A Highlander in a Pickup - Laura Trentham Page 0,102

slowed her down, and he was able to close the distance to a dozen feet.

She darted to the right, down an alley between buildings on Main Street. He hesitated at the street, questioning his sanity in following a strange woman into an alley. One of her bags brushed against the brick wall, snagged, and ripped open, sending items scattering along the concrete.

Her hoodie fell back, revealing a set of pixie-like features framed by choppy, dark brown-red hair. While she looked like a disheveled Tinker Bell, the curses falling from her lips weren’t Disney-approved. The memory clicked the pieces into place.

She was the lead singer of the Scunners, the Scottish rock band that had performed during the last two summer Highland festivals. He’d spent both concerts admiring her energy and spirit onstage. The bright red hair she’d sported over the summer had dimmed like her spirit. Dark circles under her eyes marked her fatigue, and her cheekbones cut sharply in her face. She sniffed and worked to gather her purchases. Was she … crying?

Stepping forward, he said, “May I help?”

She startled and stepped away from him, holding a bottle of generic aspirin to her chest. “What do you want?” Her Scottish accent still counted as unusual in Highland even with Gareth and Iain officially transplanted.

Holt held his hands up and spoke as if she were a spooked horse. “Just offering to help you gather your things.”

“Were you following me?” Her shoulders hunched inward. She wore several T-shirts under the hoodie. So many, in fact, she was shapeless.

“Of course not.” He forced his wince into a hopefully non-creepy smile and held out a can of soup that had rolled to his feet. “Thought you looked familiar and I was trying to place you.”

She snatched it out of his hand and juggled the bags. A jar of peanut butter cracked against the concrete, the plastic lid splitting in two. She squatted to scoop it up, her head down, but not before he noticed her chin wobbling.

“Let me—”

“I don’t need your help.” Her steely tone was weakened by the sound of the bag rending further.

He scooped the torn bag out of the crook of her arm and tipped it up so nothing else would escape. “Of course you don’t, but my mama would tan my hide if I didn’t help anyway.”

They faced off in an impasse before she shrugged and spun on her heel, heading to the narrow alley that ran behind the Main Street shops. A bike with a front basket and a canvas saddlebag leaned against the brick wall. The rims were rusty, and one side of the handlebar had lost its grip, leaving an exposed metal rod.

She repacked the items from her bag into the front basket, including a loaf of white bread, a half-gallon of milk, and tea bags among other staples. Nothing that could be considered an indulgence, except for maybe the tea.

She plucked the items out of the bag he held and filled the back satchel. This included the peanut butter, baking potatoes, cans of soup, and an assortment of ramen noodle packages. She straddled the bike. “I guess I should thank you,” she said grudgingly.

Without another word or a backward glance, she peddled off, making the turn onto Maple Street and disappearing through the dancing yellow leaves.

Holt shook his head and strolled to his truck, trying and failing not to wonder how the lead singer of the Scunners had landed back in Highland after the festival. Surely the Scunners were touring or had gigs or whatever. Questions niggled at him.

With his own meager supplies of food, which included plenty of indulgences like beer and frozen pizza and a banana cream pie from the Highland Lass restaurant, on the passenger seat, he pointed his truck toward the farm and his evening chores. Even with the harvest in, he had to make sure the cows got milked and the animals fed.

A small, hunched figure walked on the narrow shoulder of the road ahead of him, pushing a bike. The front tire was flat. He rolled the passenger window down and crept along beside her. She stared straight ahead as if his diesel truck was a gnat she could ignore.

“Can I give you a ride?”

“No.” Her voice clipped any hint of her Scottish accent.

“I’m basically harmless. I promise.” He tried on his best Boy Scout smile even though it had been a while.

She cocked her eyebrows and heaved a sigh. “Basically harmless? Not exactly a resounding recommendation. I find it