Meet Me in Scotland (17 page)

After she rewrapped her ankle, she went ahead and put on the thick wool socks, though her sense of style begged her not to. But he was right: The weather was harsh this far north. With one boot on, she carefully left and closed the quilting dorm door behind her. As cautious as a princess on glass crutches, Emma slowly made her way to Quilting Central. By the time she got there, her arms were screaming from carrying her own weight.

Deydie met her at the door. “Have you eaten yet, lass?”

“Yes.” Emma was ready to cast the evil crutches into the fireplace.

“I hope ye're here to work on the doctor's quilt.” Deydie glanced over at Emma's neglected place at the sewing table.

“Sorry. I can't. I'm off to Inverness.”

Deydie frowned at her and opened her mouth as if to argue.

“For your granddaughter and for Mattie,” Emma added.

Deydie bobbed her head in understanding. “Aye. Right.”

“How do I get permission to borrow one of the cars?”

“At the store. Just put yourself on the sign-out list.” Deydie eyed her carefully. “What did the doc say? Did he give you permission to go to Inverness by yereself?”

“I'm fine.”

“Ye didn't answer the question.” Deydie frowned. “I could get one of the lads to drive you.”

“No. I'll do this on my own.”

Deydie glanced at her bad ankle. “Ye better be careful, then, and not wreck one of the cars with yere lame foot.” The old woman huffed off.

Emma called after her. “I promise to work on the Gandiegow Doctor quilt tomorrow.”

She hoofed it carefully to the store and signed out a car. Dougal offered to get someone to drive her, as well. It was only her ankle that was sprained, but he acted as if she'd gone feebleminded for heading into Inverness alone. Didn't they know that she'd managed on her own her whole life? And in London, too?

She handled the drive just fine and found the pub on the first try. She was glad she'd given herself extra time. Sitting at one of the tables, she spent the next hour using her phone to continue her research on Mattie's condition. In a back issue of
Current Psychology
there was an article on how to heal the effects of trauma. She took notes and vowed to contact one of her former professors and two colleagues who had experience with selective mutism. She was feeling more confident about meeting
with Mattie's therapist, looking forward to the challenge of working on such an interesting case.

She looked up as a man sauntered over to her table. She was about to tell him she wasn't interested in whatever he wanted when he spoke.

“Emma Castle? I'm Geoffrey Peterson, Mattie MacKinnon's therapist. Well, former, anyway.”

He was tall and very good-looking. He was dressed in a cashmere sweater and chinos, and over his shoulder he carried an expensive-looking messenger bag. He was like a movie version of a mental-health professional.

“I hope you didn't have any trouble finding the pub,” he said. “And I hope I didn't inconvenience you by forcing you to come today.” He glanced over at her crutches leaning against the wall. “Yours?”

“Yes. Misunderstanding between me and a piece of ice.”

He took the seat across from her and shot her a dazzling smile. “Shall we order first? They have excellent food here.”

“Nothing for me. I'm not really hungry.” She should've been attracted to such a striking man, but she wasn't even remotely interested in anything beyond what he had to tell her about Mattie. So much for her resolution to slake her lust on someone other than Gabriel. For some bizarre reason, it looked like no one else would do.

G
abe was glad to finally be in his Land Rover and on the road, putting Gandiegow in his rearview mirror. He'd spent the day in his office—not seeing patients, but reorganizing the surgery. Again. The only people who stopped by were Ailsa and Aileen, the spinster twins—their words, not his. The ladies wanted him to repair their eyeglasses.
Their eyeglasses!
Of course he did what he could for them, a temporary fix, and promised to pick up new screws in Inverness.

Neither the organizing nor the twins could keep his mind off Emma and her kissing the hell out of him last night. But his plans for this evening should take care of his obsession with Ms. Crutches. He didn't know what he saw in her. Yes, she was beautiful. But there were plenty of bonny lasses to choose from, if not in Gandiegow, then here in the Highlands. Maybe it was Emma's sharp mind. It couldn't be her smart mouth and biting wit. He didn't even want to contemplate how she could bring him to his knees with just the touch of her lips.

He stepped on the accelerator, anxious for his evening in Inverness. But as the miles wore on, his grand plan to forget Emma by chatting up a few women over drinks seemed less grand and more implausible. He
didn't have the patience for the type of birds he'd occupied himself with in the past. He would just have to wait for Emma to leave Scotland. It would be much easier to purge the thought of her when she wasn't in such close proximity.

He started to turn the car around and head back to Gandiegow when he remembered his promise to Ailsa and Aileen. He headed on to Inverness. When he got there, he stopped in the first shop he saw. It didn't take long to buy the screws for their glasses. As he was walking back to the Land Rover, he saw a familiar Audi 4x4 parked in front of the pub. The same Audi Q3 whose air filter he'd changed last week.

“I wonder who's here from Gandiegow.” He crossed the street to find out.

Inside the pub, he looked around at the crowd milling about and didn't see anyone familiar. When he turned around, though, he bumped into a man who was holding a woman's hand across the table.

“Excuse me.” Gabe leaned over to give the tall man room. When he did, he saw whose hand the man was holding—and the smile on her face.

“It was lovely to meet you. Don't hesitate to call anytime.” The man let go of her.

Gabe couldn't unclench his fist, but at least he didn't bring it up and connect it with the bloke's face. The guy walked out, and Gabe took the seat across from her.

“Close your mouth, Emma.”

“What—what are you doing here? Did you follow me?”

“Happenstance.” Gabe pulled the menu from between the condiments. “What's good here?” He gazed at the menu but didn't see a damn thing. He was trying to still his beating heart.
Breathe in and out and she won't notice
.

She pulled down the menu, effectively making him meet her eyes. “I don't believe you.”

“Fine. I followed you here to see who your lover is. Believe me now?”

She snorted. “Like Egghead Emma could ever land a guy like that.” She grabbed the menu from him and fanned herself. “Did you notice he looks exactly like Hugh Jackman?”

Gabe took back the menu and buried his face in it. “Aye, a wolverine in sheep's clothing.” How could she not know that she could get that bozo, or any man in this room, with a flick of her long cinnamon-colored hair and a come-hither glance from her evergreen eyes.

She pulled down the menu again. “Do they have fish and chips?”

He pulled up the menu and asked nonchalantly, “Who was that, anyway?”

She smiled at Gabe mischievously. “Wouldn't you like to know?”

He was done messing around. He reached over and snatched her crutches from behind her. “Spill the beans, lassie, or you'll have a tough time making it back to the Audi.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “That was Mattie's therapist from last summer. Cait wanted us to meet.”

“To what end? A
setup?
”

Emma shook her head, clearly exasperated. “You're being ridiculous, Gabriel. We were discussing Mattie. I don't know what it is to you whom I meet with. Now give back my crutches.” She thrust out her hand.

Satisfied, Gabriel handed them over and then waved to the nearby waitress. “Two fish and chips and two Cokes.” He placed his elbows on the table and leaned in. “How's the ankle? I'm not happy you ventured out today. You should be at the dorm, resting.”

“It's fine.” But the crease between her eyebrows said otherwise.
Either that or the crease speaks to how she feels about me.

“When was the last time you iced your ankle?”

“I said I'm fine.”

“You're so stubborn.” He stood and left Emma with her mouth hanging open again. He went to the bar and spoke to the attendant. “Can I get some ice in a plastic bag?” He pointed to where Emma sat. “I'm a doctor and she needs ice on her ankle before she can drive home.”

The attendant made up a bag and gave it to him. Gabe went to the table and squatted down beside Emma.

She tried to scoot away, but he caught her thigh.

“Hold still.” He carefully slipped the ice bag in between her Ace bandage and the thick socks he'd given her. He looked at his watch. “We'll take that out in ten.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “You are such a bully.”

“No, just a damn good doctor. I plan for you to be dancing by Hogmanay, our New Year's Eve.”

She shook her head. “I know what Hogmanay is. I'm sure I'll be gone by then.”

“It looks to me like you're just settling in.” He pointed to the folder sitting beside her on the table.

She snatched it up and put it in her bag. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure. What do you want for Christmas?” he asked, throwing her off guard.

“Three French hens,” she said mulishly.

“You seem more like the
five golden rings
type.”

“Is that still how you see me?” She sat back and frowned. “Do you have a partridge in a pear tree lodged in that thick brain of yours?”

He thought about it for a second. She was much more down-to-earth than he'd ever imagined. “No. I was wrong.”

That earned him a look of surprise.

He couldn't help adding, “I believe ten lords a-leaping are more your style.”

She didn't get a chance to react, as the waitress arrived with their food.

“Well, I've been wrong about you, too.” She glanced down at her ankle. “You're not the wastrel I thought you were, either.”

“Careful, Emma. My thick brain might get the wrong idea and think you're hitting on me.”

“Not in a million years,” she said confidently.

Oh, he so wanted to bring up last night and remind her who had hit on whom. But that would be a Pandora's box better left alone. So many questions surrounded Emma Castle. Not the least of which was why her kiss could get him harder faster than any other female he'd ever laid lips on. He couldn't ponder it, because in the end, it didn't matter that she affected him. Emma wasn't for him.

“Eat up,” he finally said, and dug into his meal.

*   *   *

Claire paced. Emma had gone to Inverness and wouldn't be back until
who knew when
. Hanging out at Quilting Central held no real appeal; she never should've thrown her husband into the Cuisinart for the villagers to puree. And she definitely had to steer clear of Dominic now—surely he'd heard the lie she'd told about him. There was nothing quite so daunting as a pissed-off Italian. Except maybe an irate Scot. Perfect rivals and perfect lovers. One of the reasons the two of them had such heated arguments. And then great makeup sex afterward.

A brilliant idea hit Claire. She'd go see Amy and her baby. She wouldn't go empty-handed, either. From the walk-in cooler, Claire gathered plenty of Dominic's delicious food and fixed a hefty box for the MacTavishes. She put on her coat, loaded the wagon, and set off. About
halfway through town, she heard the squall of a babe above the crashing waves.

She gave a mental shrug. No big deal. Babies cry. It was all part of raising a wee one. Claire pushed on, but the closer she got to Amy's, the louder the baby's wail became, and the more apprehensive she felt. She was beginning to see why the neighbors had started to complain that baby William had gone from being ever so lovely to a right-loud little banshee
.

When she reached Amy's doorstep, William was screaming bluidy murder. Claire hesitated. She could still turn back and no one would know any different. But she wasn't a coward. She could handle it. She was a tough Scottish woman. Resolved, Claire knocked on the door. The baby screamed on. The winter wind whipped around her. She knocked again. The baby screamed some more. Finally, a ragged Amy answered the door.

The afterglow of giving birth was gone, replaced by zombielike circles under her eyes and an I-don't-give-a-shit demeanor on her sleep-deprived face. She wore blue sweatpants and a J
UST
K
ILL
M
E
N
OW
sweatshirt splotched with spit-up spots down the front.

“Come in. Don't look at the place.” Amy shuffled back in the room. “Coll had to rush off to Glasgow to see his uncle in the hospital.” She went to the cradle, picked up the little terror, and thrust him at Claire. “Can you hold him for a bit? I have to get a shower.” The word
shower
sounded like her last lifeline to sanity.

“Sure.” Claire reached for him. Baby William pulled his legs up toward his tummy and screeched again—so loudly that Claire thought her eardrums would burst.

Without a backward glance, Amy trudged off to the loo.

Claire tried cuddling with William, but he was having none of it. Then she tried singing her own mama's
precious lullaby, which only made him scream louder. The one thing that seemed to appease the little guy, but only a very little, was swinging him from side to side, while she hummed. It was the longest—and loudest—thirty minutes of Claire's life.

Amy finally reappeared from the bathroom with dripping hair but wearing clean clothes. She still looked haggard and utterly exhausted. “Here, I'll take him.”

William cried on but seemed to calm a little in his mother's arms.

It was only then that Claire got a real look at the cabin's disarray—dirty dishes, baby clutter everywhere, and diapers soaking in a pail outside the restroom door.

“It's a mess. I know.” Amy laid William down on the bed and changed his nappy. Afterward, she washed her hands and arranged pillows on the bed. “I'll try to nurse him. Maybe that'll help.”

She propped herself up and pulled him into her arms. Between screams, he rooted around at her breast. He finally found what he wanted and got a few moments of comfort between half sobs.

“I'll take care of the dishes,” Claire offered, “and whatever else needs to be done.” But in truth, she wanted nothing more than to run from the cabin.

“That would be grand,” Amy said. “But I could really use a cup of herbal tea first. Do you mind?”

“No problem.” Claire made the tea and spent the next fifty minutes trying to bring Amy's previously cozy little cottage back into some semblance of order. But it wasn't long before the baby was wailing again. His mother's ever-patient care just couldn't stop his colic.

Claire's nerves were near shot when Moira arrived. Claire had never been so happy to see another person in her whole life.

Moira looked to Claire, then to Amy, and frowned.
She spoke quietly to her friend. “I thought you would call. I waited. I would've come sooner, but I assumed you were sleeping.”

Amy laid the now-sleeping babe beside her. “I knew you had your hands full with your da. I'm managing.”

Moira touched Amy's shoulder. “The circles under your eyes say otherwise.”

“We've been grand. Claire came and took care of us.”

“'Twas nothing,” Claire said. “I only did a few things.”

Moira grabbed an apron off the chair. “If it's fine with you, I'll take over now.”

Her words were music to Claire's poor abused ears.

“I'm grateful you stopped by,” Amy said. Claire could read the truth of it in her eyes.

She took her opportunity and got out, not needing to be told twice. Nobody could've made a quicker exit. Her parka wasn't even zipped for the first fifty feet from their doorstop. Then the baby started crying again.

Claire didn't know how Amy dealt with it. That poor girl needed round-the-clock help, not just a few friends dropping by here and there. Especially with Coll gone. Claire would organize it all and make it happen; Amy would get the help she needed.

Visiting Amy today had been a real wake-up call for Claire, too. Perhaps there were some things that she was unprepared for. She tilted her head to heaven and said a little prayer. “I think I still want a baby, God. But if it's not too much trouble, could you make it a nice, quiet one? Please?”

Of course, she knew all along that babies were a lot of work, even the quiet ones. How was she to deal with a wee bairn? A quiet baby still nursed in the night. A quiet baby still needed twenty-four-hour care. How could she be up all night and still get up to make the scones?

Everyone knows that the scones wait for no one.

*   *   *

While Dom packed food from the restaurant's kitchen into individual containers, he wondered where Claire was. No matter what he did, he couldn't get her off his mind. She'd ruined their only chance at having a restaurant. No one had shown up for lunch or dinner again today.

But he wouldn't let the food go to waste. He'd been in Gandiegow long enough to know who needed the food and who didn't. Even though the restaurant was gasping its last breath, he loved feeding people. It had always given him a rush.