A Highlander is Coming to Town Read online




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  This book is dedicated to Claire Scott, the nicest Scottish lass I know. She answered any and all questions this American Southerner had about words and customs. I so appreciate her support!

  Chapter One

  Claire Smythe, her chosen nom de guerre for her time on the road with the Scunners, her former Scottish rock band, heard a clamor coming from the far end of the narrow alley that opened to Main Street. She hesitated, weighing her options. Stepping into the crowd would go against her number one rule: Avoid people.

  On the other hand, if she abandoned her errand, she would have ridden miles for nothing and would have to turn around and come back the next day. If she and Ms. Meadows wanted something heartier than canned vegetables, then she would need to head to the shop. While leaving might be prudent, it was impractical.

  A brisk December wind cut down the alley, gaining in intensity and slicing through her many layers. Her wardrobe wasn’t anywhere near winter-ready. She hadn’t had the money to supplement her clothes with a decent jacket. Luckily, though, the Georgia winter was proving to be mild by her Scottish standards.

  Leaving her bike leaning up against the brick wall of the alley, Claire peeked around the corner. A large crowd was gathered in front of a newly painted HIGHLAND ANTIQUES sign. A woman’s voice coming through a microphone quieted the crowd noise.

  While she couldn’t see over or through the crowd, she assumed the voice belonged to Anna Maitland, the newly elected mayor of Highland, Georgia. Claire hadn’t paid close attention to local politics. After all, she wasn’t going to be in Highland much longer, but Anna Maitland’s name had stuck out because she had also been the woman in charge of last summer’s Highland festival. And the festival had been Claire’s last performance as lead singer of the Scunners.

  She flipped the hood of her sweatshirt up before stepping out of the alley. With her eyes on the pavement under her feet, she made her way toward the shop, doing her best to blend in unnoticed. It was a far cry from her days strutting around onstage, doing her best to draw every single eye in the crowd.

  Anna Maitland thanked everyone for coming to the ribbon-cutting ceremony and welcomed the new business to Main Street. A smattering of applause followed.

  “I also want to invite everyone to our first annual Burns Night holiday celebration the Saturday before Christmas. Main Street will be blocked to vehicles. Families will be free to enjoy music and shopping and food trucks. It’s going to be a great time!”

  Excited murmuring erupted throughout the crowd at the announcement. In Scotland, Burns Night celebrations were typically held in January after the holidays and during the dismal stretch of winter. As a Scottish singer, she’d been to her fair share and lent her voice to honor Robert Burns. The Highland, Georgia, version sounded more elaborate and fun.

  But of course, she wouldn’t attend. A pang of remorse infiltrated her heart even though she was the one avoiding making friends in Highland. Contrary to current appearances, she wasn’t naturally a loner.

  Claire slipped into Highland Drug and Dime without attracting any interest from the crowd. She pushed her hood back and pulled Ms. Meadows’s list from her back pocket. Along with the typical staples of cornmeal, eggs, and bread, she had been tasked with getting some easy canned soups and pastas and peanut butter.

  The shop wasn’t as big as a typical American grocery store, but it carried all the basics, and without a car it was her only easy option. She gathered the items into a handheld basket and headed toward the checkout. Mentally, she parsed the items into the bags she used on her bike. It would be tight, but she should be able to manage without squashing the bread.

  The total on the register ticked up with every purchase. Claire pulled the wrinkled cash out of her pocket and bit the inside of her mouth, willing the numbers to quit rising so high. In the heated shop, her multilayers of clothes were stifling, and a damp sweat had broken out across her shoulders and forehead.

  The tax put her over by less than two dollars. A queue had formed behind her and her neck burned, but she didn’t dare turn around. Leaning over the counter, she picked out two cans of ravioli and lowered her voice. “Could you take these off, please?”

  The lady behind the counter cast a cutting gaze over the register, her expression neutral, yet Claire couldn’t help the shame that roiled through her stomach. Being poor was the same ignoble experience on either side of the pond. That she was currently poor by choice didn’t alleviate the humiliation.

  “You can put those on my bill, Sandra,” a man said behind her.

  Claire snatched a quick glance over her shoulder, ready to bluster her way through the situation, but her excuses died when she met the kindly eyes of Preacher Hopkins.

  While he didn’t know everything about her, he knew more than most. After all, he had recommended her for the position with Ms. Meadows. His smile, along with the half-moon reading glasses perched on his nose, gave him a benevolent air of wisdom. His Afro was clipped short and graying, and his navy blue pants, white dress shirt, and red plaid bow tie gave him an air of neat professionalism that made her painfully aware of the frayed cuffs of her sweatshirt.

  “Thank you, sir.” Claire cast her eyes back toward the counter, where Sandra packed up her purchases in two paper bags. Escape was only seconds away, but before she had even taken two steps toward the door, Preacher Hopkins touched the back of her hand.

  “I’d like a quick word if I may, Miss Smythe.” He laid his few items on the counter.

  Considering he had just paid for her dinner, she could hardly say no. Nodding stiffy, she retreated to a deserted aisle, out of the probing eyes of Sandra and everyone else in the line. Her shoulders and arms were already feeling the strain of the bags.

  Preacher Hopkins joined her. “I hear tell you and Ms. Meadows are working out fine.”

  While she wanted to ask who had been talking about her and what had they said, she controlled the panic in her voice. “Aye, we rub along well.”

  A middle-aged woman entered the aisle and greeted the preacher. Thankfully, he didn’t introduce her to Claire. “If you need anything, you still have my number, I hope?”

  “I do, yes.” Not that she planned to use it, but it was comforting to know she had it in case of emergency. The past few months she’d lived without a safety net, and it had proved deuced uncomfortable.

  She sidestepped away from him. His gaze bounced between the door and her, a thoughtful expression knitting his brow. She could almost see the questions formulating.

  “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be going, sir,” she said before he could ask her anything else.

  “Tell Ms. Meadows I’ll stop by for a visit soon.”

  With her hands full and her forearms burning, she nodded and strode to the door, stopping only long enough to prop one bag against a shelf to raise her hood against curious gazes and the wind. She juggled
the bags on her hips, her grip clumsy and becoming more so the longer she carried them.

  She stared at the entrance to the alley. Almost there. She would load her purchases and be back on the road in no time. A cuppa when she got back would restore her, and the groceries would keep them for the next week or so.

  A crack in the asphalt caught the toe of her shoe at the mouth of the alley. She staggered to catch her balance, her left shoulder bumping into the wall and the bag scraping along the bricks. The load she was carrying lightened with an ominous rip. Groceries thumped and scattered. One of the ravioli cans rolled off-kilter toward the middle of the alley, the aluminum dented.

  She checked around her feet with a sigh of relief. It hadn’t been the bag with the eggs. She might not cry over spilt milk, but she would weep like a ninny over cracked eggs. A muttering of Gaelic-flavored curses made her feel better even if it wouldn’t repair the bag. Squatting, she put the good bag down and shifted the torn bag like a babe in her arms to keep anything else from falling out. She gathered the closest item.

  “May I help?” a man asked from behind her.

  Still on her haunches, she whirled around, holding a bottle of generic aspirin at the ready. Not that it would do much to fend off a grown man. “What do you want?”

  She tried to avoid speaking in town. Even with Highland, Georgia’s summer festival and town motto of “The Heart of the Highlands in the Blue Ridge,” her Scottish accent counted as unusual and invited too many questions for her comfort.

  The man held his hands up and spoke as if she were a spooked horse. “Just offering to help you gather your groceries.”

  “Were you following me?”

  “Of course not.” He scooped up a can of soup that had rolled to his feet and held it out. “Thought you looked familiar, and I was trying to place you.”

  His smile was … nice. Which immediately drew her suspicions. She rose, took two steps, and snatched the can out of his hand, retreating like a skittish dog. Her jerky movements shifted the bag, and a jar of peanut butter fell and cracked against the concrete, the plastic lid splitting in two.

  She would salvage what she could. She could skim any grit off when she got home. The rest would be fine. Buying a new jar was out of the question. Peanut butter was expensive, and she had used all the money Ms. Meadows had given her and then some.

  It had happened. Rock bottom. The situation was even worse because she was choosing this life. She could go home with her tail tucked and her pride in pieces. She just wasn’t ready to face her parents or her cousin Lachlan. Not yet.

  The man moved closer. “Let me—”

  “I don’t need your help.” Her steely tone was weakened by the sound of the bag rending further.

  Not waiting for her permission, he plucked the torn bag out of the crook of her arm and cradled it with his big hands so nothing else could escape. “Of course you don’t, but Mama would tan my hide if I didn’t help anyway.”

  They faced off in an impasse. The man’s nice smile had rematerialized with a crooked charm she most certainly did not find irresistible. Not even close. Okay, maybe his smile was within shouting distance of irresistible.

  He looked familiar, but she found it impossible to place his face. His eyes were shadowed by a baseball cap, as so many American men favored. The hair curling at the edges was a dark blond.

  Her gaze trailed lower, taking in broad shoulders and a frame that made her heart kick, not from fear but from awareness. His jeans fit snug and emphasized his muscular legs. An image tickled the edge of her memories. She stripped his pants off—mentally, not physically, unfortunately—and superimposed a kilt.

  He was the man who had won Laird of the Games at the Highland festival over the summer. She had watched him throw the hammer and toss the caber with no small amount of admiration. While countless men had worn kilts during the festival, this man had worn his better than all of them. Not that she planned on telling a virtual stranger his thighs had featured in her dreams.

  She picked up the intact bag and headed to her bike where it leaned up against the wall. She never bothered to lock it up. Highland was a small, safe town, part of the reason she had stayed on after the festival. Even besides the lack of crime, the bike wasn’t the stuff of a thief’s dreams.

  The rims were rusty, and one side of the handlebars had lost its grip, leaving an exposed metal rod. Third gear was iffy, and the brakes squealed. Still, it was better than walking, and between the front basket and a canvas saddlebag, she was able to fit a good amount of groceries.

  She repacked the items from her bag into the front basket, including the eggs, a loaf of white bread, a half gallon of milk, and tea bags among other staples. Nothing that could be considered an indulgence, except for maybe the tea.

  He followed her and without a word, she packed the items out of the bag he held into the back satchel. This included the peanut butter, baking potatoes, cans of soup and the ravioli, and an assortment of ramen noodle packages.

  “I guess I should thank you,” she said grudgingly. Her etiquette teacher would be horrified.

  “You’re welcome.” He crumpled the ripped paper bag and continued to fiddle with it even after it was a compact ball. His hands were strong and looked like they were used to a different sort of work than her musician friends. What did he do when he wasn’t tossing cabers?

  The question almost made it to her lips before she stopped herself. Small talk was an invitation to disaster. She gave him a brief nod, straddled her bike, and pedaled away. Was he still watching?

  She didn’t look back—more because of fear of crashing and breaking her precious eggs than pride. When she made the turn onto Maple Street, she allowed herself a peek. The mouth of the alley was empty. Of course he wasn’t there. Good. She didn’t want him looking at her and wondering about her.

  Letting go of the tiniest niggle of disappointment, she focused on the road. Yellow and red leaves canopied the street on long branches and danced in the wind. Some of them jumped and twirled to join their brethren on the ground. The carpet of different colors was breathtaking and reminded her of the handstitched quilt on her bed at Ms. Meadows’s house. Autumn in Highland had proved to be unexpectedly lovely.

  She made another turn, this time onto a narrow country road. Trees hemmed her in on the left while open fields and fences stretched to her right. Cows and horses grazed and farmhouses stood sentinel in the distance. The solitude was comforting after the unexpected crowd in town and the run-ins with the preacher and the mysterious Laird of the Games.

  Claire took a deep breath. The faint scent of woodsmoke hung in the air over the loamy forest. Every turn of the pedals unwound a portion of her tension. She wasn’t sure when she had started to think of Ms. Meadows’s little house as not just a haven, but a home. She loved her cluttered, cozy room and the shabby comfort of the old house in general.

  Her front wheel bucked to the side and jerked her wandering thoughts back to more practical matters, like her less-than-reliable transportation. She slowed to a stop and bent over the handlebars to take stock. Her front tire was flat. She should have stayed in bed today.

  She pushed the bike along the verge, cursing everything from the universe to the rocks along the side of the road. How far was she from Ms. Meadows? Farther than she’d like, but it was walkable even with a bike heavy with groceries.

  She trudged along for what felt like hours, but was probably only ten minutes, the exertion combining with her many layers of clothes to make her uncomfortable. Just as she was considering stripping off her sweatshirt, the sound of a truck roared behind her. She guided her bike onto the grass and paused to let the truck pass on the narrow road, keeping her head down.

  Ignoring her leave me alone body language, the driver pulled the behemoth next to her and idled, the diesel engine loud.

  “Can I give you a ride?” The rich honeyed voice was only too familiar considering she’d replayed her brief conversation with him twice already. He was makin
g it habit to catch her in vulnerable positions. Was it dumb luck or punishment from the universe?

  “No.” She glanced his direction to assess his reaction to her rudeness. She wouldn’t blame him if he told her off and drove away.

  Instead, he smiled. It was both reassuring and unbalancing. “I’m basically harmless. I promise.”

  She couldn’t stop the sass. “Basically harmless? Not exactly a resounding recommendation. I find it creepy that you’re following me.”

  “I’m not following you.” He gestured toward the windscreen. “I live five or six miles down the road.”

  She waffled between wanting to remain aloof and begging him for a ride.

  “I can’t rightly drive off and leave you here. People fly up and down this road, and there’s hardly any shoulder. Either you let me give you a ride, or I’ll trail alongside you until you get home. How far do you have to go?”

  “Not far.”

  “It will go faster for us both if you let me give you a lift. How ’bout it?”

  She debated the merits of accepting. He would know where she was staying, which she’d prefer to avoid. On the other hand, she’d already been gone longer than she liked and his ride would get her back to Ms. Meadows faster, which was good. She would also avoid blisters, which was even better.

  All considered, she gave him a nod. He maneuvered the truck ahead of her, one half in knee-high scrub grass. After loading her bike into the bed, he opened the passenger door and pushed his own shopping bags to the middle to make room.

  She took a quick inventory. Beer, frozen pizza, and a banana cream pie. While the beer and pizza didn’t interest her, her mouth watered at the thought of the pie.

  The truck sat high off the ground. How in blazes was a normal-sized human supposed to get in? She grabbed the side of the seat and attempted to haul herself up, but her arms were jelly-like after carrying the groceries earlier and pushing the bike up the rolling hills.