The Newcomer

Maggie went to the doorway and watched as he strode along the hallway. His shoulders looked wide and strong, and his hips were lean and hard under the faded denim jeans.

“Well, that’s great.” She came back into the room and closed the door. “A Scottish cowboy with lofty moral principles. Just what we need to complicate things even more than they already are.”

Her brother watched her with interest. “The guy really gets to you. Doesn’t he, Maggie?”

She shrugged and took off her jacket, then massaged her shoulders wearily. “I’m a little worried about that lord-of-the-manor attitude. This man’s going to be trouble for us, Terry. I can just feel it.”

“Trouble for you, maybe.” Terry removed his shoes and reclined on one of the couches, stretching contentedly. “I have nothing to do with this whole crackbrained scheme, remember? I’m just along to drive the car and provide technical support.”

“And to escape the paint fumes and sawdust in your apartment.” Maggie sprawled opposite him in a big overstuffed chair and tugged off her leather boots. “Are you sorry you came?”

“Somebody has to look after you, kid. Especially when Natasha’s being so irrational.”

“Look after me!” She smiled at him. “When you’re this deep into a book, you hardly even know where you’re living, even when your place is being renovated. I’ll bet a houseful of carpenters would hardly have bothered you.”

“I have two hundred pages left to write, Maggie,” he said, suddenly serious. “I need peace and quiet to finish the book. And this town certainly looks peaceful enough.”

“But you really don’t approve of what Natasha’s doing here, do you?” Maggie continued to watch her brother thoughtfully.

“Approve? You’ve got to be kidding. I think it’s the craziest thing I ever heard of. And so do you,” he added shrewdly.

“It’s what Natasha wants.” Maggie sighed and stretched her feet, wiggling her toes in relief.

“Well,” Terry said with a grin, “that would explain the craziness.”

“Look, what can I do, tell her she’s being completely irrational?”

“I think that’s a major part of Natasha’s problem.” Terry’s pleasant face turned thoughtful. “Nobody’s ever refused her anything in her whole life. Imagine what it must be like to have a hundred million dollars and everybody in the world falling all over themselves to fulfill your smallest whim. Anybody’s view of life would get a little distorted.”

Maggie watched him for a moment, then shook her head and dug into a leather briefcase. She took out a bulky file folder and sat back to leaf through it.

“Here it is,” she said at last.

“What?” He rolled his head on the chintz cushion to glance at her.

“Douglas Evans,” she said, reading aloud from a sheet of paper. “Hotel proprietor, mayor, real estate salesman and stockbroker. Thirty-five years old, bachelor, lives in a suite of rooms on the main floor of the hotel. Arrived in Texas more than six years ago from his native Scotland and immediately applied for a green card, became a naturalized citizen two years later. Rumored to be independently wealthy, and a passionate booster of Crystal Creek. More in love with the town, it appears, than many of the natives.”

“He sounds like a very nice guy,” Terry commented. “I like him.”

Maggie stared at the paper, feeling a rising concern when she thought about the stern look on Doug Evans’s handsome face after she’d offered him that money.

The man had seemed almost disappointed in her. But of course, that was ridiculous. He didn’t even know her.

“I knew he was going to be trouble,” she said again. “He’s the mayor, Terry, I wonder how much influence he has around here. Maybe I should…”

“It makes me nervous when you get that look in your eye,” her brother commented, smiling at her. “Keep reading the file, Maggie. What does it say about those two kids, and the sister?”

Maggie consulted the paper again. “Sarah Rose Murdoch, arrived from Scotland almost a year ago on a visitor’s visa, which apparently is near expiry. Rose helps in the hotel and rents a little cottage down near the river. She’s divorced and has two children. Moira, aged nine, and Robin, who’s four.”

“So those two kids belong to Rose,” he mused, staring at the stamped tiles on the ceiling. “Cute little things, aren’t they?”

“Very cute.” Maggie smiled fondly, thinking about Robin’s plump sleeping face and Moira’s solemn gaze. Then she began consulting other pages in her files.

“And their mother is cute, too,” Terry was saying. He shifted his long legs to a more comfortable position on the couch. “Did you notice how Rose got all flustered and pink when she was worried about finding rooms for us? Not many women actually blush anymore, did you know that, Mags?”

“It’s a lost art,” Maggie agreed, jotting down some reminders to herself on a sheet of paper. “Terry, how soon do you think he’ll be able to get us set up in here? Because I really don’t see how we can manage if—”

She was interrupted by a knock on the door. Maggie tensed and closed the file abruptly.

“Come in,” Terry called. He swung his feet to the floor and sat erect.

The door was opened by the smaller of the two girls, the one who’d been sleeping earlier on the couch in the lobby. She was wide awake now, her golden curls standing out all around her head, blue eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Mummy’s bringing you tea,” she announced, waving her hand at the hallway. “And oatmeal scones. They’re yummy. Moira and I always…”

“Now, don’t bother the lady and gentleman with your chatter, Robin.” The child’s mother entered the room and deposited a large silver tray on the table, laden with oatcakes, pots of butter and jam, a brown teapot and a pair of cups.

Moira followed, carefully bearing a small platter with cream, sugar and napkins. The cat came with her, striding along in lordly fashion.

“Rose, this is a lovely surprise.” Maggie beamed at the smaller woman, who still looked painfully shy. “How thoughtful of you.”

Rose Murdoch stood awkwardly by the door in her blue jeans and sweater, hugging her arms, with the two children close to her.

“We always have tea at this time of day,” she said in her appealing soft brogue. “And if you’ve driven a long way, I’m sure you could use a wee bite.”

Robin edged back across the room in her little green running shoes. She stood cautiously next to Terry, who was looking with appreciation at the contents of the bigger tray.

“Taste them,” the little girl whispered, pointing a finger at the steaming oatmeal scones. “Uncle Dougie says our mummy makes the best scones in all the world.”

“Well,” Terry said solemnly to the child, “your uncle Doug strikes me as a very smart man, so I’ll bet he’s right.”

He gave Rose a sunny smile and a wink, and the woman looked away quickly, appearing flustered.

“Rose, I love this cat,” Maggie said, mostly to set the shy woman at ease. “What’s her name?”

“She’s my brother’s cat,” Rose said, with a smile that made her face light up. “Her name is Dundee.”

“Uncle Doug always has a cat called Dundee,” Moira said. “But this is the best one ever.”

“Yes, she’s a beautiful cat.” Maggie smiled again at Rose, who ducked her blond head, murmured something to the two girls and hastened from the room, closing the door quickly behind her.

After they were gone, Terry bit into one of the scones and sighed in bliss, then reached for the teapot.

“Robin’s right, this is just delicious.” He gave Maggie a bright glance. “I’m glad to see you’re capable of learning, kiddo.”

“What do you mean?”

Terry spread strawberry jam on a bit of scone. “I was afraid you might offer the poor woman a tip.”