don’t want to go there scared. I’d like to get my fear under control first and if that means we have to take a roundabout way to get to Dunross, then that’s what we should do.
“You said you’d give me today and tomorrow, and you’d drive me wherever I wanted to go,” she reminded. “Don’t you want to know what’s going on up there, or would you rather walk in without a clue? I don’t even know who’s living on Glen MacKenna. I’m not going to rely on what Donal Gladstone tells me. I need to have all the facts before I make any decisions.”
“Who you’re going to sell the land to?”
“Yes,” she said. “People like to tell me about themselves. If, after they tell me what’s worrying them, I can steer them to talk about the MacKennas, I might find out what’s really going on.”
“Okay, we’ll do it your way, as long as you follow the rules. Remember, you don’t go anywhere without me.”
“I know,” she said. “I have a ground rule, too.”
Folding the map, he acted as though he hadn’t heard her.
“Michael?”
He reached over and put the map back in the glove compartment. “Yes?”
“I said I have a ground rule.”
“Okay. What is it?”
He was about to start the car when she said, “No hanky-panky.”
He burst out laughing. He didn’t think he had ever heard anyone say those words. He wanted her to say them again.
“Could you repeat that?”
Isabel cringed. Hanky-panky? She couldn’t come up with anything better than that? What was she? Ninety? She was beginning to think that her aunt Nora might have had a bigger influence on her vocabulary than she’d realized.
“You heard me. No hanky-panky, and that means no messing around. Do you agree?”
“Absolutely.”
Before she realized what he was going to do, he reached over, cupped the back of her neck with his hand and pulled her toward him. Then he stopped and waited.
“What are you doing?”
“I want to kiss you.”
“Okay.”
The kiss was fast but amazing all the same. He made her want more, much much more. He pulled back, turned the motor on, and started driving. He couldn’t have looked more unaffected by the kiss.
She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d started whistling.
Okay? She said okay? What was wrong with her? She was the one with the problem, not Michael. Apparently a kiss didn’t mean much to him, but now all she wanted to think about was how to get him to kiss her again.
She was such a fraud. The same old dilemma was once again staring her in the face. The only way she was ever going to get over him was to get away from him first, then concentrate on other things.
Like a career. She knew she was never going to stop caring about him, but eventually she hoped she
could move on. She didn’t want to be miserable for the rest of her life. She could only imagine how depressing the songs she would write would be. Songs of heartache, heartache, and more heartache.
She made a promise to herself. No matter what happened in the future, she wasn’t going to write any whiny, my-man-done-me-wrong songs.
She turned her thoughts to more important matters. She pulled out a smaller map from her bag and spread it across her knees. She had highlighted the villages and towns on the way.
She never had to go to anyone seeking information; they all came to her. As soon as she walked into a shop and said hello and mentioned how much she loved Scotland, Michael found a wall or a counter to lean against, crossed one ankle over the other, folded his arms across his chest, and patiently waited. It became his go-to stance. He thought he looked relaxed and nonthreatening. Isabel thought he looked as though he was ready to pounce at the first provocation. She also thought it was a comfort to have him close, though she was loath to admit it to him.
Michael wasn’t fazed by their openness with Isabel and their nervousness with him. He stayed just far enough away from her that her new friends—and they all considered themselves her friends after spending ten minutes with her—would focus on her and not worry about him.
She was recognized several times, and he admired her clever way of turning it around and deflecting the would-be fan.
The first time it happened they were in a shop crowded with what Isabel called knickknacks. She walked up to the register with some postcards she wanted to purchase. The teenage salesgirl behind the counter, wearing a tag with the name “Heather” clipped to her blue apron, did a double take the second she saw Isabel and blurted, “You’re that famous singer, aren’t you? Oh my God, it is you, isn’t it?” Her voice rose to a squeaky shout. “You’re really her, standing right here in front of me—”