MacGowan's Ghost by Cindy Miles Page A

sigh. “See?” she said out loud. “I can’t even look at peat burning without thinking of him.”
    A vision of Gabe came to mind, of him rubbing his chin while she rubbed the back of her head, after they smacked together. He’d had a slight, barely there grin lifting one side of his mouth. She’d also noticed that when he talked, his mouth was just a fraction crooked.
    She liked it.
    Finally, her eyelids grew heavy, and she began to drift. Before she fell asleep, she briefly wondered if Gabe planned to go to that ceilidh on Saturday.
    She supposed she’d find out soon enough . . .

Chapter 8
    T he sound of an engine roused Allie from sleep. The barest sunlight streamed through the window and across the bedcovers. Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes and waited to get her bearings.
    Scottish Highlands. Odin’s Thumb.
    Proprietor of Odin’s Thumb.
    â€œGood Lord.” Flinging back the heavy duvet, Allie climbed out, padded over to the window, and glanced out. In the distance, a small yellow school bus ambled down the lane. That must be Jake’s bus. She’d forgotten the little guy was in school.
    Turning, she crossed the room to the highboy chest of drawers and pulled out clean undies, bra, socks, her favorite olive green khaki carpenter pants, and a long-sleeved, cream-colored cotton T-shirt with the tattoo design of a Celtic dragon in navy on the front. Her sister had bought her the T while on a trip to Wales and Allie loved it.
    After a not-too-long shower, leg shaving, and hair washing, Allie stuffed her heavy wet hair into a towel, wrapped it turban-style atop her head, lotioned her legs, and dressed. She applied a small amount of makeup, deodorant, brushed her teeth, and then walked to the window seat, plopped down, and set to the task of towel-drying her hair. God knows if she blew it dry with a hair dryer, it would stand on end and she’d never get it tamed.
    The curse of curls , her granny had always said.
    â€œCan I come in, love?”
    The voice just happened , as if floating about the room. Allie smiled. “Yes, Dauber, the coast is clear.”
    Dauber sifted through the wall, walked over to the bed, and perched on the chest at the footboard. His famous ear-to-ear grin spread quickly. “Good morn to you, then. You look lovely, as always.”
    Allie narrowed her eyes as she rubbed her hair with the towel. “I saw that.”
    Dauber feigned a surprised look, glanced around the room, and then cocked his head. “Saw what?”
    Shaking her head, Allie giggled. “What’s with the compliment this morning, Daubs? You’ve seen me a thousand mornings drying my hair in these very same plain-Jane casual clothes.” She pretended a frown. “What are you up to?”
    He blinked. “Nothing, of course.”
    â€œHmm.”
    Dauber flicked an imaginary bit of something from his trousers. “The others tell me there is a dance of sorts in a few days.” He looked at his nails. “Are you going?”
    Allie continued to study her old friend. “If I’m still here, I am. Leona, the baker down the street, invited me.”
    With outstretched arms above his head, Dauber yawned. “I wonder if Mr. MacGowan will be there, as well.”
    She lifted a brow. “I don’t know. He doesn’t seem the partying kind.”
    â€œOh, I wouldn’t say that for sure,” Dauber said. “He may well surprise you.”
    Dropping the wet towel in her lap, Allie stared at Dauber. “Don’t. Do you hear me? Do. Not.”
    Dauber again blinked innocently. “Do not what, young lady?”
    She rose, carried the towel out the door, across the hall to the bathroom, hung it on the rack, and then returned to the room. She shut the door. “You know what, smarty-pants. No matchmaking. The man has issues—”
    â€œAs do you.”
    She stopped. “What?”
    Dauber gave her an accusing glare.