scorned. Being friendly with Mad Annie Tulloch wouldn’t help matters.
“Go on with ye, lass,” Cleghorn said. “Yer stepfather will be wonderin’ after ye.”
“Wonderin’ after his dinner, perhaps,” she muttered beneath her breath. She formed a pocket in her plaid by tucking a loose corner of the blue-and-green wool into her belt. Stashing her thread inside while Cleghorn disappeared into a storage area behind a curtain.
The bell rang again just as Finlay showed Ronnie a favorite trick: making a piece of rope appear in the boy’s hand. As usual, Ronnie collapsed into giggles.
A man entered, pausing to glance about the shop. Bearded. Tall. Dressed like an Englishman.
Because he was an Englishman—the only one in Glenscannadoo.
Long strides carried him past the first row of shelves. He removed his hat—an Englishman’s hat, once fine and black, now gray and tattered—and raked a hand through sun-streaked brown hair. Mist decorated his shoulders, which were at once lean and powerful beneath his black coat. He plucked up a bolt of linen, a tin of buttons, and a pair of shears.
His motions were efficient. Decisive. The Englishman often moved with purpose, she’d noticed, as though he didn’t bother expending effort until he’d locked upon whatever he desired. Then, he pursued his quarry as though nothing else existed.
Amusement quirked her lips as he laid his purchases on the counter. “Ye’d do better buyin’ oiled canvas, English,” she advised. “That roof of yours cannae shelter ye from a bird’s wayward shite, never mind the rain.” She flicked the fine linen with her finger and looked him up and down. “Petticoats’ll flatter yer bonnie figure, no doubt. But they’re bluidy useless against a Highland winter.”
His mouth twisted, not precisely a smile.
But, then, she and he weren’t precisely friendly.
Hazel eyes flickered over her. “Miss Tulloch.”
“Mr. Huxley.”
“How is your father? Feeling more amiable, perhaps?”
She chuckled. “Stepfather. And ye know better than most Angus isnae amiable, even when the sky is shinin’ rather than pissin’.”
“Pity.” His attention wandered toward Cleghorn, who’d emerged through the curtain and gone to remove a piece of rope from Ronnie’s mouth. “He should take my last offer.”
The lines around John Huxley’s eyes suggested he’d once been a laugher—or at least a grinner—but she rarely saw it. For any Englishman, being trapped in the nether creases of the Scottish Highlands might do that, she supposed. He’d also spent the past year battling over property rights with the stubbornest Scotsman ever to don tartan. That would put anyone in a foul temper. Still, this was the same flat, cynical look Huxley had worn since arriving in the glen summer before last.
He’d come to claim land left to him by a friend. The property, which abutted MacPherson land, shared commonty rights to the loch in the neighboring glen. Thick woodlands, abundant deer, clear streams, and access to the loch for swimming and fishing made Huxley’s land an ideal hunting property. Annie imagined the Englishman could demand a fortune from some fancy English lord, were Angus agreeable to settling matters. But he wasn’t.
As things stood, Huxley couldn’t legally sell until the dispute over the commonty was settled, and Angus would only settle upon terms if Huxley agreed to sell the property to him. Huxley had promised his dead friend that he wouldn’t sell the land to Angus MacPherson.
A year later, the stalemate hadn’t yet broken.
Occasionally, John Huxley would pay Angus a visit, handing Annie his hat with that same calm, weary expression. The two men would argue a bit before Angus told him where he could stow his offer. Then, Huxley would leave. Each time she saw him, his beard was a little thicker, his hat a little grayer.
But his expression never changed. She sometimes wondered what had made him so bone-weary—apart from Scotland’s inhospitable weather.
Now, she tilted her head and rested a hip against the counter. “Ye’re stubborn as he is. Why not sell to Angus, eh? Ye could return to London, or wherever it is ye come from. Have a proper roof. Have a proper hat.” She scanned his face, noting the beard could use some trimming. Having seen the man bare-faced, she wondered if he’d grown it to disguise his preposterously handsome features. His eyes remained visible, of course, so it was a wasted effort.
That hazel gaze returned to examine her. “I shan’t be selling to Angus MacPherson.” Although he said it without heat, she