To Scotland With Love (3 page)

Her feeling of belonging didn't last. As they treaded farther along the boardwalk, several other townsfolk waved to Graham from their doorsteps. Cait got the distinct feeling that friendly didn't quite cover what was going on here. She suspected they might be using
Graham as an excuse to come out and gawk at her. Outsiders weren't easily accepted into the community. And an outsider was exactly what she'd become.

Then real apprehension set in. The closer Cait got to the end of town where her gran's cottage stood, the heavier her feet became. Her grade school teacher, Mrs. Lamont, had described Deydie as “the salt of the Earth.” Cait only remembered how ornery the old gal could be. Her gran had seemed ancient back then, and she wondered what she would find now.

They reached the house, a twenty-by-twenty-foot box. Graham knocked on the short wooden door and then stood back.

Cait tried to adjust her stance to be nonchalant, but only achieved awkward.

Deydie flung open the door. “It's about damn time.”

My God, she looks the same—short and squat, old and wrinkled.
Cait held her tongue
.
She didn't dare get on the wrong side of her fierce grandmother.

Graham gestured to Cait. “I brought her 'round as soon as . . .” He didn't throw Cait to the wolves, but he did back away farther. Maybe to be out of range in case Deydie threw a ham or something in their direction.

Her grandmother peered at Cait. “Sleeping in, were ye? The day's half gone. Get in here, you two. You're letting out all the warm air.” She yanked Cait through the doorway. “Graham, I'll have a word.”

“I can only stay a moment.” Graham ducked his head as he walked in.

Cait gazed about in wonder. It hadn't changed a bit. Two rocking chairs sat in front of the huge stone hearth. A pot of stew meat roasted above the fire, the smell so familiar and tantalizing that Cait's mouth began to
water. Deydie's full-sized bed stood in the back corner layered with quilts, the best way to store the treasures. The same old sewing machine sat in the same old spot on the large wooden dining room table.

On closer inspection, Deydie had changed some. She'd shrunk to less than five feet and was a little more hunched than before. But truthfully, she looked more spry than when Cait had seen her last.
At Mama's funeral
.

Love, strong and powerful, overcame Cait, and she spontaneously hugged her grandmother. Deydie, seeming shocked and embarrassed, turned as rigid as a slab. Cait awkwardly let go.

Deydie inelegantly spun on Graham. “The path from my house to yours is a muddy mess. I told ye to put in more paving stones.”

Graham looked like a scolded second grader. “Aye, I've been meaning to do that.”

Deydie tapped her foot impatiently. “The bush on the east side needs replacing in the spring. Also, the baseboard heat in the kitchen is glitchy again.”

Graham nodded good-naturedly, but Cait thought it odd. What right did Deydie have to speak to Graham in this way?

As if he'd read her mind, Graham explained. “Deydie watches over my place when I'm not here.”

He owns a house in Gandiegow?

“The lad needs a lot of watching, too,” Deydie groused, but not too unkindly.

Graham peeked at his watch. “I've got to run. A few things need doing at the pub before we open this evening.” He looked conflicted. Like he hated to leave Cait and at the same time couldn't get out of there fast enough. He gave her a questioning
You-going-to-be-okay?
smile.

“Thanks for getting me here.” She wished he'd stay and be her buffer. Being alone with her difficult gran wasn't Cait's idea of fun.

As soon as Graham shut the door behind him, Deydie lit into Cait. “Too good to stay at my wee place, are ye?”

Cait had prepared herself for this, but it still felt like a good whack on the knuckles. “It was late, Deydie. My plan was to get settled into my
own
house.”

“Balderdash,” Deydie cursed. “And that Graham. He should've made you come to me straightaway.”

“Both Graham and Duncan tried.”

Deydie huffed her way to the hearth. “Stubborn lass.”

“You know where I get it from—from my tough Scottish gran.” Cait had hoped to get at least a smile over that, but it only got her a scowl.

“Do ye want any bread?” It wasn't said sweetly like the cookie-baking grandmothers on television. More like an old grump with a granddaughter who didn't measure up.

Cait decided to accept the bread as a peace offering, although she was still full from Graham's sausage and scone. “Bread sounds good.”

She took her old place at the table next to the sewing machine, where she'd sat as a child. Deydie sliced off a hunk of hard wheat bread, slathered it with butter, and set it before Cait.

“Sit with me. I've something to say,” Cait said.

“I'm warming up by the fire,” Deydie replied mulishly. She stared at a point just above Cait's shoulder. “I've something to say to ye, too. And I'll only say it once.” Her gran paused like it troubled her to continue. “I got yere note. It's a hard thing to lose your man the way ye did. At such a young age. I'm sorry for yere loss.”

Cait's throat tightened, knowing how hard it was for
Deydie to give any kind of sympathy. The old gal just wasn't that type of gran. Cait could've lied and accepted Deydie's condolence, but she had to tell the truth, no matter how painful and embarrassing. “Don't be sorry. We were getting divorced.”

“Divorced?” Deydie growled the word as if Cait had blasphemed.

Cait rose and went to her gran, standing before her like a kid in trouble. She needed Deydie's support in this. “He died in bed with another woman. He'd been having an affair for months. It wasn't his first indiscretion, either.”

Deydie stilled so completely she could've become one of the stones in the hearth. Finally, she spoke. “Then good riddance to him.” She spat in the fire, and it sizzled.

Relief spread over Cait—Gran understood. “I've come home to stay. But I won't put you out. I've rented the room above the pub until my cottage can be repaired.”

“Graham.” Deydie hissed his name as if he ranked lower than a beach rat.

“He wanted nothing to do with it. I twisted his arm. I'm stubborn, remember?” Hoping to change the subject, Cait scanned the room, her eyes landing on Deydie's bed. “Show me what quilts you've been working on.”

“Not now.” Deydie walked away, preoccupied. “You'll be staying for supper.” It wasn't a request. She went to the cupboard and pulled out potatoes, carrots, onions, and a cutting board. She set them, along with a paring knife, in front of Cait's place at the table. “Go on, now. Make them good-sized chunks to add to the stew meat.”

Automatically, as if Cait were eleven again, she sat down, picked up the knife, and began peeling a potato. As obedient now as she'd been then. One of her earliest
recollections was chopping vegetables for Deydie. Back then, her gran had taught her all sorts of things.

It all changed when Cait's mama got cancer. Not an instant change, but small shifts from an attentive gran who'd taught Cait how to sew, to the gran who saw only fault in Cait for looking so much like her absent father.

Deydie resented that Da's life hadn't changed with Mama's illness. He stayed in Aberdeen or Inverness, working in the law offices, returning only on the weekends. The sicker Mama got, the more Cait's father stayed gone. But that wasn't the worst part. When Mama needed Deydie most—when Cait needed her most—he'd accepted a transfer and moved them to Chicago. Only months later, Mama died, and Deydie wasn't there. He'd ripped Deydie's daughter away from her, and he'd ripped Cait from the only life she'd ever known.

Cait's hand began to shake, but she kept on peeling. She dared a glance at Deydie, who stood over the sink, talking to herself. Mostly mumbles, but a few discernible words flew out. “Misguided.” “Confounded.” “Devilment.”

Finally, Deydie set two bowls and two spoons on the table. She stood back and openly studied her. “What have ye done to your hair? Dyed it?”

Cait held up a lock. “No dye. It's just gotten darker over the years.”

Deydie made a disgusted grunt with enough vinegar to sour the whole ocean. “Your hair looks the same color as your da's.”

As Cait grabbed the onion and peeled off the skin, her eyes filled with tears. She'd come home to Scotland hoping for a glimmer of the happiness she'd known as a child. Instead, she'd stepped into a nightmare. Why couldn't Deydie see that Cait was her mother's daughter, too?
With more force than she'd meant to, she brought the knife down and hacked the onion into two pieces. The floodgates opened and tears fell down Cait's cheeks, blurring her vision. She jabbed the knife into the cutting board, handle up.

Wiping her face, she got up from the table, not meeting her grandmother's eyes. “Sorry. I'm heading back to the pub. To rest. Jet lag has caught up with me.” The only thing she wanted to do was to crawl under her mother's quilt and never come out.

Cait slipped on her jacket as she hurried to the door. She wasn't quick enough, though. As she went out, Deydie got in the last word, and it wasn't pretty.

“Go on with ye now. Running away. Just like your da.”

* * *

Deydie crumpled into the rocking chair, the last eighteen years of bitterness, disappointment, and abandonment weighing her down. She put her head in her hands.

“I shouldn't have done it,” she said to her palms. “I'm as bad as me own mother.”

That wasn't necessarily true. Mother had been much more wicked, cruelly lashing out because Deydie hadn't been good enough. Even worse, Mother had taken every opportunity to criticize the village for not being as cultured as Edinburgh. Few in Gandiegow had cared when Mother had died of the fever. Mostly, they'd felt sorry for Deydie, losing both of her parents that winter and Deydie barely old enough to fend for herself.

She glanced at her bed with the quilts piled underneath the counterpane.

Dammit, she wasn't her mother. She had friends, most especially her quilting ladies. They loved her. They'd miss her. They would grieve when she passed.

Still, she shouldn't have used her own sharp tongue against Caitie. But certainly, everyone in town would agree that her own granddaughter had shamed her by not coming home when she had the chance. By staying in America even after she was grown and out of her father's house. Deydie gazed around at her meager surroundings, the cottage she'd lived in her whole life. How lonely she'd been. Not a single kinsman left in the whole world but Caitie.

“Those Americans. They love to claim Scotland as their homeland, but they're too good to sleep with the sheep.”

Deydie pushed herself out of the chair to go finish chopping the vegetables. Just another meal she'd eat alone. She swiped at a tear on her old cheek.

No sense bawling over spilled milk. Soon enough, Caitie would be wanting to get back to the big city anyway, no longer the small-town Scot she'd been.

No reason to get attached to the lass again. Caitie is just passing through.

B
y the time Graham returned to the pub from dropping Caitie at Deydie's, that gnawing feeling had returned. That woman had something up her sleeve and no one could tell him differently. It was no coincidence that she'd shown up at his son's doorstep. How had she known he'd be there? Who'd tipped her off? She had to be a reporter. His instincts were never wrong on that count. This was how he'd kept Gandiegow a secret for all these years.

Last night, he'd tamped down his suspicions. Caitie was, after all, Nora Macleod's daughter. He'd also let Caitie's bum and various distracting parts distract him. But today, when she'd refused to stay with her gran and insisted on staying at his pub instead, it all fell into place. She was a journalist out to expose him—and Duncan, and Mattie, and Gandiegow. Damn her.

Granted, staying with Deydie wouldn't be ideal, but she was family. Family came above all else. Any fool knew that. He passed by the bar and then took the steps two at a time up to Caitie's room, determined to get some answers.

Under any other circumstance, Graham believed in
the right to privacy. Especially since he'd spent a good portion of his life dodging the paparazzi. But Caitie had a sharpness about her that screamed Associated Press. And he had to find out the truth.

He reached the top landing. Maybe for a change, he'd do the rifling instead of the one being rifled through.

When he placed his hand on the doorknob, though, he couldn't turn it. Privacy was sacred, and the guilt for the crime he was about to commit felt palpable, scorched his conscience, slowed his hand, made him grimace and sweat.

But Caitie was a liar through and through. “
I'm a quilter,
” he mimicked. Like that explained everything.

He knew from his own late mother and the other village quilters that few could make a real living on quilting alone. Caitie had fed him a line of bullshit. He paid her back by turning the doorknob.

He stood there shocked. The room looked like Mother Teresa had stayed there. No clothes strewn about. No messy bed. Just a rose-lidded vase sitting on the nightstand and her suitcases lined up in the corner. His new tenant was a neat freak, and somehow this made finding the truth even harder. He didn't know where to start. As he took a step toward her luggage, the front door downstairs opened.

“Graham, are you here?” Caitie called.

Shite
. He quietly stepped from the room and pulled the door closed, knowing she could hear his every creak.

He walked down the stairs, getting into character. If he couldn't pull off nonchalance, no one could. He was a bloody actor, after all. He visualized a Hitchcock scene and put himself in it. He'd disarm her by giving her an explanation before she demanded one.

Casually, he laid a hand on the bar. “I was just checking that window in your room. The seal is about shot.”

She eyed him doubtfully, which he thought rivaled the pot calling the kettle black.

“I see,” was the only thing she said.

Her eyes looked a little red around the rims. Had she been crying?
Bluidy reporters don't cry. You have to have a heart to do that.
He chose to ignore her damned sad eyes.

“Are you hungry?” Another misdirect on his part. “Would you like some tea or hot cocoa?”

She cocked her head to the side. “Why do you look so strange?”

He sauntered over and poured water into the coffeemaker. “I was only working on the window. I'd hate for you to get cold again tonight.” He gave her his best mesmerizing smile. It usually worked like a charm, but not on Caitie.

She lifted her eyebrow as if to say his smile couldn't win over a horny nymph. “I don't want anything to eat or drink. I'm going up to lie down.”

When she passed by him, he couldn't help himself. He inhaled. She smelled of the outdoors. Of Deydie's stew on the hearth. And of
woman
. God, he was in trouble. It took everything in him not to follow her up the steps to breathe her in deeper.

She turned around, and he was afraid she knew what he'd been thinking. “I'll only rest for a while. Then I want to pick your brain.”

He knew it. She was here to get the story on him. He'd been right from the beginning.

But his victory was short-lived.

“I need the name of a good contractor, so I can get started on my house.” She went up the steps. He stared after her, not knowing what to think now. Except he'd have to find another way to get the truth out of Caitie Macleod.

* * *

As the door closed behind Cait, she leaned against it. She could barely breathe from the polar-opposite emotions bombarding her from all sides.

Depression weighed her down. Deydie's fault.

Her heart raced. Graham's fault.

But he'd always made her heart race. Along with the other 3.4 billion women in the world.

Cait pushed away from the door and went to inspect the window. It looked fine to her, but what did she know about seals? He just seemed too casual about being up here. Even weirder, she could almost feel his presence still in the room. Or at least she could still smell his spicy cologne.

She checked for her journal underneath the mattress. Still there. She pulled it out and sprawled out on the bed. Thank God for this private space.

She wrote down how good Graham smelled. How his eyes hooded when he was up to something. How he knew and understood her grandmother, even cowering from her. Cait wouldn't fault him for that. The Hulk wouldn't be a match for Deydie either when she was in one of her moods.

Graham Buchanan was a bit of a mystery, though, wasn't he? Cait's idea for a story changed from discovering why Graham liked to disappear to what made Graham Buchanan tick.

She heard the door downstairs slam and voices rise up to her. Pretty soon pots and pans clanged in the kitchen. She scooted down further in her bed and closed her eyes.

She wouldn't let Deydie or Graham get to her. Tomorrow would be better. She couldn't expect her prickly gran to change. It was up to Cait to repair their relationship. She'd screwed up today and she'd just have to try harder tomorrow. The wind howled outside and Cait drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Cait jumped awake as soon as the bagpipe bellowed its first wailing note. The window shook, and the floor shuddered. She felt dislodged from her senses, not completely certain of where or who she was. When the next note ripped through her, she slipped on her shoes and went downstairs to rip the bagpipe player a new one.

When she got to the bottom of the steps, she couldn't believe her eyes. The pub was packed from front to back and side to side with unruly Scots. Standing on a chair by the door was the man playing the pipes, Mr. Graham Buchanan himself. He had on a black Balmoral cap, an ancient Buchanan plaid kilt, and a codpiece, big and shiny. His eyes were closed as he started the next song, “Amazing Grace.”
The men in the pub removed their hats and sang along.

Unwilling to interrupt the song played at her mother's funeral, Cait sat on the step and listened to Graham execute the melody with depth and soul. As if he'd been cued, when he hit the last note, he found her with his eyes.

He seemed to twinkle all over and to be on fire at the same time. Strange, he didn't look like the actor anymore; he looked even more alive. She'd found another piece to
the puzzle that was Graham. This was his town, his people. He was at home here. They could turn out the light and the room would be sufficiently lit with Graham's glow.

He laid the pipes in the chair and came straight to her.

She wished she'd at least run a comb through her hair or checked for smeared mascara before barging down the steps.

By the look in his eyes, he didn't care. “Did you rest well?”

His words brought her back to her chief complaint. “Yes, until you decided to go all
Brigadoon
on me.”

“I don't get to practice much. It's against the rules at my flat in Glasgow.”

“Sorry. Can't hear you.” She put her hands to her ears. “I'm a bit deaf at the moment.”

“Very funny, you. How about a drink? It's on the house.”

“It should be,” she hollered above the growing noise of the crowd.

She followed him over to the bar, where he pulled out a bottle of Scotch.

“Local stuff?”

“Only the best. MacPherson over there has a distillery near Fairge.” Graham poured them both a glass, then held his up to MacPherson in salute.

She stared at the golden liquid, a little skeptical.

“Just down it.” He tipped his glass up and it was gone.

She did the same, knowing enough about whiskey to not let it stay in her mouth too long. It tasted smoky and immediately warmed her down to her toes.

“Nice, huh?” He poured her another and she drank that one too.

He had one of those smiles that made a girl woozy. Or it could be the first effects of the whiskey.

Graham handed her another drink. “You wanted to talk about contractors? Sinclair by the back table there, he's our local craftsman. Do you want me to introduce you?”

“No.” She downed the next whiskey. “I'd like to see his work first. Which houses has he worked on?”

“The Ramseys', the MacGregors', the other Ramseys'. And of course my house. Would you like to take a look at mine?”

A naughty thought skipped across her brain and warmed her down in her belly. “What?” It took a second to realize he wasn't propositioning her. “Your house. Yes, great.”

“Get your coat.”

“Now?” she asked. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth . . . but why was he being so congenial? Did he have an ulterior motive for getting her alone?

Like he'd read her mind, he gave her a look of complete innocence. “Bonnie has the bar under control.”

Cait moved her eyes to where he looked. A thirtysomething blonde in need of a breast reduction glared back.

Graham put his hand on Cait's back, ushering her to the stairs. “Get a move on. The snow is really coming down.”

Bonnie shot her some serious stink-eye daggers, so Cait hurried past her and up the stairs.

When Cait got back from bundling up, Graham was waiting, bundled up himself. He held the door open for her. A blizzard blew outside, the snow coming down almost sideways.

She braced herself and stepped outside. “Bonnie is your barmaid?” she shouted over the gale.

“More than that. She's the pub's manager,” he shouted back. “Takes care of things while I'm gone.”

“And while you're here?” The scowl on Bonnie's face made Cait wonder if Bonnie was taking care of more personal matters for Graham.

“She takes care of things while I'm here, too.”

I bet she does.
“What things?” Cait couldn't help asking.

He stopped, and she thought he had a weird look on his face. “Pub things.”

She wanted to ask if that was all. But didn't. They walked on.

“The pub is my way of giving back to the community,” he added.

They slipped and slid along the path, the snow making it treacherous. At one point she had to hang on to his arm to get over a bit of ice. She got to feel his rock-solid biceps again. And she liked being that close to him. It made her feel safe.

As they approached her gran's house, guilt surfaced. Cait really should stop and see how Deydie was doing. But Graham led her up a path behind Deydie's house. They climbed and climbed up the narrow winding path until they stood in front of a stone mansion.

“You've got to be kidding me.” She pushed past him to get a better look. He'd built his place next to the ruins of Monadail Castle. “I played here as a child.”

He gestured to the door. “Go on in. I'm off to get a few logs for the fire.” He left her and went around the side of the house.

When she stepped inside, it was like walking onto the set of a BBC Scotland film
—
the dark wood, the ornately carved twin staircases, and the huge coat of arms at the apex.

An old sable sheltie wandered in from the other room with its tail wagging.

Cait squatted to greet the dog. “Well, who are you?”

Graham came through the same doorway as the pooch. “That's Precious, my best girl.”

“Well, of course she is,” Cait said as she gave the dog a good scratch behind the ears.

Graham got in the dog's line of sight, and Precious lit up. Her backside wagged so hard, she almost knocked herself off her feet. “She's fourteen, just about deaf, but I love her all the same. Come here, girl.”

Cait stood back and watched with fascination as Graham took Precious into his arms and murmured sweet nothings into her perked-up doggie ears.
Mr. BBC actually has genuine emotions.
Huh. What would Cait do if he spoke to her like that? Would her tongue hang out, too?

Envy rose inside her. Even the pooch got more love and attention than Cait. She was utterly alone. Cait rubbed her hand over the cool stones on the wall to divert her thoughts and keep herself from sinking into a deep depression.

Graham finally looked up. “Come into the parlor and get warmed up by the fire.”

She followed close behind him into the room. “The house is fabulous. I'd love to take some pictures.”

He stilled and gently set Precious on the floor. The dog walked over to the fireplace and lay down on the big fluffy bed by the hearth.

“No pictures.” Graham's words sounded as immovable as the stone wall she'd touched moments ago.

She frowned at him. “I only want to get some ideas for my own cottage.”

He turned to face her. “No. This is my sanctuary. The town is my haven. And my son is my business alone, no one else's.”

“Quite a lecture, but what's that have to do—”

He turned away. “No, and that's the end of it.”

God, how she hated getting cut off. Tom had perfected it, dismissing her out of hand, and she had lived with it for eight long years. Eight years of him telling her what she could and couldn't do. Because of his edicts, she'd tanked her career and emptied her life of all her close friends. Cait mulled it over in her alcohol-fuzzed brain for a few moments and came to a conclusion.