“I’m telling you all of this so you’ll realize that your claim to the land is groundless. Just because there’s a piece of paper that says it’s yours doesn’t make it so.” She raised her voice defiantly then.
“Glen MacKenna belongs to him. What will you do with the land? Go back to America and forget all about it?”
Isabel could see how distraught the woman was, so now was not the time to tell her that her son may well be going to prison for his role in attempted murder. It was obvious she was protective of him and would be defensive. Isabel would let any accusations come from the police.
She tried to sound understanding when she said, “I’m sorry for all you’ve gone through. I truly am.
But that doesn’t change the legality of Compton’s will. It’s final. I’ve signed the papers and I own Glen MacKenna now.”
“So my son is being cheated out of his inheritance,” Freya said as though the very thought were incomprehensible. She then straightened in her chair and looked straight into Isabel’s eyes. “I suppose Clive may have to take you to court, then, to get what’s rightfully his.”
“Even if that happened, he can’t ever sell it. Compton’s will is specific. And it’s obvious that Clive’s only interest in the land is the profit he would make by selling it to developers.”
“Why would you keep what doesn’t belong to you? You selfish bitch,” Freya hissed in a whisper.
“Selfish? I don’t agree,” Isabel said quietly, hoping her tone would calm the woman. “The Patterson Group, James Reid, and your son have big plans for the land. Simply put, they would destroy it. I’m making sure they can’t.”
Graeme interrupted. He called out to Freya and waited for her at the top of the steps.
Freya stood but kept her attention on Isabel. “Is it done? Have you already signed the papers?”
“Yes.”
Freya didn’t say good-bye. She put her purse over her arm and walked out of the pub with her head held high.
Isabel watched her leave. She didn’t feel guilty. She was thinking about future generations. She believed it was her duty to protect the beauty of God’s gift. The glorious Highlands belonged to the people, and whatever she could do to preserve the land she would do.
It came to her in that instant. She had her answer. She immediately turned her phone on and called Donal Gladstone to tell him what she wanted to do. He was so excited by her proposal, he promised to do everything in his power to make it happen.
Michael had kept his eye on Isabel while he’d been talking to Sinclair. She walked over to join them.
“How are you feeling, Inspector?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” he assured her.
Isabel insisted on looking at the injury. “It’s not bleeding anymore, but you might need stitches.”
“Are you ready to leave?” Michael asked her.
“In just a minute.” She hurried over to the bartender and asked him to put some ice in a plastic bag.
“Does the pub always clear out when Clive Harcus comes in?” she asked him.
“Pretty much,” he said. “He’s bad for business. The locals are afraid of him and for good reason.
He’s quite the bully. Word will spread that Clive is locked up, and there will be a crowd here tomorrow night.”
Isabel thanked him for the ice bag and handed it to Sinclair. “This will help reduce the swelling.”
Once again the inspector assured her that he was fine, but from the way he was smiling at Isabel, Michael could tell he was appreciative of her concern.
He shook Michael’s hand. “I’ll talk to you soon,” he promised.
Isabel was suddenly in a hurry to get back to the hotel. After the brief interaction with Clive Harcus, she felt the need for a hot shower.
Michael was more relaxed now that Harcus was locked up, and yet he wasn’t ready to let his guard down. Admittedly, he wasn’t as desperate to get her on a plane back to Boston, though.
Tomorrow they had another meeting with Gladstone, who had told Isabel he would have preliminary papers ready to go over. The meeting was set for four P.M.
An hour after the scene at the pub, Isabel was ready for bed, but she couldn’t unwind. She was too revved up to sleep just yet. She thought about turning on her phone to check her emails and texts, but she couldn’t make herself do it. She hated answering emails and texts almost as much as she hated talking on the phone. Realizing just how much she disliked the interruption actually made her smile. In high school her cell phone had been attached to her ear. It was the first thing she grabbed in the morning and the last thing she put away at night, but by the end of her college days she had developed a real dislike for the interruption of answering a call. She had certainly changed over the years.