A Highlander is Coming to Town Read online

  She tried twice and failed, every nerve ending conscious of the man behind her. Without warning, the hands she had watched so intently in the alley clamped around her waist and plopped her on the seat. She turned on him with her fists raised, but he didn’t try to cop a feel like some blokes would have.

  He took two stumbling steps backward, windmilling when his heel caught on a divot of soft ground. After he regained his balance, they regarded each other like prey and predator.

  He held his hands up as if surrendering. “I didn’t mean to scare you, miss.”

  By the devil, he was strong. And attractive in the most American way possible with his jeans and ball cap and smile.

  “Keep your bloody hands to yourself next time.” The quaver in her voice wasn’t from fear, but she had no time for a flirtation, much less a dalliance. She barely stemmed a sound of disgust at herself before slamming the door shut.

  He circled around the front of the truck through the high grass and climbed into the driver’s seat. Once he got them back on the road, he asked, “Where am I dropping you?”

  “At the top of Meadows Lane.”

  The truck lurched, telegraphing his surprise. “Are you staying with old Ms. Meadows?”

  “Aye.” Curious at his reaction, she shot a glance in his direction even if it meant accidentally meeting his gaze.

  Claire had taken a position as live-in helper for the housebound elderly widow. While Ms. Meadows could still do the basics for herself like washing and dressing, Claire had taken over the tidying and shopping and cooking. Although it had taken a few frustrating weeks for her to learn to prepare the dishes Ms. Meadows liked. Claire had never made turnip greens or okra or corn bread. Now she did a bang-up job with Southern staples.

  The house sat in what Ms. Meadows called a holler surrounded by woods. The setting was the stuff of a Brothers Grimm tale, but Ms. Meadows was nothing like an evil witch. In fact, the longer Claire stayed, the more the old lady resembled a fairy godmother. Albeit a cranky, sharp-tongued one.

  “I’m Holt Pierson, by the way. What’s your name?” he asked.

  She hesitated, loath to surrender any more information than she already had, meager though it was. “Claire.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  She made a throaty sound of acknowledgment but didn’t return the sentiment. “Do I take it your skills don’t extend to the kitchen?”

  “And what would you know about my skills?” The tease veered naughty. Or was that merely her imagination? After all, she had been the one examining the way the denim of his jeans hugged his thighs earlier.

  The curse of the fair-skinned struck as heat washed over her. “I remember where I’ve seen you before. You competed at the festival this summer and won Laird of the Games. That’s all I was referring to, I can assure you.”

  “Isn’t that a coincidence? I watched you perform at the festival too.” He tossed a leading glance toward her, but she forced herself not to react.

  “Are you sticking around Highland for a while?” he asked.

  “Here it is. You can let me out at the top, thanks.” She pointed to where overgrown bushes camouflaged the start of a gravel lane. The old mailbox needed a coat of paint and legible numbers, and the red flag dangled toward the ground like the standard of a defeated army.

  Claire found sliding out of the truck easier than climbing in, but Holt still beat her to the truck bed. He lifted her bike out, replacing the grocery items that had fallen out of the saddlebags and basket.

  Their hands brushed when she took the handles from him. Just lovely. His large hands were going to join his thighs in her dreams tonight, which was dangerous considering how much more nimble hands were than thighs.

  “Thanks for the ride.” She ducked between the bushes.

  “Maybe I’ll see you around!” Holt called out.

  “Maybe.” Not a chance. Holt Pierson already knew more about her than she was comfortable with.

  Only when the growl of his truck grew distant did she relax. Disaster averted.

  Chapter Two

  The bang of the screen door sent a mild shot of adrenaline through Claire. Her run-in with Holt Pierson the day before had shaken her sense of safety. The clack of Ms. Meadows’s cane against the wood floors smoothed her frazzled nerves. The two-plus months she’d spent taking care of Ms. Meadows, and having Ms. Meadows take care of her, had provided a much-needed refuge for her to consider and plan away from the machinations of her family. She’d grown comfortable. Perhaps too comfortable.

  She had thought herself nearly invisible on her weekly run to the shops in Highland for food and sundry items for the house. No one had recognized her from the festival. Except for Holt Pierson. Which made her wonder what else he saw when he looked at her.

  She ran a hand through her now shaggy hair, hardly even missing the spiky pixie cut she’d maintained for her stage persona as lead singer of the Scunners, the band that had played the Highland summer festival for two years running. She was a long way from the woman who’d strutted the stage and commanded an audience with a confidence she’d never been able to manifest out of the spotlight.

  Ms. Meadows clacked her way into the kitchen, her cane and uneven gait playing out a rhythm that had become oddly comforting. “What’s for lunch, girl?”

  Claire had put together a simple tuna salad using canned tuna and the last of the mayonnaise, which meant another trip to town soon. Plus, she’d somehow not made it home with the precious jar of peanut butter. Blast Holt Pierson and flimsy paper bags.

  “Tuna salad sandwich.” Claire carefully set out the delicate china plates Ms. Meadows insisted they use for their meals, then helped Ms. Meadows onto the wooden chair before taking the seat across the table.

  The china pieces weren’t as old or expensive as the dishes Claire had grown up with, but they were priceless nevertheless. Ms. Meadows’s mother had received them as a wedding present and passed them along. The sentimental value made Claire handle them like mini primed bombs.

  Ms. Meadows took a bite of the sandwich and made a little sound Claire took as satisfaction. The weeks of daily lessons had taught Claire how to cook to Ms. Meadows’s standards, which would have satisfied even Gordon Ramsay.

  Claire had never seen her mother enter the kitchens except to hand a menu to the cook and housekeeper. As a result, Claire hadn’t learned how to do anything useful. Only in retrospect did she recognize that while her mother lived a life of leisure by anyone’s standards, it had not been easy. Strain and anxiety had taken a toll. Her father was not an easy man, and Claire had not been an easy child. She had been more burden than joy and treated thusly.

  Her father was aloof and consumed with running the family business. Her mother spent her time organizing various charity functions, many of them to better the plight of sick or impoverished children around Britain and the world. In comparison, Claire had been pampered. She had attended the finest boarding school in England. She had been given an allowance for clothes. She had never worried about where her next meal would come from.

  She’d had nothing to complain about growing up. Except for the constant ache of loneliness.

  Now that Claire was older—wiser was up for debate—she had gained a new understanding of her mother and father. They were good people who should never have had a child. Claire would have given up her allowance and her posh boarding school and her fancy clothes to have dinner with them every night or go on silly outings together.

  What would happen when the mechanism of her inheritance began to turn on her twenty-fifth birthday? The freedom and anonymity she’d enjoyed the last few years would be over, but then again, she’d grown tired of the road and staying in hotels night after night. Settling down felt less like a prison sentence than it had at twenty. Still, she wasn’t anxious to join the cutthroat power plays her family dealt in like currency.

  “Not bad,” Ms. Meadows said between bites of her tuna sandwich. “You’re a fast learner, girl. I’m proud o
f you.”

  Ms. Meadows never called her Claire. At first, she’d simply been you’un. Girl seemed a step up. Even better, the warmth the compliment inspired was a novel feeling for Claire. “Thank you, Ms. Meadows.”

  They ate in relative silence. It wasn’t a hundred percent comfortable silence, but the awkwardness marking her first few weeks helping Ms. Meadows and living in her house had mostly dissipated.

  “I met someone yesterday in town. Holt Pierson. Do you know him?” Claire kept her voice casual and gauged Ms. Meadows’s reaction from the corner of her eyes.

  Ms. Meadows let the sandwich drop to her plate, her face tight with an unexpected anger. “You stay away from that boy.”

  The vitriol shocked Claire. While Ms. Meadows had a biting wit and sly sense of humor, she wasn’t mean-spirited and had been kinder than Claire felt like she deserved. “Is he dangerous?”

  “His family is a boil on the butt of Highland. The Piersons are sneaky and untrustworthy. Holt’s daddy tried to run me off my own land.” Ms. Meadows picked up her sandwich to take a vicious bite, then stared at the innocent tuna as if her soured mood had transferred to her food. She pushed her plate away with her sandwich less than half finished.

  “That’s terrible,” Claire murmured. While it was difficult to square her impression of Holt with the accusation, she had no reason to doubt Ms. Meadows.

  “What did that boy do to you? What did he say? Do I need to call the sheriff?” Ms. Meadows was growing more and more agitated, her face flushed and her voice strident.

  Claire rushed to soothe her. “Nothing of the sort. I dropped a bag of groceries. He helped me gather them and tuck them into the basket of the bike. He was perfectly nice and polite. I didn’t realize…” She bit her lip, deciding it was best not to mention the lift home in his truck.

  Ms. Meadows harrumphed. “Well, now you do. Stay away from Holt Pierson.”

  She nodded. It should be easy enough considering how rare her sojourns out of the house were. What were the chances she would run across him again? “I’ll need to fix the bike before I can go into town again. I don’t suppose you have a spare tire and a pump?”

  “Don’t know what all is out in the shed. You’re welcome to take a gander. If you can’t find what you need, call Preacher Hopkins. He’d be happy to help.” Ms. Meadows braced her cane on the floor and gripped the edge of the table with her other hand in preparation to stand. Claire hopped up to take her elbow in a steadying grip.

  Ms. Meadows let Claire assist her into the living room and her favorite chair. It had been clear from the beginning of their association that Ms. Meadows was loath to accept help, but it was also clear she needed it. Claire had more sympathy than she could express. They had found each other at a most opportune time.

  After tidying the kitchen, Claire verified that Ms. Meadows had dropped into her afternoon nap in front of the telly. Closing the screen door softly, Claire slipped outside and took a deep breath of air. The brisk winds of the day before had torn most of the leaves from the trees. Fading remnants of yellow and orange smudged the trees stretching in all directions from Ms. Meadows’s house. Steel-gray clouds scooted along as a backdrop.

  The damp smell of dirt and decay wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but it was foreign. She’d been raised in Glasgow, surrounded by centuries-old stone and manicured gardens. The woods were mysterious. She shuddered.

  She’d seen enough horror movies to know what happened to the girls who wandered into dark woods. Except for her trips to town, Claire didn’t let the house out of her sight. Was she a coward? No doubt, but at least she was a live one.

  Claire lifted the latch on the shed door and pulled. It bowed out slightly in the middle, but the top and bottom edges were stuck. After checking for other latches and finding none, she braced a foot on the jamb and put her entire weight into pulling.

  “Come on, you bloody nob of a door,” she muttered before throwing herself backward once more.

  The top of the door gave way with a pop. Her hand slipped off the handle, and she landed on her bum, catching herself on her elbows. The jarring fall left her stunned for a few breaths.

  “Well, that was dramatic. You okay?” A familiar baritone sounded behind her.

  She tilted her head back and Holt Pierson came into view upside down and over her. She scrambled to her feet and brushed at the leaf litter and dirt coating her hands and jeans.

  Why the devil did Holt have to show up when she was dropping things or falling on her arse or otherwise breaking down?

  Ignoring her stinging palms, she asked, “What are you doing here?”

  The question came out with more accusation than she intended, but he didn’t seem offended or defensive, which left her battling surprise and suspicion. What sort of game was he playing? What was the prize? In her experience, men had ulterior motives for any kindness bestowed. Motives such as getting in her knickers.

  His smile was open and charming and left her feeling nonplussed. He held up a jar of peanut butter. “I found your peanut butter busted up in the bed of my truck after I dropped you off. I chucked it and got you a new jar. Didn’t want you to have to go without one of the major food groups.”

  “Thanks. That was really nice of you.” She took the offering and turned the brand-new jar in her hands, pretending to examine the label. She didn’t have to scrape grit off the top. “I’m sorry if I sounded rude. It’s just that you surprised me. We don’t get too many visitors.”

  His simple kindness filled her with enough warm fuzzies to cushion any rock bottom. Was he being nice because he was a nice person? In light of Ms. Meadows’s dire warnings, she dismissed the thought as impossible.

  Ms. Meadows would be horrified a Pierson had stepped foot on her land. Yet … Holt was like a warm breeze on the chilly day. His easygoing manner and general air of competence were undeniably attractive after she’d spent her last few years with musicians who qualified as neither.

  Before she could tamp down the weakness of wanting to lean on him, he sidestepped around her to the stuck door. “Need some muscle?” Without waiting for her answer, he pushed up his shirtsleeves, grabbed the handle, and yanked.

  Did she need muscle? No, but she wasn’t going to complain about the view. Holt’s biceps bulged in the green Henley pushed up almost to his elbows. His ropy forearms were attractive in a way she’d never noticed on a man. This is what came from not being around men for months. She was acutely aware Holt wasn’t simply a bloke; he was a man.

  The door surrendered to him with a scrape of metal on metal. Only the first few feet inside the shed were visible. From her vantage point she could see the outlines of a lawn mower, a chain saw, and bags of garden soil and fertilizer. The corners remained in creepy shadows. How many spiders lurked in the rafters? The hair on her nape raised.

  She was ready to swallow her pride and call Preacher Hopkins when Holt took a step inside and waved his arm in front of him, a distaste pulling at his mouth. “I hate cobwebs. Are you after something in particular?”

  “I need to fix the bike. Ms. Meadows thought there may be a tube and pump.” While Claire didn’t want to become further beholden to Holt, neither did she want to be the one who ventured into the spider breeding grounds looking for something that might not even be there. If he wanted to play knight-errant, she would let him in this instance. God, she was a hypocrite.

  But she would be a non-spider-infested hypocrite. She glanced over her shoulder. Ms. Meadows would be napping for a good while yet.

  Holt took off his ball cap and scratched the back of his head while staring into the abyss before replacing the cap with a decisive tug. “I can take a gander, but even if I find a tube, it’ll probably be rotted.”

  He ducked farther into the shadows, shuffling around the garden implements to rows of shelves in the back. Claire stepped just inside the door, keeping her eye out for any beasties dropping from the ceiling. When nothing attacked, she took in her surroundings. Water-damaged packets
of flower and vegetable seeds were stacked on the flat blade of a hoe. Sifting through them, she noticed some had been opened and part of the packets used.

  Scraggly bushes lined the back of the house and the packed-dirt yard between the shed and door. How long had it been since Ms. Meadows had been well enough to hoe and plant a garden? Seeing her house and yard slipping further into decay and neglect must be breaking Ms. Meadows’s heart a little more with every season that passed.

  Claire tried to keep herself from caring too much. Her plan from the beginning had been to lie low with Ms. Meadows until she turned twenty-five on Boxing Day. Hopefully, she would have decided on a plan for her future by then. Unfortunately, the peace and clarity she sought had remained elusive.

  And now there was Ms. Meadows to worry over even though Claire told herself she was merely her employer. When Claire left, Ms. Meadows would simply hire another girl. Claire wasn’t special.

  Amid the utilitarian mess in the shed, one item stood out like talisman. A medium-sized silver box on the end of a narrow wooden shelf drew Claire closer. A layer of grime muted the shine, but a decorative vine pattern on the lid and around the sides was visible. It belonged in pride of place on a mantel and not left to deteriorate in the elements.

  Unable to resist the call of a shiny object, she turned the box around so the latch faced her. Her fingers left streaks along the top and exposed the patina of tarnish.

  She glanced toward Holt, who was still rooting around along the shelves at the back of the shed. Her imagination churned. What was inside the box? She could imagine that Ms. Meadows’s distrust of people extended to banks. The old lady was the type to squirrel cash away under mattresses or in sheds.

  Her hands twitched. Yes, she was as poor as a beggar at the moment, but she didn’t need the money. Or wouldn’t in a matter of weeks at any rate. She was sorely tempted to open the box for another reason altogether. Her unmitigated curiosity.

  Ms. Meadows was a widow, but for how long? Had she loved her husband? Had she had children? And if she had, why weren’t they here taking care of her? Any questions Claire had posed in that direction had been shut down in a trice by Ms. Meadows.