray light of morning, she saw at once just where the breakfast goods had gone. They were lined neatly on the kitchen counter, the box sitting innocently on the cold stone flags of the floor.
Too bad she had a good idea how the foodstuffs made the move.
They’d had help of a supernatural nature.
And she highly doubted Silvanus had done the deed. He’d been too busy boasting about how he and his ancestral friends had used their
flourishing
skills to frighten the Building Gaels, chasing the MacFadyen work crew from Barra, straight back to their native Glasgow.
Nor could she see Roderick or Geordie sneaking into the cottage to carry her groceries.
Only a ghost wanting to get on her good side would do such a thing.
And that meant Bran.
She expected to see him leaning against the counter, with a wicked grin and twinkling eyes to let her know how pleased he was with his efforts to impress. But since she didn’t see him in the cottage, perhaps he was more intent on teasing her and remaining invisible. Or—it was possible—he could be allowing her time to get decent before he put in an appearance.
She
did
look a fright.
Embarrassed, she swiped a hand over her rain-dampened hair, tugged off her sodden slipper-socks, then hurried into the bedroom to dress properly.
Unfortunately, the little room was even chillier than before. Somehow the window had come open and now the air wasn’t just cold, but wet and smelling of the sea. She could almost taste the tang of kelp and brine. And—she could hardly believe it—their raw, invigorating bite made her pulse jump.
She’d never liked the cold.
And
wet
cold—like the gray curtains of rain beginning to blow past her window—was the worst transgressor of chill, dark, and dreariness.
Scotland had a patent on such days.
Everyone knew it.
Yet now . . .
The place was suddenly full of heroes and a wet day in Barra looked inviting.
Mindy shivered and rubbed her arms.
Amazing, but looking out the window at the wild, blustery day almost had her agreeing with the anonymous soul who’d said that anyone who thought sunshine brought happiness had never danced in the rain.
Barra was making a rain dancer out of her.
If she added how badly she wished to see a ghost—a certain big, brawny ghost with a crooked nose and a smile like sin—she was sure she was on her way to the loony bin.
Something was seriously wrong with her.
But she’d worry about it after breakfast.
Anything but a stick-figure girl, she had a healthy appetite, and as her mother always said, the world looks rosier on a full stomach.
