at the unexpected sight greeting him.
A blackfaced sheep munched on flower heads while a lass in a rainbow skirt taunted it. Had the lack of sleep left him addled? The woman was lithe with wavy, red hair escaping from what may have once been a neat bun. Was he dreaming? Was he still in Scotland? He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. The lass was still there.
He unlatched the window and raised the sash. The sharp cry of a blackbird greeted him along with the trills of other songbirds. A blast of humid heat left him feeling slightly braised. No, he was definitely not in Scotland, and if he needed further proof, the woman’s accent was husky and honeyed and all Southern. Her voice reminded him a bit of Rose and Isabel, but sexier. Much sexier.
“You are not endearing yourself to me, Ozzie. Don’t you want water and something to eat besides flowers?” The woman had her hands on her hips and spoke like she was berating a small child. Unless American-born blackface sheep were smarter than Scottish ones, the beastie would be unmoved by her words.
Sure enough, the blackfaced sheep merely turned to a fresh pot and beheaded more flowers.
The woman’s voice grew more strident. “If you don’t quit eating flowers and move your heinie toward the barn, I’m going to give you a real embarrassing haircut. Everyone is going to laugh at you.”
Amusement bubbled up and built a pressure in his chest. Ach, he felt lighter than he had in ages, as if his sleep had been enchanted.
“Bo-Peep, I presume? Or did you spring from a Rabbie Burns poem?” He cleared his throat and recited:
“Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.”
The woman whipped her head back and forth, then spun in a circle. The airy fabric of her skirts swished like a kaleidoscope. She wore a tight black leotard with a deep scoop along her back. Her reaction triggered laughter he did his best to smother. He suspected she wasn’t in a place to appreciate the farcical nature of the scene.
Finally, she tilted her head back and homed in on him like a falcon. “You!” She imbued the word with recrimination and accusation.
“Me? What have I done?” He leaned farther out of the window, the wood scraping along his bare stomach. He’d fallen into bed wearing nothing but his underpants the night before.
The sheep circled around the woman as if resentful her attention had shifted to another animal and bumped her in the bum. The woman yelped and high-stepped a few paces closer to his window and away from the sheep.
He was having a hard time controlling his laughter. “Ahem … do you need a hand?”
“Does it look like I need a hand?”
His sarcasm meter registered atomic. How to answer? With politeness or the truth? Because the lass obviously needed help, yet her ire was at combustible levels.
While he dithered, she precluded his response with an eye roll and a toss of her head. “Yes! I need a dadgum hand. Get down here.”
“Aye, then, I’ll be down in a tick.” He pulled clothes out of his rucksack and put on the first thing at hand, an olive-green utility kilt and a black T-shirt. With no socks materializing in the mound he drew out, he decided to forgo his boots, which he’d left at the front door last night.
He wound his way through the unfamiliar home, unlocked the set of doors that faced the flowering field, and stepped outside. Amazingly, the air-con had blunted the effects of the heat when he’d been at the window, and he felt the brunt of it now. The atmosphere was thick and humid and starkly opposite the chilly morning air at Cairndow he’d breathed in the day before.
“You’re Iain Connors, I suppose?” The woman was both smaller (in stature) and bigger (in personality) than he’d expected.
“Aye, and you are Anna Maitland.” No reason to frame it as a question. Isabel had sketched out her basic bio for him. Anna owned Maitland Dance Studio and had been left with the task of planning the Highland festival. At least until now. It seemed he’d arrived not a minute too soon by the look of things.
Of course, Isabel had left out some fundamental information, like how her friend’s rich red hair glinted in the summer sun like embers ready to catch everything around them on fire. Or the way her movements