Finding Fraser(63)

The old man jutted his jaw at me contemplatively for a moment. “Lookin’ fer a place, are ye?”

“Uh—yeah. But the library lady told me to speak to Mrs. McGuinty, actually.”

“She did, eh? That Katy is full of well meanin’, now, ain’t she?”

By that point I was starting to think the lady at the library hadn’t been so well meaning after all. “I guess so. If you can just point me in the right direction …”

The farmer paused again, and then barked so loudly that I jumped a full foot backwards. He slapped his knee furiously and I realized he was laughing.

“Well, Missy, yer lookin’ at ‘er. I’m Morag McGuinty. Come inside—we’ll have a cuppa tea and discuss terms, shall we?”

And that’s how I found myself living in a converted cow barn in Nairn, Scotland.





Once Morag McGuinty had peeled off several layers of rain gear, she turned out to be not only more female than her first impression left me with, but also younger. She’d taken over the farm when her father had died and had run it since, all on her own.

“I’ll be fifty next year. Never married,” she chuckled, over a cup of steaming tea and a plate piled high with raisin scones. “Though not for want of suitors, I promise ye.” With the twinkle in her eye, and that strong back, I had little doubt she was telling the truth.

After the hot tea and scones, she threw on her coat again and took me out the back of the farmhouse to a long outbuilding. It was gray stone with a clay roof, neat and trim.

“Built by mah great-great granda,” Morag said, as she swung open the large wooden door. “Been kept up, o’ course. His ghost wouldnae allow me otherwise.”

Inside the barn, the walls had been whitewashed and a long trough ran the length of the room. We walked past several stalls, each smelling redolently of cow and hay. Morag stopped to peer over the top of one gate. Inside, a hornless version of the bull Morag had battled earlier lay in quiet composure, her back tucked against the wall of the stall. Alongside her, in a mound of fresh hay, nestled a tiny, fuzzy version of his mother, his coat a slightly paler shade of red.

“This ’un arrived las’ night,” she said, her voice glowing with pride. “He’ll be a braw ‘un, jes’ like his father.”

She gave a final fond glance to the calf and his mother and then stumped up to a door at the far end of the barn. “Here we are,” she said. “See what y’ think.”

The tiny apartment set up in her cow barn was perfect. The room was only about fifteen feet square, but it had space for the bed tucked under a dormer window and a tiny kitchen counter with a hotplate and even a microwave. Fitted in beside the sink was a half-sized fridge. One door led into the barn, and the other into a compact bathroom.

“I can’t believe you can offer this for ten pounds,” I stammered, feeling guilty for even asking. “Maybe the woman at the library gave me the wrong rate?”

“Nae, nae,” Morag scoffed. “The hand sleeps here in t’ summertime, bu’ I havenae hired anyone for the job, yet. Yer safe here for a month, at leas’.”

“Oh, I just need it for the night,” I assured her. “I have to head south to Edinburgh and find work in the next day or two.”

When she closed the door and stamped off back to the house, though, I took a moment to stretch out on the bed and feel my back crackling with the comfort of it. This bike ride had been so much more satisfactory than the last, and it was nice to feel that no matter what happened, it was unlikely I’d have my things stolen by my roommates.

The cattle mooed their agreement through the wall.





7:30 am, May 2

Nairn, Scotland

Notes to self:

Remember to email Gerald. I feel like he’s got something going on with that nurse...y’all.





I woke from a deep, dreamless sleep to the sound of banging in the barn.

Apart from the distinct smell of animal in the vicinity, I lay there and felt completely, strangely at home. I’d slept as well as I could remember. The rental bike wasn’t due back until the end of the day. And for all its remarkable mod-cons, Morag’s barn did not have a computer, so I couldn’t even go online to be yelled at or frozen out by my sister.

It was the most deliciously freeing feeling.

I rolled over and wrote the reminder to myself regarding Gerald and then headed for the bathroom. While I was busy inside, there was a sharp knock at my door. When I emerged, I took two further steps through the wee flat and stuck my head out into the barn. There was no sign of Mrs. McGuinty, but on the low table beside my door was a tray groaning with eggs and ham and toast and sausages and marmalade.