What Lies Between Page 5

  My face grew equally serious. “Aye, laddie. I hear you, laddie. Anything else, laddie?”

  He narrowed his eyes on mine. “You’re fraucht wi’ mischief, you are. But life would be boring without a pauchle o’ trouble somewhere in it, aye?”

  “Aye,” I said dramatically, sounding more like a pirate than a Scot. I didn’t care. Amusement lit up my mood, gloriously free of worry for the moment.

  Ben shook his head in mock exasperation and started up the stairs inside the broch’s outer ring.

  With my first step on the ancient stairway, the hairs on my neck vibrated like someone had breathed on my skin. A tremor zipped up and down my arms and shimmied through my spine. I didn’t sense danger but had the distinct impression of something hovering near me. I swiveled around but couldn’t see anything there. I shook off the sensation and clambered up next to Ben on top of a tumble of stones where the stairway abruptly ended.

  The second floor had long ago crumbled away. The thought of climbing on the exposed outer ring sent a premonition of a video clip through my mind—a reporter speaking to a news camera about the collapse of a significant historic ruin caused by a reckless American woman, Elliotte Jameson, whose body had just been plucked from the rocks below.

  Entirely plausible.

  I didn’t move from the stairwell.

  “This broch would have had a couple of floors above us where people lived. The ground floor was most likely for storage and livestock. They could keep enough provisions in here to last a long time and the burn below provided water. Families living here could see anyone coming by land or sea and shut themselves inside until the threat passed.”

  The mountains of Kintail curved around the horizon, towering beyond Loch Moran, cocooning everything and everyone in the glen from the rest of the world. Despite whatever I wished I’d had with Gerard and my lingering anger at all the years lost, he had chosen to lay a key to this gorgeous secret in my hand. The chance to make this place my home was a life-altering gift from my father to me.

  Locking my gaze on the view, I refused to turn and meet Ben’s eyes, unwilling to break the enchantment of the moment or interrupt the gratitude coursing through my heart.

  A few minutes later he broke the quiet. “Do you fancy some lunch? The wee bit of food you had earlier wasn’t much.”

  What was his thing with pushing food on me all the time? He acted about food the way I imagined a granny would. Yet my stomach rumbled its agreement at his suggestion. “Lunch sounds perfect.”

  I followed him back down to the broch’s grassy floor and chose a large rock for my perch.

  “Which wine would you like?” He held up tiny bottles of merlot and pinot.

  “You definitely do know how to picnic.” I pointed at the pinot grigio.

  He unscrewed the cap of the single serve bottle and poured it into a clear plastic cup.

  I picked up an egg salad sandwich and a bag of chips. “Not high maintenance, just saying.” I took a huge bite of the sandwich to emphasize my point.

  “Don’t get me wrong; I think it’s fine to know what you want.” His tone hinted he wasn’t only talking about food.

  I stuck a potato chip in my mouth.

  “Those crisps are made here in Scotland,” he said, a swell of pride brightening his face.

  “Crisps. I have to get used to the lingo.” I popped a couple more. “Prawn cocktail flavor honestly sounds horrible, but these aren’t half bad.”

  “I also brought haggis flavored crisps.”

  I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “It’s one thing to think about sheep parts cooked and served in the sheep’s own stomach for dinner, but why would anyone make a chip—crisp—in a haggis flavor?”

  “You have to try it,” Ben prodded.

  I licked the crisp, not willing to bite into it. Not bad. Still, the idea of haggis—even the sound of the word—pretty much ruined any chance I had of liking it.

  “We need to get some proper haggis into you. You can’t have a disgusted look on your face when guests come to Glenbroch looking for their idea of Scottish food.”

  “Good point.” Just like Kami had warned me. “I’ll give it a try—once.”

  “Everything deserves at least one go, eh?”

  I searched his face for another meaning in his words, but he was rummaging in his pack. He pulled out a tub filled with a spread resembling finely blended figs and a container filled with a white substance. He handed me the fig-looking spread.

  “This you will like—it’s quince. And this other is crowdie, a soft cheese,” he explained, removing the white substance’s lid.

  He spread the quince on an oatcake, pulled a grape off the bunch he’d brought, and held the trio out for me to taste. I reached to take it, but he popped the lot in his mouth, flashing me an impish smile.

  Rolling my eyes and affecting a flat, bored tone, I said, “Really? I’ll manage my lunch on my own, thank you very much.” It was a solid effort at disapproval, but amusement crept onto my face, ruining my bluff. Having fun with him made me not care how cold I was tucked into the floor of the broch, out of the sun’s reach.

  He handed me a spoon loaded with crowdie and put the oatcakes, tub of quince, and a sprig of grapes within my reach.

  “I am sure you can manage on your own quite well in pretty much any situation. But it never hurts to have some help now and then.” Leaning over, he gave me a soft nudge with his elbow.

  Ignoring him, I placed a smidge of quince on one thick, crunchy oatcake, the crowdie on another then bit off a piece of each.

  “I’m impressed! I thought you’d pull out haggis and fried candy bars.”

  “Och, we’re not all sheep stomachs and deep-fried heart attacks.”

  Kami may have been right about the accent and kilts—although I hadn’t seen any men in kilts yet—but she was wrong about the food. I had the idea America had everything, but I was wrong, and I had been missing out. Scotland’s food was proving more interesting than its reputation let on. Establishing Glenbroch as a dining destination might be a viable opportunity.

  Busy putting away ample amounts of my new food obsessions, I grew quiet. Ben didn’t speak either but his fidgeting was hard to ignore. I had a feeling he was working up to something.

  “Coming here must be a big change for you. How does your family feel about it?”

  “It’s a world away from the life I had and more than in distance. I’m sitting here eating food I’ve never heard of in a two-thousand-year-old broch.” I popped another quince-covered oatcake in my mouth.

  I know how to talk about this without feeling any pain. I’ve done it countless times.

  I began my practiced self-disclosure. “My parents were killed in a car accident—drunk driver—when I was five. I was home with the sitter. She stayed with me all night because the police were going to take me away right then. I didn’t have anywhere to go. My parents didn’t have close friends except each other, and no other family. Well, my birth mother, Sarah, is out there somewhere I suppose. She refused to meet me when I found her, wanted nothing to do with me, and I have no idea if she’s still alive. You know about Gerard. That’s about it. No family to feel anything about what I do.”

  Ben’s face creased with what looked like concern. At least his expression wasn’t one of pity. I’d supply it myself if pity was needed, but I couldn’t stand it from someone else.

  “I’m sorry about your parents. Who did you live with after they died?” He added quickly, “If you don’t mind the questions.”

  “It’s fine. I bounced around. Landed with a foster family who had a farm out in Oklahoma and stayed there for two years. I would have stayed with Alan and Sandra forever because believe me, none of my other foster experiences were anything like that one. In fact, by the time I came into Alan and Sandra’s home, I wasn’t easy to be around, had an attitude. But they loved me like real parents. Some of my favorite memories to this day are flying on the tire swing over the creek, pouring in the rock s
alt and ice and cranking the ice cream churn, riding my bicycle up and down the dirt roads . . .”

  “Sounds like a wonderful home. You were there two years? What happened?” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I hear myself grilling you. I’ll stop. Sorry.”

  I waved my hand to indicate it was okay and swallowed my mouthful of food. “Alan was out working in a field a long way from the house. I’d taken my bike out to bring him lunch and a fresh canteen of water. He’d been driving the combine that morning and it was sitting in the field with the engine on. I remember thinking it was strange. Anyway, he was gone. Heart attack they said.”

  I untied and retied the wet laces of my boots as memories I hadn’t visited in years engulfed me. “Sandra didn’t feel she could adopt me on her own—they’d planned to—and I had to go.” My shoulders shrugged off the pain swooping through my heart. “It’s hard to believe that anything I really want will work out. I mean, I still hope, but something always seems to mess it up.” A hesitant smile worked its way free and onto my face. “Yet I keep trying . . .”

  Why do I want to tell you secret things?

  Opening up and trusting someone wasn’t like me, but I wanted it to be.

  “What you’ve been through . . .” Ben’s gentle tone drew me to lift my head and look him in the eyes. “And now more change. Moving over here must have been hard, leaving everything.”

  I watched him twist a long blade of grass into a knot. My voice came out hushed. “Most of my life I’ve wandered, kind of lost, like I’d been dropped off on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Couldn’t find my way back. Didn’t know where I’d come from in the first place. I’ve had an ache in my heart for so long . . . the first moment my feet touched MacKinnon land, the ache . . . it softened. Makes me think I was meant to be here. Strange, huh?”

  “Not at all. There is a word in Welsh for what you describe: hiraeth, a feeling of loss and intense yearning for home, whether about a place or someone. The thing about hiraeth—it remains even in happy moments. You can have it for what you can’t even describe but you know is missing.” He turned his gaze to the rain-laden clouds hovering over the mountains. “I believe the Highlands run in the blood and even if you move away, or were born somewhere else, this land holds onto its own. A heart whose home is meant to be here will always be restless anywhere else . . . hiraeth.”

  What he said hit me in the dead center of the ache in my chest. I turned again to look at him and his expression was soft, encouraging me to relax. “You have a way of describing how I feel . . . like you hear more than the words I say. You nearly make me believe there’s something at work in this world besides a mess of human actions. I can’t argue things feel different here—I feel different here—but still . . .” My words faded away and silence fell between us once again.

  “Ellie.” He willed my downcast eyes to look up. “I believe your feelings are right, no matter how odd you think they are. I don’t know exactly how, and I don’t think it will be easy, but things can work out for you here.”

  I hoped he was right. In any case, I was beginning to like being around this guy. I tossed a grape at his head to lighten the mood and interrupt the pull drawing me toward him.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I have a ton of work to do to get this place ready to go for its first season.”

  “About that . . . you shouldn’t . . . I can’t . . .”

  He didn’t complete his thought, and I threw another grape, hitting him square on the bridge of his nose. “Can’t what? Say it,” I demanded, grabbing a handful of grapes for ammunition. “You can’t finish your work? Because you’re running off to join the circus?” Grinning, I tossed two more at his head. “Do you even have the circus in this country?”

  Ben picked up a grape, threw it back, and hit me in the cheek. His smile quickly faded but he said nothing.

  “What?” I asked again, not sure what to make of his serious expression.

  He stuck the grapes back in his pack, folded up the bag of crisps, shook his head. “Och, no never mind.”

  “Spill it.” I pulled on his sleeve.

  He turned those pale eyes on me, his brows bunched up tight, face strained. He shrugged his pack onto his shoulders. “Ready for your driving lesson?”

  This time, it was me searching his face, trying to sort out this man who made me feel restless, who stirred me awake from a slumber I hadn’t believed I could be woken from. His nervous silence left me uneasy. “I’m not ready yet. Tell me what you were you going to say.”

  He cleared his throat but didn’t look up to meet my eyes. “I wish life hadn’t been the way it was for you. That’s all. And I’m certain it won’t be easy for you here, either.”

  Tearing off a wildflower growing amidst the weeds, I began picking its petals off one at a time. “I don’t think my childhood was meant to be hard. I’m sure my parents never imagined they would both die at the same time and hadn’t planned for what would happen to me. But that’s not all you were thinking about. You’re making me nervous.”

  “Living here can be harsh. I’m just nae sure you ken what you’re in for,” he said, pushing himself up and turning toward the path.

  I tossed the flower to the ground and jumped to my feet, grabbing his arm and positioning my body across the path, anger flaring. “Are you saying I don’t belong here or that I can’t handle it?”

  He studied my eyes for a long time. “I’m saying that taking on Glenbroch and everything that comes with it is a heavy burden. Have you thought about just selling it?”

  “Selling it? Do you think I came here for the money?”

  “Who could blame you?”

  “I didn’t go looking for it—Gerard left it to me. And I intend to keep it.” I fixed my stare on him, trying to squash the urge to be more honest. But something about him knocked chinks in my defenses. “Okay . . . I’ll admit the money was a draw, but that changed the minute I got here. I will make this estate a success and pay off the investors. You can believe that or not.” I turned and strode down the hill back toward the main road where the Land Rover waited.

  Ben caught up to me. “Listen, it’s not that I don’t believe in you. What you’re getting yourself into is more than most people could handle. It may not be worth it . . .”

  I glared at him. “Maybe it wouldn’t be worth it to you, but Glenbroch is worth it to me.” Pushing him aside, I didn’t look back, swinging my body into the Land Rover and firing up its engine. Ben had barely climbed in when I tried to shove the vehicle into first.

  The gear shift groaned in my hand, heavy and stubborn, refusing to submit. The vehicle lacked tolerance for the American driver and killed its engine in response to my attempts. After the third round, Ben reached over to help.

  “I’ve got this,” I snapped.

  “Aye, you do—” he said, his accent too strong for me to understand the rest of his words.

  In full assault mode now, I was determined to overcome the Beast’s resistance. This Land Rover definitely fit the name I’d just given it.

  I hatched a plan and tugged the gear into reverse, backing up and lulling the vehicle into thinking we weren’t going anywhere at all. Then I whipped into first and lunged forward. Ben nearly flew through the windshield.

  “God bless America! Put your seatbelt on! I’m not responsible for your bloody corpse, all right?” I said, faintly aware my anger wasn’t all about this situation . . . or Ben.

  “And God bless Scotland!” he yelled out, a smirk on his face.

  Shooting a glare in his direction, I shoved the stick into second. The Beast complained with each of my inelegant gear shifts, but it surrendered and kept moving.

  In spite of my best efforts, I kept drifting to the side of the road, scraping the passenger side of the cranky vehicle against the tall, scruffy bushes.

  “My depth perception is messed up,” I complained, not used to how odd it was to have the bulk of the car to the left of me.

 
“Maybe if you weren’t taking your anger out on it . . .” Ben admonished, one hand gripping the overhead handle and the other braced against the dashboard.

  Ignoring his verbal jab, I slowed at a passing place, let the only car go by, managed my wave, then ground the gear into first once again, defying the Beast to fling any back talk. By the time we arrived back at the house it had grudgingly accepted its new boss. I was battle-weary but triumphant.

  Ben unloaded the remaining food into my pantry and fridge, which worked to soften the anger and frustration that neither he nor the Beast deserved. I was barely away from the door after bidding him goodbye when a firm rap sounded on the heavy wood. I opened it to Ben’s grinning face.

  “About Skye . . .”

  “Oh right.” Much as I wanted to go, I had forgotten all about his offer.

  “You see, my mate Ewan and I used to be partners in a bespoke tour company—posh clientele, nice vehicle, comfy B&Bs. I sold my share to him a couple years ago but still fill in whenever he needs help. He needs me to take out a group from Inverness. This tour is a wee bit more than a day trip—two nights on Skye.” He cast his eyes to the floor, revealing a slight shyness. The last of my anger vaporized.

  At first impression, he came across too self-assured to be shy, but then I’d heard that assessment about me before. I could exude polished confidence when needed and had learned to carry it convincingly, but it felt like putting on a Batman suit and becoming someone else.

  “It’s a small group traveling in a comfortable Mercedes van. Would be a nice holiday.” He caught my eyes again, waited for my response.

  When I said nothing—my thoughts were working themselves out—he continued, “You could relax, see more of the Highlands, and Skye, and you wouldn’t have to drive, eh?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not even unpacked.” Puttering around Glenbroch and settling in to my new home appealed to me. But a chance to see Skye and spend time with travelers who had booked a premium tour would be free market research. I’d be crazy not to go. Besides, I’d already decided. “Sure, why not?”