Finding Fraser(80)

“And I waved back, and pointed to mah headphones. I didn’t know yeh couldn’t see me. I didn’t even realize you were frightened until I had to hoist yeh into the van because yer legs gave out.”

At least I didn’t wet myself, I thought, grateful for small favors.

We drove on in silence until his headlights lit up Morag’s farm sign in the distance. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” I said, at last.

He nodded affably. “I understand. You were frightened. Look, let me make it up to yeh. I’ll keep the bike in the back and we’ll mend it in the shop in the mornin’. And I’ll come back and drive yeh in to the cafe, aye?”

As it was long past midnight by that time, I nodded gratefully. Hamish pulled his van into the yard, and I jumped out to get the gate, but he put a hand on my arm.

“Wait,” he said. “I’ll leave the van out here on the road, and tha’ way it won’t wake the old lady.”

I felt a strange tingling somewhere south of the pit of my stomach. And the wave of tiredness that had washed over me receded instantly. The bit of my brain that was still angry at him for the stunt on the road called out weakly in protest.

“So—ah—you want to come in, then?” I said, my mouth strangely dry.

He grinned. “Well—if you’d care to show me around …”

I was out my door in a flash, the tiny, admonishing part of my brain instantly crushed by something that had nothing to do with logic.

He took his time, putting on the parking brake, and checking the bike was safely stowed in the back before he walked around the front of the van to meet me by the gate.

He took one of my hands in his. “Emma, I’d like to formally apologize for frightenin’ you,” he said.

I looked up at him. “Accepted. And I for yelling.”

“Aye,” he said. “Our first fight, resolved.”

He leaned down and kissed me then, slowly. The tingly feeling took up permanent residence.

This was Not a Bad Thing.

Stepping quietly, our fingers still twined together, we walked through the gate and up the path directly to the barn, skirting the farmhouse. There were still lights burning in the kitchen. As we walked, I realized that Hamish’s lips had been on mine while I leaned against Morag’s kissing gate. I felt that somewhere, someone was ticking an item off a list with my name on it.

We walked through the barn, giving it no more than a cursory look.

“Yep,” he said, as I pointed out the stalls, “Hay, animals, smells like shite—it’s a barn a’right. Where’s your digs, lassie? Is tha’ it?” He pushed me up against the door to my room and kissed me again.

Then he undid the top button of my coat.

I grabbed his lapels and pulled him inside.





The thing about getting naked fast in a late Scottish springtime is—well, it really can’t happen. There are just too many layers. And multiplied by two people who are in somewhat of a hurry, but still mindful of not being quite in the financial position where torn clothing can be easily replaced ….

Let’s just say that in seconds, there were raincoats on the floor at my feet, and shoes, and his shirt and my sweater. Hamish had made his way down at least three buttons of my uniform, when the door behind me flew open.

Morag stood in the doorway, the light from the barn framing her Mackintosh-clad form. Her hair was sticking straight up and she had a streak of blood down one side of her face. “Emma,” she said. “Allison has a problem. I need yeh.”

I clutched the top of my uniform closed as her head turned to take in the pile of clothing at our feet. She looked up at Hamish.

“Ach—nice tae see yeh, young man. We might have use fer a man who’s good wi’ his hands. Ye’d best come, too.” She thrust a flashlight at him, scooped up an armful of dry hay and headed out the door.

“Who’s Allison?” hissed Hamish, as we scrambled back into our coats.

“I’m not sure,” I whispered back. “Maybe one of her cows is stuck in a ditch …?”

But we followed Morag’s bobbing flashlight upward, so there could be no ditch involved. It was hard going with the ground covered in prickly heather bushes, chasing a farmer who was deceptively round. In pitch-blackness.

Perhaps she could move so quickly because she was low-slung.

In any event, we made it, panting, about half way up the big hill behind the barn to the spot where Morag’s flashlight had stopped moving. We found her on her knees, spreading the straw she’d been carrying on the ground. She had propped her flashlight against a heathery shrub and the light shone down on a small sheep, lying on its side and clearly in distress.