Hidden from the world...

A reclusive artist in the Scottish Highlands, Rhiannon MacDowall is an enigma. Few people know about her carefully structured life, or why she hides within the protection of her family’s estate. Until an errant golf ball changes everything...

Colin Walker was once Rhiannon’s best friend. Now he’s a pro golfer on the verge of ruin who’s returned to Scotland on family business. But as much as Rhiannon tries to keep Colin out, their connection remains—and turns into something both exhilarating and terrifying. Something that threatens the foundations of Rhiannon’s safe little world.

“You showed up on the estate, and now everything is changing...”

“Rhiannon,” Colin said, his voice husky, as he touched the back of his knuckles to her cheek.

She closed her eyes, not moving, letting his hand rest there.

“I’m glad I came back,” he said.

“I am, too,” she whispered.

Sighing deeply, he drew her to him.

She hadn’t had such physical contact with another human—ever. The intimacy of it made her freeze. But then, gradually, she let herself relax her body against his. His hands rested lightly on her back, as if letting her know that she was safe and free and not constrained by his touch.

She pressed her cheek against his, warm and scratchy...and male.

Dear Reader,

This is Rhiannon MacDowall’s story. She was first introduced as the hero’s sister in The Sweetest Hours and also played a supporting role in Isabel Sage’s story, Scotland for Christmas.

Rhiannon is a reclusive landscape painter, her life shaped by a traumatic kidnapping when she was a child. Now considering herself “the perfect agoraphobic,” she is resigned to the fact she will never leave her family’s estate in Scotland because of her fear, and so has set up her life to accommodate her limitations.

When Texan pro golfer Colin Walker, her best friend from childhood, returns to visit his grandparent’s cottage on the MacDowall estate, Rhiannon hopes that her life may change, and she can picture herself having a “normal” life with a man she loves. Colin has personal and professional battles of his own to overcome, and Rhiannon’s love helps him become the man he desires to be.

I hope you enjoy reading about Rhiannon’s journey as she emerges from self-imposed isolation and discovers new possibilities of love, career and family with Colin.

All the best,

Cathryn Parry

Secret Garden

Cathryn Parry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CATHRYN PARRY loves to travel—especially to Scotland!—at any time of year that she can manage. At all other times she lives in New England with her husband and her neighbor’s cat, Otis. Cathryn is an active member of Romance Writers of America and enjoys presenting inspirational workshops to writers. Her Mills & Boon Superromance novels have received such honors as a Booksellers’ Best Award, HOLT Medallion Awards of Merit and several readers’ contest nominations. Please see her website at CathrynParry.com for information about upcoming releases or to sign up for her author newsletter.

To my mom, Mary Parry.

Your support for my writing has meant

a lot to me, and I am forever grateful.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

Twenty-two Years Ago MacDowall Castle in the Scottish Highlands

THE LAST PERSON Rhiannon MacDowall expected to see when she looked out the window on New Year’s Eve was her friend Colin Walker, standing on her family’s castle drawbridge.

Rhiannon felt a surge of excitement. Colin was her best friend, and usually she only saw him in August. Colin was American, and he came to visit his grandparents during his summer vacation. He and his parents stayed at the guard’s cottage on the edge of her family’s estate for the whole month.

She skipped over to him. Colin was eight, like her, and the two of them were inseparable when he visited.

“You’re here!” she said, opening the heavy door and letting the cold winter air surround them both.

“I’m not supposed to be,” Colin answered, not moving from the threshold.

“Why not?” She peered closer at him.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, pushing his hair out of his face. Colin had straight blond hair and his mum cut it so it was perfect all around. Rhiannon thought it was beautiful; far more beautiful than her brown, limp hair. Colin had light blue eyes, too. Her mum said it was a shame that all that beauty was wasted on a boy.

She waited patiently for him to tell her why he’d come. Finally, she decided to help him along.

“When did you arrive in Scotland?” she asked.

“This morning.” He stared at his shoes, frowning. He seemed so sad, and Rhiannon had never seen him like this before. She’d never seen Colin in a bad mood, not in all the time they’d spent together, and Colin had been visiting since they were both babies.

But now his hands were in his pockets. He wasn’t speaking. And Colin usually talked even more than she did. “Silver-tongued,” his mother called him. “A chattering magpie,” her dad called her. So straightaway, she knew something was wrong. Sometimes Rhiannon felt as though she could read people’s minds—or at least, guess at what bothered them more than most people could—and she’d said so to her brother, Malcolm, once. He said she should keep that to herself. So she did.

“May I stay with you for a while?” he asked, finally looking up at her.

“Of course!” She opened the door wider. They never stood on ceremony between them. Colin had let himself in nearly every day in the summer. They’d been in charge of watering and haying the ponies, so he came over very early in the morning. Sometimes he went upstairs to her room and woke her up, which didn’t bother her because she was used to having an older brother around. Boys didn’t always think, as her mum would say.

“Will you come to our party tonight?” she asked Colin, leading him inside. She twirled around in her red dress, which was special, because it was New Year’s Eve. Hogmanay, they called it in Scotland.

Colin just shrugged, still looking sad.

“We’re all going first-footing afterward,” Rhiannon said. “And they’re letting me stay up late and sing ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ We’ve been practicing the verses all day.”

Colin gazed at the Christmas decorations still on the walls, his expression relaxing a bit. She remembered how much he loved her family’s castle. Colin lived in Texas, which she thought was fascinating. She followed his gaze to the empty spot over the fireplace.

“Do you want to see our swords?” she asked him. “We took them down so Dad could clean them.”

“You took all the swords down?” he asked. “In the whole castle?”

“No, we’re just cleaning those two fancy ones with the jewels in the blade.”

Still, Colin was impressed. “Those are my favorites.”

“Mine, too.” She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet. “Come upstairs in the library and see them. I think the bigger sword might be like the one Robert the Bruce used.”

Colin’s head tilted in interest. The two of them had spent so much time this summer running across the moors and through the woods, Rhiannon pretending to be Robert the Bruce and Colin playing Davy Crockett.

She ran up the wide staircase, knowing that Colin would follow her close behind.

But just as they reached the first landing, the castle door below them swung open. The winter cold came rushing into the great hall again. “Yoo-hoo! Is my son here?” called a high-pitched, female voice.

Colin’s mum, Daisie Lee Walker. She was tall, with wavy blond hair. Daisie Lee always wore cowboy boots—some red, some beige, some with sparkly decorations—and once Rhiannon had curiously asked her why she did that. Daisie Lee had replied that she’d been born in Texas on a working ranch and that gave her the right. Rhiannon liked her. “A force of nature,” Rhiannon’s mum called her. “Outspoken,” Colin’s grandmother said. Colin didn’t say much about her either way. But when he visited, he seemed to spend most of his time with Rhiannon and her family. Once, he’d told Rhiannon that he liked that her parents were so calm.

But tonight, Colin grabbed Rhiannon’s hand and quickly pulled her down into a crouching position, hiding from Daisie Lee. With the way the big staircase curved, there was a small box on the landing where they were hidden from view, but they could watch everything the adults did in the great hall below.

Kneeling beside him, Rhiannon tucked her dress under her knees. Colin pressed his forehead against the staircase barrier, focusing on his mother.

Something was wrong.

Rhiannon’s mum hurried from the kitchen to greet Daisie Lee. Rhiannon could see them both clearly, too, from the tiny carved-out slits in the lattice wood. Her mum was dressed for New Year’s Eve, and she looked beautiful. She wore a long white dress that was decorated with bits of gold lace. She was so pretty and it made Rhiannon hope she could be like her, too, one day.

“Why don’t you come in?” Rhiannon’s mum said to Daisie Lee. “You’re welcome to join the party tonight.”

Rhiannon whispered in Colin’s ear, “I hope your mother says yes.” In the living room, her older brother, Malcolm, was sitting on the bench with their dad, and they were playing “Auld Lang Syne” on the piano, practicing the words. Malcolm always got to stay up late and sing, but this was her first time. “Then you can stay up late with me, Colin.”

But Colin only shook his mop-top head. She peered closer at him. Beneath his shaggy bangs, his eyes seemed wet. His mouth was scrunched. She felt sad because she only really knew Colin as somebody who laughed and played jokes and had fun. Colin didn’t like to feel sad.

Rhiannon’s mum ushered Daisie Lee farther into the castle, directly below them. Colin stayed down when his mum glanced in their direction, not knowing that they were in their clever hiding spot. Both Rhiannon and Colin squinted through the scrollwork in the old, dark wood.

“I’m not here for the party, I’m here to fetch Colin.” Daisie Lee sounded angry. “Have you seen him? I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find him.”

“No, we haven’t seen him.” Rhiannon’s mum took Daisie Lee’s hands in hers and peered closer. “How are you? Are you visiting for the holiday?”

Rhiannon glanced at Colin. He seemed awful eager to hear what his mum would say.

“No, we’re not visiting. We just got here, and we’re flying back tomorrow,” Daisie Lee said.

“That’s a short trip,” Rhiannon’s mum remarked kindly.

“We came because I caught him,” Daisie Lee said. “Did you know my husband is seeing someone?” she demanded. “He’s been calling her for months now. I think he met her in August. At that pub he always goes to.” She spit out the word pub.

“Oh, dear,” Mum said quietly.

“He had the nerve to fly back here over Christmas. He had the excuse that Jessie was ill. Ill, my foot. His mother is healthier than I am. She should be—she has no stress. Her son is my problem, not hers.”

“I’m sorry,” Rhiannon’s mum said mildly. “I haven’t seen Dougie here at all, Daisie Lee, if that helps you.”

“Well, he came here to see her, and I knew it. I knew it in my bones. So I packed up Colin and flew his son over to see him. We caught him with her today, just now. That son of a...”

Rhiannon glanced at Colin. He’d gone pale. His hands were trembling against the barrier.

“He doesn’t care about his own son,” Daisie Lee said, her voice rising. “He never has, really.”

Colin went rigid beside her. Rhiannon could barely breathe.

“Oh, Daisie Lee, I’m sure that’s not true,” Rhiannon’s mum murmured.

“He said it to his face,” Daisie Lee hissed. “I was there.”

Colin’s neck and shoulders seemed to droop.

“Colin’s not enough for him,” Daisie Lee was saying, “and I told him so, and he agreed as much. He agreed, and now he’s leaving us. How am I going to raise a son alone?”

Whatever Rhiannon’s mum said in return, it was muffled as she led Daisie Lee off, crying now, into the family kitchen.

Rhiannon glanced at Colin, but he just sat there, his forehead against the wooden railing, and not saying anything.

Rhiannon couldn’t imagine how she would feel if her mum had said those things about her and her dad. It made her stomach hurt to think about it. It was too scary.

Hesitantly, she placed her forehead on the latticework beside Colin’s.

“I think my dad is leaving us for good,” Colin mumbled.

Her stomach churned with the thought. She didn’t know what she would do in his place. “What will happen to you, Colin?”

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “My mom said we’re moving to my grandmother’s ranch. My other grandmother,” he clarified. “The one in Texas.”

“You really will be a cowboy,” she remarked. Everybody called him a cowboy anyway, because of living in Texas and his mum’s cowboy boots. Now it would be true.

Colin hung his head lower. Rhiannon was sure that he would rather everything went back to the way it used to be. It was what Rhiannon would have wanted.

She peered through the latticework, but her mum and Daisie Lee hadn’t come back.

She finally dared to ask, “Where will your dad live?”

“I don’t know.” Colin’s voice was a whisper.

Rhiannon thought about that. Colin’s dad had been part of their summer world at the castle for as long as she could remember. He was a funny man. Round-faced and quiet, he’d always been with Daisie Lee and Colin—a unit, even if they did shout and make rows. Daisie Lee, Dougie and Colin. That was their family. They stayed at the cottage on the edge of Rhiannon’s family’s property. Jamie and Jessie were Colin’s grandparents—Dougie Walker’s parents—and they worked for Rhiannon’s family. They always had.

It fit together like a puzzle with the pieces all there, and with Colin’s dad gone, it just wouldn’t feel right anymore. Nothing would be the same again.

“Maybe he’ll move over here and live with Jamie and Jessie in the cottage,” she mused.

Colin didn’t answer.

And then a terrible thought occurred to Rhiannon. “You’ll come back, won’t you?” she asked, horrified at the thought of that changing.

Colin didn’t answer again. He covered his eyes with the heels of his hands.

A cry tore out of her. She didn’t know where it came from. Rhiannon just remembered their happy times, coming at her in snippets of memory, all at once.

Running over the grounds with Colin. Helping his dad repair a car engine. An outing at Loch Ness, she and Colin searching for Nessie with her dad’s binoculars. Takeaway suppers from the local pizza shop. Swimming at the beaches near Aberdeen. Golfing with Jessie at the public course at Kildrammond.

What if it never happened again? What if they couldn’t be friends anymore?

She put her arms around Colin and laid her cheek on the back of his shoulder. His skin was warm and he smelled the way he always did. She squeezed him tighter, wanting him to stay with her. “I don’t want you to go,” she whispered.

He stiffened at first. She remembered that he was a boy and she was a girl, and even though they were best of mates, they should never touch like this.

She pulled back. “Sorry,” she said. “But I wish it didn’t have to change. I wish nothing ever changed. It’s perfect as it is. I can’t bear it to be any different.”

“Me, too.” He gave her a meaningful look. She and Colin thought so much alike, sometimes she felt they were almost the same person.

“You’re my best friend, Colin.”

He smiled at her. The first smile she’d seen from him today. At that moment, her brother and her dad chose to sing aloud with the music they’d only been playing on the piano until now:

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And auld lang syne!

The words were sad, especially in her dad’s deep singing voice. Rhiannon couldn’t help sighing. She glanced at Colin and saw that he was listening, too.

“That’s what we’ll sing together at midnight,” she whispered.

“We sing it at home, too,” Colin answered.

They both grew quiet, listening to her dad and Malcolm sing. So far away from them that the words were somewhat muffled.

Rhiannon joined in with them, singing the words clearly. Some people didn’t know all the words to the song; they just mumbled on the harder parts. But Rhiannon’s dad had taught her all of it. She knew what that song meant, every phrase.

Colin took her hand. He held it in his, and smiling gently at her, he whispered the words to the song, too. But his voice didn’t sound like hers. His accent was American.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We’ll take a cup of kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

This was the ending chorus, the part when they would hold hands and all rush into a big circle. It was brilliant fun. But instead of smiling or acting silly about it, Colin got quiet.

She gazed at him. Now was also the time when everybody was supposed to kiss. She’d never stayed up so late before to get any kisses at midnight.

Colin seemed to read her mind, too. He turned to her and kissed her then, straight on the lips. Fast and firm. With conviction, as her dad would say.

Her heart jumped a little, and she looked into his light blue eyes.

“I’ll never forget you, Rhiannon,” he said fiercely.

Her heart seemed ready to burst. August was much too far away.

“If I write to you, will you write back?” she asked him softly. Suddenly, she felt shy with him.

His face flushing again, he nodded. “I will.”

“If you see Colin, tell him I need him, now.” Below them, Daisie Lee had reappeared and was saying her goodbyes to Rhiannon’s mum. Daisie Lee was sniffling and she looked terribly upset. Rhiannon’s mum was doing her best to comfort her, but...

Colin stood. “I have to go now.” But his gaze was still on Rhiannon.

“Do you promise to write me back?” she whispered.

“Right away, as soon as I get your letter.”

Then he took her hand and squeezed it. He ran down the staircase toward his mother without looking back.

“Colin! Where have you been?” Daisie Lee wailed.

“Looking at swords up in Rhiannon’s room,” he lied neatly. “Her dad has a massive collection.” He gave Daisie Lee a huge grin as if nothing at all was wrong, as if he wasn’t upset about his father, as if he hadn’t just kissed Rhiannon.

Rhiannon touched her lips.

But Daisie Lee smiled at him, happier now, because who wouldn’t smile when they were with Colin? He was special. There would never be anybody else like him.

Rhiannon stood so that she wouldn’t be hidden anymore and watched Colin leave, ushered through the door by her mum.

Colin turned back to Rhiannon as he crossed the threshold, and he gave her a secret smile.

A lump formed in her throat but she forced herself to smile, doing for him what he had just done for his mother. She would not show pain or fear. She lifted her hand in a wave. I will write to you, she mouthed to him.

* * *

BUT RHIANNON NEVER did write. Because shortly after that New Year’s Eve, her life changed, too.

Rhiannon lay in a hospital bed, her whole world turned upside down. She hated seeing people, because all they did was ask her questions and make her feel even more frightened. And even though she thought about Colin all the time, she wouldn’t want him to see her like this.

It wasn’t until weeks later that she was finally allowed to return to her castle. And once she was there, she never wanted to leave again. She never left the grounds of the estate, and she rarely saw visitors.

Staying in her own special world made her feel safe and in control. Everybody in Scotland knew that. She supposed Colin knew, too, and she took comfort from the fact that he would understand.

For years afterward, Rhiannon believed that Colin left her alone precisely because he understood her so well.

And she was grateful.

CHAPTER TWO

Present Day Central Texas

COLIN WALKER HAD a motto in life: take nothing seriously and keep everything light.

On a lazy summer’s Monday afternoon, he was doing just that—strolling the fairways at Sunny Times Golf Academy in Winwood Springs, Texas, sizing up the lay on a chip shot and aiming to enjoy the day with his caddie and best friend, Mack. That was when he became aware of Mack’s cell phone buzzing.

He turned toward Mack, who stood beside Colin’s golf bag. Mack stared at the screen of his phone, a concerned look on his face.

Colin was a tour pro. In his and Mack’s world, there was protocol. A caddie who wasn’t paying attention to the game was not to be tolerated. But Colin just shrugged. He figured that Mack was a grown-up, and if something needed his attention, then Colin wasn’t going to get upset.

Instead, he ambled over and pulled a nine iron from his bag. Normally, this was Mack’s job, but Mack was busy with his text message. A party of four was on the course behind them, so Colin needed to keep playing and stay with the flow of the game.

He approached the ball, knelt and squinted at it where it lay in the rough beside a green that sloped downward in a steep, thirty-degree pitch to the cup, marked with a red flag.

The flag hung limply, no movement, no breeze. Colin wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. It was hot, a humid June afternoon, and it might have been Colin’s imagination, but waves of steam seemed to be coming off the fairway.

Straightening, he strolled back to Mack. “What do you think of the lie?” Colin asked, nodding toward the gopher hole his ball was nestled against. “Nine iron, or should I use a wedge?”

“Seven,” Mack said absently, and Colin had to laugh, because a seven iron was absurd. But his caddie didn’t even smile, busily tapping out a text message, and not paying attention to the game at all.

“And people wonder why I’ve slipped to one hundred in the rankings,” Colin said with a laugh.

“One hundred twenty-four,” Mack muttered.

Colin turned. “Seriously?”

“It was on the Golf Channel this morning.”

Colin took off his glove and stretched his hand, then put the glove back on. He was trying not to think about that. To keep it light.

Mack gave him a look. Mack had risen from the college world to the minors tour to the big show—the pro tour—with Colin, and Mack knew exactly what was at stake. If Colin slipped below number 125 on the “money list,” then he would lose his tour card. If he lost his tour card, he lost his ability to play in the tournaments with the big purses and the big attention.

The tour card was the golden ticket. People dreamed of it, prayed for it, gave up everything for it. Every golfer remembered how he felt the day he’d earned it.

A sick feeling settled in Colin’s gut, as if things were spinning out of control. He knew that if he wasn’t careful, then he was somehow going to be abandoned again. Dropped, as if he was nothing. And then everything would change for the worse.

Colin looked away from Mack, toward the red flag flying over the eighteenth hole, trying to clear his head.

“We still have the New York Cup ahead of us,” Mack said quietly. “Everything will come together. That tournament is good luck for you. Remember last year?”

“Yep,” Colin said tightly. He’d kept it light and they’d come in second place. It had been his best showing and had confirmed that he was right not to take anything too seriously. Being laid-back about life was how he’d ended up on the pro tour in the first place.

He glanced at Mack, who had turned back to his cell phone. “What are you texting about, anyway?” Colin asked, leaning toward the screen. “Did you meet a girl last night or something?”

“Nope.” Mack shoved his phone in his pocket. He seemed cagey, giving a smile that Colin knew was fake. Colin had roomed with him his first two years at the university, and of all his friends on the golf team, Mack was the only one that Colin had introduced to Daisie Lee. Daisie Lee adored Mack like a second son. “Colin-clone,” she called him. Maybe he was. Mack didn’t take anything too seriously, either.

“Go take your shot,” Mack ribbed him.

“I will when I’m ready.”

“It’s an easy chip shot. You do those in your sleep.”

“Now you’re really making me worry. What’s on your damn phone?” Playfully, Colin reached for it, but Mack swatted his hand away.

“Okay, fine.” Mack sighed, taking off his cap and wiping his brow. “I was going to tell you after you finished the hole, but if you’ve got to know now and ruin your game, great— It was Leonard, letting you know he’s here for a noon meeting.”

Leonard was Colin’s accountant and business manager. “What’s so bad about that?” Colin asked. Leonard’s management company ran Colin’s website, made his travel arrangements, took care of all the stuff that Colin didn’t enjoy doing. Leonard had even snagged Colin a few endorsements—nothing big, one with a sportswear company that was little more than a struggling start-up, and another with a ball company that, admittedly, spread money around to pretty much every tour pro, just to flood the tour as much as possible with their brand of golf balls. But every dollar counted.

“It’s nothing,” Mack said. “It’s just business.”

Colin hoped their business was still okay. He’d become used to the lifestyle—a far better living than they’d had on the minors tour. That first year in the pro tour, Colin had made close to a million dollars, and he’d bought Daisie Lee a house and a new car. He’d spread the wealth to Mack, too. Stepped up their accommodations on tour.

The thought of losing that made his guts ache.

He just...needed to keep this gig going. Keep the wolf from the door. Do what made everybody happy.

Colin gripped his nine iron and headed toward the ball.

Truth was, his game had been slipping lately. There had been magic in Colin’s game once. Time was he’d pulled off amazing feats, with seemingly little effort. Every so often he still had glimmers of that, and if he just focused hard enough, maybe he could find it again in time for the next tournament. Make the final cut, and thus earn a slice of the purse money, which would automatically boost his ranking again.

Mack crossed his arms and watched silently.

Don’t think. Colin gave the ball his usual address, whistled under his breath, swung...

And completely undershot it.

He stood there, staring at the dead ball for a while. He honestly didn’t know how to begin to fix this.

He turned to Mack. All the greats had caddies who helped them with this sort of thing. Made coaching comments, or had swing coaches on call. “Any tips?”

“Seriously?” Mack laughed. “You hate tips.”

Yeah, well, that was true, too. Colin typically avoided overanalyzing things. He’d always thought that was the secret to his success, and his college golf coach had been fine with it. Mostly, Colin was allergic to critical people who weren’t helpful. “Anything constructive?”

Mack ran a hand through his hair. “How about I videotape you, and then you take a look at it yourself?”

Colin paused. He hadn’t done much of that lately. When he was young, he’d been videotaped a lot. “Sure. Let’s do it.”

“Tomorrow,” Mack said.

“Right.”

Colin took his putter from Mack and prepared to finish up the hole. Two putts later, he sank the ball in the cup, for a bogie on the eighteenth and final hole. Overall, he was three shots under par, which was great for an amateur golfer, but not so impressive for a tour pro.

Pensive, Mack took out his pencil and filled out Colin’s scorecard.

“I’ve got two more weeks to prepare for the New York Cup,” Colin said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yep,” Mack agreed. But he didn’t meet Colin’s eye. He was lying, and Colin knew it.

Not feeling like himself, Colin headed toward the Nineteenth Hole, Winwood’s combination pro shop and bar-and-grill. Mack followed with the golf bag slung over his shoulder. But a few yards from the gravel path that led from the golf cart rental stand, a foursome of ladies Colin knew from the club—Doris was the blonde ringleader—stopped their cart and hurried over to hug Colin.

He didn’t show the ladies a hint of his worried mood. Instead, he gave them each a smile, a kiss on the cheek, a few “shooting-the-breeze” good words. Because at the end of the day, Doris and her friends were Colin’s people, and he appreciated their support. He was supposed to be here on the golf course at Winwood. He never had a doubt about that in his mind.

Sometimes, though, his motto failed him, and he had a fear that he had some kind of defect. That he would waste whatever gift or talent he’d been given.

“Yo, Walker!”

On the steps to the clubhouse stood Doc Masters, one of the stars of the pro tour, ranked number five. The muscular bald guy had skin on his neck so burned by the sun that it was textured like an alligator’s. As always, he was surrounded by his entourage.

Cocking a hand on his hip, he said to Colin, “I saw you on the roster for the New York Cup.”

Colin turned slowly, the grin still on his face. Sensing trouble because they knew Doc, Doris led her friends to their tee time.

“Yes,” Colin said to Doc. It seemed as if everybody was waiting to see if Colin could pull it off again. Including him. “I’ll be there.”

“Good,” Doc said. “My wife’s sister is coming in to town, and she’s a fan of yours. She wants to hang with Colin’s Crew.”

Colin’s Crew. The merry band of fun-loving, young-at-heart supporters who followed Colin along the fairways in his tournaments as he played each successive hole. Golf being mostly a staid sport, spectators tended to stay put at a hole, watching all the golfers as they played through. But not Colin’s Crew. Colin had never encouraged it; it had just sort of happened back in the early days.

Colin made it a point to sign everybody’s autographs. Shake everybody’s hands. High-five the little kids, especially. He wanted to make everybody feel good about the game of golf. Maybe it tripped up his focus a bit, but that wasn’t so bad. All told, he was pretty damn lucky in his life, and he knew it.

Colin shrugged. Spending time with Doc and his sister-in-law wouldn’t be a hardship. “Sure. We’ll meet up for drinks afterward.”

“You can hang out with her on Sunday.”

Colin stared at Doc. Outwardly, there was no malice in his statement. It hadn’t even occurred to Doc that in assuming Colin wouldn’t make the final cut—that he would be eliminated before the final day of the tournament—he was insulting Colin.

Doc walked off. Usually, Colin would have laughed it off. But some old spark of commitment, of competitive spirit seemed to rebel. “Sure,” he called after Doc. “When the network guys interview me with the trophy, I’ll be sure to bring her up to the press box with me.”

Doc paused. Then he turned and let out a guffaw. “That’s a good one.” He rubbed his chin. “Hey, do you need a ride on my private jet? Anytime, just give me a call.”

“We will,” Mack interjected. Colin didn’t blame him. Traveling by private jet was better than flying commercial.

“Call me,” Doc said to Colin. “We’ll keep in touch.”

Colin leaned back and gave him the good ol’ boy smile he’d learned after they first moved to this part of Texas when he was a kid. Acting as if nothing riled him. As if he was just an easygoing guy. No drama, no pain.

“That guy is an ass,” Mack said, once Doc was well out of earshot. “But he’s an ass with a private plane.”

“Yep,” Colin agreed. He headed into the clubhouse and then directly toward the conference room where he habitually met with Leonard. “But I’m not going to waste my time worrying about him.”

Mack grabbed Colin’s arm, stopping him. “Actually, Colin, now that we’re finished with the round, I, uh, need to tell you something.”

“Is this what the texting was all about?”

“Well...yeah.”

“See?” Colin said, pointing his finger at Mack. “I know you.”

“Can we just step over here?” Mack asked, nodding to a table in the far corner of the snack bar.

“Why? Is Golf Digest here to grill me? Am I being waylaid?”

“No, it’s not Golf Digest.” Mack laughed nervously. “Your mom’s here. Daisie Lee is upstairs in the conference room with Leonard.”

“What?”

“She needs to tell you something important, and she wants to do it in person,” Mack said quickly. “She texted me from Leonard’s phone—they were already in the conference room. I had nothing to do with that.”

“Oh, great. She saw the money list.” In his opinion, Daisie Lee spent entirely too much time following his life. Yeah, she was his mother. He loved her, and he’d always worry about her, too, but barging in on his business meetings was too much. “Thanks for warning me.”

“There’s more.” Mack blew out a breath.

“She’s upset, isn’t she?”

Mack gave him a look. Great. Now he would have to calm her down. Get her to smile. Make her laugh.

That was his job.

Colin glanced around them. They were in the middle of the crowded snack bar at lunchtime. People in golf shoes and polo shirts walked past carrying trays. Golf school was in session over on the far driving range, evidently.

He glanced toward the stairs. “You said she’s up in the conference room?”

“She is. But, Colin—”

“I’m on it,” Colin interrupted, and headed up the stairs to the private second-floor room that management let him use for his meetings. He was just about to open the door and reassure his mom when Mack blocked him with a hand.

“Look, I didn’t want to have to tell you this,” Mack said, “but...you probably have to go to a funeral this weekend.”

“What? Whose?”

While Mack just mouthed, I’m sorry, the door opened and his mother said in her loud twang, “Honey, I came as soon as I heard.”

Colin groaned inwardly. “What happened?” he asked in as calm a voice as he could manage.

His mom crossed her arms and looked at him. But instead of being upset, she seemed strangely pleased. “Your grandmother called me.”

“Mimi?” Colin asked, his heart pumping harder. “What’s wrong?”

“With our people? Nothing!” Her eyes widened at the thought of that. Then her mouth turned down. “Your other grandmother called,” she said coolly. “The one in Scotland.”

Colin’s pulse slowed.

He hadn’t heard from his father’s family since he was a kid. Then, suddenly, when he turned pro a few years back, his grandmother—Jessie—had sent him a note through his website. Leonard had told Colin, but Colin had informed him that he wasn’t interested. He’d pushed that part of his life out of his head as if it had never existed. He’d figured it would freak Daisie Lee out if he started up any kind of relationship there, and that was the last thing he wanted.

Colin steadied his nerves and entered the conference room, where Leonard sat in a rumpled suit, a bunch of papers likely showing Colin’s reduced financial circumstances spread before him.

Leonard stood clumsily, his face perspiring from the lack of air-conditioning.

“Colin,” Daisie Lee said, following him inside, “there’s good news, too. You’re getting an inheritance—a sizable inheritance—and all you have to do is show up for it.”

Colin stared. He felt as if life was moving in slow motion. Nobody in his father’s family had money, as far as he knew. Then again, he’d been just a kid when he last saw them. Eight years old. “Whose funeral is it?” he asked. “Is it Jamie’s?”

His grandparents would be elderly now. Colin hadn’t heard from his grandfather once since the divorce. He still remembered that Jamie had stood by Colin’s father when he left them. Colin would never forget that day.

Daisie Lee waved her hand. “No. And I don’t blame you for not wanting to see those people but you’ll just have to endure it. They offered to let you stay at their house. That ugly little crofter’s cottage.”

“That ugly little crofter’s cottage” had been heaven to Colin once—if only because he got to see Rhiannon when he went there. He closed his eyes at the memory.

So if Jessie and Jamie were both still alive, that meant...

Colin took off his cap. Stared into Daisie Lee’s eyes, which were bright with animation. “Are you telling me that my father died?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “He had a heart attack. That’s why Jessie called me.”

He couldn’t focus. His vision seemed to be swimming and he blinked hard to clear it. Somehow he remained stubbornly on his feet.

“No,” he said. Mack and Leonard were staring at him, so he sat. “I’m not going to his funeral.”

“Colin, there’s a million-dollar inheritance.”

Colin closed his eyes. He felt sick. He hadn’t wanted to think about any of this stuff from his childhood. It was easier to pretend that it didn’t exist. He sure as hell didn’t want his father’s money.

“I’m a tour pro,” he said. “Last year I grossed almost that much myself.”

There was silence in the room. Leonard cleared his throat, but Colin caught Mack giving him a look. Don’t fight it, the look said. Just go, and take the money.

“I know my tour card’s at risk,” Colin bit out. “But I still don’t want anything from him.”

“Oh, Colin,” Daisie Lee whispered. She seemed sad, and that tore him up inside, the way it always had.

Gritting his teeth, he walked to the end of the room and grabbed a paper cup, pouring a drink from the watercooler. Somebody in the hall outside came over to wave and smile at him through the conference room window, but he just couldn’t muster up that old, carefree Colin attitude to wave back at them.

He was all tapped out. Didn’t care about keeping up his cool. When it came to the subject of his father, nothing was light, and never would be.

His hand shook as he raised the cup to his lips. For so long he’d thought that someday he’d bump into his father at a tournament, maybe. Show him that he’d been wrong. Rub it in, even.

It had been a secret, stupid desire, something he’d never shared with anybody, or even really dared to admit to himself, because it was petty. And it was sad, too, because a part of him really had wanted his dad to say he’d made a mistake. That he did love Colin.

Now it was too late.

My father is dead.

Colin heard a choking sound, and he was shocked to realize that came from him. He pressed his palm to his forehead. He didn’t want to feel this.

His mother came over to him and gingerly put her hand on his shoulder. “Colin, honey, I know it’s hard. What he did to us when he left...well.” She shook her head, collecting herself, and pushed the screen of her phone toward him. “Look. The most important thing now is that we need to be practical. If you lose your tour card—”

He turned to her, suddenly furious. “I will not lose my tour card.”

“Of course you won’t, Colin. I know. The inheritance is... Think of it as a contingency plan.”

He turned and stared out the window. “Then tell Jessie to mail me the check.”

“I did, but she said you need to be there, for lawyers and signatures and whatever else. Then she mentioned Mr. Sage, Jamie’s employer. Colin, I looked him up on the internet. Do you remember the family?”

Colin shook his head, ignoring her outstretched hand, cradling the phone. He didn’t like that she was getting so excited about this. For too long, Daisie Lee had cried over the divorce, and Colin, even as young as he was, had been the one who’d had to lift her spirits.

“Don’t frown, Colin. Surely you remember the MacDowall family that lived in the castle? Rhiannon, the little girl? She was so sweet to you. The two of you were so close back then.”

Of course he hadn’t forgotten her. Rhiannon had been the one great thing about that place. The best thing, actually.

But then, Rhiannon had never written to him the way she’d promised. Colin couldn’t help thinking that he’d done something wrong, because he’d believed her when she said that she would write him.

She’d seen everything that had happened, though—had heard what his father had said to him, and Colin had always figured that in the end, it had affected her decision to keep in touch.

“Rhiannon’s mother,” Daisie Lee continued, “was a Sage. The Sages of Scotland—you’ve heard of them? They own that big shampoo and cosmetics empire?”

Daisie Lee didn’t wait for his reaction. She just kept talking, an excited look on her face. “Colin, they’re now about the wealthiest people in Scotland. Can you believe it?”

“I really don’t care about that,” he said coldly. Because he didn’t.

“Their company is called Sage Family Products. Here, I looked it up. They sponsor professional athletes.”

He saw where this was going, all too clearly. She was trying to ensure his financial stability in the event that he crashed and burned on the pro tour. She was just being a mother.

He sat down at the table and put his head in his hands. He just wanted to keep his tour card and his dignity. No amount of money could save that.

Daisie Lee’s voice was softer now, but she was still revved up. Apparently, she really was convinced that Colin should return to the place that she’d scorned for so many years.

Not that he’d blamed her. Daisie Lee’s life had been tough after the divorce. The laughter had died in their little home. For a while, they’d been living in a trailer in her mother’s front yard, next to a chicken coop. Daisie Lee had cried herself to sleep every night, and he’d heard it because the trailer had been so small.

But the worst thing of all was that his father hadn’t once asked how they were doing. Colin hadn’t heard a word. Not a card on his birthday, not a call at Christmas.

He could never, ever forgive that.

Colin stood. Everyone was staring at him. Mack, Leonard, his mom. In a sense, they all depended on him. Colin had never thought of himself as someone big on commitment—he’d expressly avoided it, in fact—but when it came right down to it, he was fast realizing that he was a committed man.

He had a team to support. A caddie, a business manager, his fans, his sponsors... They were all good to him—friends—and Colin didn’t desert his friends.

Maybe it was just important to him that he end up being the good guy that his father hadn’t been.

Mack was watching him, waiting for his decision.

Leonard rolled his pen in his fingers. He looked sorry about the whole thing. Daisie Lee was filled with crazy hope. Mack, too, probably.

Colin didn’t like his options. Either go to Scotland and renew the relationships he had no interest in cultivating, or stay here and watch an opportunity to help his team slip away from him.

If he lost the tour card, if he ended up back on the minors tour, or worse, working in obscurity as a club pro, knowing that he’d failed his talent and he wasn’t worth it, then he would need money for his support system. He loved them.

“I’ll go,” he said quietly.

“You will?” Daisie Lee asked.

“Sure.” He would be responsible and bring home the income stream that would keep them all going. He would do it, but he wouldn’t like it.

While Leonard nodded, Colin took another drink of water. Crushed the cup with all the fury he had inside him.

Mack rose. With a quiet voice he said, “I’ll talk to Doc about hitching a ride on his plane. I know he’s going to a charity tournament in the Highlands this week.”

“Thanks,” Colin said. “I appreciate it.”

CHAPTER THREE

TWO DAYS LATER, Colin sat beside Mack on the large, comfortable seats of Doc Masters’s private plane, and prepared for takeoff.

Back in the conference room at Sunny Times Golf Academy, the plan had seemed simple. Fly in. Meet Jessie and Jamie. Go to the funeral and collect his check, then fly home.

But now... Wednesday morning was when Doc needed to leave for his charity tournament, so Colin would be arriving four full days before Sunday’s funeral. That meant spending more time in his grandparents’ company than Colin wanted. To make matters worse, he’d finally sucked it up and emailed his grandmother. She’d responded immediately with the address of a restaurant where she wanted to meet at six o’clock local time, after he landed.

He had no idea what he was going to say. Whatever happened, he was determined not to let it get to him. He wouldn’t care too much about it. Keep everything light.

The flight attendant stopped by, bringing Colin a drink from the bar service. Colin drank it gratefully and, without asking, she promptly brought another one. He finished that one, too. Colin wasn’t a big drinker—he was an athlete first—but the comfortable, mellow glow that the alcohol gave him helped dull the edge of his anger. He was even able to tolerate Doc and his small, sarcastic digs.

He didn’t even mind too much when Doc sprang on them that they were making a detour to Iceland to pick up somebody’s wife or girlfriend—this wasn’t exactly clear to Colin. All he knew was that it added more than an hour to their flight time.

Then, once they did finally land in Scotland at the small Highland airport, there was a short delay before they could disembark. Something about their plane’s manifest needed to be straightened out before they could clear customs, and that made the delay that much longer.

By the time the pilots finished the formalities, it was a few minutes past the time Colin was supposed to meet his grandparents.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us to St. Andrews?” Doc Masters asked Colin as he reached for his bag.

Colin would have given anything to head off to the famous golf course. But it wasn’t possible with his schedule, and frankly, he was glad to get a break from Doc. “Thanks, but if you don’t mind, I’ll just hook a ride back with you on Sunday night.”

“I’m sorry about your father,” Doc’s wife said.

Colin thought about being truthful, telling her that he hadn’t really known his father well, but what was the point? So he just nodded silently and went through the motions of grabbing his stuff and disembarking from the plane.

Once out on the tarmac, standing beside their pile of luggage, Colin realized this was the first time he’d been on Scottish soil since he was eight. All he kept thinking about was the way he’d felt that day. He’d been just a little kid, and he’d been scared and upset and ashamed. His whole world had blown apart, and his grandparents had sided with his father against them.

At least, that was what his mom had always said. To contact them and maybe find out otherwise had always seemed disloyal. So Colin had avoided it.

Given the choice, he would still rather avoid it. No doubt about it, he didn’t see how this reunion could possibly be pleasant, for any of them. They had a lot of old, bad feelings to deal with.

“Where to?” Mack asked.

“I booked a hotel for us,” Colin said. “But first, I need to meet my grandparents at a restaurant in town.”

“Okay. You mind if I tag along?”

“Mind? Hell no.” Colin was just grateful that Mack was willing to be a buffer for him.

Colin dug the address out of his wallet, and they flagged a cab. The driver was an old-timer and Mack shot the breeze with him, especially once the old-timer saw Colin’s golf clubs. Colin signed his autograph, but didn’t say much otherwise. It wasn’t like him, but he was starting to feel kind of distracted and crappy.

Honestly, would he even recognize his grandparents? All those years with no contact had dulled his memory. Yes, his grandmother had tried to get in touch with him and maybe he shouldn’t have ignored her. But when he was young and vulnerable, he’d always thought that his grandparents could have picked up a phone or hopped on a plane to see him, and they hadn’t. So he was determined not to feel guilty if he couldn’t identify them right away.

He and Mack finally found the restaurant—they were late because of the diversion and the holdup at the airport—and the server at the counter told them they’d missed Jamie and Jessie by a half hour.

“They left me?” Colin asked, incredulous. “They couldn’t just eat dinner and wait an extra few minutes to see their grandson?”

The server looked apologetic. She gave them a slip of paper that Jessie had left, with their home address and telephone number written in neat script.

Colin’s forehead was throbbing. He knew he might be overreacting, but given their history, it was understandable. He stared at her address in disbelief. His grandmother expected him to stay with them, it appeared.

Or maybe Daisie Lee had given her that impression. Colin hadn’t really talked with his grandmother about the sleeping arrangements—he’d just exchanged that one email about his estimated time of arrival, because frankly, it was all the contact he’d been able to take for the moment. He was filled with resentment, it seemed, and this wasn’t like him. He hated feeling this way.

He was also sobering up.

“Are you going to phone them?” Mack asked.

“Not yet.” Colin needed to calm down first. He was a mellow guy, laid-back. That was his reputation. That was what kept him sane.

“Let’s sit here, get a drink first,” Colin said. There was a pub attached to the restaurant, so they headed over to check it out. A three-person group was performing. Guitar, vocals, drums. Celtic music—they were pretty good.

Colin and Mack found chairs at a table. Before Colin knew it, two local women gravitated toward them. Mack talked with them—Colin was too busy getting his mind comfortably numb again to interact much. One song flowed into another. One beer flowed into another.

Somewhere along the line Colin noticed that one of the women was sitting on Mack’s lap. By now, there was lots of laughter. He kept forgetting the names of the people they were talking to—the faces started to blend. Mack was getting friendlier with the two women... Bonnie and Clyde...that was what Mack was calling them. Colin was clear that Bonnie was the tall redhead currently sitting in Mack’s lap, and the other woman wasn’t really named Clyde, but Clara or Cassandra...something along those lines. Still, Mack coined them Bonnie and Clyde, which the two ladies thought was hilarious.

Mack was wearing his cowboy boots, and the more he drank, the more pronounced his Texas drawl became. Bonnie especially seemed to like that.

After the pub closed, the party moved to a local house. Even though it was well after midnight, Colin didn’t feel tired at all. His body clock was seven hours behind the local time. Mack took the front seat of Bonnie’s car, and Colin crowded in the back. Colin wasn’t going to end up with either of the women—that would be stupid for someone with his profile, and he wasn’t stupid, he was just prolonging the inevitable pain of meeting his grandparents.

In the back of his mind, he knew he had to deal with a potential confrontation that he just wasn’t ready to face.

He also felt sick, and sad, and he didn’t want to be. His father was dead and he was too late to do anything about it. This wasn’t a jam Colin could talk his way out of. A problem he could smooth over with a laugh and a joke. He was here, in Scotland, and he needed to somehow get beyond the anger.

Because he wasn’t a kid being manipulated or dragged around any longer. Those days were over. It was years ago that he’d overheard his parents arguing on that last trip to Scotland. Overheard his father telling his mother that it just wasn’t worth it. His mother screaming back, “What about your son, isn’t that reason enough?” His father answering, “No, that’s not enough. It’s not enough!”

All those years, deep down, Colin had spent feeling guilty and ashamed, as if it were his fault. Anger, because rationally, he knew it wasn’t his fault. He’d felt sad, for his mom and for him, too, because their lives had changed so drastically.

Or maybe he was slowly making up his mind to decide to get over it. To forgive his grandparents for not reaching out earlier—and himself for reaching out only now, when it was too late. Maybe he should just start the weekend with a fresh slate. Colin still wasn’t sure, though. Mack obviously sensed his inner turmoil, and seemed to be steering clear of Colin’s mood, or of any discussion regarding it.

“Do you want us to drop you off at the hotel?” Mack asked him finally. “Because I’m gonna stay over with Bonnie. She said she’s got a couch you can stay on, too, if you want. When we wake up, I’ll help you call your grandparents. How about if we just arrange a time to meet them before the funeral on Sunday? Will that work?”

It was the coward’s way out, and it was tempting. Colin could avoid the whole three-day wait this way and then meet them at the funeral.

But now that he was sobering again, something bothered him. Avoiding his grandparents sounded too much like running away from the problem. Colin wasn’t irresponsible. He didn’t want to be like his father.

Especially not like his father.

“No,” Colin said, “I need to talk with Jamie and Jessie. I’ll head over there now. They always were early risers.” Hopefully, they still were.

In the end, Bonnie drove him to his grandparents’ cottage. She went slowly and carefully, weaving her way down a single-lane Scottish country road and playing Fleetwood Mac on the stereo—old stuff Colin hadn’t heard since he was a kid. “You Make Loving Fun.” None of it fit with the fact that he was the estranged grandson returning to Scotland for the funeral of a father he hadn’t heard from in twenty-some years.

Colin pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. The sun was streaking over the horizon. The digital clock on Bonnie’s dash told him it was six o’clock in the morning.

“Jamie always liked to get up while it was still dark,” Colin said, to no one in particular. Snatches of memory were coming back to him. From what little he remembered of his grandfather, he was set in his ways and brooked no nonsense.

“Would you mind turning down the music?” Colin asked as Bonnie pulled up beside the whitewashed cottage. Now that he was here, he felt completely sober. They were out in the middle of nowhere, in the Highlands. Somehow he had to get along with his grandparents for four more days. Then he could leave.

With the music subdued, Bonnie and Mack climbed out and hauled Colin’s two bags to the dewy grass in front of his grandparents’ cottage. The zippered bag holding his golf clubs made muffled clanking noises. Colin glanced at the cottage, studying it. It looked so much smaller than it had in his memories.

He’d never felt more alone than when he stood on the roadside in the silent, cool morning, his belongings dumped on the pavement.

“You gonna be okay?” Mack asked.

“I doubt it,” he said drolly.

Mack laughed. Colin smiled. They hadn’t said a damn serious thing all night anyway—even though his father had died and he was here for his funeral. Why should they start now?

His grandfather stood on the porch with his hands on his hips, watching everything. Fittingly, it had started to rain. There was no more delaying the confrontation, and Colin felt as if he’d reached rock bottom. In his heart, he was ready to consider that maybe it was both their faults that nobody had kept in touch.

Not just his fault. Not just his grandparents’ fault. Just one big, snowballed mess that they might begin to melt together with a face-to-face conversation.

He took off his wet cap and turned to the grandfather he hadn’t seen or heard from since he was an eight-year-old boy. He didn’t know how to begin, except to say, “Granddad?”

“Where the devil have you been?” his grandfather thundered in return.

Colin wiped his hand on his pants. So much for the triumphant celebration of the prodigal grandson returning to the fold. He shrugged in a what can we do? pose and gave his grandfather a wayward smile that usually worked for him. “You know how plane travel is.”

“No, I don’t.” His grandfather’s answering scowl sent chills through Colin. “And don’t you have a mobile phone?” he demanded.

“Ah...somewhere. I hope.” Colin patted the side pocket of his cargo pants. Yeah, the hard plastic lump was there. “Sorry. I should’ve called to warn you I was running late last night.”

His grandfather glared harder. Maybe Colin should give him the benefit of the doubt. Colin’s father had been this man’s—Jamie’s—son. Jamie was no doubt grieving his son’s death.

“I should leave you out here in the rain,” Jamie said. “Let it soak some sense into you.”

The illusion of being greeted with open arms was pretty much shattered. The rain spit harder. Colin rubbed his arms, but his grandfather wasn’t inviting him inside. On the contrary, he seemed to be guarding the door.

“Wait here,” Jamie said. He disappeared inside the cottage, shutting the door behind him.

While Colin waited for his grandfather to reappear, he searched his mind to remember something good from his childhood...a common, shared happy memory. But the only night that was coming back with any clarity was the last one. New Year’s Eve. The day his mother had confronted his father with his infidelity and he’d finally snapped, washing his hands of them. There had never even been a formal goodbye, just a general loading up of a small suitcase and then a car roaring away from the side of the dirt driveway.

Colin remembered crying. He remembered feeling powerless. And then he remembered running to the castle across the field, and later, crouching on the staircase beside the only person who had seen through him—who had cared to see through him—who had made him feel that somebody saw his pain and understood it.

Jamie reappeared on the doorstep, quietly closing the front door behind him.

“How’s Rhiannon?” Colin asked, before Jamie could say anything.

“Rhiannon?” His grandfather’s face turned red. “What do you care about her for?” he snapped, stalking toward Colin’s position on the grass like a gnarled, stooped-over boxer.

“She was a good friend when I was a kid,” Colin said. “I’d really like to see her again.”

Maybe it was crazy, but he wanted to know why she hadn’t written him when she’d promised. He’d waited to hear from her, and nothing had come. Maybe if she had, things would have been different.

No, he couldn’t blame any of this on her. “I’ll look her up tomorrow,” he mused. He gave Jamie a smile. “Do you know if she still lives around here?”

His grandfather’s eyes narrowed. “You leave her alone. She’s not interested in seeing the likes of you.”

“How do you know that?”

Jamie seemed to be fighting to keep himself from blowing up. He hadn’t been all that warm and cuddly when Colin knew him, and the years had only seemed to make him crankier. He wagged his finger at Colin. “Because she’s married and has five wee bairns. Her...husband would right kill you. Or at least break your arms. Then how would you play your golf?”

Colin pushed his irritation away because he didn’t want to be angry anymore. He’d liked Rhiannon a lot. He remembered her as a skinny girl with pigtails and a soft, shy voice. What had made her special to him had been her spirit. Her fierce, sweet, independent spirit.

Maybe it was disappointing to hear that she was married, but he could still check in with her. Maybe she would go with him to the funeral. She’d known his father, too.

And then the sadness of it all hit him in a crushing wave. His whole body feeling shaky, he drew a ragged breath. “I’m here because my father is dead.” His voice sounded small and pained, like a boy’s.

Where had that come from?

His grandfather got even more furious. “Aye, you should feel bad about it!” he shouted.

Colin felt his mouth dropping open.

“Did you even think once about your grandmother?” Jamie said in a more hushed tone, making a guilty, backward glance at the closed cottage door. “About the pain this brings her? Despite everything, she sat up all night waiting to see you. Waiting, and crying. Now she’s asleep, tired of waiting for you lot.”

His grandfather waved a gnarled hand, and Colin felt ashamed. “Now you can wait for her to wake up and take you in. She asked me to drive her to the store yesterday, because she wants to cook your favorites for breakfast. And she will! But until she’s awake and in her kitchen, you’ll just find a hotel. I’ll not let you in to see her, smelling like a brewery. Sleep it off and get yourself clean. Maybe then you can think to yourself about what you’ve done tonight.”

Think to himself? That was all Colin had been doing. That was his problem.

But the ancient door to the cottage closed again, and Colin was left alone, in the elements, with a canvas bag containing funeral clothes, fast getting soggy, and his ever-present set of golf clubs.

Colin hadn’t really thought about why he’d brought his clubs. It was more a reflex or a habit. Something he always lugged around with him because he wanted to. He liked golf. He liked the feeling of competence it gave him, especially since he’d gained his tour card. Made him feel valued and accepted.

He tucked the golf clubs into a dry spot under the overhang to the roof. Behind the cottage was a long, rolling field. The Highlands. Paradise of his childhood summers.

The landscape looked the same, held all the promise that he’d remembered. He’d used to range over this land, racing with sticks aloft—pretend swords—in the company of Rhiannon MacDowall.

Shaking his head, smiling again—at last—he grabbed a fairway wood and a handful of practice balls from his golf bag. Traipsing through the squishy grass, he headed for the rolling field beyond. It smelled like rain and heather and fresh, wide-open air.

He remembered this place in his bones. This feeling of peace. The mist rose off the grass even as the rain came down. It was so quiet it seemed holy. Not another soul was awake with him.

He dropped the practice balls and lined up his stance so he was facing a copse in the distance. That way had been Rhiannon’s castle.

Winding up, he hit a ball with a solid whack. It reverberated through him, centering him.

Calming him.

* * *

THE FIRST THING Rhiannon MacDowall did every morning when she awoke was to visit her garden in an effort to center herself and reconnect with a feeling of peace.

Afterward, she climbed the stairs to her art studio with the view over her family’s property. This was the same terrain Rhiannon had been taking comfort from for most of her life. On an easel beside her was her latest landscape painting, done in oils and nearly completed. Her uncle was coming to collect it in a week; one of his wealthy friends had commissioned it.

Art was what she did with her life. She loved it. It calmed her.

She tilted her head and observed the large canvas.

I want to add a cottage to it.

The thought stunned her because it was so different from her usual style. But it felt right.

Her yellow tabby cat hopped off the window ledge. He landed gingerly, shaking his front paws. Poor Colin. She picked him up and hugged him. He was twenty-one, old for a cat.

Her whole world seemed to be changing of late.

Mum and Dad had been gone a week now—rare for them—with eight more weeks to go on their vacation. For the first time Rhiannon could remember, she was living alone in the castle. Just Paul, their longtime butler, Colin the aging cat and her.

Even her brother, Malcolm, was newly married, and her cousin Isabel—now her closest female friend her age—had just sent her a “save the date” notice for an autumn wedding invitation. A wedding that Rhiannon would attend by video monitor, of course. Rhiannon wished Isabel well, but if she were honest, the invitation had set off a tinge of dissatisfaction within her. Maybe a wee bit of envy?

Perfectly natural. But, as always, she would control it until she was content again.

Rhiannon found her camera and grabbed a warm raincoat for her walk outside. The weather was misting a bit and alternating with rain, not atypical for Scotland in early June, so she laced up her waterproof boots and tucked the camera inside her front pocket.

She had the perfect picturesque cottage in mind, and it was on the edge of their two-hundred-acre estate. Usually, Rhiannon worked from memory, but the last time she’d seen the cottage was, well, before she’d become agoraphobic. Just the thought of approaching the boundary lines and the public road to see it was making her pulse race. Making this trip was daring for her. But she was ready for a change, however slight and controlled.

She went downstairs, then across the courtyard to the main castle and the breakfast room. Paul stood at the buffet table, arranging breakfast items as he had done every morning for years going back. He smiled to see her, and she relaxed somewhat.

“Good morning, miss. Would you like some coffee?”

“When I return, please, Paul. I’m going for my walk now.” By habit, she reached for the dog leash, but remembered that her mum’s golden retriever, Molly, was gone, too, boarded at the vet’s, recuperating from minor surgery on her leg.

Rhiannon sighed. She would be walking alone today.

“I’ll pick Molly up later in the day,” Paul remarked kindly.

“Thank you.” They’d been together so long that sometimes she thought Paul could read her mind.

He gestured to the window. “The starlings have left the nest.”

“Have they? They’re late this year.”

“Indeed.” Paul smiled mildly and wiped down their coffee machine. He was getting a bit stooped. She hadn’t noticed until now. He must have been about forty when he came to them after she’d returned home from the hospital. Now he would be in his sixties.

We’re all getting older.

And then what? What would Rhiannon do when Paul finally retired? Rhiannon was thirty. A spinster. An agoraphobic spinster, living alone in a modernized castle. Any supplies she needed, she ordered by phone or internet. But for actual contact with people, she relied on Paul. Or her parents. Even Molly.

Paul glanced at her standing there, holding the leash, and stopped tidying up. “Miss, would you like me to accompany you on your walk today?”

“No. That’s quite all right.” She smiled at Paul. She really did appreciate his presence in her life. “Sooner or later we all have to walk alone.”

Paul blinked. “That’s not necessarily true, miss.”

“You don’t think so?”

Paul politely gazed down at his hands. He was the help, after all, their perfect, English-trained butler. He was paid to be agreeable to her. “I wouldn’t presume to know,” he murmured.

“Well, for today at least, I walk alone.” She patted the camera in her pocket. “I’ll be back in a half hour. If I’m not, send out the hounds.”

The corner of Paul’s mouth twitched. They didn’t have any hounds. Just a playful golden retriever, currently injured.

Rhiannon headed outside, walking her customary path past the walled garden and circling the gravel drive. Up the hill was the guard shack, and from there, all along the boundaries, a stone wall, strengthened with concrete. Surveillance cameras were installed at regular intervals, monitored by the guard on duty.

I am safe, she told herself, breathing deeply. She headed for the path across the open moor. Nature, cruelly, was waking. In bloom everywhere.

The cottage—the guard’s cottage—was at the southern border of their large property—farther away from the castle than she’d dared to walk in years. She wasn’t sure how it would affect her. She concentrated on feeling in control: maintaining her regular breathing, visualizing the peace of her garden, humming to herself.

Still, the closer she came to the cottage, the shakier she felt. She paused, tightening her grip on the camera in her pocket. She wished Molly was with her. At the very least, she wished she’d thought of carrying a large stick.

She exhaled slowly. This was the natural fallout from the brutal kidnapping she’d survived as a young girl. Ever since then she had her safe place she felt protected by—her beautiful castle grounds—and she stayed within those boundaries. Walking to the cottage would test her limits.

But she could do it. She visualized the cottage in her mind. Jamie and Jessie lived there, and had since before she’d been born. Jamie was the longtime guardsman for their family. Five days a week, he kept watch from the shack at the top of the drive. He kept a phone with a direct line to Paul in the house. There were cameras all around the property, spaced every few dozen yards. Each year, her father commissioned a security expert to review and renew their protocols and procedures.

It didn’t bother Rhiannon. She was happy in her world, truly. She moved closer to the boundary, more curious than anything. How would her body react to this change in her daily walk?

She heard a roaring noise. The whoosh of a van passing close by on the roadway. Rhiannon froze. A white van had been the vehicle the kidnappers had used to snatch her and her brother. Her breath came in jagged spurts.

She heard a voice; someone was singing. Her pulse racing, she retreated to the edge of a copse. Then there was whistling. A man’s tone. Something else was going on, too, because she heard a whacking noise. She backed away slowly, her breathing heavy. Despite the coolness of the morning, she felt heated. Her heart rate elevated. Her palms perspiring...

This was how a panic attack began. And there was nothing worse to Rhiannon than a panic attack. It was the one thing she had set her life up to avoid. She couldn’t lose control of herself. She couldn’t go back to those days in the hospital.

A cry sputtered out of her, and she turned to flee. But the toe of her rubber boot caught on a root, and she tripped. Her hands splayed on the wet, boggy earth beneath an oak tree.

Get up. Run.

But it was just like when she’d been a girl. Walking along happy, full of plans for the day, so mundane she couldn’t even remember them at this point—much like painting a cottage on a landscape. She’d been caught up in herself, not paying attention to the world and skipping ahead of her older brother.

She’d seen the men—the kidnappers—before Malcolm had. There had been a split second when she could have screamed. Could have warned Malcolm. Could have grabbed his hand and made both of them run away.

But she’d done none of those things. She’d frozen instead.

Because of that, Malcolm had been taken with her, shoved into a white van parked on a busy Edinburgh street, and while she sat still, mute, Malcolm had screamed and fought.

They had beaten him, so badly that he’d lost consciousness. And even then, seeing her brother’s limp, battered body, blood all about his mouth and his nose, made her feel guilty.

She could have prevented it, and she hadn’t. And now it was happening again. No sound would come out of her mouth. Her body was locked in terror. The shaking started. Next came the sweating. At some point, she would pass out.

Wham! Something hard smashed into the ground in front of her, then ricocheted and hit her right hip bone. A muffled squeak came out of her mouth, an “umph!” rather than anything intelligible or powerful.

Is this an attack? Scream. Why can’t you scream? Run!

But instead of yelling or fleeing, Rhiannon groaned and pitched forward. Her elbows slammed into the boggy earth; the camera at her hip hit the ground and she heard something break—the lens perhaps. The camera dug into her freshly bruised hip, sending a dull shooting pain through her. “Oh!” she moaned.

She rolled over and pulled the camera from the flap pocket. It rattled when she moved it. The camera was obviously broken.

“Hello!” a male voice called. “Is anybody there?”

Trembling, Rhiannon pushed to her knees. Run!

“Oh, no, I’m so sorry!” A man came into the clearing, sprinting toward her, waving. He carried a golf club in the other hand. Blinking, she glanced down and saw a golf ball on the ground beside her.

She put her hand to the sore spot. There would be a bruise. But that wasn’t her immediate concern. This man was. Run!

Too late. He was there already. “Are you okay? Wow, let me help you up.”

He reached for her hand, but she shrank back. He wore a gray sweatshirt—her kidnappers had worn hoodie sweatshirts—and his eyes were a pale gray blue beneath his navy blue golf cap. He also wore cargo pants and trainers. She had the impression of confident masculinity.

He pushed back the cap back from his face. Wavy, light brown hair with blond streaks. The scruffy beginnings of a beard. He gave her a boyishly charming, lopsided smile. “I’m really sorry about this.”

He held out a hand to her, but she, embarrassingly, scurried backward like a crab.

“I’m a professional golfer,” he said. “My name’s Colin Walker.”

Colin Walker! She almost laughed hysterically. The boy—now a man—she’d named her cat after, all those years ago.

Of course it would be Colin Walker she’d bumped into. Now, when she looked her worst—wet, muddy and bedraggled. She must have summoned him, she thought—maybe she’d conjured him up. All these thoughts about weddings and wishes for what could never be.

And he was so good-looking it was criminal. Of course she’d watched Colin on the telly; they all had. He’d strolled along the fairways as if he owned them, while his grandmother Jessie sat beside her on the couch in front of the big screen in the castle, near to bursting her buttons with pride.

Shaking, Rhiannon wiped her muddy hands on her trousers. Her right palm had nicked a sharp stone when she fell, and it stung. It was her dominant hand, and now painting might be difficult for a few days.

“At least let me take you into the house and get you a bandage for that cut.” Colin reached for her other hand, but she jerked away. People knew better than to touch her. It made her panic, and she couldn’t let that happen.

“No. Please. I’m fine.” She stood on her own. Likely, the only reason she hadn’t gone into a full-blown panic attack was that she knew who he was. Her heart was pounding with the knowledge.

His head tilted. He noticed her broken camera and picked it up from the ground. “I want to replace this for you.” He tucked it into his pocket. “Do you live around here? I’m only here for a few days, but I’ll order one for you and have it delivered.”

She hugged herself and stepped back. “No, I’d rather you didn’t do that.”

“I need to. I want to, I mean...” His gaze went up and down the length of her. She looked a fright! Her worst clothes, her scraggly, rain-wet hair, muddy boots...

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Jamie would tell him even if she didn’t. She had no choice. “I’m Rhiannon,” she said softly. “You know me.”

“Rhiannon!” Again, those charming, handsome gray-blue eyes went up and down her body. Scrutinized her face. Lingered on her eyes.

She felt herself flushing.

Did he remember her as fondly as she remembered him?

Obviously not, because he threw back his head and laughed at her. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but this hadn’t been it. Pity, perhaps. Quiet respect. Silence.

But never ridicule.

“I can’t believe this!” he said, still laughing at her.

What, that she was a recluse by choice? That the best way to manage her agoraphobia was to cut herself off from the rest of the world?

She’d never wanted him to see her like this. She’d thought that of all people, he would understand.

She’d been wrong.

“What did you expect of me?” she asked quietly.

“Sorry. It’s a long story.” Shaking his head, he leaned toward her...touching her, and she jumped backward as if scalded.

What was he doing? No one touched her. She controlled her space.

“I have to go,” she said.

He caught hold her arm. “Hey, Rhiannon, wait...”

“Stop,” she whispered, staring at his hand on her sleeve. She could feel her heart drumming, feel the panic returning. People didn’t treat her this way. They were respectful of her dignity.

Colin looked at her quizzically, and she drew herself up, groping for her inner peace. Control was the most important thing. “Please.”

He let go of her. “Oh, Rhi, I’m sorry. You’re married, huh? I didn’t mean anything by it. Touching you, I mean.”

Married? What a cruel joke.

“How are your kids?” he asked, drawling at her like a true Texan. “You have a bunch of ’em. Right?”

Something stung at her eyes. Something fierce and unexpected.

How could an agoraphobic ever bring up a child?

A strangled noise came from her throat. A harsh, suppressed sob.

“Rhi?”

Horrified, she shook her head.

Normally, she would be calm about it. Philosophical and gentle and accepting, but today...after her cousin’s wedding news...she was on edge.

“No kids? Figures he lied to me,” he muttered. “Well, me, neither.” Colin talked blithely along as if he hadn’t noticed her discomfort. “No kids. No wife. Just the traveling life.” He glanced down at her. His eyes were so blue. “How about you? Do you travel?”

Colin had no idea. None. It was as if she was seeing her life the way it might have been. The way it could never be.

“Rhi?”

“I’m fine!” she shouted harshly.

His face fell. Utterly fell.

She slapped her hand over her mouth. She turned and fled back to the castle before she did anything worse.

CHAPTER FOUR

SMOOTH MOVE, WALKER, Colin thought as he watched Rhiannon run away. Obviously, she’d been appalled by him. How dumb had he been, hitting golf balls into the woods? He was a trained professional and he should have known better. That was what driving ranges were for.

Thankfully, she wasn’t hurt. Still, the broken camera in his hand rattled—he needed to replace it for her. Maybe his grandmother would be awake now and could help him make arrangements for that.

Blowing out his breath, Colin headed back to the cottage. The rain had stopped, but there was still no hint of sun, just gray, overcast skies. This place was about as different from Central Texas as he could imagine.

Under the overhang to the porch, he tossed his club and glove into the golf bag.

“Colin?”

Colin froze. He’d know that voice anywhere—Nana. Instinctively, a lump rose in his throat, and he turned to see her.

“Oh, Colin.” Tears glistened in his grandmother’s eyes. She was thinner and sadder looking than he remembered. He’d come to Scotland still harboring anger, but somehow, seeing her in person, that seemed to disappear.

Jessie’s arms shook as she reached for him. He pulled her close and gave her a hug. She wore an apron that smelled like black pudding. He hadn’t eaten black pudding—the Scots name for blood sausage—in ages; it had always been a favorite of his when he’d visited in the summers, because the boy in him had loved that it was made with real blood.

She stood back and held him at arms’ length. “I’m so proud of you.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I watch you on the telly. But you look bigger and taller in person. So handsome.”

Colin couldn’t help smiling. “You’re looking good, too, Nana.” He winked at her and lifted up her chin. He didn’t want her to be so sad.

A light seemed to come on inside her, and her face appeared less tired. “Come in, dear.” She opened the door and led him into her cottage.

He followed her and took his canvas bag with him. The clubs would be fine under the overhang.

The front room was as he remembered it, but the contents had completely changed. The stuffed furniture was new. The TV was a silver flat screen, and though relatively small, it dominated the space. The old childhood pictures of him and his parents weren’t on the wall anymore. A large landscape oil painting hung in their place.

He tilted his head, trying to figure out why the scene in the painting felt so familiar. “Is that the clearing where Rhiannon and I built a fort?” He’d climbed those oak trees and hauled old loose boards into the limbs. He and Rhiannon used to sit and swing their feet there.

“Aye, that’s Rhiannon’s work.”

“She’s a painter?” he asked, surprised.

“She’s known the world over,” his grandmother said with obvious pride, and pointed to Rhiannon’s small signature on the bottom right. “She paints scenes from the estate. Wealthy collectors buy them, but this was a gift to me and Jamie.”

The painting was seriously professional work—to Colin, it looked museum quality. “I had no idea,” he murmured, though maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised.

Rhiannon had always been creative, and she’d even sketched people with her pencils. Like him, she hadn’t been disciplined then—he remembered them more as running free like wild, unsupervised children. The memory made him smile again.

His grandmother gestured for him to follow her. “Come into the kitchen and tell me about everything you’ve been doing.”

Colin nodded. Now would be a good time to tell her how he’d seen Rhiannon in the clearing—and that he’d pissed off Jamie by talking about her. Also that he wasn’t looking forward to dealing with his father’s funeral on Sunday. Not at all.

But as he watched his grandmother shakily reaching into a cabinet, it struck Colin that she didn’t seem well. He’d thought her ancient years ago, but now he realized that she’d actually been so much younger and healthier than she was now. She moved slowly, setting up a French press, her way of making coffee.

“Do you see Rhiannon often?” he asked instead, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms.

“Well...” Jessie drew the word out in the manner that Scots sometimes did, so that it sounded like wheel. “She takes her walks early in the morning. I used to meet her with a wee cuppie, but I’ve been feeling tired of late.”

She did look tired. Maybe that was why she’d left the restaurant last night instead of waiting for him.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

“Nonsense.” She waved her hand. “I don’t mean to talk about me.” She gazed at him, and her face brightened. “Sit down. Let me feed you some breakfast.”

She rolled the r on breakfast in that delightful way that he used to emulate when he got home to Texas. Jessie’s brogue was so thick and enchanting that Colin had to sometimes stop and tilt his ear to catch it all.

“Sure,” he said, and pulled out the same chair he remembered using as a boy. “I’m starving.” The discussions about the funeral could wait.

His grandmother beamed. She’d always loved to feed him. He loved her big Scottish breakfasts.

He grinned back at her as he sat at his place in her cozy kitchen. Nothing here had changed—except maybe the appliances were modernized.

“Do you still like your eggs poached?” she asked.

He nodded. “You know I do.”

“And grapefruit juice, not orange?”

He nodded again. She knew all his quirks. He was starving, actually.

She bustled about at the stove, opened the oven and checked on his blood sausage. But he only noticed one place setting at the table—his.

“Won’t you eat with me, Jessie?”

“I’ll sit with you, yes.” She set down his juice, along with a bowl of oatmeal. “And here’s your porridge. Jamie and I already had our wee bite.”

As though summoned by the sound of his name, Colin’s grandfather stomped in from the front room. He must have been upstairs. By the scowl on Jamie’s face, and the tuft of white hair that was standing upright from having his hands through it so often, Colin saw that his mood hadn’t improved.

Jamie addressed Jessie, pointing at Colin as if Colin weren’t there. “There’s something you need to tell him, woman.”

She waved her hand at Jamie as if dismissing him.

Jamie made an exasperated noise. Colin averted his gaze.

“Please, Jamie,” Jessie pleaded. “Let me enjoy the morning with my grandson. I don’t want any unpleasantness.”

Jamie glowered at Colin. There was nothing Colin could say to make this easier for Jessie, so he just remained silent, waiting.

Finally, Jamie snapped a coat from a peg on the wall and then limped toward the back door. “The sooner he’s back to Texas,” Jamie said, pointing to Colin again, “the better off we’ll be.”

His grandmother cringed and Colin’s heart went out to her.

But after the door had shut, Jessie just smiled sadly and looked at Colin. He could see the tears she was doing her best to blink away.

“Don’t pay him any mind,” she said. “He has the gout. It’s painful for him.”

“Is that why you left the restaurant early last night?” Colin asked.

“Yes,” she said, looking relieved and turning back to the egg she was cooking. “I’m glad you understand.”

He sighed and sat back in his chair. “Nana, I should’ve called to tell you we were running late. I’m sorry.”

She waved her hand. “Don’t fash yourself.” It was a Scottish phrase that meant “don’t worry about a thing.” His grandmother said “don’t fash yourself” the same way he said “keep it light.”

Chuckling, he picked up his spoon.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” he said. “We’re more alike than I’d realized.”

She reached over to pat his hand. “I do wish I’d tried harder to reach you when you were younger.”

Tried harder. Maybe she had called. Maybe Daisie Lee hadn’t wanted her to talk with him. “My mother wasn’t keen on phone calls.” He glanced at her.

Jessie waved a hand. “Say no more.”

He nodded again. She didn’t want to revisit the past any more than he did.

Still, he felt guilty. “My manager told me that you sent some emails to my website. I’m sorry I didn’t read them.”

“It’s not important now,” Jessie insisted. She took a plate from a cabinet and arranged toast, two eggs and his black pudding on it. As she put it down at his place, he had a thought.

“You’re afraid to fly,” he said. “That’s why you never came to Texas.”

“Eat your breakfast.” She sat across from him and urged him to pick up his fork.

He ate most of it; he was ravenous and it was delicious. But as he contemplated the last blood sausage, he stared down at his plate, feeling ashamed.

He was able-bodied and had enough money to pay for plane tickets. He could have flown to Scotland and visited his grandmother. His mother wouldn’t have needed to hear about it, or even known what he’d done. It wouldn’t have been disloyal to her.

“We’re together now, better late than never,” Jessie said, rolling her r in that delightful way.

“Aye, better late than never,” he mimicked.

She laughed, swatting his hand.

“I am sorry,” he murmured to her.

She picked up the French press, but he shook his head because he didn’t need any more caffeine in his system. He was wired from the flight, from the night of drinking, from staying up late.

From hitting Rhiannon with a golf ball.

He put the heel of his hand to his head. He just wanted to make up for...everything. His father was dead, and it was too late to do anything about that, but Colin was tired of regrets. There were things now, today, he could do.

“How do you apologize to a woman?” he said aloud to Jessie.

“Oh, no. You don’t need to apologize to me.”

“It’s for someone else, actually.”

She peered at him. “What have you done?”

He stabbed his blood sausage with his fork. “I hit a golf ball and broke Rhiannon’s camera, and then I inadvertently insulted her.” He shook his head. “Why would Jamie tell me that she’s married with kids if she isn’t?”

“Oh,” Jessie murmured. “Your grandfather, he’s...” She waved her hand. “Never mind about him. You let me handle his temper. Now, are you saying that you want to apologize to Rhiannon?”

“I do.” He thought of the landscape on the wall, the one that Rhiannon had painted. Then he gazed at his grandmother. “I don’t want bad blood between us,” he said meaningfully. “Not anymore.”

Jessie clasped her hands and put them to her mouth. Then she took off her glasses and wiped her eyes with a tissue. Smiling at him, she stood and padded to a drawer, then came back with an old-fashioned box of notepaper and a pen.

The notepaper had a sketch of a bird on it.

He laughed. “Seriously?”

She just raised her eyes and gave him a look.

“Right.” He pushed aside his empty plate and took the pen and paper from her.

So much could be said in a simple letter. He should have written. Rhiannon should have written. They all should have written.

“So...if I tell her I’m sorry, do you think that’ll help?” he asked.

Jessie tilted her head. “My rosebush has budded. Cut a nice stem and strip off the thorns. That can’t hurt, either.”

He nodded. “Women like flowers.”

“Is there no one special in your life? Another young woman, perhaps?”

“No.” He clicked the pen open and then shut it. He’d never given anyone flowers. He’d also never written a personal letter.

This should be interesting.

He blinked, rubbing his fist against his eye. His vision was getting scratchy with lack of sleep.

Jessie noticed. “Aye.” She picked up his empty plate. “Have you slept yet?”

He shook his head.

“I’ve made up a bed for you. Get some sleep, and then worry about the rest of the day. After you rest, everything else will come easier.”

She was right. He really wasn’t functioning well. His brain was messed-up like a zombie’s.

He grabbed his bag and followed her into the front room, though he didn’t need to follow her because he knew this place by heart and always would, until the day he died. He walked behind his grandmother up a creaky, steep length of stairs that she didn’t navigate as well as she used to.

Inside the modest guest room was an ancient, wrought-iron twin bed, a scatter rug over a painted wooden floor and a set of drawers that had seen better days. He dropped his canvas bag on a metal chair.

“You know where the bathroom is,” his grandmother said. “I’ve put fresh towels on the table for you.” Fresh had that same wonderful rolled r.

He smiled at her, feeling like a kid again, but in a good way. In a naive way of trusting that all would be better in the morning.

She closed the door and let him sleep.

* * *

COLIN WOKE WHEN he heard the loud whine of weed-whacking directly beneath his window. Rubbing his eyes, gazing through the windowpane, he saw his grandfather attacking a patch of thistle, revving the motor and scowling to himself.

The perverse old dude. Colin chuckled softly. But then his grandfather glared up at his window in a manner that made Colin wonder if he was trying to disturb his sleep on purpose. The laughter died in his throat.

Jamie probably didn’t even have gout. If he did, shouldn’t he be resting the foot, not hobbling about on it? Colin was pretty sure that Jamie’s anger had more to do with him—and his presence in Scotland—than it did with any ailment Jamie might have.

Colin couldn’t think of anything he could say or do to make his grandfather feel differently about him. He was trying to be laid-back about it, but the facts didn’t lie. He felt lousy. He needed to get out of here.

First, he had to apologize to Rhiannon.

After rooting in his canvas bag for his shower kit and a set of clean clothes, he took a long, hot shower, ducking his head in the low stall. When he went back to his room, he had to stoop to avoid bumping his head on the sloped ceiling. Still, he took more care than he usually did with his routine. Colin was a casual guy, not big on combs or razors, but this time he was sure to make himself as clean-cut as possible for Rhiannon.

He didn’t know why—and maybe it was crazy—but it suddenly seemed critical to get her on his side again.

He sat on the bed with the notepaper for ten minutes, pondering what to say to her. How to get across to her that he was really sorry for his rudeness.

In the end, he just wrote from the heart. Downstairs, his grandmother handed him a pair of scissors. He went to the side of the house and clipped a few of her roses. If one was good, then six were better.

It was a slow twenty-minute hike to the castle. He passed through a small copse, around a spongy moor with pale green grass and alongside a creek—“burn,” they called it here. Nature had changed little except for some trees that were missing since his last visit; others were taller and fuller. It was funny—Colin couldn’t specifically remember most people he met, but he’d remembered this land. The outdoors was a big part of what sustained him. Probably no accident that he’d chosen to become a professional golfer.

Colin came to the front of the castle and stood for a moment, marveling over it. A huge, gray stone facade. Still the same turrets, the same circular gravel drive. The same short, wooden drawbridge that had once fascinated him so much.

He had to clear away cobwebs before he could ring the bell, but he heard the noise echo in the great hall, so he knew it worked.

A man dressed in a black suit answered the door. “Yes?” He had a bland voice and an expressionless face.

“I’m here to see Rhiannon,” Colin said.

The man coughed into his hand. Colin had no idea who he was. “May I ask who is calling, sir?”

“Colin Walker.” He shifted on his feet, transferred the flowers to his other hand.

The man bowed his head slightly. He opened the door and gestured for Colin to enter. “Please wait on the couch while I phone her.”

The whole thing was strange. Colin followed him inside. The first detail he noticed was that the interior had been renovated. The great hall didn’t look as much like a dank and drafty laird’s castle, but a modern home with all the comforts.

Colin was led to a small anteroom he didn’t remember, with a couch by a window that looked out over the front drive. At the entrance was the guard station where his grandfather worked. Colin wasn’t even sure if he still worked there anymore or if he’d retired.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” the man said.

“Who are you?” Colin asked him.

“I’m the MacDowalls’ butler. You may call me Paul.”

Also surreal. Had Colin wandered onto the set of Downton Abbey? Rhiannon’s parents hadn’t had a butler the last time he’d been here.

“Ah, will you please take these to Rhiannon?” Colin handed Paul the rose bouquet. The letter, too, just in case she wasn’t inclined to see him.

Paul was gone for five minutes. Colin knew, because there was a clock on the wall and it ticked, loudly. He stood and walked out of the holding area and into the great room with its tall ceilings, about thirty feet high, and the stone fireplace with the baronial swords and shields on display. That display had been Colin’s favorite part of the castle. His gaze moved to the staircase where he and Rhiannon had once hidden. The staircase had been completely rerouted now, and their hiding place was gone.

Paul’s throat cleared. Colin turned.

“I’m sorry, but Rhiannon isn’t seeing anyone today.”

“Did she take my letter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know if she read it?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I couldn’t say.” Paul took a step and then paused, waiting for Colin to follow him to the door, but Colin stood rooted.

“If you’ll allow me to lead you out.” Paul tilted his head, signaling the end of Colin’s visit.

But it bothered him that Rhiannon was avoiding him. Something was wrong. “Will she be coming to my father’s funeral?” he asked Paul. “Or maybe her parents or brother?” What was his name? “Malcolm,” Colin said, remembering.

Paul frowned, but Colin didn’t move. He needed to know. “The funeral is on Sunday,” Colin said stubbornly. He didn’t know what time, though. Now he wished he’d asked his grandmother.

It made him feel terrible, still.

“Excuse me while I check for you,” Paul murmured.

Colin waited, for twenty-two minutes this time. He exchanged text messages with Mack—his friend had set up a tee time for them at a nearby course, at Colin’s request—to pass the time. When Paul at last returned to the small anteroom where Colin sat on the couch, watching the birds flit outside, he carried a tray with a formal tea service. Pot, teacup, bone china, the works.

Colin stared. He’d expected none of this. Rhiannon’s family had always been more formal than his, but this was just excessive. He’d spent a good portion of his childhood living in a trailer, eating off mismatched plates and drinking out of jelly glasses.

He stood while Paul set down the tray. There was only one cup.

“Mr. MacDowall will be arriving shortly to speak with you,” Paul said.

“Rhiannon’s father is coming?”

“No, sir. Mr. Malcolm MacDowall.”

Rhiannon’s brother? Colin just felt confused. “Why did you call him?”

“Because you asked about him, sir. And since he is at his company’s Byrne Glennie facility today, and is therefore available locally, he has decided to stop by and speak with you.”

Colin sat, his hand on his forehead. All he’d wanted was to apologize to Rhiannon. He had the feeling he was missing something important.

Paul poured tea into a cup. “Cream or sugar?”

Colin shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t drink tea.” When had this gotten so complicated?

“Try this, sir.” Paul used a pair of silver tongs to drop a sugar cube into the cup and then added a small amount of cream from a tiny pitcher. He passed Colin the delicate cup and saucer, but Colin just stared at him. He didn’t dare touch the damn thing. What if he dropped it?

Paul cleared his throat, then placed the cup and saucer back on the tray. Straightening, he said formally, “Mr. MacDowall requested that I serve you tea, as it will be another ten minutes before he arrives.” He turned to leave.

“Wait,” Colin said.

Paul turned, his brow raised. Honestly, Colin just hadn’t wanted to be left waiting again.

“Ah... Malcolm...he’s the CEO of Sage Family Products now?” The major body-care corporation that his mother had talked about. The one that gave endorsements to professional athletes.

“No, he’s the president,” Paul explained patiently. “Mr. John Sage, Rhiannon’s uncle, is the CEO.”

* * *

RHIANNON SAT ON the stairs, observing Colin and Paul. Ironically, she’d curled up near the spot where she and Colin had peeked through a lattice screen. The staircase had been renovated with modern railings, and now a restored tapestry concealed her from view. But there was one threadbare place in the material that she could peer through.

She’d never expected Colin to return, or to ask to see her. She’d thought she’d scared him away. Part of her had hoped that he would stay away; that would be for the best, after all.

But then she’d been informed by the guard observing the cameras that Colin was approaching the castle. And now, watching him in person...

She put her hand to her lips, filled with amusement by his sweet but bumbling reaction to Paul’s stiff formality. Her family hadn’t used the services of a butler all those years ago, and it seemed that Colin wasn’t sure about how to react to this foreign ritual. But he was gamely trying to put himself in Paul’s good graces.

And what about the funeral he mentioned? She hadn’t been aware of anything happening to his father. Then again, she hadn’t spoken to Jessie in a few weeks. Jamie, either. She’d been wrapped up in finishing her painting.

“Poor Colin,” she murmured. It must be terrible.

She was answered with a peeved meow. The cat in her arms had followed along behind her, more dog than catlike in his behavior. She’d been petting him when Paul arrived with the tea cart.

Now the cat struggled; he knew that the tinkling of china meant fresh cream, and Colin the cat lived for fresh cream. But she normally didn’t let him have much, because he tended to get gassy. Rhiannon stood, intent on sneaking off, carrying her cat back to her painting studio with her, but he jumped down with a loud thud.

“Colin,” she whispered at him.

Colin veered from her and darted off on his short legs as best he could—admittedly, not quickly these days—down the staircase, across the tartan carpeting and toward his namesake.

Rhiannon groaned and covered her head. Below her, Colin the cat sat by Colin the human’s feet. The cat posed in a regal position and begged for cream with his most entitled meow.

“Colin, stop that!” Paul scolded.

“Excuse me?” Colin the human said.

“Colin,” Paul said to the cat, and he bent to pick him up. “You know you don’t belong here,” he admonished her pet in a singsong voice.

“Wait a minute,” Colin said. “Did you just call that cat by my name?”

“No,” Paul said stiffly, drawing himself up. “You share a name with Rhiannon’s cat.”

“Rhiannon’s cat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here, pretty baby.” Colin patted his lap, and her cat obliged, jumping up on him. Again, as best he could, given his age. The little devil would attempt anything to poach cream.

“How old is he?” Colin asked Paul.

“He’s twenty-one, I believe,” Paul said.

Colin was silent for a moment. Then he drew his hand along Colin’s fur, petting him. “I never knew about him.” Maybe Rhiannon imagined it, but she thought Colin looked misty-eyed.

Rhiannon sat again. Colin’s letter was in her pocket. Quietly, she opened the envelope and unfolded the note inside. In a careful hand, he’d written:

Rhiannon, I’m sorry I offended you this morning. You were once an important friend of mine, and I don’t want to lose that. Please forgive me. Colin.

Rhiannon touched it lovingly. Oh, what she had wished for—a letter from him—and never thought would happen.

She’d been utterly shocked when he’d come back this afternoon. Part of her wanted Colin here—but not the part that was in charge. The panic attacks trumped everything, and with them, she could never be normal around him.

More than anything, she needed her control. To be in charge of herself. Colin threatened that control. It was sad, but that was the way she was. To meet with him would be cruel, for both of them. It was best for everyone that he leave as soon as possible.

But what about his father’s funeral? She would have to say something about it. She couldn’t just ignore it, or him.

Just then the castle door opened—Malcolm had arrived, bringing in the smell of the early-summer air. He was dressed in his workday suit, his sunglasses on. Her older brother was a handsome man—always had been—but when Colin stood, the cat still in his arms, he managed to take her breath away.

Colin had changed clothing since she’d seen him earlier, and now wore khaki trousers and a collared shirt. He was shaven, tall and full of life, and he looked so appealing to her that she all could do was stare at him.

“Hi, Malcolm. It’s me. It’s Colin.”

But Malcolm’s jaw tightened. Slowly, he hooked his car keys on a peg beside the wall. “What’s going on?” he asked in his gruff, deep tone.

Colin’s smile wavered. “My father died,” he said in a low voice.

Rhiannon put her hand to her mouth. She felt devastated for him.

Even Malcolm was moved; she watched him exchange a look with Paul.

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm said.

“You didn’t know?”

“Not until Paul told me. But I don’t live here anymore—I live in Edinburgh. I’m only in the area because we own a manufacturing facility in Byrne...well, not far from here.”

“Do your parents plan to attend the funeral?” Colin crossed his arms. “Because my grandmother could really use the support.”

Malcolm shook his head helplessly. “My parents are out of the country. They won’t be back until the end of summer.”

“And Rhiannon?” Colin’s voice went lower. “Is she coming?”

Rhiannon’s heart seemed to pause. What was she going to do?

Malcolm’s hands tightened into fists. Her brother was protective of her, and he probably always would be. It upset her and made her sad, especially because Malcolm was married now and had a new life of his own. Rhiannon didn’t call to check in with him every day anymore, as she used to. It wasn’t fair to him.

She wished Paul hadn’t called him. The last thing she wanted were bad feelings between her brother and Colin.

“Let me talk with my sister,” Malcolm said in a clipped tone. “You wait here.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“THANK YOU,” RHIANNON breathed as Malcolm headed up the stairs.

When he appeared on the landing, she intercepted him and put her finger to her lips, motioning him to follow her. Together they climbed the rest of the way, then went around the corner and into the library.

Inside, Malcolm leaned against the doorjamb while Rhiannon paced. She had such nervous energy. Colin’s presence had affected her physically, even without the dilemma she faced regarding his father’s funeral.

“You didn’t need to come,” Rhiannon said to her brother, keeping her voice low so Colin wouldn’t hear her downstairs. “I’ll manage this. I’m sorry Paul phoned you.”

“Well, I’m not sorry. I was going to stop by tonight, anyway.” Malcolm hooked a thumb toward the staircase. “What’s going on with the Walkers? I hadn’t heard anything about Dougie Walker passing on.”

Dougie. Yes, that had been Colin’s dad’s first name. Rhiannon sighed. “I hadn’t heard, either. It’s terrible. But don’t worry—I’ll phone Jessie and lend my support that way. She’ll understand that I can’t go to the funeral.”

Malcolm nodded. He seemed grim-faced. “How about you? How’s everything going with Mum and Dad being gone?”

My life is changing. But she smiled cheerfully at him. “It’s lovely.”

His brow creased. “Have you heard from them this week?”

“No,” she said lightly, “but they’re in the Galápagos Islands by now, swimming with rare Pacific sea turtles, I imagine. Can’t you just see Mum’s face?”

Malcolm chuckled. “Dad’s taking this retirement thing seriously, isn’t he?”

“You sound like an American,” she teased.

“We came back from Vermont last weekend. Kristy’s getting her dual citizenship. Did I tell you that?”

“No,” Rhiannon said softly. “You didn’t.”

They were silent for a moment. Until Malcolm had met his new wife, Kristin—Kristy was his nickname for her—Rhiannon and her brother had kept up their tradition of talking together every day on the telephone. They’d started shortly after she’d come home from the hospital as a child and he’d been packed off to boarding school in New England. Her daily phone call with her big brother had been a key part of her healing process. Sometimes all they’d shared was a knock-knock joke. But it had been enough.

“Rhi, I don’t want you to feel you can’t call me when you need to, just because I’m married. It bothers me that you’re here alone. I told Mum that, but—”

“Oh, you did, did you?” Rhiannon had refrained from calling him because she’d been feeling protective of her brother, not wanting to disturb him during his newlywed year. But now she was a wee bit peeved by his lack of faith in her.

She folded her arms. “I’m doing fine, Malcolm. I’m taking care of the manor and its inhabitants quite well.” The dog’s rubber ball rested against the leg of a chair. Rhiannon rolled it toward him with her toe. “Did you know that Molly was injured? I spoke with the vet and arranged for her care. Soon she’ll be home and all will be well.”

Smiling slightly, Malcolm bent over and picked up the slobbery dog’s ball, covered with pet hair and tooth marks, evidence of Molly’s love for her castle life. “Sorry, Rhi, I’m not trying to upset you. But I was thinking of the gathering next week.” He looked meaningfully at her.

Oh, the gathering. Malcolm was talking about the Highland Games that were held each year in the nearby village. Rhiannon had forgotten.

Their castle had long been the place where the pipe bands assembled to begin the parade that wound through the village and on to the competition grounds. As lady of the castle, Rhiannon’s mum always played hostess.

“Kristy wants to attend the Highland Games this year,” Malcolm said. “She’s willing to be the castle hostess.”

Kristy! So Rhiannon was to be passed over?

Rhiannon felt a burning in her eyes. Surprisingly, it bothered her—cut her to the quick that she would be overlooked for her mum’s job. Still, it made sense. Malcolm’s wife wasn’t agoraphobic as Rhiannon was. Kristin wouldn’t be challenged by standing in the castle’s front drive, greeting the pipers who marched in the bands and the villagers who came to walk alongside them.

“Rhi, I have to make a call,” Malcolm said absently, glancing at a text message on his phone. “Would you like me to walk Colin out?”

“No,” she said, her voice so soft it was barely audible, even to her. “I’ll do it.”

Malcolm snapped up his head. “But he might ask you questions.”

Meaning questions she wouldn’t want to answer.

Her heart drummed. “Yes. I suppose he might.”

“He doesn’t know how to treat you,” Malcolm protested.

“I know.” And that was her biggest fear. Her life was so controlled and there were rules about who she chose to speak to and who she didn’t. Colin had shown himself to be someone who didn’t follow protocol. He was unpredictable and that could be dangerous.

She would have no control with him, which wasn’t good for her peace of mind. And yet... “I wonder what would have happened between us if I’d never been kidnapped,” she mused aloud.

Malcolm made a strangled noise.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She and her brother rarely spoke of the kidnapping; it was their unspoken pact. Malcolm had never forgiven himself for what he thought he’d let happen to her when she was eight years old. “It’s not your fault,” she reassured him. “It never was. You were ten years old. You were traumatized yourself.”

“I wasn’t left alone with those monsters for all that time,” Malcolm bit out. “You were.”

She shook her head, closing her eyes briefly to banish the memory. “Never mind,” she said quietly. “It’s finished. But I have to talk with Colin because I have to say something about his dad. He’s obviously quite broken up.”

She didn’t have a choice about facing him. Once, he’d been her friend. And even if he hadn’t been, wouldn’t her mother have done so, too, if she were here?

That was what the lady of the manor did.

Her hands shaking, she took a deep breath and headed for the stairs, descending with as much grace as she could muster.

When he saw her, Colin rose to his feet. Her cat jumped from his lap and crouched beneath the table, staring warily at Rhiannon. But he’d had his reward—an empty, licked-clean saucer on the floor told the tale of Colin’s generosity to his namesake.

Rhiannon would have laughed if not for Colin’s presence. He stood with a looming charisma that she couldn’t ignore; he had a tall, rangy body, with a rugged masculinity about him that destroyed her composure.

“Rhiannon,” he murmured, in a deep, husky voice.

Nobody spoke her name that way. A long, lazy breath of longing, of desire.

She didn’t know how she dared to keep her gaze on him. She wished she could have studied him from behind a one-way mirror. That way she could look at him to her heart’s content, without worrying about being touched or seen.

He smiled at her, seemingly entranced. His lips moved. So...erotic...and so dangerous, and yet she couldn’t turn away. She’d forgotten that she was wearing her painting smock. Well-worn denim, old and comfortable—it was essentially a halter top that she didn’t need to wear a bra with. It was a weird quirk of hers—she had so many weird quirks, it seemed—but Rhiannon hated wearing a bra when she painted; she preferred to be comfortable. Usually, no one saw her, so she wasn’t concerned about the fact that she showed...well, cleavage. Possibly the outlines of everything she had.

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