Page 9 of Priceless (Return to Culloden Moor #7)

CHAPTER NINE

T he Blossom and the Bee…

She wasnae meant for him. Jenny was promised to another, a surgeon from Boston whose life was tidy and polished, far from the wilds o’ Scotland. She came home to Inverness for a wee visit and to mind her roots afore headin’ back to her carefully mapped future.

But then Fate—clumsy, glorious Fate—brought Brodie and Jenny together in the most ordinary way.

She stepped out of her father’s shop, her mind on her comin’ weddin’ and the dress she couldnae stand. He stood there on the pavement, stiff as a soldier, his to-do list in hand. She walked square into him.

And he fainted.

Not ‘cause she was bonnie—though she was. But ‘cause there was blood on her shoes. And he couldnae bear the sight o’ it, a weakness that’d cost him his life at the Battle of Culloden long ago.

She knelt down, calm as ye like, and checked his pulse. He woke to her touch. She smiled. And though he was mortified, he’d already etched the curve o’ her cheek, the softness o’ her voice, into his heart.

He told himself it was just a moment, one that’d never come again. She was out o’ his league, out o’ his world. Worse yet, she was betrothed.

But that night, he spoke to his mate. Over a quiet dram, the man grinned and said, “Lad, ye cannae chase a lass like her. Be the blossom, steady and true, and let her come to ye like a bee to nectar.” Brodie chuckled, but the words stuck, gave him hope.

The next day, he went back to the shop. And there she was, smilin’ at him, teasin’ him gently about his faintin’ spell. In that wee moment, his mate’s advice rang in his ears— be the blossom —and he found the nerve to ask her to his birthday feast.

She said aye.

She didnae ask why. She didnae need to.

Jenny wore a simple navy dress the night he fetched her. He’d swapped his kilt for dark trousers, tryin’—and failin’—to look modern for her. He kissed her hand like a man from another time, and she laughed softly but didnae pull away.

They rode through the quiet lanes, not sayin’ much. She hummed under her breath, and he thought she sounded like a wee bee—soft, content, curious.

Be the blossom, and let the bee come to ye.

He held his tongue. He just listened.

When they reached the ranch where the party was held, the gates opened to a world she hadnae expected. A place of the old Highland warmth, filled with folk who treated her like she belonged.

And for one evenin’, she did.

They sang for his birthday. They shared food and laughter.

They learned more about each other. She sat by him near the fire, wrapped in a tartan shawl someone handed her, but it was his gaze that warmed her.

They had no ken that, as they sat in the glow of the flames, their souls began netting themselves together in knots that wouldnae be undone…

When it was time to go, he was that Highlander of old once again and swept her off her feet to place her inside the truck. But she didn’t think him boorish. Instead, she thought it a romantic consideration her fiancé could never fathom.

He drove her home slow, hopin’ the night would never end. At her door, her brother glowered from the window. Brodie kissed her anyway. Soft and sweet.

She didnae pull away.

It should’ve ended there.

But the next mornin’, Fate struck again—this time cruelly.

Brodie was out on the water with mates, helpin’ with a catch, when the boat rocked. A wave slammed him into a metal mast. He went down hard, chest crushed, lungs fillin’ with air he couldnae release.

And Jenny was there.

She’d been on her da’s boat nearby and saw it all.

She leapt across the gap, her surgeon’s bag in hand, and saved him with her own two hands.

She pressed a makeshift tube into his chest so he could breathe.

And she stayed with him all the way to the hospital, her voice the last thing he heard afore darkness took him.

When he woke, she was at his bedside.

She didnae leave. Not for a day. Not for a week. Not even when her fiancé flew across the ocean to fetch her home.

They tried to deny it.

Brodie told Jenny she belonged to another. She told herself it was only pity keepin’ her there. But denials couldnae erase the truth.

She confessed first. She said she couldnae marry a man who hated half o’ who she was. That Scotland was in her blood, and if someone couldnae love all o’ her, they didnae deserve even a piece.

Brodie tried to push her away. Not ‘cause he didnae love her—but ‘cause he loved her too much. He feared for her, feared she’d not believe the truth o’ his past. But he owed it to himself to try.

While she sat at his bedside, in the quiet, he told her everythin’—how he’d died at Culloden, lingered as a ghost for centuries, and was brought back by a wee witch’s power.

He expected her to laugh or leave, but she only smiled, her eyes soft.

“If you love me, I’m not afraid o’ anythin’,” she said.

Her fiancé came to the hospital one last time, demandin’ she return home. She told him no. Calmly. Clearly. For once, she didnae soften her words.

The man lost his temper.

Brodie—still weak, still in pain—hauled himself from the bed to stand between them. He told the American to leave. Told the man he would never touch his Jenny again. And though he was half-drugged and bleedin’, the look in Brodie’s eyes was enough.

The fiancé walked away.

Jenny stayed.

In the days that followed, they didnae speak o’ the future. They didnae need to. She cared for him as he healed. He held her hand when the nights were quiet. She kissed him when no one was watchin’.

There was no rush. No need to define what they were or what they’d become.

She’d already chosen.

And he… he’d loved her long afore he dared to hope.

One quiet evenin’, as she hummed by his bedside, her voice soft as a bee’s buzz, he touched her cheek and whispered, “Ye’re my bee, lass, and I’m your blossom, bloomin’ only for ye.” She laughed, her fingers twinin’ with his, their love a quiet miracle that’d grown where neither expected it.

______

So you see, lass, the most romantic Celtic story I ken isnae about grand gestures or perfect heroes. It’s about a man who thought he had nothin’ to offer, and a woman who saw everythin’ in him anyway. It’s about two lives collidin’ by chance—and choosin’, again and again, to stay.

It’s about love that comes quietly, like a soft hum under your breath, until it fills every corner o’ your soul.

I sat staring at that last line for a long time. I’m sure Jocko’s intention was to leave me with a warm feeling in my chest, but instead, there was only heaviness.

No one I knew would ever call my story with Paul particularly romantic. High school sweethearts? Sure, it sounds sweet enough on paper. But strip away the teenage hormones, and there wasn’t much passion to it. We got married because we were…the best fit.

Out of every guy in our school, I’d pick Paul every single time. Every dance, every date, every rodeo, movie, or senior event through graduation season—I couldn’t imagine anyone else by my side.

Neither of us wanted to leave for college out of state, so we just stayed together. When it came time for the next step, we slipped into it without a hitch. We walked into the church separately, but I came out holding Paul’s hand, ready to hold it for the rest of my life.

He started working for his dad at the old man’s professional laundry service.

I kept my job at Spiro’s, the local farm.

The most exciting thing that ever took Paul out of town was a bike race.

It was raspberry season, a terrible time to leave Spiro’s short-handed, so I missed my one shot to travel out of state.

Then that crash happened. A broken leg was all it took to make bike racing a thing of the past for Paul.

Then Peaches came along—our daughter, the cherry on top of our perfect-ice-cream-sundae-lives.

We’d named her Penny, after her grandmother, but Peaches stuck.

She brought so much joy that I would’ve gladly had more kids despite that scare in the delivery room.

A normal delivery turned dangerous, and Paul had to stand by while I was whisked into an operating room.

An unplanned c-section solved the problem, but it had been far too traumatic for Paul to stomach.

One day, he’d come through the door a little early. He’d taken half a day off to go to a doctor’s appointment. “Got snipped.” Said he just couldn’t risk losing me.

What he hadn’t been willing to risk was having a conversation about it. What he hadn’t been willing to stomach was another few hours of worry, no matter what priceless child we might get out of it.

I remember clutching Peaches against my chest, suddenly afraid that he might find a way to get rid of her, too. Heaven forbid he should have to worry about her getting sick, or hurt, or anything at all that might make him…emotional.

He resented anything that made him look weak. I’d known him, and loved him, for a decade, but I hadn’t realized it until then.

I was furious and thought of the perfect response. I told him, “That’s okay. My next husband will want more kids.”

He sat on a kitchen chair with his mouth hanging open, holding an ice pack between his legs, while I threw some clothes in a duffle and repacked the diaper bag. He hadn’t even looked at Peaches when I said I was taking her to my mom’s for a while. Never reached for her.

“You’d leave me like this? I can hardly walk!”

I’d pointed to his crotch. “From now on, I guess you should stay away from doctors. Just in case. Or better yet, have the whole kit removed. Since, you know, you won’t be needing it anymore.”

I stayed away for two days. When I came home again, we never talked about it. We never fought again. If he was angry with me, he never let on. And when I was pissed at him, I kept it to myself, let it simmer and boil, but he never heard a word.

We focused on Peaches. Acted like a normal couple. When anyone asked if we were having more kids, Paul would jump to answer. “There were complications. We won’t be having any more.” And eventually, people stopped asking.

Complications. He thought he was doing me a favor, steering everyone’s pity toward me. Too bad their pity was for the wrong thing.

A marriage without fighting almost sounded romantic. But there was nothing romantic about it. Not fighting wasn’t a sign that we were in tune with each other. Not fighting, for us, meant suppressed emotion on my part, escape from emotion on his.

There were never any conversations about how Paul felt about our new relationship. I never asked if he felt bad or if he just didn’t feel anything at all. What did it matter?

I do remember we stopped holding hands…

And sitting there, on that plane, I had an image in my mind of a couple I was sure would be holding hands, even if they weren’t real—Brodie and Jenny.

Of course, witches didn’t bring ghosts back to life for their amusement. Witches weren’t real, anyway. But if they were, and if that story had been true, I figured Brodie and Jenny reveled in every drop of emotion they could get their hands on.

I snorted quietly when a wildly crazy thought hit me, securing my membership in the Nutcase Club...

Maybe there was another Scottish ghost out there…waiting for someone like me.