Secret Garden
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.
