Love Without Reason

CHAPTER TWO

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.’

The doctor raised a brow at such formality, but said nothing, as he led the way into the dining-room.

Though she’d lunched many times at the doctor’s, Riona was the one who felt ‘out of it’. While Dr Macnab and Cameron Adams chatted easily about both local and world affairs, she sat largely silent. Several times the doctor tried to draw her into the conversation, but she was completely inhibited by the American’s presence.

She listened, however, and gathered that the American did not intend to sell the estate, as they’d all assumed he would.

‘Initially I’ll have to employ a manager to run it,’ he said to the doctor. ‘Apart from not having the experience, I’ve commitments in America.’

‘So you’ll be returning home soon?’ Riona asked him.

‘Is that wishful thinking?’ he suggested drily, before saying, ‘Not for a few weeks. I’ve managed to wangle a month’s vacation from work.’

‘May I ask what you do?’ the doctor put in.

‘I’m in construction,’ Cameron Adams answered readily enough.

In construction? Riona wondered what that actually meant. Was he a bricklayer, an architect, or what? He certainly had the muscles for labouring work, but his manner implied more authority. Unless, of course, the air of authority came with his expensive clothes, which in turn came from his great-uncle Hector’s money.

‘You’re a builder?’ Riona dared to suggest.

‘You could say that,’ he replied, giving little away.

‘What do you build?’ she pursued.

He shrugged. ‘Malls, mostly. The occasional cinema duplex. Condominiums, sometimes.’

‘I see.’ Riona absorbed this information with what she hoped was an intelligent nod. She wasn’t about to admit she hadn’t understood a word. Malls, duplexes and condominiums, whatever they were, weren’t thick on the ground in Invergair.

‘I can see I’ve left her deeply unimpressed,’ Cameron Adams remarked to the doctor.

‘Not at all,’ the older man tried to make up for her lack of response. ‘I’m sure it’s most interesting work.’

‘Fraid not, Doc,’ the American laughed. ‘When you’ve built one mall, you’ve built them all. So, who knows? Maybe it’s time for a change.’

‘You mean—move to Invergair?’ Riona asked in alarm.

‘Why not?’ He smiled at her less than ecstatic expression. ‘I am half Scotch, you know.’

‘Scottish,’ she echoed, not considering him such at all. ‘The other’s a drink.’

‘I stand corrected,’ he responded with an amiability that left her feeling petty.

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was hard to get along with.

At any rate, the doctor frowned in mild reproof before putting in, ‘It’s a common enough mistake. Our English counterparts often make it.’

‘Well, I’ll be careful not to make it again,’ the American declared. ‘I suspect it’s going to be hard enough getting the natives to accept me. There seems to be a general opinion that I’m going to raise rents automatically, then evict those who can’t pay. I guess they think, being an American, I’ll be after the quick buck and nothing else.’

Riona had the grace to blush. That was exactly what she and many of the other crofters had thought. They’d certainly not envisaged him taking more than a monetary interest in his inheritance.

‘Oh, I’m sure it’s not personal,’ Dr Macnab was quick to reassure. ‘They’re just worried for their future. It’s not a hundred years since the last clearances, when landlords evicted tenants to make room for sheep farming.’

‘So I’ve heard—’ the American nodded ‘—but the people surely don’t think that’ll happen again? These days there must be laws to stop it.’

‘Possibly,’ the doctor agreed, ‘only we’re not talking law or logic, but a deep-rooted mistrust that’s been handed down through the generations. And, with so many of the lairds being absentee landlords, attitudes have been slow to change.’

‘How did they regard Sir Hector?’ Cameron Adams asked, and, when the other man hesitated, added, ‘You can be honest, Doc. I have no memories of my great-uncle, fond or otherwise.’

The doctor took him at his word, saying bluntly, ‘Well, Sir Hector wasn’t the best liked of men. He was autocratic and often downright rude to his tenants. However, he was fair about rents and, though he’d sell off any crofthouses that fell vacant, he didn’t actively seek evictions.’

‘Is that such a bad thing—selling off empty houses?’ Cameron Adams obviously didn’t view it that way.

Riona broke her silence once more. ‘It is, if it’s to yuppies who fancy a Highland home for three weeks of the year.’

‘Aye,’ Dr Macnab agreed in a less abrasive manner, ‘it’s a shame when there’s young men forced to leave Invergair because there’s no place for them to work or live.’

Cameron accepted the point with a thoughtful nod, before directing at Riona, ‘Is that what happened to yours?’

‘Mine?’ she echoed.

‘Your young man,’ he continued in a drawl. ‘I assume he must have had some reason to prefer going to sea than staying here with you.’

Matching his irony, Riona responded, ‘Perhaps he found me hard to get along with, too.’

The American laughed, while Dr Macnab looked more uncertain. He sensed there were undercurrents he didn’t understand.

‘Aye, I’d say Fergus would have stayed if he could,’ the doctor answered literally, ‘but with two older brothers already working a not very large croft, he had little choice. If only there was something else, other than the crofting, to keep the young folk here,’ he added with regret.

‘Well, there must be possibilities,’ the American went on. ‘I’m told salmon-farming would be a good proposition, although it’s not very labour-intensive. And there’s the knitwear and craft industries. With a little organisation they could be real money-spinners.’

‘In what way?’ Riona asked, her tone deeply suspicious. Not a knitter herself, she knew many ladies who subsisted on such work. They wouldn’t like any radical change.

‘Well, from what I’ve gathered,’ Cameron replied, ‘a fair number of women do outwork for a knitwear factory in Glasgow. They, in turn, presumably export the hand-made garments to retail outlets who then market them at inflated prices. Now I would think it should be possible to cut out at least one if not two middlemen in the process and thereby enjoy a greater share of the profit.’

It sounded simple. Too simple. Riona looked what she felt—wholly sceptical.

It was the doctor who said, ‘You mean have a label of our own. “Invergair Knitwear”.’

‘That’s the idea, Doc.’ Cameron smiled in return. ‘We could get some red-hot designer up from London to make up the patterns and then it’s just a question of marketing. What do you think?’ he asked of Riona.

The question disconcerted her. It was easy enough to be sceptical. To come up with positive ideas was something else.

‘I...I don’t know much about fashion,’ she finally admitted.

‘Neither do I.’ He shrugged it off as a problem. ‘The important thing is to organise people who do and get them working for you.’

‘I’m afraid I know nothing about business either,’ she confessed, and realised how she must seem to him—a half-witted yokel.

The doctor chimed in, ‘It’s foreign territory to me, too, I have to admit, but it sounds an exciting venture. Where would you start?’

‘Well, an initial step would be to hire a consultant to look into the feasibility of the project,’ the American explained. ‘Before that, however, I’d have to talk to the actual knitters, because if the idea isn’t a runner with them it’s going nowhere. My only problem is approaching them.’

Dr Macnab nodded. ‘I’m afraid that is a problem. They’re hard workers, the ladies of Invergair, and they’re reliable, but they’re slow on accepting new ideas, especially...’

‘Especially coming from someone who’s only been here five minutes,’ Cameron Adams concluded for the older man, and the two laughed together.

Riona felt she had to defend her friends and neighbours. ‘You can’t blame them. Some of them depend entirely on knitting for their living.’

‘Really?’ The American was obviously surprised, but he ran on, ‘In that case, all the more reason to make it a decent living. Perhaps you could help.’

‘Me?’ Riona echoed suspiciously.

‘Yes, you could come round the area with me, introduce me to the knitters, help me to sell the idea to them.’

‘I’m sorry—’ she shook her head ‘—but it’s out of the question. I’m afraid I just can’t spare the time from the croft.’

‘No problem,’ he dismissed. ‘I’ll get one of the estate workers to cover for you, perhaps do some repairs while he’s at it.’

‘Yes, well...’ Riona scrabbled around for another excuse, one he couldn’t argue against.

It was Dr Macnab who put in, ‘I think Riona may be hesitating because she’s not completely sold on the idea herself. Is that it, lass?’

‘Aye. Yes.’ Riona gratefully seized on the doctor’s suggestion.

She breathed a sigh of relief when Cameron Adams said, ‘Fair enough.’ It was somewhat premature, as he ran on, ‘I can appreciate that, but I’d say it’s all the more reason to come round with me.’

‘You would?’ Riona felt herself back on treacherous ground.

‘Well, I imagine you have the knitters’ interests at heart rather than mine,’ he continued drily, ‘and I’m sure you won’t hesitate to butt in if you don’t agree with me.’

‘I...’ Riona frowned in response. He really did make her sound a difficult character and perhaps she was, because she certainly didn’t want to spend whole days in his company. ‘What about Isobel...Isobel Fraser?’ she suggested desperately. ‘She’d be better, surely? She knows most of the knitters, too, and she’s got much more idea of business.’

‘Possibly,’ Cameron conceded, ‘but Isobel isn’t likely to disagree with me. She’s far too sweet a girl for that,’ he added with a slanting smile.

Sweet! Isobel Fraser? Sweet? Riona almost exploded at this description. How wrong could he be? How easily he’d been taken in! If he thought Isobel Fraser sweet, then he was in real danger of ending up husband number three.

The doctor, probably thinking the same, said with gentle irony, ‘Aye, you’ll have no argument from Isobel.’

And Riona added in a mutter, ‘Not with her eye on the main chance, anyway.’

Cameron looked quizzical. ‘The main chance?’

‘Never mind.’ Riona shook her head, deciding against explaining that he was it—the main chance. Why should she be the one to spoil his illusions about Isobel?

He continued to stare at her, eyes narrowed, as if he might pursue the subject, but then Dr Macnab stepped into the rescue and asked his plans along the salmon-farming line.

Cameron relayed his intention of going to visit a couple of farms already in operation, with a view to judging the feasibility of such a scheme on Loch Gair. He confessed to knowing little about fishing of any variety, and the doctor, a keen angler, took it as an invitation to offer his knowledge and advice.

Riona fell silent again. Having entered the last conversation and ended up wishing she hadn’t, she decided to adopt a low profile and hope the idea of her helping him had been dropped. She assumed it had, as, lunch over, she made her excuses and departed, expressing a positive desire to walk the three miles back to her croft. She did so with a distinct spring in her step that came from relief.

* * *

The relief lasted till the next morning. Seven-thirty a.m. he arrived. He and Rob Mackay, one of the estate farm workers. To say she was put in a dilemma would be untrue. Dilemma implied choice and she was given none. She was barely given time to tell Rob the jobs needing attention before Cameron Adams hustled her towards the estate Land Rover and away. He installed her into the passenger seat, then lowered the back tail-gate for Jo to jump in.

When she finally had the chance to protest, they were in motion. ‘Has it occurred to you I may not want to do this?’ she asked in the iciest tone she could manage.

Only to have him smile in return. ‘Sure. Why do you think I got here early?’

‘But what’s the point?’ she pursued. ‘If I won’t co-operate...’

‘You’ll have to—’ he continued to smile ‘—otherwise we’ll spend the day driving round and round in circles, ‘cos I don’t know where any of the ladies live.’

He obviously thought he had her, but Riona took a leaf from his book and shrugged. ‘So? It’s no skin off my nose. Rob’s doing my work for the day.’

Then, having said her piece, she folded her arms and took to staring out of the window. The Land Rover provided a fine view. She felt certain she could outlast him.

He took the road to the village and parked outside the shop, where Mrs Ross and a Jean Macpherson were standing gossiping. ‘Well, which way to—’ he checked a list on a clipboard ‘—to Annie Fac-quhar-eson’s?’

‘Fackerson, it’s pronounced,’ Riona relayed with a superior air.

‘Right, Fackerson. Which way?’ he repeated.

Riona didn’t answer. Instead she asked, ‘Who compiled this list for you?’

‘Isobel. Why?’

‘No reason.’

‘Come on,’ he said at the ‘I know something you don’t’ look on her face, ‘what’s wrong? Is this Annie person not one of the knitters?’

‘Well, she was,’ Riona conceded.

‘But she’s given up?’ he guessed.

‘You could say that,’ she responded drily, before admitting, ‘Old Annie Facquhareson died a month ago. It seems to have slipped Isobel’s notice, unless, of course, she means young Annie.’

‘That must be it,’ he put in, and read off the address, ‘Braeside, Ardgair.’

She nodded, ‘Aye, that’s young Annie’s address all right. But I don’t imagine she’ll be doing the knitting yet. Though I might be wrong.’ Riona pretended to consider the possibility. ‘No, I doubt it. Five would be a bit young, don’t you think?’

‘Young Annie’s only five?’ he concluded with exasperation.

‘I just said that.’ Riona smiled to herself.

He grimaced, stroked out the name of Annie Facquhareson and went on to the next. ‘Right, Jean Macpherson. First of all, is she dead or alive?’

‘Alive,’ Riona confirmed, able to see Jean Macpherson just a few yards away, still talking to Mrs Ross.

‘Good. And does she knit?’ he enquired drily.

She nodded, before saying, ‘Yes, but—’

‘I knew there’d be a but,’ he cut in. ‘Don’t tell me. She’s broken an arm? Busy sailing across the Atlantic single-handed? Emigrated to New Guinea?’

‘No, she’s just out at the moment,’ Riona relayed.

‘Out?’ he repeated blankly.

‘Not at home,’ she said with exaggerated slowness.

His lips thinned. ‘How do you know?’ he asked in a manner that suggested he thought she was lying.

‘Maybe I’m clairvoyant,’ Riona responded unhelpfully, but her eyes betrayed her, wandering to the two women still standing gossiping.

‘OK, which one is she?’ he demanded.

Riona was forced to admit, ‘The one in the blue dress.’

‘Right, we can either go talk to her now,’ he declared, ‘or you can direct me to the next on the list.’

‘I...’ Riona hesitated. She didn’t much fancy the idea of broaching the topic with Jean Macpherson in the middle of Invergair’s main street and publicly advertising her association with the American, but she didn’t much like giving in, either.

She was forced into action as he made to climb out of the vehicle, and she grabbed his arm to stop him. ‘It’d be better if we called at her home,’ she said, and, scanning the list for the easiest-going of the ladies, added, ‘We could go to Betty Maclean’s now. She’s only a couple of miles out of the village.’

‘Fine.’ He nodded and, putting the vehicle in gear, followed the direction she pointed in.

A smile had reappeared on his face. It was hardly surprising. He’d won.

The smile remained on his face when she introduced him to Betty and then sat, largely silent, while he proceeded to reduce the lady to fluttering acquiescence.

They had a repeat performance in the next house and the next. Riona couldn’t believe it. She’d thought his brashness would put off each and every lady. She’d thought they’d be suspicious of his grand schemes and offended by his sheer, overpowering confidence.

Instead they were carried along by his enthusiasm and bowled over by his charm. That he invited them to contribute any ideas they had to the scheme was the final seal on his popularity.

It was Riona who ended up trying to preach a little caution, and, though Cameron Adams tolerated her efforts, the women didn’t want to know.

‘The world’s changing, Riona, lass, and we have to move with the times,’ she was told by Aggie Stewart, the oldest of the knitters at seventy-four.

After that, she gave up, and limited herself to informing him how to get to each croft and providing an introduction to its inhabitant.

By the late afternoon, they’d seen about six ladies in all. It was just a fraction of the number of women capable of professional knitting in the area, but Riona felt it was enough. They were bound to relay his ideas to the rest and she told him so as they arrived back at her crofthouse.

‘Possibly,’ he conceded, ‘but, having visited a few, I reckon I’m obliged to visit them all. Otherwise I’m going to have some offended ladies on my hands.’

Riona saw his point but said, ‘Well, I can’t help. I have too much to do round the croft.’

‘No problem. I’ll let you have Rob again,’ he responded. ‘You can give him a list of what’s to be done, and, if he has any time over, he can do some repairs round the place.’

‘No, thanks,’ she refused ungraciously. ‘I can do my own repairs.’

‘Can you?’ he challenged mildly and glanced round her back yard. The sheds were dilapidated, a door hanging from one hinge. The hen-run, now unoccupied, was more holes than fencing, and the dry stone wall was almost rubble in places.

When his eyes returned to her, Riona muttered tightly, ‘I’m doing my best,’ and made to climb out of the Land Rover.