Page 8

I scrabble for the bag Lachlan dropped and carry my things inside after her, pausing in the entryway to take in my surroundings with mild shock. The space just inside the door spills into a much larger one that seems to be the living room—heavy leather furniture centered around a weathered-looking wood stove that is tucked inside an alcove set in a wall of floor-to-ceiling sandstone that gives me the feeling of going back in time.

“Wow,” I murmur.

Rhona points at my shoes. “You can leave those at the door. I just mopped this morning, and I don’t want you clodding through the house with your muddy bits.”

“Right,” I stammer, already toeing out of my shoes. “Of course.”

“There’s room for you upstairs,” she tells me. “Put your things in the second bedroom from the right, and then come back down here so I can introduce you to everyone.”

“Everyone?”

“Aye,” she says. “They’re playing cards in the sunroom.”

“And they are…?”

“Well, I suppose he would be your…grandpa,” she says, struggling a bit with the last word, as if taking herself by surprise. It’s good to know I’m not the only one feeling awkward. “And then there’s his nephew, Brodie. He’s staying with us for the moment. You’ve already met Lachlan, so I can spare you that, at least.”

“Um, yeah…he lives here?”

“Nothere,” Rhona corrects. “He’s in the guest cottage out back. Just a short walk down the path.”

“Am I related to him too?”

Rhona actuallysnortswith her laugh, but I can’t say what’s so funny. “Certainly not,” she huffs. “He works here. Does the odd job, takes care of the cows, things like—”

“There are cows?”

“Of course there are cows,” she says with bewilderment, as if it’s a ridiculous question. “What do you think we’re raising here?”

“Well, I’ve become well acquainted with the sheep population today.”

“Ah, right. Lachlan did mention Hamish. Well, there aren’t any sheep on the MacKay farm, but we do have a couple of pigs. They’re pets, though, mainly. Finlay would be beside himself if we ate them.”

“Finlay?”

“My husband,” she says. “Your…grandpa.”

I can tell that she’s really going to struggle with that one. Hell, until this moment, I really hadn’t given much thought to the possibility ofmorefamily outside of Rhona and Finlay. Logically, I knew there most likely would be, but I’ve been so wrapped up with getting here, so nervous about this bonkers plan of mine, that I hadn’t actually taken the time to consider it fully.

“We don’t have to do the whole grandma and grandpa thing,” I assure her. “I realize how weird this must be.”

She eyes me thoughtfully, her lips pressing together in a frown, finally turning as if I haven’t said anything as she tosses over her shoulder, “Second bedroom to the right, mind you. Then you can meet them.”

I watch her disappear down a long hallway toward a painted red door that creaks when she opens it, taking that as instruction on where to go next after I’ve dropped off my bags. I eye the narrow staircase in front of me, which is covered in a thin, aged carpet,blowing out a breath as I heave my larger bag up onto my shoulder and steel myself for what will probably be the most awkward family reunion ever. If I can even call it that. There hasn’t exactly been any union to re-, really.

This is what you wanted, I remind myself. You’re here. That’s half the battle.

I repeat that mantra in my head with every step up the old stairs.

There are voices that carry into the house as I approach the door I saw Rhona disappear through before I went to put my bags away—a deep rumble that follows a sharp bark of laughter as commotion ensues. I linger outside the door for a moment as I listen to the muffled voices on the other side, trying to calm the nerves in my belly as I realize I’m most likely going to be subjected to the same cold welcome that Rhona gave me all over again.

I take a deep breath and let it out, reaching for the handle and straightening my spine. I refuse to let these people get to me. I’m going to go in there with my head held high, because I have done nothing wrong.

Right. Yes. That’s what I’m going to do.

I turn the knob and step through the door, immediately hit with a loud shout of, “Gin!”

There is an older man with thinning gray hair looking pleased with himself as he gestures to a row of cards in front of him, practically bouncing in his wicker chair as he taps a finger on the glass top of the table. Another man on the other side who looks closer to my age, if not a little older, frowns at his own cards, his pale complexion turning pink as he runs a hand through his strawberry blond hair.