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“What does it do to somebody, to work in environment like that?” Elias asked as he and Dunstan resumed their progress down the crooked, cracked sidewalk. “Interrogation chambers, combination locks on the doors, cameras in every corner, bullets a constant threat?” How much more gratifying, to stack a hay wagon under the blazing sun, than to endure the conditions the officers accepted as normal.

“They train for it, and those that can’t take the stress often move on,” Dunstan said. “The courthouse has many of the same security features, but you’re the poor sod who’s rebuilding an entire castle. Stone walls six feet thick are bullet proof, parapets give you the same advantage as surveillance cameras, a portcullis and drawbridge function as effectively as a combination lock.”

“Remind me again why Zeb sent you to law school?”

“Because I enjoy analytical thinking, and I wanted to do good while doing well.”

Modest ambitions, and honorable. Elias still wanted to hit something. “What’s your point, Dunstan? I must somehow tell Violet that I’ve failed her, that the conservation easement is likely the only means of keeping the farm out of Maitland’s hands. That approach will take cash flow miracles and a whisky auction to make workable.”

“You can’t auction the whisky,” Dunstan said, coming to a halt on the sidewalk. “Every Cromarty on the face of the earth, every Brodie, would pillory you for auctioning that whisky. The ghost of William Wallace would haunt you, and Jane would be properly cheesed off too.”

And in Dunstan’s world, Jane’s disfavor settled all bets. How enviable, to live such a simple, happy life.

“I have promised Violet I will not fail her. I have assets, I simply lack cash. It’s a common business problem.”

Dunstan studied him for a moment, something about the angle of the sun, or the shade dappling his features, creating a resemblance to Elias’s late father.

“You’re daft, you know that?” Dunstan said. “You’re still carrying your father’s rucksack.”

“It’s the only thing I have of his that he made himself.”

“Are those his sunglasses perched on your handsome beak?”

Elias and Dunstan both had their grandfather’s nose. “They’re good sunglasses and cost a pretty penny.” Papa had also asked a pouting eleven-year-old Elias to keep them safe for him until he and mum got back from the islands.

“Elias, let the castle go, and build something here with Violet. She’s in love with you, and that gift doesn’t befall a man every day. She loves you, not your farm, not your title, not your sunglasses. You.”

Dunstan spoke not with the ringing conviction of a barrister before the court, but with a cousin’s heartfelt plea.

“I can’t turn my back on the legacy I alone am in a position to protect, Dunstan. You’re not wearing the title, you don’t hold the keys to that castle. Zebedee claimed to have seen the ghosts of Auld Michael and his Brenna on those parapets. Those are our ghosts, our parapets. You’d let them crumble into the loch.”

“I’d sooner see the stones crumble than your happiness thrown aside,” Dunstan said, turning down the street that led to his office. “I expect Auld Michael and his Brenna would tell you the same.”

“You and Jane are soon to start a family,” Elias observed. “If you had to choose between your own happiness, and that of your children, which would you choose?”

Dunstan’s steps slowed. “How do you know we’re soon to start a family? Did Jane say something?”

“You’re a Cromarty,” Elias scoffed. “And Jane is enthusiastic about your company, for reasons known only to daft lady lawyers. I’ll send along a Speyside for the christening.”

“Come to the christening and keep your damned whisky. Bring Violet, too.”

Violet, who was deadheading petunias or moving the fence that contained her sheep so their pasture rotated. How Elias would have preferred to spend the morning with her, doing hard, honest work, rather than flattering a greedy banker.

“I notice, Dunstan, you aren’t admonishing Violet to sell her farm, as her mother wants her to, and fly away to Scotland with me.”

“In the first place, you have doubtless been too pigheaded to ask the lady to come to Scotland with you. In the second, Violet appears to have nothing but that farm.”

She had Elias’s heart, did she but know it. “What do I have besides the damned castle and the earldom’s assets?”

Jane was sitting on the front stoop outside the law office, reading some large brown book in the sunshine. She looked both prim and pretty, her hair up in a bun, her perch that of a school girl. Dunstan came to a halt, his gaze on his wife.

“Elias, you idiot, you have us. You have your family, you have a damned doctorate, and a beautiful farm. You have Violet’s happiness in your keeping, and you’re prepared to toss it all aside for a god-damned castle and a bunch of god-damned ghosts.”

“Not for the castle itself,” Elias retorted. “For the legacy I owe my children and yours, for the honor of paying debts incurred by the earldom in good faith, for the—you’re not even listening.”

Jane had caught sight of them and waved, her smile as radiant as summer sunshine off a still loch.

“Yes!” she said, springing off the steps. “The doctor’s office called, Dunstan, and they said yes! Our due date is late November, and I am so happy—”

Dunstan caught her around the middle and spun her about, his brief case forgotten on the crooked sidewalk.

“Yes!” he roared, hugging her tightly. “Ah, wee Jane, such news, such happy, wonderful news! Elias, I’m to be a father, and Jane is to be a mother, and you’re to be a cousin again of some degree. Yes!”

Kissing ensued, and hugging, and carrying on of a sort no mortal man could begrudge the happy couple. They disappeared into the office, arm in arm, and left Elias to retrieve Dunstan’s briefcase. Rather than join the joyous—delirious—pair inside, Elias took the seat Jane has vacated on the stone steps.

The heat wasn’t so oppressive to him anymore, the humidity not so cloying. Across the street, geraniums splashed bright red against a sky-blue exterior.

Dunstan and Jane were building something in Damson Valley, something as formidable as a castle, though on any day, their future could be snatched away. A plane crash, an illness, a drunk driver…

Tragedy could strike without warning.

Elias kept that gloomy reality to himself, as he had for years in the company of family, because another gloomy reality had arrived to push it aside. Tragedy could sunder a loving family without warning, and a castle could spend centuries crumbling into the loch.

While the castle stood, it was a symbol of safety and security, a fortress, much like the bustling hive of law enforcement in the made-over railroad station.

A castle could also, however, become a prison from which no escape was possible.  

“You can’t do this to me again,” Violet muttered, hugging one upset, battered Rhode Island Red to her chest. “I spend all morning looking for you, and what do I find? A heap of bloody feathers where my Brunhilda should be.”

Hildy remained quiet, though she was a voluble little clucker by nature. 

“You two,” Violet said, addressing Sarge and Murphy. “Go find the fox or coyote or varmint who did this to Hildy, and beat the crap out of them.”

Murphy hopped around, Sarge looked puzzled.

“Fricassee of fox,” Violet said, marching off toward the house. “Coyote casserole in a rattlesnake remoulade.” Though if Hildy had tangled with a snake, she’d either gotten the better of the fight, or been spared a hunting bite.

The dogs trotted at Violet’s heels, as did nagging worry. Scouring the property for Brunhilda this morning had been a distraction from a phone that hadn’t rung, texts that hadn’t arrived. Elias’s meeting at the bank should have ended an hour ago, and—

The black pick-up came around the curve at the edge of Violet’s property and turned into her drive. Violet waited on the porch, Hildy in her arms.

Elias emerged in jeans and a white button down shirt, his backpack over one shoulder, his sunglasses hiding any expression. Violet didn’t need to see his eyes though. She could tell from his walk, from his posture, that no mortgage would be approved.

“You’re housebreaking chickens now?” Elias said, prowling up the porch. He kept coming, until he kissed Violet on the mouth. “Hello, Brunhilda. I’ve seen you looking better.”

Now, the damned bird cooed.

“She got loose last night and nearly came to a bad end,” Violet said. “Is my valley coming to a bad end?”

“Let’s sit,” Elias said. “Mr. Hirschman was very pleased to make my acquaintance, full of bonhomie, and fascinated by what I had to say.”

“He turned you down flat. I need to clean Hildy up.” Violet also needed to cry, and say very, very bad words. Re-arranging several tons of hay might help, or driving her truck straight into Max Maitland’s office.

“You suspected I’d fail,” Elias said, tugging off his glasses, and hooking them on the collar of his shirt.

“You haven’t failed, Elias, you’ve been out-maneuvered by the home team,” Violet said, leading the way into the house, and down the hall to the laundry room. “You’re on Maitland’s turf, and Max is determined, not stupid. This is partly my fault because I got a development ten miles north of town stalled at the re-zoning phase a few years ago. Hold Hildy.”

Violet shoved the hen at Elias. Hildy made happy-hen noises, though if the idiot chicken only knew how close she was to the stew pot, she’d have been flapping off to West Virginia at a dead run.

“Hirschman didn’t say no,” Elias replied, stroking the back of Hildy’s neck with one finger. “He listened, he asked relevant though hardly brilliant questions, and he agreed to consider the mortgage application most carefully.”

Violet retrieved an ancient, clean kitchen towel from the stack above the washing machine, got down triple anti-biotic, cotton balls, and a nifty veterinary scrub that was both anti-bacterial and anti-fungal.

“This stuff costs a fortune. Knock over the bottle and you’ll owe me a mortgage.” Violet spread the towel on the top of the dryer—upset chickens could be very untidy. “Put Hildy on the towel but keep hold of her too. Pet her, distract her, soothe her.”

The next part went more quickly than many of Violet’s chicken-doctoring encounters, simply because Elias was there to look after Hildy while Violet cleaned and disinfected various minor wounds.

“She likes you,” Violet said, when Hildy was once again cradled in Elias’s arms, and the medical supplies had been put away. “Chickens have a reputation for stupidity. They aren’t stupid, but they can’t fly to speak of, they aren’t much for fighting, and they taste good. What’s a girl to do when she’s lost in the dark past her bedtime?”

Elias shifted the hen to one side and wrapped an arm around Violet’s shoulders. “I hate to fly, but I’d love for you to fly to Scotland with me. Dunstan says I’ve been remiss—pigheaded—in not making that invitation explicit.”

“That meeting must have gone really badly,” Violet muttered against Elias’s throat. He always smelled good—clean, spicy, alluring—even when he was holding a beat-up chicken, and bearing bad news.

“Hirschman implied that he doesn’t lend vast sums to people who own farms they’ve no idea how to work, and his bank doesn’t lend vast sums to Scotsmen who’ve no intention of investing the money here in Damson Valley.”

Meaning Elias had made plain his intention to leave the area. “No doubt Hirschman will cheerfully lend a vast sum to Max Maitland, so that a gazillion mortgages, car loans, lines of credit, credit cards, savings accounts, and retirement plans come his way. I hope the bankers are the first to starve when we run out of arable land.”

Hildy clucked, and Elias stepped back. “I should have reminded him of that,” he said. “I was too eager to leave the man amid his pots of money. Dunstan and Jane are expecting. Jane confirmed the news when we got back from the bank.”

Violet unhooked Elias’s sunglasses from his collar, because they were tangling in her hair. “That pleases you?” she asked, setting the sunglasses on the dryer. 

“This news pleases Dunstan and Jane. If they were obnoxious in their marital bliss before, they are transcendently unbearable now.”

Elias looked pleased though. Pleased for his cousins, and pleased that he’d been with them when the news had been confirmed.

“You’re a good guy, Elias. Let’s get this hen confined to quarters.”

As they returned Hildy to her sisters, and wedged straw bales behind the trough that had provided a means of escape from the chicken yard, Violet mustered her courage.

“What did you mean when you invited me to fly to Scotland with you?” she asked. “Did you mean, sell my farm, leave here, give up on Damson Valley and let Maitland and his McMansions have it all while I take up castle living in the wilds of bonnie Scotland?”

Elias kicked the last straw bale to jam it against the trough formed of a single hollowed-out tree trunk.

“You make coming to Scotland sound like a defeat,” he said. “It’s not as if”—another hard kick— “Scotland is some remote hinterland devoid of culture.”

He was getting his manly ego into those kicks, and he was not making sense. Violet was gratified by both developments, because they confirmed that Elias was truly upset with the bank’s refusal to mortgage the farm.

“Elias, I would love to see Scotland someday, but right now, I’m more interested in keeping your farm under cultivation. What do you say we print out the application forms for the conservation easement—unless you’ve decided to sell to Maitland?”

His sunglasses were back at the house, so Violet could see the determination in his gaze as he surveyed the property across the road and the view down the valley. The brilliant sun was chasing off the last lingering hints of spring, and bringing out the valley’s summer plumage. Corn shot skyward on either side of the highway, trees were in full leaf, and the pastures were blankets of verdure.

The valley was beautiful. Elias, with straw on his jeans, and that look in his eyes, was beautiful too.

“I do not want to sell to Maitland,” he said. “For many reasons, my castle among them, I do not want him to have this valley. I grasp the importance of maintaining what’s good and deep-rooted, Violet. This valley is your castle. I take it you’re not keen on moving to Scotland?”

Violet’s heart gave a sad, silent lurch south. “That’s complicated. I’m keen on you, Elias, but how well would I adjust to Scotland, knowing the price of my happiness was the ruin of a thousand acres of productive farmland? If your farm goes into development, and I give up at the same time, a half dozen of my neighbors will likely throw in the towel too. I can’t have that on my conscience. I’d be no better than Hirschman.”

Elias spoke of castles, but not of love, marriage, or a secure future. He and Violet had known each other only days, and Elias was still holding a return ticket to Scotland.

And that was fortunate, because if he had spoken of undying devotion, a shared future, and true love, Violet was nearly certain her already bruised heart would dissolve into a thousand, weeping pieces. Perhaps he’d spared her that speech out of kindness, for Elias was a kind man.

“To the computer, then,” he said, laying an arm across Violet’s shoulders. “I was in a hurry to discuss the meeting with you. I stopped to change but neglected my lunch. Can I beg a sandwich from you?”

Violet wished he’d beg an afternoon in bed from her, but understood his reticence in that regard as more kindness. The easement application was complicated, and a plate of sandwiches and two hours later, they still hadn’t dotted every i or crossed every t. Frolics in bed—and further discussion of trips to Scotland—would have to wait.

“A wee dram might make this exercise less tedious,” Elias said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How does one go about creating a forestry plan?”

And certifying that the farm had no wetlands, and guaranteeing the soil types, and providing the metes and bound description of the property, procuring a title search, for starters. The list of to-do’s was long and expensive.

“I’ll start with my forestry plan,” Violet said, “and see if I can adapt it for your property. We should probably nose around in your woods first, just to make sure your trees and my trees are more or less alike in species, age, and distribution.”

Elias added something—perhaps a walk in the woods—to their list. “Can Maitland foil this application the way he ruined my chances at the bank?”

Well, damn. “I don’t know. Maryland seems to have relatively ethical politics, but the tail wags the dog. Agriculture is the number one industry here, and yet, the population density around Baltimore and the Baltimore-Washington corridor means agricultural interests aren’t well represented politically.”

Elias tossed his pen onto the legal pad he’d been using to make notes. “Scotland faces similar challenges, complicated by questions of Gaelic cultural preservation, maritime interests involving hundreds of islands, environmental and energy concerns that don’t always play nicely together. It seems as if politics attracts some of the very people least suited to holding the public’s trust.”

Violet put the computer into sleep mode. “In other words, does Max have enough pull at the Agricultural Land Preservation Foundation to deny you an easement? I want to say no, of course not.”

“I’ve been here less than a week, and he’s already cut off access to the largest bank,” Elias said. “Dunstan and Jane think if the largest bank won’t extend me credit, neither will the smaller institutions.”

 “We have only a couple other banks in the mortgage business out this way,” Violet said. “You’ll apply to both of them?”

“Dunstan will pick up the paperwork this afternoon, but I will still be a Scotsman who doesn’t know how to farm and doesn’t intend to invest in this valley.”

Violet smacked him on the arm. “You discouraged?”

He kissed her. “I’m Scottish. We don’t know the meaning of the word. Will you come to dinner tonight with me and the happy couple?”

Violet was tempted, but another friendly dinner, another evening spent getting to know Elias’s family could go nowhere.

He’d invited Violet to dinner, he’d invited her to Scotland. Neither gesture changed the reality that, whether by selling development rights to the state, or selling land to Maitland, Elias would use that ticket home.

While Violet would stay in the valley she’d fought so hard to protect.

In the morning, Dunstan and Jane tooled off to work chatting happily about car seats, names, and which of the farmhouse’s unfished rooms to turn into a nursery.

Elias completed the two remaining mortgage applications, but one required proof not of an American address—Dunstan and Jane’s law office would have sufficed—but of an American residence.

Elias could claim he lived at the Hedstrom property, but that would be a lie. He finished the application using his Scottish residence, but his mood was soured to be once again defeated before he’d even toed the starting line.

His emails included word from Angus of pending appointments to three more charitable boards, though the organizations couldn’t officially name Elias until their summer director’s meetings, and the appointments would not take effect until the autumn quarter.

“Which means,” Elias informed Wallace, “no director’s fees until the new year. By which time, my masons will have walked off the job, grumbling to anybody who’ll listen that Elias Brodie doesn’t pay his crews.”

Wallace had been occupying the sill of the study’s open window, his bulk aligned along the screen. He stretched, righted himself, and would have walked across Elias’s keyboard, except Elias caught the cat and rose with Wallace in his arms. 

“I blew it,” Elias said, settling into the recliner with the cat. “I asked Violet to come to Scotland, but I blew it. Bad timing, bad terms.”

I ’d love for you to fly to Scotland with me. Dunstan says I ’ve been remiss —pigheaded —in not making that invitation explicit.

As if Elias had been inviting her to Aberdeen for a golf weekend. He was still remiss, but as he dozed off, with the cat purring on his chest, he couldn’t put his finger on where, exactly, he’d come up short. Violet had asked for clarification—brave woman—but Elias hadn’t obliged. He’d grumbled, he’d mumbled, he’d prevaricated, in other words.

A sandpapery tongue scraped across Elias’s chin, just as his thoughts drifted to the castle as it would look when restored. Glamis was a larger edifice, but Brodie Castle was older. Blair Castle had larger grounds, but Brodie Castle stood in prettier surrounds.

The tongue scraped across his cheek this time. 

“Stop that.”

Elias had considered opening the castle and lodge to his charities for board meetings, but that would have meant hiring a caterer, finding help in the village to change the linens and clean. Jeannie, who managed a lovely little holiday cottage, had discouraged him.

A soft paw batted at Elias’s lips.

Elias opened his eyes and found himself nose to nose with Wallace. “I’m occupying your throne, I take it. Enjoy your tyranny while you may, cat. By this time next year you’ll be deposed by a wee prince or princess, and this will no longer be your castle.”

The cat squinted, as if to say, he’d known a baby was on the way long before Elias had, and was in fact, responsible for wooing Jane into joining the household. 

“I’m off to check on the chickens,” Elias said. “And I’ll try to un-bungle what I bungled yesterday. Guard the castle, cat, while it’s still yours to guard.”

He left Wallace curled in the recliner, and drove out to Violet’s, stopping to pick up a six pack of heather ale from the bottle shop that ordered it for Dunstan at a scandalous price.

Violet was in her garden, Brunhilda scratching at the dirt beside her.

“Weeding again,” Elias said, taking a cross-legged seat in the grass at the edge of the garden. “I see you have help today.”

“I have company,” Violet said, “which is almost the same thing.” She used a tool with three curved prongs to hack at the soil, pitching weeds into her basket as she went. “I overslept, got a late start. We’ll probably get rain this afternoon, and the weeds do love a good shower. What’s in the bag?”

She sat back on her heels, wiping her brow with a forearm. The line of her throat was lovely, and the way her old T-shirt strained across her breasts riveting.

“Where is your hat, Violet Hughes?” Elias asked, extracting an ale from the brown paper bag at his side. “You will get a sunburn, and I can tell you from experience, sunburn is unpleasant. Try this.” He twisted off the cap and passed her the bottle.

She took a sniff, then a cautious sip. “That’s lovely,” she said, examining the label. “If I drink one of those in this heat, I will soon be flat out in the glide-a-rocker. What brings you here, Elias?”

The question confirmed Elias’s sense that on his last visit, he’d made a wrong turn.

“You do. You bring me out here. Give me one of those digging implements and I’ll at least get as much done as Brunhilda.”

“You eat bugs?” Violet asked, taking another sip of ale, then passing Elias the bottle.

“I eat crow, as you Americans would say. Will you marry me, Violet?”

She paused, the tool in her hand poised to strike at the earth. “Have you been drinking, Elias?”

“That is not among the usual replies to a marriage proposal,” Elias said. “And no, I have not been drinking, though a wee dram or three never hurt a man’s outlook. Yesterday, I invited you to come to Scotland, but I failed to make clear, that is, I neglected to….”

This was not going well. Elias carried the ale and his rucksack to the porch, returned to take the tool from Violet’s hand, and scooped her up against his chest.

“Is this a Highlander thing, Elias? This hauling women around for no apparent reason? I’m capable of walking, and the beer will get hot if you leave it out for more than ten minutes.”

“If I gave you two minutes, you’d hop on a tractor, or move sheep fences, or can dingleberries, or run off to whatever thousand other things you’re intent on doing before I finish making a fool of myself. Besides, I’ll take any excuse to hold you.”

“Elias we need to talk.”

No, they did not. Talk would be a somber undertaking, of which Elias had had a bellyful.

“We need to get married.” Elias carried Violet up the porch steps, but she refused to open the door when he obligingly dipped at the knees. He compromised by settling with her on the glide-a-rocker, keeping her in his lap. “That came out wrong. Violet, will you please marry me? We’ll get the conservation easement, hire managers, split our time between the crops and the castle. The renovations should only take a few years, and by then—”

She kissed him, though Elias didn’t mistake the gesture for affection. He was babbling, and kissing him was a merciful gesture to shut him up. Bungling apparently grew easier with practice.

“I called the land preservation office,” Violet said. “They know me there, because I’m such an advocate for the program.”

Her tone was level, her gaze was sad. The orphan in Elias began to silently howl.

“Tell me,” Elias said. “Whatever the news, just tell me.”

“Maryland’s fiscal year runs from July 1 through June 30.”

Many business organizations used a date other than January 1 to start their accounting cycle.

“Why is that significant?”

“Because,” Violet said, “the land preservation program has used up its purchasing funds for this fiscal year. They will accept new applications starting in September, and probably begin making awards around January. I knew how the program operated in theory, I’d just never acquainted myself with the actual schedule. Elias, I’m sorry.”

She squirmed off his lap, and he let her go.

No mortgage, no easement, no hope, and Violet was sorry.

Elias rose and crossed the porch to where the ale and his rucksack sat at the top of the steps. He kicked the rucksack so hard it soared across the yard and landed immediately outside the sheep pen. The ewes startled, the chickens flapped, and Elias felt the smallest increment better.

“Does this mean,” he said returning to Violet’s side, “you’re not interested in marrying me? You’d be a countess, for which I do apologize, but it can’t be helped. Our daughters would carry the title lady, our oldest son would be a baron. There’s nothing I can do about that, either.”

Violet retrieved the open beer and resumed her place in his lap. “This is what it’s like to be a farmer, Elias. You risk everything on a new hybrid strain of wheat, and a hailstorm knocks a bumper crop flat in thirty minutes. The most beautiful hay God ever grew springs up in your fields, but if the ground is too wet, you won’t be able to cut it, much less bale it, until it’s far past prime. Without farmers who can plow on through all those vicissitudes, nobody has anything to eat. You would have made a fine farmer.”

She took a sip of the beer, and passed him the bottle.

“You are telling me, you can’t abandon your post. This farm is a vocation, such that you can’t sell it to one of your neighbors and take up the land preservation cause from another pulpit.”

Elias was still searching for a solution, which suggested Dunstan’s accusation of pigheadedness was spot on.

“Your castle is a vocation,” Violet said, snuggling closer. “I know this farm, Elias. I know which fields dry out too fast, which stay boggy. I know which hollows will be nipped by an early frost, and where my dad buried my first dog. I could sell this property eventually, but because it’s not in the preservation program, how do I know the buyer won’t just flip it into Maitland’s lap, and laugh all the way to the bank? People have to eat—they also have to learn to value our farmland—and I know how to grow crops on this patch of ground.”

“So put your farm into the goddamned preservation program,” Elias said. “You believe in the program, and even if you don’t sell this land, someday, you will no longer be able to farm it.”

Someday, she’d die, though hopefully not in a farming accident. Sitting on the porch, a part of Elias was dying, the part capable of enduring heartache on the strength of hope and sheer stubbornness.

“My mother would not agree to put her farm into the program,” Violet said. “That leaves a very small acreage, Elias, and I’m not likely to be approved the first few times I apply.”

Elias took another sip of cool, fragrant ale, though it did nothing to ease the ache in his throat. This must have been how his ancestors had felt, when their lands had been pried away by legal machinations, their cottages burned, their cows driven off so the landlords could raise the more profitable sheep. The only option for the tenants had been to accept defeat, and hope for the best in an unknown land.

“If there were no castle,” Elias said, “I’d relocate here without a backward glance, Violet.” Cousins, clients, aged single malts, a lifetime of memories—Elias would part from them, happily, and that realization brought a drop of comfort in a barrel of heartache.

Many of those memories were sad, and it was past time he let them rest in peace.

“If there were no farm, Elias, I’d be on the next plane to Scotland with you, but especially if you have to sell to Maitland, I can’t turn my back on my property or my valley.”

Elias loved this woman, for her integrity, for the ferocity of her passions, and for her honesty. He spared her a recitation of his sentiments, because like every Scotsman ever to pen a memorable ballad, he would apparently soon have to leave behind that which he treasured most.