Emma listened to the trio discuss why an apparently eligible bachelor shouldn’t be hiding in the woods and had to admit she was tempted to suggest that those girls perhaps rethink their plans. Guys who holed up in the boonies generally seemed to have good reasons for the same. She envisioned their quarry being an old man, grizzled and lacking critical grooming implements like a razor and shampoo. A bit like Bigfoot, only in a kilt.
“But he’s rich,” one of the women said.
“Gorgeous,” said another.
“Rich.”
“You already said that, idiot.”
“Is he American?” the third one said, looking slightly confused. “Or British?”
“He’s Scottish,” the first one stated firmly.
“No,” said the second woman just as firmly, “he’s—”
“A Sasquatch?” Emma asked.
The huntresses in heels turned three almost identical scowls on her, then gathered up their purchases and started toward the door in a huff. They hadn’t gotten outside before they were back in deep discussion about a new strategy for obtaining a sight of the very rich and elusive recluse in the forest.
Emma looked at the woman manning the register and attempted a smile. “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”
The woman smiled. “I’ve no argument with what you said. Those gels that come up from the south—” She shook her head again. “Not sure they know what they want.”
Emma knew exactly whatshewanted, and that wasn’t some guy who had ditched hygiene for too much time alone with nature. She put her things on the counter, then looked casually at the woman ringing them up.
“Is there really a guy hiding in the forest around here?” she asked. “I’m not interested in him—just interested in not getting mugged by him.”
“These woods are full of all manner of strange things,” the woman began, then she looked over at the door when the little bell jingled. She glared at the man standing half inside the shop. “We’re closed, ye wee fiend.”
“But Mrs. McCreedy, the sign says you’re still open.”
Emma had to admit the guy had a point. He also had on some sort of official jacket. Maybe he would know how many innocent tourists the hermit in the woods had scared the hell out of so she would know what number not to find herself added to.
Mrs. McCreedy, apparently the shop owner, pointed a bony finger at him. “I’ve decided to close up early, Hamish Fergusson, just for you. And so you don’t have to ask, aye, ’tis because you fair frightened the life from me last week.”
The man named Hamish stuck out his chin. “You were speeding.”
“I was on my bloody bicycle!”
“Speeding—”
The woman might have been every day of eighty but she could certainly fling a water bottle like a major league pitcher. Hamish Fergusson ducked back out of the shop and pulled the door shut to protect himself. Emma managed to stop gaping long enough to retrieve Mrs. McCreedy’s weapon of choice and return it to her. Who knew when she might need it again.
“Thank you, lass. Very kind.” Mrs. McCreedy smoothed her hand over her hair. “That lad is annoying, but what can you do?”
“Run him over with your bicycle next time?”
Mrs. McCreedy laughed, a happy sound tinged with what Emma was fairly certain was potential delight over one Hamish Fergusson lying in a ditch. “Aye, I think I just might. You’re staying at Southerton’s inn, I understand.”
Emma blinked. “News travels fast.”
“Small village,” Mrs. McCreedy said pleasantly. “From America, did you say?”
“Seattle,” Emma agreed.
Mrs. McCreedy nodded. “Lovely place, that. You’re here on holiday, then?”
“Yes,” Emma said, “mostly. I needed a change of scenery.”
