1 Off Kilter (2 page)

“Lots of sex on the page, I’d imagine?” Vicki said, nudging me with her elbow.

I laughed weakly. “I’m not that far into it yet.” Several thin, first-draft chapters after a polished first chapter didn’t amount to much. I hadn’t yet tried Ami’s advice, to write one of the love scenes first. “Your story will grow organically from there. And don’t be afraid to add lots of juicy details,” she’d said with a wink.

“My favorite reads are romances about American cowboys,” Vicki told me, her knitting needles clicking away. “The hotter, the better. Make sure some of the scenes are right steamy and it’ll be a bestseller.”

“Mmm,” I said noncommittally, then leaned back into the headrest and closed my eyes as the plane gained altitude.

Unfortunately, Vicki MacBride wasn’t the sort to take obvious hints that a person wanted to be left alone.

“I hope Pepper and Coco are doing all right in the hold,” she said, sounding anxious. “They’re my two wee West Highland terriers, and they aren’t used to travel.”

I sympathized with her anxiety over her dogs. Sometimes I think I like animals more than people. Correction: more than sometimes. Change that to “almost always.” They are so much more loyal and aboveboard—loving, caring, never wavering from a constant state of affection and devotion. They don’t run off when you need them the most. And they don’t win your heart, then snap it in two like an insignificant twig.

Once an animal befriends you, it’s for life. Unlike some ex-husbands I could think of.

It was his fault I’d been without the companionship of a pet. Him and his allergies. And my mother’s apartment hadn’t allowed pets. When the lease was up in a few months, I planned to move someplace pet friendly and get one of my own.

“We were supposed to be on an earlier flight, but our plane had mechanical problems and we were all herded over to this one,” Vicki lamented. “I’ll be lucky to make it back in time, what with collecting my boys and finding my car in the lot. Good thing Glenkillen isn’t too far from the airport.”

“Glenkillen? That’s where I’m going,” I said, opening my eyes in surprise.

“Well, fancy that! We’ll have to stay in touch. Are you in need of a ride over? I have room, if you don’t mind budging up with my little pets and our luggage.”

“That’s very nice of you,” I said. “But I’ve reserved a rental at the Inverness airport.”

“Ah, of course you have. Will you be staying at the Whistling Inn or with friends?”

“At the inn.” I yawned. So exhausted! I only half listened as she talked for the better part of the flight.

“My half brother and half sister used to be my best little pals,” I heard at one point, listening to the faint sound of the needles working away, my eyes once again closed. “I’d visit every summer from London and we’d run wild on the Highland hillsides, scaring the sheep, dressing the newborn lambs in baby clothes, all of us without a care in the world. Ah, those are fond memories. Then my mum moved us to the States—California—when I was thirteen. You know how teenagers are, so busy with their own lives they forget about everybody else.”

“But you’re living in London now?” I asked, opening my eyes.

“I needed a change of scenery, and London was as good a place as any, one where I knew my way around. That’s all changed now. I’m on my way back to Scotland for my father’s funeral and to move into the old family house there.”

“I’m so sorry about your father,” I murmured.

She went on, “It’s fine, really. My da wasn’t much of a father to me. It was his second wife, Moira, who encouraged me. She was the one who rang at the beginning of each summer and invited me. After that marriage ended, my father never rang to ask me to visit. But by then we had an ocean between us.”

“I know exactly how that feels,” I told her. “My dad took off when I was a kid and never came back. I don’t even know if he’s dead or alive.”

“You poor dear. But you have a good mother?”

“Had. She was the best. And you?”

“A wonderful woman, passed on now as well.”

“Then we were both blessed.”

Vicki smiled. “But now my da’s up and died, and suddenly my circumstances have changed overnight. Earlier in the week I flew to Glenkillen to meet with the solicitor, who’s also acting as executor of the estate, and imagine my surprise to find I’ve inherited the whole lot! Until then, I was a part-time pet stylist on the dole, unable to find permanent work and running out of funds. Now I’m moving out of the city and may never have to work another day in my life unless I so choose. Life’s full of surprises.”

That was quite the inheritance—as an only child to an ill single mother, all I’d inherited beyond her house and life insurance were the bills. Even if other family members had existed to make claims, there hadn’t been much in the way of material possessions to argue over when my mother passed away. But if I ever found myself in that situation, I swore I’d just give everybody whatever the heck they wanted and back away. It just wouldn’t be worth the hassle.

Vicki’s head was down as she concentrated on her knitting. “Wonder what I should do with all of my time now that I’m secure,” she said. “It won’t be spent catching up with my half siblings, that’s for sure. They didn’t take kindly to my return and to the terms of our da’s will. Maybe I’ll write a story, too, Eden Elliott. What do you think of that?”

I must have dozed off after that, because the next thing I knew we were beginning our descent. The fog had lifted, giving me a breathtaking view out the airplane window of the countryside surrounding Inverness and a spectacular view of the River Ness, home to the famous Loch Ness Monster. Everything was so lush and green!

“I’ll look you up after I tend to my family business,” Vicki said as we deplaned. “I could use a friend.”

Couldn’t we all,
I remember thinking as my flight companion hurried off to claim her terriers and I went off to claim a rental car.

Somewhere between Inverness and Glenkillen, my rental car broke down.

After trying everything I could think of to get the thing going again, I gave the tire a swift kick in utter, absolute frustration. My foot connected, the impact hurting me much more than it did the car. Which only angered me more.

My foot was in mid-swing again when I heard the sweet sound of another vehicle approaching.
Finally!
But it was too late to halt what was already in process, proving the theory that a body in motion stays in motion. Or in this case, a leg in motion.

A white Land Rover pulled up behind my rental car on the curvy, impossibly narrow excuse for a road. More like a mountain-goat path, if you ask me. I adjusted my attitude into a semblance of cool, calm, and collected for the benefit of the driver. I needed road assistance, and acting like a lunatic wasn’t likely to get it for me.

I plastered a welcoming smile on my face and really hoped it didn’t make me look totally insane.

The driver’s window slid down, and a guy around my age stuck his head out. “Winning the fight, are ye?” he said, in a lilting Scottish accent that I would have found attractive under normal circumstances. But I was too cranky to be charmed. Between my jet lag, the need to constantly remind myself to stay on the opposite side of the road from the right as I was used to—not to mention driving from what felt like the passenger seat—and the discovery that I’d rented a car with a manual transmission (a skill definitely
not
on my bucket list), well . . . things weren’t going exactly as planned.

“The steering wheel started pulling hard to the right,” I explained, calling back. “Now the stick thing won’t move.” I winced at my lame attempt to describe a mechanical problem. Who knew that most rental cars in Scotland were manuals and that you had to specifically request an automatic in advance? Not me, clearly. And, wouldn’t you know it, by the time I realized my mistake, there hadn’t been a single automatic left. The rental agent had been sympathetic and even gave me a lesson in shifting and clutch work, but to say I was completely frazzled would be an understatement.

Thank God everyone here at least spoke English, or some version of it anyway. I was only processing about half of what had been said to me since landing on this unfamiliar terrain. Coming from Chicago, I was used to hearing foreign accents on a daily basis, and I’m usually pretty good at deciphering most of them. But this Scottish one had to be the hardest.

The guy slid out of his vehicle and came toward me.

Now that someone had finally stopped, my stranger-danger warning bells went off, and I wondered what the odds were that this guy got his kicks out of committing atrocities on stranded female motorists. Leave it to the airlines to take away a woman’s line of defense. I’d forgotten all about the little canister of pepper spray in the bottom of my purse when I’d gone through security in Chicago. The body search hadn’t been pleasant.

But a quick glance at his Land Rover showed that he was towing a fishing boat, and besides, he had a cute border collie riding with him. In a split second of decision-making, I applied a partially formed opinion of his character, using good old intuition to decide he was A-OK. What animal lover (an assumption I made based on his canine friend) could possibly be a bad guy? Besides, I figured I had to trust him. Who else did I have to turn to out here in the middle of nowhere? Still, I planned to remain alert to any trouble.

I rubbed the back of my neck, considering the symptoms of whiplash after so many sudden starts and stops. I’d heard it takes a few hours for aches and pains to settle in. “I’m fine, really,” I told him.

“Ye don’t look so fine,” he said, then, apparently realizing that I might misinterpret his remark as a critique of my personal appearance, amended, “I mean,
ye
look fine, but . . . uh . . . yer situation doesn’t.” He gave me a slightly crooked smile. “Did ye use yer mobile to call for help?”

It wasn’t as though I hadn’t considered that option, but my cell phone hadn’t worked since I’d landed (not a fact I wanted to broadcast to unfamiliar men; it would be like using a black magic marker to write
Helpless Prey
on my forehead). Never mind that I hadn’t the faintest idea who to call. Ami, back in Chicago? Not much help there. What was the magic number for emergencies here anyway? It certainly wasn’t 911.

“And how exactly do I do that?” I said instead, immediately realizing I’d made a stupid mistake in showing my ignorance.

“In the future, ye call nine-nine-nine,” he informed me. “Yer from the States, then?”

I strained to catch a tone of disdain in his voice, but, to my relief, didn’t hear anything negative. He was simply making a statement. I was aware that we Americans weren’t exactly beloved worldwide. Trying to beat up an innocent car was a perfect example of how not to act in a foreign country.

I admitted I was, and he studied the car situation while I covertly studied him. He really was a nice guy, I could tell. And it didn’t hurt that he was also tall and attractive, with sandy blond hair and a little natural red facial hair, like he hadn’t had time to shave this morning. He was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing well-muscled arms, and he smelled nice, too, like fresh air and open fields—unless that really
was
the great outdoors giving me sensory overload. And he had those Scottish blue eyes I’d been admiring since landing.

Everything about this guy seemed relaxed, from the casual way he wore his clothes to the hair on his head (just a little too long, which happened to be just right in my book). I wanted to think I had the same sense of self-confidence that wafted from him, but I had to admit, in the short time since I’d arrived in Scotland, some of my poise—all right, most of it—had bailed on me.

He opened the driver’s door, slid in, started it up, and tried to shift through the gears. Yup, they were locked in place for him, too.

“Can you fix it?” I asked anxiously, wrapping my cardigan a little tighter around my body, realizing that the temperature here was much cooler than a July afternoon back home. I’d have to replace it with one made from Scottish wool.

“Did ye hear any loud noises?” he asked, a hint of amusement twitching his lips.

“Yes. A big bang.”

He got out and tinkered under the hood. The internal workings of cars have always baffled me, so instead of observing I walked over to the rover’s partially open passenger window and introduced myself to the border collie. “Eden Elliott,” I said as the dog stood up and wagged her tail madly. I reached in and gave her a pat on the head along with an ear scratch. “You’re a sweetie.”

I heard the hood close, and I walked back to my car for the damage report.

“Eden, is it?” the guy said, inclining his head to the dog. “I overheard ye introduce yerself to Kelly there. I’m Leith Cameron at your service. Yer not all that familiar with a manual, are ye?”

“Not really. This is . . . was . . . my first attempt.”

Leith’s eyes swept over my faulty transportation. “The transmission is fouled up a bit. That extra pedal on the floor is a clutch, in case ye were wondering.”

“I know that. I had a lesson before driving off.”

“Must o’ been a wee one.”

“I told the rental person it was a big mistake not to make more effort to locate an automatic for me.”

We both looked at my big mistake. I’d been right—as usual—when it came to my lack of mechanical abilities. When they’d passed out those brain connections, I must have been in a far corner reading a book.

“Where are ye heading?” he asked next.

“Glenkillen.”

“Let’s grab yer things, then,” Leith said. “Glenkillen is right around the bend, and it’s where I’m goin’. I’ll see tae the car, but I’ll need the hire agreement.”

I fished around in the front seat and handed over the paperwork.

Leith pulled the keys out of the rental car’s ignition, popped the trunk (or rather the “boot,” as the rental agent had referred to it), and transferred my bags into the backseat of his Land Rover, moving so quickly that I didn’t have a chance to pitch in and help.

“Ye don’t mind sharing a seat with Kelly, do ye?” he asked.

“Not at all,” I said, climbing in.

“Ye’ll be staying at the Whistling Inn?”

“How did you know?” I asked warily.

“Only place around these parts to stay.”

Ah. True. Research had told me tourists usually made Inverness their home base and traveled from there on day trips to take in the sights. But I’d wanted more total immersion. In spite of Glenkillen’s popularity as a coastal town, it didn’t encourage overnight revelers. In fact, I’d read that it closed up relatively early each night. It was exactly what I’d been looking for, and Ami had agreed.

“You won’t be able to run to the comfort of other Americans in a place like that,” she’d said with a wicked little grin.

She’d certainly been right about that. And if only she could see the Scot who’d come to my rescue. She’d absolutely flip with glee.

“Well, Eden Elliott,” Leith said, “let’s get ye to yer destination.”

And we were off, heading through the rolling hills of the Scottish Highlands. I finally had an opportunity to sit back and enjoy the scenery. Right outside my window, which I rolled all the way down to enjoy all the sensory delights, were glorious purple-hued heather-covered hills on both sides of the road. Mountainous peaks rose in the background. The air smelled very much of honeysuckle, sweetly and powerfully fragrant.

Sheep dotted the hills and valleys like clumps of cotton, some all white, others black-faced but with white bodies, as well as the occasional proverbial black sheep, all grazing contently. Hand-built stone walls edged both sides of the road, sometimes branching away and meandering off over the tufted grass, crumbling here and there with age.

“Did ye come for the funeral?” Leith asked rather loudly, since we both had our windows down.

“What funeral?”

“James MacBride’s. Should be quite the turnout for it,” he said.

He must be talking about Vicki’s father
, I realized, deciding to feign total ignorance, curious what Leith would say about James MacBride and the rest of the family.

“An important man?” I asked.

“Ye could say that.”

That was all the prompting he needed. The gist of it, if I understood right (which was questionable, considering Leith’s brogue and my unfamiliarity with several Scottish idioms he threw in), was that the elderly James MacBride had been an important community member who’d recently suffered a rapid series of strokes. The last and final one had stopped his heart for good. He’d owned a large hill sheep farming operation where, not only were sheep raised for their wool, but all stages of the process to create yarn for retail sale and for commercial wool product distribution was conducted. MacBride’s place was one of many tourist attractions in these parts, with regular sheep-shearing demonstrations and a gift shop specializing in all kinds of finished wool products and yarns.

Despite having done a fair amount of research before this trip, I hadn’t come across anything about the MacBride farm, probably because it was on the outskirts of Glenkillen. I was more eager to visit the village pubs and shops. At the top of my list was a pub called the Kilt & Thistle, Glenkillen Books, the Whisky Stop, and A Taste of Scotland, which advertised sweet oaties, Dundee cakes (whatever those were), and six flavors of shortbread. And the Whistling Inn, where Ami had reserved a room for my extended stay that included a full Scottish breakfast.

“The funeral is today at five o’clock, and the family is feuding something fierce,” Leith gossiped as Kelly and I got to be pals. “Story is, James MacBride left everything to his oldest daughter, who he hadn’t seen since she was a bairn. Worse, his two grown children from his second marriage were left out of his will altogether, and one of them even runs the family business with her husband. An’ none of ’em will cry baurley-fummil.”

That last part flew right past me, although I was pretty sure the barley part didn’t involve any grain.

“Whose side are you on?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“I don’t take sides. ‘Live and let live’ is my motto.”

We crested the top of a hill, and Glenkillen and the North Sea came into view. In its harbor and as far out into the ocean as I could see, sailboats rode the waves, their colorful spinnakers flying. A few fishing boats were heading out into the vast rolling water, and other boats of varying sizes were tied to moorings, rising and falling with the waves. Through my open window, I breathed in salty ocean air.

“What do ye think of it?” Leith asked with obvious pride.

“It’s more beautiful than I imagined.” My tiredness gave way to excitement. Soon we were driving along Castle Street with its quaint shops, exactly like the images I’d seen online. People crowded the streets, shopping, eating, drinking, milling about. I loved seeing this village and all its energy, even in my travel-weary state.

I heard a bagpipe jig coming from inside a pub.

“‘Biddy from Sligo’,” Leith muttered, glancing my way.