Molly in the Middle Read online

  Molly In The Middle

  Stobie Piel

  Contents

  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

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  CROOKED LOVE

  "You are honorable to tell me you won't stay. So that I don't engage in frivolous dreams." Miren tried to keep her voice steady, but she couldn't deny a pang of regret; better never to think of it than to be disappointed. "I will remain focused on my own task." She straightened her back. "My sheep. I'll need a new ram. Are you still planning to secure a shearing opportunity?"

  Nathan laughed. "You're a practical little wolf, aren't you?"

  Miren's eyes narrowed to slits. "What do you mean, 'wolf'?"

  "You've got a way of targeting opponents and going in for the kill."

  "I do not." Miren liked the comparison. A rakish smile grew on her lips as she imagined herself in that role. "Perhaps I do. Be that as it may, I must plan for the future."

  "As a matter of fact, part of Simon's task in Aberfoyle is to secure a shepherd to aid your progress."

  Miren brightened with excitement. "Truly? As long as he remembers that I am boss."

  "No man is likely to forget that."

  Miren frowned, but her glee didn't abate. "They are my sheep, after all."

  "Maybe I can convince you that a night of fulfilled desire is worth a lifetime of dreams."

  Nathan's voice changed, growing low and softly teasing. Miren peeked at him from the corner of her eye. "That seems unlikely." She paused. "How?"

  LOVE SPELL ®

  April 1997

  Published byDorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  276 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10001

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  Copyright © 1997 by Stobie PielAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The name "Love Spell" and its logo are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Dedicated to my sister, Lila Haghkerdar, in memory of our childhood with Border collies and Katahdin sheep. I am grateful and proud to share those memories with you.

  To Joanna Cagan, who loves soft, squishy Border collie puppies and fat, stubborn sheep, too.

  Chapter One

  Argyll Scotland

  Spring, 1872

  I don't like sheep. They are witless and silly, stubborn at times, and their rules of conduct are an insult to a thinking animal. Yet here I am, sitting beside my mistress, surveying the horizon, and what do I see? Sheep. Everywhere.

  This task of "herding" is a strain to me, and one I hope to escape. I will escape! At all costs.

  Miren Lindsay sat cross-legged on a crop of heather. Her tartan blanket provided some comfort against scratched legs, but the icy wind racing west over Loch Fyne made the issue a sorry bargain. She gazed across the rolling horizon of Argyll, watching as her flock grazed.

  The finest flock in all Scotland. Every ewe looked fat and healthy. Her old ram appeared . . . proud. Stoic and noble and proud. A tiny smile grew on Miren's face. Her flock. It wasall she had left since her father died. All that remained for her since being driven from her family's land in Kilmartin.

  Since that time, a year's time, she and Molly had herded the flock through Argyll. Miren's thoughts halted. More accurately, the flock had moved through Argyll, and she and Molly had followed.

  Through autumn and into winter the flock headed slowly south nearly to Kintyre. They situated themselves through the cold months on a windswept crag of land, eking out a feeble existence on heather. Spring came, and they moved north toward the Sound of Bute. They spent a few weeks grazing their way through the ancient burial cairns of Dunadd.

  Apparently they found the ancient site tiresome, because they progressed onward until they reached the shores of Loch Fyne. They grazed awhile, then aimed north again. Miren had a worn map. They passed Lochgair, where they offended several farmers. Farther north, an irate gamekeeper demanded that Miren move her flock lest the local deer population be disturbed. Miren had learned during her tenure as shepherd that deer were held in much greater esteem than sheep.

  The past week had seen the sheep moving ever closer to the town of Inveraray. Perhaps they'd stay long enough for her to purchase supplies. Maybe even a new dress.

  After that, there was no telling. North into the highlands, west toward the sea . . . Miren couldn't guess, but her hopes that the flock would return to Kilmartin were long dashed.

  Miren peered down at her dog. An exquisite Border collie, just over a year old. Her coat was black and shiny, because Miren brushed her often. Molly had an attractive narrow stripe down her nose. Her full, bushy tail wagged easily.

  Except at sheep. Molly lay beside Miren. Not at attention as a Border collie should be, but comfortably on her side. Her head tilted away as if the sight of sheep pained her. As their months together progressed, Miren became more and more convinced that her cherished companion hated sheep.

  Miren banished the thought and patted Molly's head. Mollytilted her ear for better scratching. Miren complied. "We won't be at this forever, Molly. I promise. After a few more seasons, we'll have accumulated enough money from selling all this wool . . ."

  Miren paused and eyed her sheep. They were Highland Blackface sheep. Their wool wasn't particularly salable. They could be sold for mutton, but Miren refused. She had become attached to her flock. Their lives were her responsibility. They wouldn't end up in someone's larder.

  No need to think about their shortcomings now. Miren had plans. "When we've gotten them into shape, we'll sell the entire flockto a worthy buyer, of courseand we'll purchase a ticket to America."

  Miren's chin firmed as she ran over her much-considered plans. It sounded good. Easy. "We'll take a ship to America, and my Uncle Robert will take us in, and you'll have a bed of silk beside mine. We'll need more sheep, but more lambs are coming."

  Molly's dark brown eyes tilted upward as if weighing the alternatives.

  "Of course, I'm not entirely sure how we'll get them to market, or into a shearing situation that might profit us." Miren frowned. "If you would cooperate and herd, as Mr. Fergus assured me you would . . . that day might come sooner."

  Molly looked away. Apparently, no promise was worth the effort of herding sheep.

  "They seem to be on the move again, Molly." Miren sighed heavily and rose to her feet. She collected her tartan blanket and pleated it carefully. The plaid came from her father's Lindsay heritage, green crossed with burgundy. She used it as a blanket, as a dress, and as her only possession from the past.

  Miren pinned the tartan over her shoulder with her silver brooch. When she purchased her puppy a year ago, with her last shillings, Mr. Fergus had given her a brooch to clasp hertartan. Almost as if he endured
a pang of guilt.

  Miren glanced at her dog. Maybe Mr. Fergus knew, even then, that his prettiest puppy hated sheep.

  Miren watched her flock plod across the slope. ''I suppose we'll have to see where they're heading."

  Or we could just let them amble off on their own . . . Molly eyed the sheep with distaste. Yes, the fat fools were ambling off again. Naturally. Sheep move at sunset.

  Molly glanced up at her young mistress's face. Small, square chin firm. Eyes narrow and sure. Sure of what, Molly couldn't guess. Sure of aimless wandering that led nowhere, most likely.

  A lesser dog might desert her post for a finer kind of scavenging. Perhaps to become a pet. Yes, a house pet. That was Molly's fondest dream. To be carried about in a coach, with livery and several horses. Humans in dutiful attendance.

  She had seen a dog in these circumstances before. A small, foolish white dog with curling, ridiculous fur and pointy ears. A dog with a red bow atop its frivolous head. Molly pondered that bow, and decided she would do without that when the time came.

  And the time would come. The young mistress was a kind owner, a generous feeder, but she had no skill with sheep. Instead, the girl followed the sheep with dedicated persistence, praised them lavishly, and tried very hard to enjoy their company.

  Unfortunately, Molly was fond of the girl. She had bonded. She would stick to Miren Lindsay to the end. So if Molly was to secure a lavish position, it was necessary that Miren secure one, too.

  The sheep aimed for a new field of tall grain. Miren trudged after them, but Molly pretended not to notice their direction and eased off the path.

  "Molly! You're going the wrong way. Come!"

  Molly returned to the path and forced herself into a reluctant jog to catch up. There was just no losing them. The entire flock spread across a wide field. Only their backs showed because the tall grass nearly covered their chubby bodies. Molly turned her back to the flock and gazed at a high-flying bird.

  Miren patted her head and directed her attention back to the flock. "Good dog. Good sheep. Dogs herd sheep."

  Only if a cliff was in sight . . . Molly eyed the sheep in intense dislike. They'd moved all night. Just when they seemed to settle, something startled them, and they moved off again. Molly's legs felt stiff. Her tail drooped.

  The sheep lay in fat bunches now, chewing their cuds and looking unconcerned. One fat ewethe one called, foolishly, Blossomactually had the nerve to seize sprigs of grass while lying down. A low snarl grew in Molly's throat.

  "Molly . . ." The warning voice. It never was followed by anything resembling punishment, so Molly growled again.

  Miren patted her head again and slipped her a dried cookie. Molly took it, but her gaze fixed on Blossom. If the old ewe happened to die, and Miren could bring herself to cook it . . . One could always hope.

  "They look content, don't they?" Miren sighed. "We can sleep here for a while."

  Molly glared at the flock in disgust. Don't count on it.

  "I am Nathan MacCallum." Nathan paused as his hosts turned pale. His gaze flicked from Lady MacCallum to her son. The son recovered first.

  "That's impossible."

  Nathan allowed himself to smile. He felt like a wolf cornering prey. "Surely you knew that my father was searching for me?" He spoke innocently, his eyes wide. Irene MacCallum just stared, her narrow, aristocratic face devoid of expression. Her son showed more anger.

  "We understood there was an accident during my stepfather's visit to America." Brent Edgington placed his hand onhis mother's shoulder. "Kenneth MacCallum, my stepfather, was killed in a fire . . . With his son."

  Nathan furrowed his brow as if in grief. "Part of that story is indeed true. Kenneth MacCallum is dead." Nathan glanced around the sitting room. The seats were stiff, upholstered in silk damask. Useless armaments hung on the wall, claymores with their basket hilts, sgian-dhus, ancient dirks. A strange and adversarial meeting place. Nathan considered it an appropriate setting.

  "Please, be seated, and I will explain the story as it occurred." Nathan spoke as if he owned the manor. Which, by law, he did. "I'm certain it will ease your hearts to know the details of his ending."

  Lady MacCallum still hadn't spoken. Brent helped her into a high-backed chair and held her hand. A small reddish-brown dog scurried into the room. It resembled a tiny sled dog, but fiercer. It growled and yipped, backing toward its mistress in both fright and anger. Lady MacCallum took it onto her lap. "Hush, Muffin." She stroked the creature's back, and it softened into a lump.

  Irene MacCallum wasn't as old as she looked. Her tense, overly poised manner made her seem elderly, but her age was forty-four, according to Simon. She kept her chin elevated as she spoke, her lips curled in perpetual disdain.

  "Muffin is a Pomeranian. Queen Victoria has several, as her most cherished pets. They are of German origin. Muffin's breeding is, of course, impeccable. She is related by both sire and dam to the queen's own Skiffy."

  Nathan glanced at the little dog, wondering why anyone would go out of their way to breed such a feeble creature.

  "Mother's pride and joy." Brent chuckled, but the effect was strained. "Your arrival is a surprise, naturally. When we received Simon's message, we had no idea that you were with him." Brent was trying to sound calm. He even smiled. But Nathan saw the faint sheen of perspiration on the young man's face. It told far more than words.

  Simon MacTavish stood beside Nathan, holding his seaman's cap in his hands. For the first time in Nathan's experience, Simon appeared deferential. He even held himself in a slightly bowed stance. It wasn't the Scotsman's normal attitude.

  "Young Nathan suggested sending a message by post, but I felt it was better for Madam to receive this news in person. As you may remember, it was I who discovered the existence of your husband's wee bairn . . ." Simon cast a sidelong glance Nathan's way. Nathan repressed a groan. Wee bairn, indeed. "As I verified in America two years ago, Nathan is the only offspring of Kenneth's first marriage to poor, fragile Glenna Reid."

  Brent straightened, his expression revealing offense. "We know, of course, that Kenneth had a previous marriage, and that it ended in tragedy when they went to America. We understood, however, that she died before giving birth."

  "Just as poor Kenneth believed for all those years." Simon paused and sighed. "But in fact, his wife survived long enough to bear his son. The proof of this was submitted to Kenneth when I revealed his son's whereabouts in the spring of last year."

  "We remember." Irene's voice revealed no anger, just controlled poise. "And naturally, Kenneth was ecstatic to learn he had a son. Naturally. Laird MacCallum and I were both widowed, burdened by grief. Our union was blessed with much devotion. I couldn't have been happier to learn that his first, tragic wife bore him a son."

  Irene patted her son's hand and gazed up at him with an expression of maternal pride. Nathan considered the effect theatrical. "I understand that my father was ill. Perhaps this explains his wish to find his heir."

  Irene sighed and nodded. "He was ill. Very ill. Our physician, Dr. Patterson, felt that his intention to travel was unwise. For this reason, he insisted on accompanying Laird MacCallum to America. He confessed to me prior to theirdeparture that he feared Kenneth's years would be short."

  Irene paused as if regaining control of her emotions, but Nathan's jaw set hard. "He should know."

  Simon cast him a quick, warning glance. "I met your husband and Dr. Patterson when they arrived in Philadelphia. I took them to the agreed meeting place, where Nathan was waiting in eager readiness to meet his long-lost father. The reunion was tender, I assure you, but cut short by tragedy."

  Brent's chin elevated slightly, as if he attempted to contain emotion. "We have heard the sad tale, Simon. A fire broke out, killing all."

  "Not all, Mr. Edgington. When the fire broke out, Nathan and I were"Simon paused as if a delicate matter were broached"'checking the weather.' In our own respective spots."

  Nathan cast a dark glance Simo
n's way. Only Simon would resort to this excuse. "Unfortunately, your stepfather and Dr. Patterson perished in the blaze before it could be contained."

  Irene dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. Her dog growled. With her free hand, Irene squeezed it into silence. "A tragedy." She sniffed, then drew a pained breath. Her gaze shifted to Nathan, her expression more clinical than distraught. "We were never told your name. I assume you have proof of your identity?"

  Nathan affected confusion. "Do I need proof beyond Simon MacTavish's word?"

  "No. No, of course not." Irene shook her head. "Forgive me. There are so many shiftless persons in this day and age. Simon is, of course, perfectly trustworthy."

  "I have proof." Nathan reached into his vest and withdrew an ancient silver brooch. In ages past, it had been used to pin a tartan over the shoulder of a mighty chieftain. Kenneth MacCallum kept it as a badge of heritage.

  Irene's eyes widened into pale blue pools as she studied the brooch. "It is the MacCallum badge!"

  Simon nodded. "Your late husband gave this badge to hisson only an hour before his death. Its value is priceless, due to its antiquity and fine craftsmanship. As you know, Lady MacCallum, Kenneth never let anyone touch this badge."

  Irene sat back in her seat. Brent's hand slid from his mother's shoulder and hung limp at his side. "Then you are indeed Kenneth MacCallum's son." Brent drew a tight breath, then affected the most inappropriate, inauthentic smile Nathan had ever seen. "Laird MacCallum, allow me to be the first to welcome you to Scotland."

  Miren lay on her back, staring at the blue sky. Fat clouds hung above her, changing shapes in gradual precision to look like . . . sheep. One broke away from the mother cloud. Lambing season approached. Or would approach, if her ram hadn't lost interest in servicing the ewes.

  After two weeks of wandering, her flock had finally settled in a lush pasture. A stream raced along the western edge, and Loch Fyne lay concealed to the east. Unfortunately, Miren detected a wheat field just north. That could be trouble, should a farmer discover her sheep trespassing.