To Scotland With Love (18 page)

Man, was he ticked at her, and at Duncan, and at the truth.

She silently sent up a plea to heaven.
Please heal Duncan.
But judging by Duncan's tired body as the door shut behind him, it was going to take more than a prayer to make him better. It was going to take a miracle.

A
fter the guys left, Mattie played quietly in the parlor with Dingus. Cait told him she'd be upstairs making beds, but mostly she stared out the window. Or gazed at her shoes. She felt weighted down. Death had taken up residence and was squeezing the life out of her. She felt crushed, miserable, and depressed. Once again, she wasn't in control of her life.

Her phone tweeted. A text message from Margery Pinchot,
People
magazine's editor.

Where's the story?
it read.

For the last few days, Cait had worked hard at pretending she hadn't committed herself to writing that article. She shoved her phone back in her pocket without answering and haphazardly threw the comforter over Mattie's bed. Who gave a damn whether the bed was made correctly? In the vast scheme of things, it didn't matter. The only thing she had to do today was to live. And to take Mattie to Deydie's, as ordered. Another day of going through the motions.

As she walked from the bedroom, she stubbed her toe.

“Damn! Damn!” She pounded the wall, the pain real
and excruciating. And suddenly, she felt liberated—mad as hell, and she wasn't going to take it anymore.

No longer would she be at Death's beck and call. She'd defy the bastard, stop giving him the deference he expected. Instead, she'd grant herself permission to write them all off. Death couldn't hurt her if she didn't give a crap. Even about Deydie, her own family. Too soon, he'd be whisking Gran away to oblivion anyway. Cait could see the handwriting on the wall. Death was going to take Duncan, too. It had been useless to protect him as a little boy against the bullies who threatened him. A waste of time. All of Gandiegow stood defenseless and weak, waiting for Death to suck the life from them.

“Not me.” Cait rubbed her sore toe. “I'm going to live. And I'm going to live well.” It felt so much better to be angry than to feel helpless.

The only way to keep her sanity in the midst of Death's cruelty was to pledge allegiance to herself. Screw trust. Screw this town. She didn't need any of them. She'd finish writing the exposé about Graham and get the hell out of Dodge.

Back downstairs, she wrapped Mattie up in his coat, thrust Dingus into his arms, and marched the boy down the bluff. He kept looking over at her, but of course he didn't say anything. His intent gaze upon her face almost had her caving, but Cait was on a mission—to live her life away from all this damned pain.

When they got to Deydie's cottage, the door swung open before Cait could reach for the handle. Her gran ushered them in.

“Here now, Mattie, give me that fleabag.” Her gran took Dingus and at the same time hugged Mattie to her ample bosom.

I never get any hugs,
Cait wanted to yell,
and I'm yere freaking granddaughter. Oh, screw it.

Cait looked around the cottage with disgust. Deydie must've spent the whole night scrubbing it from top to bottom—everything sparkled. Irritatingly, a clean cloth rested upon the table, all the dishes were stacked away on the shelves, and fresh logs sat by the fireplace. Didn't her gran know that she was going to die? They were all going to die.

Deydie eyed her, giving her a worried frown. “The ladies will be here any moment. Caitie, go put on fresh clothes and then help Mattie set out the food.” The old woman took Mattie's coat and hung it by the door. “Hurry up, now.”

Begrudgingly, Cait pulled out her suitcase and rolled it into the bathroom. In the mirror above the sink, she glowered at the dark circles below her eyes. She poked a finger at the puffiness. “Fabulous. Great. I look like a raccoon.”

As she pulled on her brown cable sweater, Cait heard the quilting ladies arrive. She didn't want to see any of them. They'd be all nice to her, and Cait wasn't in the mood. She had no use for Gandiegow's small-town charm right now.

When she came out, she saw Mattie trapped in the midst of the first of the quilting ladies, all of them hugging the breath out of him.

A small bit of sympathy got through Cait's defenses and she went to his rescue. “Mattie, I need you to help put out the food. Come on, now.”

Looking relieved, he unglued himself from the crowd.

At the refrigerator, Cait pulled out the leftover turkey
and the Christmas pudding from yesterday. Mattie dutifully set each item on the table. When they were done, Cait took pity on the boy once again. “Take Dingus and sit with him on Deydie's bed. I'm afraid the quilting ladies are going to trample him to death.”

Mattie snatched up the puppy from the pillow by the hearth and climbed on the bed. Cait laid a bag beside him, the one she'd filled with toys from Graham's. For the first time ever, Mattie gave her a real smile—lips curved upward, no teeth showing, but it was a smile all the same.

Her hardened heart wasn't happy to see it.
Too little, too late,
Cait thought.
I'm out of here. I'm leaving as soon as I get my story.

Amy pulled Cait off to the side. “Is it true, then, about Duncan?”

Mentally, Cait rolled her eyes. Amy had the tact of a branch banging against a window.

Bethia shushed Amy, quietly chiding her. She pulled out a quilted apron, making a big performance of showing it to them, covering up what was really said. “Little ears,” she reminded them.

Cait sighed, frustrated she had to talk at all. “It's true. Duncan has leukemia.” Dutifully, she
ooh
ed and
ahh
ed over the apron, but in reality, she didn't give a rat's ass about the quilted work of art.

Bethia patted them both. “We'll all get through this together. We always do.”

Not me. I won't be here.

Cait glanced at Deydie, who appeared to be having a good time among the ladies—laughing, smiling her toothy grin.
Appearances can be deceiving
. It aggravated
Cait that she'd come to know her grandmother so well—the worry lines in her wrinkled forehead told the real truth of how Deydie felt.

Bethia folded up the quilted piece. “It's hard for your gran. She's seen a lot of illness. She feels like a mama to Duncan. We all do.” Determination crossed her face. “I'm going to light a candle for him.”

Cait thought she meant the next time she went to church. Instead, Bethia grabbed her coat and announced she'd return shortly. Cait didn't even get the chance to tell her she was wasting her energy. God wasn't paying attention. He'd turned a blind eye.

Just as the door shut behind Bethia, Ailsa and Aileen arrived.

“We've brought handmade socks,” Ailsa said. “For everyone,” Aileen finished.

The twins unloaded two bags, giving Mattie his dinosaur fleece socks first. Dingus thought it grand fun and ran away to the bathroom with one of the socks.

When Mattie went after him and was out of hearing range, Ailsa shook her head. “Poor little dear.” She pulled out more socks, a different color for each one of the quilting ladies.

Cait got a rosy pink pair, too bright and cheery for her dark mood.

She sat beside Moira while putting them on. “How's your father this morning?”

Moira answered gravely, “He had a good night's rest.” Like that was an anomaly. Moira had a clue when it came to illness and uncertainty. Cait just wished the rest of them would wake up and smell the coffee.

There was a bustle at the door and Rhona came in.
She went straight to Mattie for a hug and then gave him a new picture book.

“Now that everyone is here,” Deydie said, “our Boxing Day celebration can officially begin.”

Cait didn't feel like celebrating. She felt like punching something instead.

Deydie waddled over to the big white mound in the front corner and whisked off the sheet. There stood the sewing machines Graham had delivered before he'd left.

“Santa was damn good to us this year,” Deydie cackled.

All the ladies squealed and ran to their loot.

Cait dodged them and headed for the opposite corner of the cottage. She watched the women in antipathy as they ripped into their presents. And suddenly, it was all too much. The joy. Suffocating.

Cait grabbed her coat. “I'm going out for a while.”

No one paid attention, except for Mattie, who cocked his head to the side. Cait slipped out the door.

It was a dirty trick using Graham's absence and Duncan's leukemia to get her story, but she didn't care. What did it matter whether she threw Graham to the wolves or not? In the end they'd all be dead anyway. All that mattered was that she get out of there and start living. Live until she wasn't living anymore.

Besides, if it came down to Graham Buchanan or Cait Macleod, she'd choose herself every time.

Cait slogged up the bluff. “I don't care if I'm betraying Duncan or Mattie. Or Deydie. Or the whole damn village. Trust is overrated. Having roots is overrated, too.”

Cait let herself in through the back door. And just to
seal the deal, she pulled out her cell phone and called Margery Pinchot at
People
magazine.

“The story on Graham Buchanan is almost done,” Cait said with barely a quiver in her voice. “I'll send you the final soon.”

“Good. I was beginning to worry that you'd changed your mind,” Margery said.

“No. My mind is made up.” Cait said goodbye and signed off. The deed would be done and would no longer hang over her head.

“First things first.” Cait went to Graham's office to pick through his finances. She tested the filing cabinet and, sure enough, he'd left it unlocked. “Stupid man.”

“Graham?” she said as she pulled the top drawer open and lifted out the first file. “Prepare yourself. I'm going to go through your stuff.” She kind of singsonged it, cockylike, which helped to ease her nerves. She pulled out bank account statements and contracts, spreading them over his mahogany desk.

With cell phone in hand, she took several pictures of the documents as she mentally cataloged the information. Statement after statement, she found what he'd kept hidden. Anonymously, he'd funneled money year after year into this freaking town. He'd financed ventures from initially stocking the store and repairing the fishing docks to helping to repave the road leading down into the village, even paying some of Kenneth's medical bills.

Oh, crap! Graham had buoyed them all at one time or another. Right down to the sick little Bruce baby.

Cait could hardly breathe.

“Holy shit,” she exclaimed. When she outed Graham to the world, the town wouldn't understand that she
didn't have a malicious bone in her body; this was a matter of self-preservation. Of course they'd never, ever forgive her. They'd string her up like a bloody carp. Earlier she hadn't cared, but now . . . she did.

She dropped her cell phone. When she bent to pick it up, she knocked over a digital frame. A small device fell off the back and rolled along the smooth desktop.

“What the hell is that?” she said to his office. She picked it up and peered at it closely.

It couldn't be.
She'd seen something like it when she'd worked at the
Sun Times
. Only this was tinier. A spy camera. She turned it over and an itty-bitty LED light shone green. “Oh, God, no.” She dropped it like it was hot coal.

She gave the room a hard frown, remembering all the sideways glances he'd given her since she'd arrived. As if she was the head paparazzo. “I thought we were beyond this, Graham. I thought you trusted me.”

Like a drug dog, she went from room to room, sniffing for cameras. And found them. To find the rest, she booted up his computer. It was all there. The location of each camera and its status. All were running. She played back the footage of her phone conversation with Margery Pinchot. She watched herself ransacking his office.

Without a moment's hesitation, she deleted all the recorded video and brought all the cameras offline.

“Thanks for installing an easy-to-use system.”

She put all his papers back into the filing cabinet exactly where she found them and turned off the light.

As she headed toward the pub, she felt conflicted, no longer the hard-ass of earlier. Did she have the right to destroy Graham to take care of herself? She didn't know anymore. The only conclusion she came to was to emulate Scarlett O'Hara and think about it tomorrow.

When she got to the pub, Bonnie stood behind the bar, preening in the oversized mirror. When she saw Cait, she came at her like a downhill boulder.

“What have you done with Graham?” Bonnie hissed.

“I didn't shrink him and stick him in my pocket, if that's what you're thinking.”

Bonnie put one hand on her hip and glared at her.

Who could argue with a floozy stance like that? “He's gone out of town.”

Bonnie reached for her phone. “I'd better give him a call. We need to order more whiskey.”

“Don't,” Cait said firmly. “He doesn't want to be bothered.”

“Why, you little gold digger.” Bonnie advanced on her, coming toe to toe. “Who left you in charge? Certainly not Graham. I have more right to him than you.”

Pathetic.
Cait shook her head. “He took Duncan to the hospital in Aberdeen,” she said flatly.

That stopped Big Boobs short. “What for?”

The news was already out, so Cait wasn't breaking a confidence. “Leukemia treatments. Leave them be.”

Cait figured she could try to smooth things over for Graham's sake. Maybe Bonnie wouldn't hassle him if she softened her tone. “Graham told me you're a very capable manager. That he never worries with you looking after the pub.” A bit of a stretch, but she could see Bonnie's ruffled feathers smooth down. “Can you handle whatever it is this time?”

“Of course I can handle it. I've been working at the pub since I was thirteen.”

Is Bonnie another of Graham's near charity cases?
Cait only replied, “Thanks.”