Fire Maidens Scotland (Billionaires & Bodyguards #6) - Anna Lowe Page 0,31

drinking and driving. Plus, that makes the guests a captive audience. Oh! Oh! We could offer ax throwing or caber toss the next day.”

“Ax throwing?”

She thumped him on the shoulder. “It’s a thing now. Geez, where have you been?”

“Mali. Afghanistan. Gabon…”

Oops. She’d forgotten about the Foreign Legion. Still, she was on a roll now, so she plunged ahead.

“Didn’t Ryan, the foreman, win the caber toss in the Highland Games way back when?”

“I don’t know. Did he?”

She rolled her eyes. Clearly, Lachlan hadn’t spent his shifts chatting to the locals like she had. Then a new idea hit her, and she clapped in delight. “Better yet, hen parties. I bet they’d get into throwing axes. Oh! Oh! Divorce parties. That’s a thing, too. You could use a copy of your marriage certificate for a target.”

He laughed. “A thing, you say?”

She nodded firmly. “I saw it with my own eyes. Well, the ad. In Las Vegas. And they were using rifles, not axes. But it’s the same idea.”

Lachlan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Las Vegas comes to the Highlands. I’m not sure about that.”

“Well, Mungo likes my ideas. Don’t you, sweetie?”

Mungo wagged his tail.

Lachlan laughed. “That dog is no more a businessman than my boot. But you’re full of ideas, lass.”

Her breath caught. Wow. Was that an actual compliment? It sure sounded like one. And, boy. He really did sound like Trevor. Not just the beautiful accent, but the amusement — even wonder — in his voice. That tiny hint of You know, that just might work.

She’d bet anything it would. Her parents had used similar ideas to supplement the income of Wildcat Distillery, though their guests were mostly mountain bike enthusiasts who liked to wind down their days with good grub and fine drink. And that was way out in Wyoming. Trevor’s distillery was a mere two and a half hours outside Edinburgh, and hundreds of tourists passed by every day. All Lachlan — er, the new owner — had to do was to lure those tourists off the motorway for a short time.

Lachlan went quiet for a while, and she waited, sure he was preparing to shoot her down. But when he finally spoke, it was only to ask, “What did Trevor think of those ideas?”

“He liked them.” Her voice cracked a little. “He said it was high time to try.”

They lapsed into silence again, and Holly’s eyes dropped back to Trevor’s letter.

Life. Love. No regrets…

“Careful, Mungo.” Gently, she guided the panting dog away from that little treasure. She held it to her chest, wondering if she would show it to her grandkids someday and say, A wise old man once gave me this advice, and I will pass it on to you now.

Then she caught herself. Grandkids?

Her eyes slid to Lachlan, but just as quickly, she jerked them away.

Meanwhile, Trevor’s words echoed through her mind. Life. Love. No regrets. Was the moral of the story that she ought to move on, or should she give Lachlan one last chance?

The thought dogged her as they drove out of town and down a winding country road. Gradually, the scenery went from nice to downright spectacular. Not that Lachlan seemed to notice. He’d grown up in the next valley over, and he was still uptight about any dangers, real or imagined. But Holly…

She swiveled her head around. The mountains rose higher and opened up to a spectacular, misty valley. The road wound up past stone walls and purple heather. Purple thistles dotted the glen, making Holly smile. Maybe she ought to take her cue from Scotland’s national flower — tough, bristly, and defiant, yet pretty at the same time. Thistle brought hope and color to a broody landscape, and that fit, too.

Lachlan looked over in an unspoken question.

“Nothing,” she murmured, channeling her inner thistle.

Her dragon giggled at the idea, and Lachlan cocked his head. She hid a smile. Mystifying Lachlan had its appeal. The man hated mysteries he couldn’t unravel. Did he know how much time she’d spent at Creag Aerden — rocky point — over the past few years?

As they cruised past the gatehouse marking the property line, her pulse skipped.

“Look, Mungo! We’re nearly home.” Then she caught the slip and corrected herself. “You’re nearly home.”

Still, no matter what the future held, Creag Aerden would always feel like her second home. But would the place feel hauntingly empty without Trevor? She glanced uncertainly at the urn. Who would take care of Mungo? Come to think of it, who would take care of