‘No, he wouldn’t.’
Izzy whirled round, horrified to see Ross standing in the doorway as he added, ‘He has better things to be doing, like working.’
‘Morning, lad,’ said Duncan cheerfully, ignoring the sudden fizz of tension in the air. ‘You ought to come; you’ve no left this place for weeks. Bit of dancing and a few bevvies would do you good.’
Ross gave him a tight smile. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’ Izzy was pretty sure from his stern expression and taut body language, those words actually translated as ‘when hell freezes over’.
‘It’s for a very guid cause,’ said Mrs McPherson, her hands folded on her lap, suddenly channelling a very prim Queen Victoria. ‘They’re raising money for the mountain rescue.’
Izzy glanced at Ross as he helped himself to a coffee and wondered for a moment what he’d look like in a kilt. And what did he look like under that big chunky sweater? She tamped the irreverent and wholly inappropriate thought down. What was the matter with her, for god’s sake?
Encouraged by Mrs McPherson’s rather obvious plug for the local business people and the need to start finding local suppliers, Izzy decided to pay the farm shop a visit a few days later before she got stuck into more painting for the afternoon. It was only a ten-minute drive and when she pulled up outside the big, converted barn to park in a very full car park, she had a good feeling about the place. While Izzy was on her cookery course, Adrienne had stressed, over and over, the importance of good food ingredients, not only for their taste but also to support sustainability and the environment. While there were a few chickens that Duncan looked after, ultimately Izzy would like to run a smallholding so that she could be sure of the provenance of her food. One of the things she also wanted to do was to plant a herb garden. But as the climate wasn’t exactly Mediterranean, that was a project for the future when she’d have a hot house built to grow basil, oregano and marjoram, as well as chillies, tomatoes and peppers. In the meantime, there was no reason why she couldn’t start planting onions, potatoes and beetroot.
‘Hello, can I help you? Do you need a basket?’
Izzy realised she was daydreaming and looked up to find herself under careful scrutiny. ‘You must be the new owner of the castle. Bill’s niece. You look a lot younger than I was expecting, although Maggie said you were a bonnie lass.’
‘Great niece,’ she corrected, smiling at the compliment as she wondered what else Mrs McPherson had said.
‘Ah that would explain it then. I’m John Stewart.’ He held out a big hand, which engulfed hers when she shook it. He was about the same height as her with a stocky build and a pugnacious boxer’s chin along with inquisitive eyes, which gave the impression they didn’t miss a thing.
‘Izzy McBride.’
‘Welcome to Stewart’s farm shop. Word is that you’re turning the castle into a luxury hotel.’
Izzy smiled. ‘I’m not sure about the luxury. But we’re definitely going to be offering rooms.’
‘And you’re looking for local suppliers.’ His eyes twinkled down at her. ‘That is music to my ears.’
‘Gosh, the jungle drums round here work fast.’
‘You’ve met Maggie McPherson – she’s the next best thing to the local paper,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we sit down and have a coffee in the café and you can tell me what you need?’
‘That sounds good,’ said Izzy, impressed by his friendly enthusiasm and his obvious business acumen. He wasn’t about to let this opportunity get away.
A few minutes later they were sitting on a mezzanine floor at the far end of the barn with the most wonderful view out over the sunshine-dappled valley with the loch in the distance. Rocky crags crowded the skyline to the west while rolling bracken-topped moorland softened the skyline to the east.
‘This is lovely,’ said Izzy, waving a hand at the large picture window through which the weak autumn sunshine shone.
‘Brings in a lot of passers-by who stop for a coffee, some cake and a comfort break, and they’re always keen to spend money in the shop. We also get a lot of walkers as there’s a great circular walk that starts and finishes here.’
‘Handy,’ observed Izzy.
‘Very. I’ll give you a few maps, if you like, for your guests.’
Izzy laughed. It seemed John Stewart didn’t miss a trick. ‘And I’ll need some leaflets about your award-winning jams and home-smoked salmon as well, I assume.’
He let out a bellow of laughter.
‘I’ll take them but only if you’re going to give me some samples of the aforementioned goodies?’
‘You drive a hard bargain. Aye, I’ll give you a wee taster. Shall we talk business?’
Ten minutes later, there was an array of dishes in front of her.
‘This is a Tain cheddar, a caboc and that’s Morangie Brie. All made at the Highland Fine Cheese farm up at Tain. This is venison carpaccio, here we’ve got Scotch Bonnet chilli and mustard ketchup.’
As Izzy sampled her way through the different foods, John told her where they came from and a little about the ethos and values of the companies that made them.
