Finding Fraser(79)

At least the rain stayed away. I contemplated pushing the bike back to town, but with Hamish away with Geordie, the garage would be locked up tight. I decided to finish walking the route to Morag’s and beg a ride in her truck in the morning to get the tire repaired.

Even at that late hour, the inky sky was tinged purple at the eastern edge, and, with a strange pang in my gut, I thought about leaving. Another month and I would likely have enough money saved for my return ticket. As comfortable as I felt with my life in Nairn, I could hardly bear the thought of returning to all the unknowns back in Chicago. I’d sold everything. I had no apartment to go back to. And what about my life in Nairn? Even just imagining the return home made my stomach ache.

As I pushed my bike along the edge of the road, bits of gravel shot into the ditch with little tings as the rim rubbed against the road. I pulled my hood up against the evening breeze and leaned forward to flip the headlamp on. Its comforting beam shone a clear path down in front of my wounded wheel as I pushed the bike along.

My mind wandered back to Hamish. With his broad shoulders and long, muscular frame, he was everything I’d dreamed about when seeking my Fraser. His hair was fair, not red, it was true, and the baseball hat was not a look I’d choose, but he could be talked out of it eventually. Maybe. He was kind and funny, and I was pretty sure he liked me as much as I liked him.

Pretty sure.

In spite of my best efforts, his erratic work schedule meant we’d not managed enough alone time to prove his interest without a doubt. I’d not seen him in a kilt yet, either, but if he pulled it off half as well as Jack Findlay had, I was ready to have my socks knocked off.

Anyway, if he was content to take things slow, I was happy to oblige. I was only really worried about one thing. He’d made it clear since we’d met—really even from that night in the bar in Edinburgh—that his ultimate goal was to make it to America.

That should be a good thing, right? I had to go home soon, myself.

Didn’t I?

My bicycle rim thudded rhythmically on the road, as I tried to sort out what I was really feeling. I hadn’t come to Scotland planning to stay. But now that I had to seriously think of leaving—well, it had me feeling panicky. The irony of panicked thoughts at a return to the US wasn’t lost on me, either.

A set of headlights washed over me from behind, and I automatically moved off to the side of the road. Luckily it wasn’t too deep a ditch. And I was at least halfway home.

Home.

My stomach clenched. It was the first time I’d thought of my little place at Morag’s as home. Chicago seemed in another lifetime. A whole world away.

I realized then that the headlights hadn’t swished by me, as expected. I turned to look, shading my eyes from the brightness, to see the vehicle had slowed to a walking pace directly behind me.

I lifted my hand to wave. “Hamish? Thank God! I’ve blown a tire. I’m so glad you’re here!”

No answer.

I stopped, and the van slowed to a stop, too. Right in the center of the lane, idling.

My heart started beating a little faster. If not Hamish, who would stop behind me? The road was not a minor one, but it was nearly midnight on a weeknight. I’d seen fewer than a handful of vehicles, mostly heading to local farms.

I stared into the headlights long enough that they left twin spots on my retinas.

Something wasn’t right.

I turned and started pushing the bike again, my whole body tingling with adrenaline. The van didn’t move—just sat behind me, idling. I started to run, still pushing the bike. It didn’t even occur to me to leave it behind.

I’d been running a full ten or fifteen seconds when I heard the van’s engine rev. My heart roared along with it, especially when I heard the gravel spitting out from under the huge tires. In less than a second, the van was beside me.

My legs turned to water. I had time to be grateful that I hadn’t tossed the bike in the ditch, as without it I could never have remained standing when the window rolled down.

Hamish stuck his face out.

“Hey babe,” he said. “Thought ’at might be you. Want a lift?”





It only took a few minutes to sort out. I was furious—beyond furious—that he would frighten me like that, and told him so, in no uncertain terms.

“But babe, I was just listenin’ to a song,” he said, “on mah way to see yeh.”

He pointed to his iPod, sitting on the dash. “Beachboys ‘Surfer Girl’—look, yeh can see for yerself.”

Sure enough, the menu was still rotating across the screen.

“When I spotted yeh in the road, I slowed down righ’ away.”

“I waved to you and called …” I said, still feeling wobbly-legged, even though I was sitting down.