‘I understand.’ He couldn’t help but cover her fumbling hand with his own, thumb drawing soothing circles over her skin. He’d thought them smooth, but he turned over her palm and saw more silver scars and calluses trailing down to her wrist, likely oven burns or more of that picking. She worked harder than anyone he knew. She deserved to keep the place that made her feel safe, even if she wasn’t around much to really use it. ‘I felt the same when Mum sold the house. It’s… hard,knowing you can never go home again. I don’t blame you for trying to prevent it. I just don’t want you to bite off more than you can chew.’
He smoothed the angry flesh on the side of her finger: his way of saying he saw her, saw all that anxiety brimming just under her surface. He wasn’t sure anyone else did, even if it was written in subtle marks all over her demeanour.
Rae looked down at his hand touching hers. He thought he’d gotten her back.
Fool’s hope. She pulled away, knees bumping against the coffee table. ‘If I can handle four years of culinary school, I can handle this.’
‘On your own?’
‘I’ll hire help.’
‘I’m a wee bit busier now it’s tourist season, but you know I’m here, too, aye?’
‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you, Struan.’
His chest leapt at the way she said his name, like a gentle current flowing through the stream he was named after. Whatever was between them was more than just desire. He’d lusted for people before, but never had their voice plucked through his nerve endings like this. Never had he worried for them and the smallest of scars on their skin.
‘I should go,’ she decided too quickly, grabbing her bag from the floor.
Disappointment tugged Struan’s posture further into the couch. He needed something. An acknowledgement of what they’d shared the evening in the fields. ‘Since I still have a head on my shoulders, I… er, take it you didn’t tell Martha about us?’
Rae faltered, grip around the strap of her canvas bag tightening. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’
It hurt, that denial. Maybe it had been a mistake, one better off not made again for Martha’s sake, but it had still meant something.
To him, at least.
When Rae turned her back and ambled out of the bookshop with her chin high, he wondered if he’d imagined it all. If this had really been nothing to her: the mud on her wellies, the grass stains on her dress.
But then, hadn’t he already known that?
15
‘I heard my soon-to-be daughter-in-law hounded you yesterday,’ was the first thing Myra said when Rae entered the farm shop the next day.
Rae chuckled, setting her basket of freshly cooled preserves on the counter, ready to be stocked. She’d made enough jars to send all of Scotland into a sugar-induced coma.
She was getting into the rhythm of things, staying up late and rising early to prepare her jams until her fingers were sticky more often than not. Since visitors were welcome to pick their own fruit rather than buy the pre-packed punnets, their lack of help hadn’t caused too many problems yet, and already the warm weather matched with her advertising efforts had lured families to the farm. She was starting to believe she might actually have a chance at successfully taking care of things while Dad was busy recovering from surgery.
Myra manning the farm shop helped, and she’d expanded her hours to accommodate the busy period. Like her children, she had a wild head of red curls and kind eyes. She had fast become Rae’s second chief taste-tester,right after Gran, who she couldn’t trust to offer honest feedback on account of her permanent disapproval.
‘Harper is lovely,’ Rae said. ‘You must be thrilled to have her join your family.’
The older woman brightened, both in agreement and at the sight of the new jars, all filled with the vibrant reds and deep burgundies of rich summer berries. ‘Almost as thrilled as I am about these new jams you’re trying out. What are we going for today?’
‘These ones are raspberry and rhubarb.’ Rae set the first batch out on the cherry wood counter, all labelled, and sealed with a red ribbon. Initially, she’d wondered if she’d get bored, the process much easier than the complex culinary techniques she was used to, but testing new flavours, combined from homegrown crops, was almost as exciting as the first time she’d been allowed to create a menu. Gran’s usual recipes were traditional, usually just one or two fruits that spread nicely on toast or scones, but there were so many combinations Rae wanted to try; ones that couldn’t be bought in supermarkets. ‘And these are honey, blueberry, and almond.’ On the last batch, she hesitated. ‘How are you with spice? Because I may or may not have gone a bit mad last night.’
Myra rose from her stool on her crutches, waggling her brows as she surveyed the display. ‘I’m not opposed to a bit of heat. Tell me more.’
Eagerly, Rae unscrewed the lid of her final batch and grabbed a sample spoon from the bowl she’d left out for visitors. ‘Taste it first.’
‘With pleasure.’ Myra dipped her spoon into the jar, then tentatively licked the thick red jam. Her brows rose into her unruly curls. ‘Oh, wow. Is that chilli in there?’
Rae nodded. ‘With strawberry and—’
‘Lime! It’s delicious!’ She went in for another spoonful, picking up a clean spoon and disposing of the used one. Rae might as well have been a winning contestant onSuperCookfor all the pride she felt at the reaction. It had been tough to get the balance of ingredients right: too hot, and the fruit would get lost, but too much citrus would sour the strawberries. ‘Do you make things like this in the restaurants you work in?’
‘No, actually. I usually work with savoury rather than sweet, and as a saucier, I have to go off the menus I’m given, so I try to play it safe.’
