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Violet’s guilty secret was a capacity for tears. She cried when the new lambs first went pronking across the barnyard on a sunny winter morning, she cried when the autumn light sharpened in anticipation of winter. She cried at falling leaves, and when she banged her thumb with a hammer. She cried at sappy movies, and sometimes, she cried after meeting with her accountant.

Cuddled in Elias’s arms, she understood what it meant when a sorrow was too deep for tears.

If she left the valley, Max Maitland would snatch up every spare acre, and the families who’d been hanging on for the last ten years would take his coin with sigh of guilt and relief.

Once development began, it never stopped. It slowed, it even paused, but once it started, a region’s quality of life was forever altered. Land ceased producing, and fell under the control of inane homeowner’s policies intended to create homogeneity where life-sustaining purpose and diversity had been.

“Right now,” Violet said, gazing out across the valley, “I hate Scotland. I hate your castle. I might even hate my life, and I surely do loathe Maxwell Moneybags Maitland, but I love you.”

Violet felt the surprise of her words go through Elias. She’d surprised herself too, but what was the point of keeping silent about love?

“Thank you, but you’re not… that doesn’t….” Elias heaved a sigh, such that Violet’s cheek rode the rise and fall of his chest. “I love you, too.”

Never had a man sounded less happy to surrender such a declaration.

“Love is good, Elias. I love my farm, you love your castle. We make sacrifices for who and what we love.”

They shared another sip of his flowery Scottish ale. A hawk took off from a leafy maple and soared over Elias’s fields on a lazy thermal.

“The properties we love are on separate continents,” he said. “Another item on the list of immutables that apparently cannot be helped. Will you at least visit me?”

He was so stubborn. “I’ll want to.” Every night for rest of her life, Violet would wish she was climbing into bed beside him.

“You’ll want to, but a woman who can barely find three days to visit her own mother can’t be nipping across the Atlantic to admire a castle that’s only fit for weddings and ceilidhs. I’m good at missing people, Violet, and I will miss you terribly.”

Violet did not invite him to visit her—what would be the point, when the Atlantic Ocean remained between them? She took the ale from him, finished it, and set the bottle aside. She’d keep it for a bud vase, and when the cat accidentally knocked it over, she’d glue the pieces back together.

Elias held her in an embrace at once secure and gentle, his gaze on the property across the road. Did he see houses there? Streets? A community center where his barn stood?

Violet would miss the quiet and the rural beauty of the property when his farm had been chopped into cul-de-sacs and jogging trails, but she’d miss Elias more. She’d miss his arms around her, his Scottish diction, the scent of him….

“Did you pitch the last condoms in captivity across the yard?” Violet asked.

“No,” Elias said, lips against Violet’s temple. “My wallet is in my pocket.”

“So what do you keep in that knapsack?”

He was quiet for a moment. “I keep things in there—a clean shirt, toiletries, sometimes a book. Conveniences and comforts, not necessities. Anything irreplaceable, I carry on my person.”

“You are irreplaceable. Let’s go upstairs.”

Making love with Elias would hurt like hell. Ignoring the opportunity to be close to him one last time would hurt worse even than that—and apparently, on this point only, he wasn’t prepared to argue with her.

Elias wanted to carry Violet over the threshold of her home, but she denied him that pleasure by wandering across the yard to retrieve his backpack. He stole a photo of her, the sheep in the background and the mountains framing the barn and fields.

He had pictures of his parents, dear, somewhat artificial images of people trying to look happy. Violet looked strong, lovely, and absolutely, utterly, undeniably at home. She shouldered Elias’s pack with lithe grace and rejoined him on the porch.

“Upstairs, you say?” Elias asked.

“Now would be good. If we’re running out condoms, I will expect you to make our supply count.”

“We will make it count,” Elias retorted as she passed him the backpack. “You’ll want to put the ale in the fridge.”

“You’ll want to stop giving me orders,” Violet said, snagging the remaining ale, and preceding him into the house. “At least until I have my clothes off. Then I might be more open to your suggestions.”

Then Elias’s wits would be too scrambled for coherent speech. Violet stashed the ale in the fridge, then led him up the steps. When Elias had stretched out on her bed between cool white sheets, Violet pulled her T-shirt over her head, stepped out of her sensible footwear, and shucked out of yoga capris that bore garden dirt on both knees.

She was naked, her braid trailing over her shoulder in an auburn rope, and she hesitated by the bed, her courage seeming to desert her. This intimacy had been her idea, but in her eyes, Elias saw the reality of what lay ahead.

This was not good-bye sex, of which they’d both probably had their share. This was not part romp, part relief, part friendly disengagement, a fond memory intended to spare both parties futile acrimony.

This was farewell forever sex.

The pain in Elias’s heart as he watched Violet silently wrestle with their fate, was exquisite, different even from the resonating grief of losing both parents. Elias had been a mostly happy lad of eleven years one day, and a bewildered orphan the next. The lack of warning had been a mercy, for what boy could have borne the anticipation of such a loss? Now, Elias knew that in a few days, he’d leave behind hopes, dreams, most of his heart, and a woman worth treasuring.

“You come here to me, Violet Hughes,” he said, holding out his arms. Not a suggestion or an order, but a plea.

In the next instant, she was bundled against him, bringing with her the scents of cut grass and lemons, sunshine and summer, and the taste of unshed tears in her every kiss.

If the pain of parting was exquisite, Elias was determined to make the loving exquisite too. He linked fingers with Violet as he slowly, slowly joined their bodies, holding her gaze as he brought more and more pleasure to her. Violet retaliated with kisses and sighs, with an embrace more intimate than ivy twining among ancient stones.

So much Elias wanted to give to her, so much he wanted to show her, but all he had was the next hour. He teased and tasted, dabbled and delighted, until Violet was a boneless heap of aroused female beneath him.

“Now, Elias,” Violet said, stroking his chest. “Love me now.”

“I will always love you.”

He held back. He held back as if he could stop time, hold the sun to its position in the sky, and keep the moon from rising, but in the end, Violet’s determination overcame his self-restraint. He followed her into exquisite pleasure, and then held her while her tears came at last.

“Have you a proper kilt?” Elias asked, tapping away at the computer keyboard.

Dunstan picked up Wallace and deposed him from the recliner. “I do. I was married in my kilt. Jane fancies me in it, and I’ve worn it to the occasional investiture of a judge or to a retirement dinner. I get a lot of looks and the usual questions.”

“I am cursed,” Elias said, staring at the computer screen.

Elias had been acting odd since he’d walked in the door shortly before dinner, but then, Elias was odd.

“You’ve an ancient title, good health, relatives who put up with you, an embarrassment of assets, a single-malt collection that’s the envy of—Elias what the hell is wrong?”

 Dunstan ceased lecturing because Elias’s expression was stunned, disbelieving.

“Nick Aiken is my head mason, one of the best. Knows castles inside out, loves them the way Angus loves his pipe music, or wee Henry loves his mother. Nick claims the roof over the long hall isn’t sound.”

The roof over the castle’s long hall was an enormous expanse of vaulted stonework, worthy of a cathedral, and probably centuries older than any cathedral in Scotland.

“Age takes a toll on us all, Elias.”

Wallace hopped back up into the recliner.

“Just for that,” Elias said, “I will not give you your pick of the single-malts before I auction them off.”

“I want that bottle of 28-year-old Macallan, but you’re not auctioning off the whisky. Did you expect the roof to be sound?”

Elias closed his document and turned so he straddled the chair before the computer and faced Dunstan. “Do you know how much it would cost to repair the roof of this house?”

Dunstan picked up the cat and settled into the recliner, because Jane had gone to bed early, and a considerate husband let his pregnant wife get some sleep. Then too, Jane was worried about Elias, and that meant Dunstan was obliged to worry about Elias.

“Roofs are a bloody pain in the arse,” Dunstan said, as Wallace got settled on his lap. “If the wet gets in, the walls are soon the worse for it, and the whole structure is compro—shit. The long hall is enormous.” It also ran between the two wings of the castle, connected the merely old with the ancient. If the long hall wasn’t sound, the castle was essentially rotten in the middle.

“And that roof weighs tons upon tons,” Elias said. “All of those tons will come crashing down at some point—probably in the middle of somebody’s wedding—if I don’t effect structural repairs, the cost of which, Nick can’t even estimate until the work starts.”

Wallace began to make odd noises, as if he had the hiccups.

“None of that,” Dunstan said, scratching the cat under the chin. “The fat beggar’s perfected the art of demanding attention. Is this why you’re selling the whisky? Because the roof is about to cave in?”

Wallace subsided into purring, at which the cat excelled. He also, however, commenced kneading a delicate portion of Dunstan’s anatomy, which necessitated picking the cat up.

“The roof might hold up another hundred years,” Elias said. “It might collapse tomorrow. Nick is sending for an engineer he’s worked with who has a way with old buildings.”

And if master masons came dear, specialty engineers came astronomically dear. “How much are you prepared to invest in a building nobody has called home for decades, Elias? I understand that you’re not a farmer, much less an American farmer, and that you don’t care to become one. Seal off the long hall, take the money Maitland will pay for the farm, and enjoy yourself.”

“Enjoy myself?”

The poor bastard looked perplexed, as if he were trying to make sense of Norse runes scratched on the wall of a tomb.

“You like fast cars, pretty women, fine whisky. Your lodge has art on nearly every wall and table, and you play polo. God’s sake, enjoy yourself.” 

Elias plucked the cat from Dunstan’s arms, leaving a shower of cat hair on Dunstan’s clothing. “I consult to a number of automobile design shops, Dunstan, and cars are like whisky, like musical instruments. The more you grasp about their workings, the more you appreciate a well-made article. I honestly prefer blended whisky, but one doesn’t blaspheme in the temple, and if you’d been dragged around behind Zebedee Brodie to every polo match on three continents, you’d have learned the rudiments of the game too.”

“What about the women?” Dunstan said, as Wallace began to purr.

“I like women, and some of them have liked me back. When did that become suspect behavior?”

Valid point, so like a good litigator, Dunstan ignored it. “And the art?”

“Most of the art at the lodge belongs to Liam Cromarty, who rents art to corporations, some of whom I’ve introduced to his services. I don’t own it, and I don’t charge Liam rent to house it.”

Liam was an art history professor, and also among the Cromarty cousins to recently marry.

“You’re a complete fraud in other words,” Dunstan said. “You have clients, you work, you don’t even fuss when a cat gets hair all over your French shirts.”

“English,” Elias said, scratching Wallace’s head. “I’ve held chickens while wearing this shirt.”

This was apparently a fond memory. Globetrotting titled playboys didn’t cherish memories involving chickens. Dunstan entertained the notion that he’d never really known his cousin, but he liked this stubborn fool who held Wallace and sat backward in the computer chair.

“Elias, what will you do about the castle?”

“Oh, I’ll repair the castle. The alternative is to wait for the roof to cave in, and then it will be condemned, and I’ll have to bulldoze it. I want your children to have the option to get married in that great hall. I want to see the ghosts of Auld Michael and his Brenna kissing on the parapets. Even if I can’t finish the place out the way it deserves to be appointed, I’ll get a good start on the job.”

Dunstan rose, because the clock showed 11 p.m. and the day had been long. “I notice you don’t mention your own wedding, Elias, or your own children. Will you let the castle cost you those dreams too?”

Elias stood with Wallace in his arms. “You’d make a lousy farmer, Dunstan Cromarty. A man contemplating fatherhood needs to develop some optimism about life, some philosophical resources.”

“Have you children, then, Elias, to be explaining fatherhood to me?”

Elias followed him from the study, killing the lights and plunging the hallway into gloom. “I’m a man without parents or siblings, Dunstan, and that gives me insights that you have been spared. Dreams are expensive, and when they die, they take a piece of you with them. You don’t get those pieces back. Not ever. If you find something solid to call your own, protect it while you can, but be prepared to part with that too.” 

Dunstan reacted with the instincts of a boy among his male cousins. He shoved Elias against the wall, pinning him by one shoulder. Not a fair attack, because Elias held the idiot cat.

“You did not die when that plane went down, Elias. Your heart broke, your life went to pieces, but I am damned glad you are alive. I hope you are too. Find new dreams, find new heart. Generations of Scots have had to do just that.”

Elias petted the cat, who was glaring at Dunstan. “The state won’t be buying my development rights, Dunstan. They have no money to spend and won’t for months. Has to do with a fiscal year that’s 180 degrees off the calendar year. Violet informed me of this cheery development when we said our farewells this afternoon.”

The news about the easement might explain Elias’s silence at dinner, his distracted air, but Dunstan suspected saying farewell to Violet Hughes played a part as well.

“The rotten ceiling is just another nail in the coffin, isn’t it?”

“It’s a castle, not a coffin, Dunstan,” Elias said tiredly. “Sometimes, having no options makes life less complicated.”

But seldom easier. “Can you make another option, Elias?”

Though what choices remained? Elias didn’t know how to farm, farming was a difficult livelihood at best, and Max Maitland was offering a much needed pot of gold in exchange for the land.

“If you can think of another option, Dunstan, I’ll consider it. More than the castle and the farm are at stake.”

“That’s two fortunes. What more could be at stake?”

“If I sell that farm to Maitland, I will break Violet’s heart, and that is unacceptable.” Elias leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “I’ve asked Jeannie to send me a few things. They should arrive to your office on Monday. We’ll meet with Maitland on Tuesday, if you can spare me the time?”

 “I can spare you the time. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I’m going up to bed, and if I haven’t said it before, thank you, Dunstan.”

For what? “You’re welcome. Shall I put the cat out?”

“The Wallace sleeps in my bed now. I’m hoping his heroic nature might rub off on me along with his fur.”

Dunstan declined to point out that William Wallace had been executed as a traitor and died a brutal death far from his home and his loved ones.

“Jane gave me your message.” Elias stood outside the sheep pen, in jeans and a navy blue T-shirt, a blue and white plaid belt at his waist. Violet wished she dared take a picture of him.

She tipped up the metal tub she’d been scrubbing, watching the water run into the dirt. She and Elias had said their good-byes, and yet, Violet had chosen to invite—not force, but invite—one more encounter.

“Your sunglasses are on the kitchen counter,” she said. “Give me a minute here, and I’ll come with—”

Elias seized the empty tub, shook the last drops from it, then set it under the frost-free spigot. He flipped open the tap, the water hitting the empty tub in a gush.

“They’ll drink more when the water’s cold,” he said. “You could have mailed my sunglasses, or dropped them by the law office. I left them here on purpose because I wanted you to have them.”

“That never occurred—” Well, hell. Elias would not be extravagant about his gifts. His generosity would be subtle and discreet, a few beers left in the fridge, forgotten sunglasses. “They are nice sunglasses, Elias. Too nice to wear around a farm.”

“You’ll take good care of them because they are good quality,” he said, flipping the tap off. “I’ve had them since I was a boy and never lost them. What’s next?”

For an instant, Violet thought he was asking a philosophical question, about relationships foiled by thousands of miles of ocean, but as Brunhilda came clucking under the fence, Violet realized the question—like the man—was pragmatic.

“I was about to change the oil in the tractor,” Violet said. “It’s a messy job, and I’ve put it off for too long.”

“I like anything to do with an engine,” Elias said, squatting to pet the hen. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

Where was the harm in sharing a little more of the farm work? Where was the harm in listening to Elias hold a conversation with the underside of a geriatric tractor, watching his hands as he loosened bolts Violet would have been cursing at and kicking? He did in an hour what Violet would have spent all afternoon half-assing, and he seemed to enjoy the challenge.

Then came hanging a hammock between two maples—another job Violet had put off—followed by mucking out and rebedding the chicken coop, which Elias also dispatched more quickly than Violet could have. While Violet uploaded her latest blog post and made lunch, Elias hooked up the mower and scythed down the last field of hay for her, then got after a stretch of the sheep fence where the electric tape had come off its insulators.

Violet watched him through the window as he absently petted old Joan, the alpha ewe who occasionally put the ram in his place. Joan butted against Elias’s work gloves, a gesture of affection she rarely showed Violet.

“I told him he’d make a good farmer,” Violet muttered to the cat. “He would have made a great farmer. He probably makes a spectacular earl.”

How she wished, just once, she could see him in all his kilted finery.

He could well have ignored Violet’s message about the sunglasses, could have asked her to mail them, or sent her a note. Instead, he’d come to her door ready to put in a day’s work. Even more than his tender loving, or his stubborn attempts to raise cash without selling to Maitland, his practical help stole Violet’s heart.

The least she could do was feed him. By the time Elias sauntered in the back door, the dogs panting beside him, Violet had barley soup, ham and cheddar sandwiches, and brownies ready to go.

“You’ve cleaned off your kitchen table,” Elias said.

“For special occasions, such as having a clean chicken coop at last, I will make a special effort. I hadn’t realized the glads were blooming yet.”

Elias passed her a long stem festooned with lavender blossoms. “I should have asked before I cut it, but my mother loved these. My father frequently brought them to her, and always with good effect. Yours appear to be thriving.”

Violet fished under the sink for a vase, trimmed the stem, and put it in water. “Mine are odd. In this climate zone, glads aren’t supposed to be hardy. My patch is on a southern wall, directly beneath a window. I think the house keeps them warm, and they keep coming up year after year. I periodically separate them, but only the ones I don’t transplant survive without lifting.”

Elias had filled one of the dog bowls with fresh water, and for a moment, the only sound was Murphy, lapping noisily. Sarge followed, after which Elias used paper towels to wipe up the mess, then washed his hands at the sink.

The domestic touches—consideration for the dogs, tidying up, taking on jobs Violet had put off—were breaking her heart. Of course this man would put to rights a castle that had been neglected for generations.

And he’d do it without complaining.

“Let’s eat, shall we?” Violet suggested. “You’ve put me days ahead on my chores, and probably saved my tractor from blowing a head gasket.”

“I have worked on my tan,” Elias said, taking two of the heather ales from the fridge and setting one by each plate. “These taste better if they’re not chilled, you know.”

Violet took a seat while Elias opened both beers. “I’m in the company of a man who drinks beer for its flavor. Tell me about your castle, Elias.”

They were pretending the day was normal, that Elias helped out around the farm occasionally, that Violet wouldn’t miss the sight of him on her tractor, or treasure his sunglasses until she was a half-blind old woman.

In the spirit of the general prevarication, Elias told story after story about the Brodie family fortunes, which had taken a sharp turn for the better when Michael, the first earl, had come back from the Napoleonic wars and invested in the black Angus cattle that still featured heavily in the American beef industry.

“So you come from farming people,” Violet said.

“Nobody dares attribute the Brodie fortunes to farming,” Elias said, taking his empty dishes to the sink. “We claim that Auld Michael’s ability to charm Queen Victoria is the foundation of our wealth. Where’s your—?”

He knelt to peer under the sink, and came up holding a scrubber sponge. Violet finished clearing the table, put the dogs out, and let Elias do the dishes, while she watered the African violets on the window sills.

She should thank him kindly for his help and send him on his way. Instead Violet set aside her watering pitcher and embraced Elias from behind.

“Thank you, Elias.”

He left off wiping out the sink, turned, and wrapped his arms around her. “I will worry about you, here by yourself, working around the livestock, the heavy equipment. I will worry a lot.”

She should tell him not to worry, then thank him for his help, and send him on his way. “There is one more job I hate to do alone, so I usually put it off, and then it’s cold weather, and that only makes it worse.”

“Don’t be proud,” Elias said. “I meet with Maitland on Tuesday, and I’ll fly back to Scotland on Wednesday.”

Violet sagged against him, resting her forehead against his sternum. The knowledge of parting had been so carefully ignored all morning, and yet, that parting would come.

“If you could help me clean the chimney, I’d appreciate it. I don’t mind heights, but I don’t like to be up on a ladder when I’m here by myself. Bad things happen at the worst times.”

Elias kissed her nose. “That they do. Let’s be about it, and then you won’t have to fret over the chimney until next spring.”

Everything went more quickly when the job was shared. Elias was nimble as a monkey on the ladder, and had the spark catcher off and the long-handled brush down the chimney in no time. The mail truck came while Violet was holding the ladder, the letter carrier shoving bills and junk mail into each of the four mailboxes at the foot of her drive.

“I usually clean out your mail box when I’m getting my own,” Violet said, when Elias was once again on the ground. “Even if you forward your mail, the junk keeps coming. I use it for kindling.”

“I’ll put the ladder away,” Elias said, tugging off his gloves. “You’ll want to fetch the mail.”

Who wanted to collect another fistful of bills and shopping tabloids? Violet let Elias wrestle with the ladder though, because he was leaving on Wednesday and the ladder was heavy. The dogs followed her down to the mail boxes, and indeed, most of the mail was junk.

Her property insurance company had sent her an epistle of some sort, which was unusual because the premiums were paid out of the mortgage escrow funds. She slit the envelope open and read as she walked up the drive.

Disbelief, rage, and terror collided as she read the long list Brethren Amalgamated Insurance had sent her. When she looked up, Elias sat on the front porch steps, the dogs at his feet.

“Is something wrong, Violet?”

She shoved the letter at him. “That rat bastard Max Maitland thinks he’s found a way to get me off this farm, but so help me, Elias, he will not succeed. Now more than ever, he and his low down, rotten, dirty, disgusting tricks will not succeed.”