A Scottish Love by Karen Ranney

sitting atop a barrel of something that Old Ned was pulling down from the wagon bed.
    Evidently, Old Ned had slept the night before and abjured the use of the bottle to scare off the ghosts. Was he more reassured since the three of them had arrived? Or had Fergus simply taken his whiskey away?
    Life was so much easier in Inverness. It wasn’t better; it was just easier.
    She left the courtyard in favor of the Family Parlor, Helen ghosting her.
    “We need to work in here,” she said, hoping that Helen wouldn’t ask about food for the moment.
    Evidently, the other woman heard the resolve in her voice—it wasn’t the hint of unshed tears—because Helen didn’t say a word, merely stepped over the wet spots on the floor, grabbed her bucket, and followed.
    The Family Parlor was a little more comfortable, although it couldn’t be said to be a welcoming room. Two settees, recent additions commissioned by her mother, sat in front of one of the massive fireplaces. A few small chairs were scattered here and there, each with a table nearby. The oil lamps hadn’t been tended to in at least seven years, and she wondered if they had any spare wicks.
    A carpet, another of her mother’s acquisitions, covered most of the dark floorboards with an intricately loomed pattern of wild laurel, a plant associated with the Imrie Clan, on a crimson background.
    This room held more memories, but even those she resolutely pushed away. She could not be catapulted into the past for fear that Gordon would be there.
    “Shall we begin with the chandeliers?” Helen asked.
    She glanced up at the ceiling. Four brass chandeliers, each hanging beneath a discolored plaster rose, illuminated a section of the room. The brass was dull, but they didn’t have time to polish it completely. Nor was there time to clean the ceiling of its soot.
    Neither the Clan Hall nor the Family Parlor boasted windows, since they had been built first, in a time when the clan required defense more than aesthetics. Now she was grateful not to have to contend with dusty curtains such as those in the bedrooms.
    Even thinking about everything to do was disheartening.
    Her stomach rumbled again. Helen glanced at her, but said nothing.
    She tossed the rag she was holding into an empty bucket and sighed.
    “Shall we go eat?” she said, trying and failing to keep the enthusiasm from her voice.
    Helen nodded.
    The three men were still unloading the wagon.
    She really must thank him. She’d remember her manners, a little rusty where Colonel Sir Gordon was concerned, and be sweetly appreciative.
    He’d be so surprised, he’d no doubt be struck dumb.
    Old Ned entered the kitchen, staggering under the weight of a barrel.
    “We’ve got two pails of butter, Shona,” he said. “And that’s all that’s left.”
    What on earth would they do with two pails of butter?
    As she stared at the magically filled pantry shelves, another hideous thought occurred to her. Who was going to cook?
    The maid in Inverness had lent a hand, but their menu had been relatively easy. They’d had no haunches of beef to roast, or a crate filled with live chickens.
    Yes, living in Inverness had most assuredly been easier.
    “I don’t suppose you have any cooking ability,” she asked, glancing at Helen.
    Please, God, let her be uniquely talented in the kitchen. Let her have endless enthusiasm for baking or roasting, or whatever was required with the bounty that lay before them here and in the larder.
    Instead, Helen only shook her head.
    “We need Mag,” Fergus said, entering the room with one pail of butter. He surrendered it to Gordon, who continued on to the larder and a cooler temperature.
    She glanced at her brother, smiling at the memories his words invoked.
    “Mag was our cook,” she told Helen. “But she also had all sorts of stories about Gairloch.” A quick glance at Fergus assured her that he wouldn’t mention the ghosts quite yet.
    Let a few days pass first, before the family histories