Love Without Reason

INVERGAIR covered a large area. In theory it should have been easy to avoid him, but things weren’t to work out that way.

The next day Riona cycled to the village for her groceries, and on the journey back the chain came off her bicycle. She emptied her basket and, turning the bike upside-down, began the messy job of fixing it. She was still struggling when the BMW happened along.

She saw him first, and kept her head down, but he drew to a halt and shouted from his window, ‘Need a hand, kid?’

She called over her shoulder, ‘No, thanks. I can manage.’

‘Riona?’ He frowned in surprise. He hadn’t recognised her, dressed as she was in jeans and a T-shirt, with her hair tucked beneath a baseball cap.

Now he probably felt obliged to park his car on the verge and cross the road to help her.

‘I really can manage,’ she insisted, only to be ignored.

Crouching down by the bike, he lifted up the oily chain and took one minute flat to do what she’d been trying to for five. ‘It won’t stay fixed. The chain needs tightening. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened before.’

It had. Four times in as many weeks. But Riona decided he didn’t need to know that. He’d already made her feel incompetent enough.

‘I’ll take you home, just in case,’ he went on, unsmiling, and, before she could protest, uprighted the bike and wheeled it towards his car.

Riona caught up with him, saying, ‘You can’t. You’re going the other way.’

‘No problem,’ he dismissed. ‘It should fit in the trunk.’

‘Trunk?’ For a moment Riona had visions of him packing her bicycle away in a box, then she caught on. ‘Oh, you mean the boot.’

‘No, I mean the trunk,’ he drawled back. ‘A boot is something you wear on your foot.’

Riona decided not to argue the point. Being an American, how could he be expected to speak proper English?

She confined herself to muttering, ‘I don’t think the bike will fit,’ then wishing she’d kept quiet when she was proved wrong.

‘You want to get in?’ he suggested, after he had fetched her groceries and placed them in the boot, too.

No, Riona didn’t want to get in, but she didn’t want to make a fuss either. So reluctantly she climbed into the car and sat in silence while he did a three-point turn on the quiet country road, then drove back to her cottage.

The silence wasn’t lost on him, as he asked point-blank, ‘You sulking with me, kid?’

He made her sound childish and she claimed in response, ‘Of course not!’

‘Then could you possibly lighten up a little?’ he continued in his almost permanently amused drawl.

It drew a not very encouraging ‘Hmmph’ from Riona.

Cameron Adams, however, needed no encouragement. Having reached her croft, he turned in his seat to say, ‘I realise I came on a bit strong last night, but it won’t happen again. So you can relax. OK?’

‘OK,’ Riona echoed reluctantly.

‘Friends?’ He offered her a hand to shake.

‘Friends,’ Riona agreed, and suffered his rather bone-crunching grip, before adding, ‘On one condition.’

‘Name it!’ He smiled.

‘Stop calling me “kid”,’ she said in all seriousness.

His smile broadened at the request and he responded easily, ‘You got it, ki—honey.’

‘God, no!’ Riona didn’t hide her distaste. ‘Honey—that’s even worse.’

‘All right, what should I call you? Miss Macleod?’ he suggested with obvious irony.

‘That’ll do,’ Riona answered drily, and, before he could argue the matter, climbed out of the car.

He followed, lifting her bicycle out of the boot.

‘Thanks.’ She forced out the word.

He shook his head at her, then left with a resigned, ‘See you around, Miss Macleod.’

Not if I see you first, Riona thought, but didn’t quite have the nerve to say. He already considered her childish enough, having lost interest in her as a woman.

She should have been pleased about that. She told herself she was. She lied.

She decided the best thing was to keep out of his way. But it really did prove impossible. The next morning, when she played organ in the village church, he was there, sitting in his great-uncle Hector’s pew, in direct line of her vision. Every time she made the mistake of looking up from the music, he paused mid-song and gave her a slow, wry smile. She realised he must be laughing at her, enjoying her discomfort, well aware she didn’t know how to handle him.

When the service ended and he seemed on the point of approaching her, she slipped out of the back door of the church and went overland to the doctor’s house. The doctor was a non-believer who only attended church for weddings and funerals, but in Riona’s eyes he was one of the most giving men in the community. Since her grandfather’s death, he had insisted she join him for Sunday lunch.

The roast was prepared by his housekeeper, Mrs Ross, and sometimes the widowed lady sat down with them to enjoy it.

‘Three for lunch, today,’ Dr Macnab said when he’d taken off her coat and escorted her through the hall.

Riona smiled at the housekeeper as she appeared in the dining-room doorway. ‘You’re staying, Mrs Ross?’

‘Ach, no, lass, the company’s too exalted for the likes of me,’ the older woman replied with a shake of the head. ‘I’ve told the doctor. I’m away now.’

‘Exalted?’ Riona had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

It was the doctor who answered, ‘Aye, the man himself,’ and, at the ring of the doorbell, added, ‘That’ll be him.’

Him? Riona didn’t need twenty questions. She knew. Even before she heard the doctor say, ‘Come away in, Cameron, man,’ and saw the American’s large frame in the doorway.

He looked surprised to see her, too. Clearly the doctor hadn’t warned him.

‘You know Riona, of course,’ Dr Macnab said, as the two exchanged stares rather than smiles.

‘Miss Macleod.’ The American inclined his head towards her.

She followed his lead. ‘Mr Adams.’