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Thank heavens, Elias MacSuit wasn’t a developer. He was the new owner and had settled family in the area. Violet’s emotional battle pennants luffed and then drooped against her mental flagpoles.

Zebedee Brodie would not have left the most beautiful patch of Damson Valley to an indifferent heir.

“Sod this,” Mr. Brodie muttered, hoisting the suitcase to his shoulder rather than try to wheel it through the long grass. “Did the yard service also run off to join the circus?”

 “I can bring my riding mower over,” Dunstan said as they clomped up the porch stairs.

“And how much will you charge me for that?” Mr. Brodie replied, setting the suitcase down. The leather looked butter-soft, and the name embossed on the metal logo was French. Violet made a note to google it, though she suspected the price of that one bag would have paid a landscape crew for many hours of work.

“I’ll bill you a pack of Fraoch,” Dunstan replied. “Jane fancies it, except when she doesn’t.”

“What’s Fraoch?” Violet asked, stretching up to run her fingers along the top of a window sill. She couldn’t quite reach, but neither man seemed inclined to help.

“Heather ale,” Mr. Brodie said. “You’ll get filthy doing that.”

Violet’s fingers encountered a key. She held it under Mr. Brodie’s nose. “I’ll get into your castle, unless you’d like to do the honors?”

An odd expression flickered across Mr. Brodie’s face, while Dunstan snatched the key out of Violet’s hand.

“Allow me. I’ve a way with an old lock, according to my wife.”

Mr. Brodie snorted. “You fall for that? Have you a way with dirty laundry? A sink full of dishes? A vacuum cleaner?”

“Where uppity cousins are concerned, I have a way with a closed fist,” Dunstan muttered, wiggling the key in the lock.

“Uppity? I’m uppity, am I now? You’ve gone Yank on me, Dunstan Cromarty, and as head of your family, I’ll be having a word with your missus about corruption of your vocabulary.”

Dunstan jiggled the key harder and pushed a meaty shoulder against the door. “The humidity gets to these old buildings.”

Violet would have let him mutter and push and get nowhere for another few moments, but Mr. Brodie was enjoying Dunstan’s failure a little too much.

“Mr. Cromarty?”

“A wee push,” he said, ramming his shoulder against the door again.

“Might need some oil on the mechanism,” Mr. Brodie said, shrugging out of his suit jacket. His shirt stuck to the middle of his back, though it had to be the whitest shirt Violet had ever seen. “Or perhaps you’re turning it the wrong way. Americans drive on the wrong side of the road, put the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car. You cannot trust them to do anything in a predictable fashion.”

“Mr. Cromarty? ”

Both men looked at Violet as if she’d just led a heifer up the porch steps.

“That’s the key to the back door.”

The house was a metaphor for Elias’s circumstances—once fine, still blessed with many good qualities, but at risk for a rapid decline.

“Your caretaker left in a hurry,” Dunstan said, picking up a newspaper folded on the kitchen counter. “You say the man gambled, Miss Hughes?”

“That’s according to the guys at the feed store, and their gossip is considered the best in the valley,” Miss Hughes said, wrinkling her nose. “Let’s open some windows, shall we?”

The kitchen was stifling and stale. A coffee cup and spoon sat in the sink along with a chipped blue plate. A dingy white towel had been crammed through the refrigerator door handle, and the windows were dim with dust. Elias hung his backpack on a chair rather than set it amid the dust.

“I hope you brought jeans and a work kilt,” Dunstan said. “This place is a disgrace.”

“It’s the only disgrace I own in fee simple absolute, according to Angus Whyte. Let me do that,” Elias said, as Miss Hughes tried to wrestle with a window sash.

She gave it one more shove and the window scraped open. Air moved—hot, humid air.

“I’ll leave you two guys to admire the property,” she said, dusting her hands. “Come on over if you need anything, Mr. Brodie. We’re decent neighbors around here, for the most part. You might see my dogs sniffing around your barn—Sarge and Murphy. They’re friendly but Murphy has been known to get too interested in a bag of fresh garbage. Good luck with the place.”

She stuck out a hand to Dunstan, then Elias, and with a bang of the screen door, was on her way.

“I suppose you’d best buy some cat food,” Dunstan said, using the towel to wipe the dust from the kitchen table.

“I don’t care for cat food,” Elias said. “And I need to watch my pennies these days, or I’d be staying in a hotel.”

“Don’t make me thrash sense into you, Elias. You’ll not be staying at a hotel when you’ve family in the valley. The cat food is for Bruno.”

“Shite.” Bruno, who was at that moment, insinuating himself against Elias’s shins, leaving a fine coating of cat hair over a beautiful pair of charcoal wool trousers.

“You can stay with me and Jane, though with some hard work, you’ll soon have this place ready to put on the market. Nobody will care what the house looks like.”

Elias cared what the house looked like. “It’s a fine old home, and should be properly maintained.” He wrestled another window up, while Dunstan did battle with the window over the double sink. “Some soap and water, a bit of yard work, a few flowers on the porch, and it will show well enough.”

The window over the sink gave with a screech. “If you’re selling to a developer, they’ll probably scrape the house and the barn, rip up the fences, bury the stone walls. You have some nice views here.”

Elias put the cat out, holding it a distance from his body. “They’ll scrape a stone house and stone barn? Are Americans truly so disrespectful of the past?”

“Americans are respectful of their coin and pragmatic. An empty barn serves no one, and what do you care? You’ll be back in Scotland using your free golf privileges on Niall Cromarty’s back nine. Let’s find you a bedroom.”

A stone barn was a work of art, and a stone house was the personal version of a castle, built to withstand centuries of weather, love, and loss.

“Maybe we can turn the barn into some sort of community center,” Elias said, hoisting his suitcase, though he was more interested in finding a shower than a bed.

“There won’t be any we about it.” Dunstan wiped his hands on the dusty towel. “You’ll get your money, and the purchaser will do as he pleases. The land comes under the jurisdiction of a zoning board, but it’s not like Scotland where the local council keeps an eye on everything. Bedrooms will be upstairs.”

“Let’s find the air conditioning controls,” Elias rejoined, following Dunstan up a narrow, turning set of steps. “Angus assured me all American houses have air conditioning.”

“Angus lied, of course. Though most houses in Maryland have at least a few window units.”

The upstairs was even hotter, and because only one window opened on the main hallway, dark as well. Dunstan opened a door revealing a bedroom, the bed unmade but the appointments commodious in a rural fashion. A small fireplace was flanked with worn armchairs, the rug a faded pattern of cabbage roses. A porcelain wash basin sat on top of a heavy bureau, and more cabbage roses adorned the curtains.

“You’ll want to sleep on the other side of the house,” Dunstan said. “The sun won’t wake you as early.”

Elias followed him across the hall. “Since when do lawyers concern themselves with sleeping late?”

“I’m a happily married lawyer,” Dunstan said, his smile smug. “Sleeping late goes with the territory when Jane gets in a particular mood. Now this is lovely.”

They’d found the master bedroom. The bed was an enormous brass article under a fluffy white eyelet coverlet, a door to the left led off to a full bath. A pair of white wicker chairs faced French doors that opened onto a balcony, and a dead fern sat in a brass pot in a spacious fireplace. The rugs were pale green on polished hardwood, a dusty cheval mirror reflected afternoon sunlight against the far wall.

“And there’s your window unit,” Dunstan said. “What more could a belted earl want?”

Elias was too grateful for the sight of the air conditioner to object to Dunstan’s taunt. “That claw foot tub looks good right about now, so I’ll see you on your way.”

They trooped downstairs, which was relatively cooler, but still filthy with dust. The neglect bothered Elias but so did something else.

“Where are my camels?” he asked.

“Your what?”

“I know the land is mostly farmed by lease, but Angus told me there was significant profit resulting from alpacas or llamas or something of that sort. I don’t see them, I don’t hear them.”

“And I don’t smell them,” Dunstan said, leading the way out the back door.

Across the driveway, the barnyard was deserted. No livestock to be seen, though Bruno sat on a fence post like a feline vulture.

“The bastard sold my livestock before he took off, Dunstan. Angus told me those animals were worth twenty thousand dollars a breeding pair.”

“Then somebody owes you a quarter of a million dollars for receiving stolen goods,” Dunstan said. “I can help you swear out a complaint against the caretaker.”

If Elias had had a fine bottle of single malt at hand, he’d have drained the contents at one go, and bashed Dunstan’s hard head with the empty bottle.

“I’m hot, I’m tired, I flew over the Atlantic Ocean this afternoon, and I’m preparing to share a manky old farmhouse with a shedding frenzy of a cat, Dunstan Cromarty. Spare me your lawyerly posturing. Miss Hughes said the caretaker gambled, and that means my quarter of a million is long gone. Thank a merciful Deity that eight hundred developable acres will be worth many times that amount.”

And thank the same benevolent God that Elias would soon have privacy, because Angus Whyte was overdue for a sound verbal beating.

“A few hairy beasts more or less won’t make a difference once the farm is sold,” Dunstan said, as the cat hopped off its fence post. “Make sure you have cell service before I leave. This end of the valley can get a bit dodgy, especially when the weather acts up.”

Elias swiped his phone on. “Three bars, though I’ve roamed enough that I’m about out of battery. See you Monday, and my thanks to you and Jane.”

That was Dunstan’s cue to shove Elias’s shoulder or punch his arm in parting. Instead, Elias was pulled in a hug, thumped on the back, and squeezed hard.

“The Atlantic’s a wee ocean,” Dunstan said, “as oceans go, but I’m glad you’re here.”

In the next moment, Dunstan grabbed the bag of groceries from behind the truck seat, shoved it into Elias’s arms, and drove the big black truck down the drive.

The quiet was different from Scottish quiet, but it was still country-quiet. The birds in the hedgerow across the road sang different songs, the scent was more freshly cut hay and less turned earth, but it was still the scent of open fields. The Appalachian Mountains weren’t the Highlands, but they sheltered Damson Valley with the same geological dignity that characterized the Highlands.

“I lied to my cousin,” Elias informed the cat who appeared to be once again contemplating abuse of Elias’s tailoring. “I’m not sharing my house with you. You get more than eight hundred acres to enjoy, and I’ll bide without your company at the house.”

The cat went on ahead toward the back door, though the beast was in for a rude surprise. Elias let himself into the house and shut the door in the cat’s disgruntled face.

A fellow learned to live with life’s little disappointments, like an entire herd of valuable animals being liquidated by a thieving rotter.

“Nothing to do about that now,” Elias said, setting the bag of groceries on the counter. First order of business was to charge up the cell phone, grab a shower, eat something and take a damned nap. Tomorrow was a day to rest and recover, but then Dunstan had scheduled a meeting with a real estate attorney for Monday morning, and by then Jane’s car—in the shop for brake work—would be available to borrow for the balance of Elias’s visit.

“And then I’m home,” Elias said to the empty kitchen. The thought gave him a pang, because generations of Scots had gone forth to new lands, never to return home. This sortie to buggy, hot, humid, thief-infested Maryland would have loomed like a penal sentence had Elias’s ticket been one way.

Home would be another transatlantic flight, but a red-eye, so perhaps he’d be able to sleep through part of it.

Elias fished his adapter and power cord from his backpack, jammed the adapter into an outlet above the counter, and attached the phone and cord to it.

Nothing, not a cheery little beep, not a chirp, not the charging icon. He tried another outlet, flipped a light switch, opened the fridge.

No power, which meant no air conditioning, no water, no lights… no shower.

“Probably just a fuse,” Elias muttered, except that a trip to the fuse box on the back porch, some flipping of breakers, and a lot of vigorous swearing produced no evidence of electrical current.

Elias went back into the house, ready to call Dunstan, except… Dunstan and Jane were newly wed, and their house was in an uproar. 

Miss Hughes had invited him to prevail on her for neighborly consideration, after all. Elias had done his share of camping as a youth, and Monday was soon enough to get an electrician out to the property.  

He went upstairs to retrieve an item from his suitcase—he would not arrive to Miss Hughes’ front door empty-handed—then came back down to the kitchen.

“I’m overdue for some good luck,” he reminded his reflection in a dusty kitchen window. “Scots are resourceful, and we’re determined. What’s a little heat, a little dust and inconvenience, when a man has his wits, determination, the legendary Brodie charm, and a ticket home?”

He headed for the back door, as a torpedo of orange fur came hurtling through an open window.

Perhaps American felines had wit and determination too. “Guard the castle,” Elias said, as the cat hopped onto the table. “If you’re a Brodie, then guarding the castle is what you do best.”

Elias left the cat on the table, snatched up his backpack, phone, adapter and power cord, and prepared to charm his neighbor.

“What brings you into the office on this fine Saturday afternoon?” Maxwell Maitland asked.

Bonnie Shifler didn’t even look up. She’d been able to type 110 words per minute before Max had learned to crawl, and mere conversation with an attorney wouldn’t slow her down.

“Derek needed his transcript by Monday morning, I needed to go out dancing last night. Ergo, I’m in the office on Saturday.”

Wrecking Max’s solitude. He’d heard her lacquered nails clicking away on the keyboard, and that had been the end of his ability to concentrate on the new real estate listings.

“Do you ever consider telling Derek to go to hell when he makes these last-minute demands?”

Bonnie was a shared resource, meaning Max paid half her salary. She looked well put together even in jeans and a Terrapins T-shirt, and the staff at the courthouse liked her. Derek Hendershot, the other attorney in the office, was responsible for all of her overtime and most of her complaints.

“I curse Derek Hendershot nightly,” Bonnie said, clicking away, “but I need my paycheck.”

Stop whining. If Max couldn’t find a good-sized chunk of developable land in the next six weeks, Bonnie’s paycheck would be cut in half, assuming the newly divorced Hendershot didn’t trade her in for a pair of twenties.

“I’ll leave you to your transcript,” Max said, heading down the hallway to his office. The building was a converted row house in the historic part of town—meaning a leaking roof, creaking floors, and stuck windows came at a premium.

Bonnie’s typing paused. “Oh, Maaaaax.”

He didn’t turn around. “Bonnie?”

“Saw something interesting as I drove in here today.”

Bonnie lived out in the valley, among the farms and fields west of town. “A loose horse qualifies as interesting to you.” A guy in cowboy boots who could boot-scoot his belt-buckle off interested her more. Bonnie never wanted for lunch dates, which was fine with Max. He got more done when he had the office to himself.

“So be a shit,” Bonnie said, “and I won’t tell you what I saw. I drive right by the Hedstrom farm though.”

In country fashion, the locals still referred to the property by the name of the family that had owned it for more than a century. The present owner’s name was Zebedee Brodie—or had been. The old guy had passed away a few weeks ago, and while Max had liked him, he hadn’t liked having his good faith offers for the property tossed back in his face.

Hadn’t liked that at all.

Max turned and held his ground twelve feet from Bonnie’s work station. “I can drive by the Hedstrom farm myself.” Though why torment himself? The farm was a developer’s wet dream, in terms of size and location, but not for sale meant not for sale.

“I saw a guy in a kilt standing around in the driveway,” Bonnie said, flipping over a page of her steno pad. “Saw two guys, actually. Turns out the guy in the kilt was Dunstan Cromarty. He’s married.”

And thus, even in a kilt, he only registered on Bonnie’s radar because he was an attorney, and legal assistants tended to know the attorneys in a small jurisdiction. Moreover, Cromarty was married to another lawyer, Jane De Luca, and God Almighty probably didn’t turn his back on Ms. De Luca when she was on cross-examination.

“Cromarty is Scottish,” Max said, propping a shoulder against the wall. “Zeb Brodie was Scottish, and I seem to recall a connection there.”

Max kept his tone casual, but current was zinging around his mental circuit board. The Hedstrom property had been on his watch list, but the prospect of squabbling heirs, probate, and the pernicious influence of Violet Hughes right next door had made the watching a pessimistic undertaking.

“Zeb Brodie was hot, for an old guy. That accent, you know.” She winked at Max, and she had a cute wink. He did not wink back.

“What else did you see beside Cromarty’s knees, Bonnie?”

“The other guy was very well dressed, tall, had that look, you know?”

Damn all manipulative women, and the men who disempowered them into being that way.

“What look?” If she told him the guy looked like a developer, Max would drive his fist through the wall.

“He looked around as if he owned the place, as if he owned the whole valley. I’d like to see that guy in a kilt, or out of one.”

“Hostile workplace, Bonnie,” Max said, lest she think he wanted the details of her love life. “So you saw Cromarty and another guy on the Hedstrom property. Thanks for sharing. Unless a drill rig was in the driveway, or you saw perc tests in the hay fields, I’ll get back to work.”

Bonnie rose and put her hands on her hips. “Why are you such a bastard, Max? In the first place, nobody will do perc tests until the first cutting of hay comes off in the next couple weeks. In the second place, you need to get out more. You’re not ugly, but you sure as hell lack for charm.”

“Charm,” Max muttered, wrinkling a nose that nobody had ever called handsome. He was six foot two, dark-haired, and prone to working out his frustrations at the gym. Violet Hughes had called him a monster.

“Charm,” Bonnie said, “is when you take an interest in people. Even Derek has pretensions to charm, though he’s about as transparent as a four-year-old boy eyeing the cookie jar.”

  Charm would not create a project to wave at the board of directors for New Horizons, Inc. Charm would not put the Hedstrom place on the market or give Max more time. The deadline for presenting a new project was July Fourth, and Peter Sutherland did not grant extensions.

“Derek is a manipulative SOB whose former wife should have dumped him at the altar,” Max said. “What else did you see at the Hedstrom place, Bonnie? We both have work to do.”

She sat back down, pulled up her document—Bonnie would never leave her chair without closing her file first—and resumed typing.

“He had a suitcase. The GQ guy with the movie-star shades had a nice big suitcase, and he did not look in the least like a farmer.”

Bonnie would know. Her people had been working the land for generations, and about all there was to do in Damson Valley was farm—and frustrate developers who might have brought some civilization to the place.

“You’re suggesting the new owner might have come to see his property,” Max said, his mood shifting from frustrated to… determined. Cautiously determined.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m suggesting. Now, will you go dancing with me?”

She was almost old enough to be Max’s mom. “Why? Are your cougar creds slipping?”

“You are an asshole. Derek can’t help himself, but you… I’d go dancing with you, Max, because it’s fun, because you need to get out, because I might be able to introduce you to a sweet young thing you’d like to slow dance with. Forget I offered. You’re hopeless, and I wash my hands of you.”

Bonnie washed her hands of him at least once a pay period, but the prospect of sharing a dance floor with a bunch of half-drunk, sweaty, horny fools had no appeal. Closing a deal on the Hedstrom property, now that had eight-hundred-forty-three acres of appeal.

“Sorry to disappoint, Bonnie, but if the new owner is out at the Hedstrom property, then my evening is spoken for. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. You’re still hopeless, but you’re welcome.”

No, Max was not hopeless. He would get to the Brodie heir—if that’s who this guy was—and whisper in his ear convincingly about large sums of money. Then he would plan the most impressive, beautiful, extensive development central Maryland had ever seen.

Max would also pound the crap out of Derek if Bonnie had to put in any more unnecessary overtime. The woman earned her weekends, and the added expense was just plain stupid.

Summer nights in western Maryland had to be among the sweetest on the planet, but the nights of late spring were sweeter—before the heat and humidity became oppressive, before the annual bacchanal of spring flowers wound down, and the hardwoods were quite finished leafing out.

Before the brutal hard work of high summer turned life into one sweaty, exhausted slog after another.

Violet did her best thinking in the lee of the day, when the work was through, or her energy wrecked, and time on the porch swing beckoned. She’d run out of juice early today, having been up too late the previous night working on a blog.

“C’mon guys,” she called to Sarge and Murphy. Their toenails scrabbled against the pine floors of the dining room Violet used as one of her work spaces. “Don’t you ever tire of nosing around the same old yard?”

The dogs replied by charging up to the screen door, their tails wagging furiously. Murphy had needed two years to learn that bolting through the door was not allowed, so he got an extra pat on the head for being a good boy.

“Sit, please,” Violet said.

Two doggy bottoms hit the floor, Murphy’s tail still wagging when he sat.

“Good boys. Out you go,” Violet said, the spoken cue for leaving the house.

They exploded off the porch as if freed from years of captivity, the same as they exploded off the porch at least eight times a day. Violet grabbed a knife and a bowl of strawberries from the table and followed.

“Who in their right mind would live anywhere else, if they had the choice?” she asked the empty porch. At this time of year, the honeysuckle was perfuming the air, the last of the lilacs were blooming on the north side of the barn. Nobody was making hay yet, but the scent of mown grass wafted beneath the floral fragrances. The valley boasted infinitely many shades of green and gorgeous, and the roll of the cultivated fields was the signature of a land of plenty.

High wispy clouds promised glory to the sunset, and for a moment, all was right with Violet’s world. Late mortgage payments, a hay crop that could be destroyed by a passing shower, and the constant threat of development faded as she sat on her porch steps and got to work capping strawberries.

She’d snitched several excellent specimens and capped about half the bowl when something attracted Sarge’s notice. He stared across the road, his posture not anxious, but interested. Murphy left off rooting beneath the forsythia and came to attention as well.

Elias Brodie emerged from the back of the farmhouse, his backpack slung over one shoulder. Not another guy in all of Damson Valley could have pulled off that look—three-piece suit and a leather rucksack—but on him it came across as… confident, natural, just what a well-dressed, well-heeled Scotsman would wear.

Sexy too, damn him.

Violet waved, because neighbors did, and Mr. Brodie crossed the road, evidently intent on stopping by. Well, fine, because she had some questions for her new neighbor.

“Good evening,” Mr. Brodie said, letting his backpack slide from his shoulder. He held his pack by a strap, while the dogs came over and gave him the whiff test. He let each dog sniff his free hand, patted their heads, and tugged on Murphy’s ears.

Murph loved to have his ears tugged, and predictably, he was on his back, paws in the air, begging for more.

“Have you no dignity, dog?” Mr. Brodie asked. “May I sit, Miss Hughes?” He had the sense not to encourage Murphy, a bellyrub-ho without shame.  

“Of course,” Violet said. “Are you getting settled in?”

He came down beside her, right there on the wooden porch steps. “Aye. It’s very pretty here, reminds me of home. Did you grow those strawberries yourself?”

Men and food, food and men. At least he’d complimented the valley. “I trade with another farm up the road. I get their soft fruit, they get my apples and pears as part of an organic produce co-op. Murph, get lost.”

Murphy had remained at the foot of the steps, rooching around on his back, trying to look adorable, and mostly looking like a hundred pounds of idiot dog.

“I admire persistence in a fellow. Have you lived here long?”

This was what neighbors were supposed to do—to visit, to take an interest in each other, to stop by of a pretty evening. Violet had gone so long without a real neighbor, she was out of practice socializing—not that a single suitcase suggested Elias Brodie intended to stay in the area.

Or maybe she was out of practice socializing with good-looking guys who purred their way across the English language. Elias Brodie caressed his vowels, and snapped off his t’s and d’s, like verbally snipping fresh green beans.

“I’ve lived here all my life,” Violet said. “My dad farmed this property, his dad before him, back five generations.”

“So this is home for you.”

Murphy cast Violet his best hopeful-doggy look, then gave up, wiggled to his feet, shook, and trotted off after Sarge, who was sniffing around the mailboxes at the foot of Violet’s driveway.

“This is home,” Violet said. “Where is home for you?” She wanted desperately to know what Mr. Brodie had planned for the Hedstrom farm, but she also wanted to know about him.

No harm in a little neighborly curiosity, after all.

“I live in Perthshire for the most part, at the foot of the Highland line. You’ve never seen such beauty, Violet Hughes. Every season takes your breath away, the fishing is the best in the world, and yet, you can be in Paris or London by early afternoon. And then there’s the whisky.”

He spoke of whisky as some men spoke of the first woman who’d stolen their heart.

“Have a strawberry.” Violet held out the bowl.

He chose a small specimen, which was smart. The largest berries often lacked flavor.

He tore off the leaves, pitched them among the pansies, and popped the berry into his mouth. In the spirit of neighborly visiting, Violet helped herself to a strawberry as well.

“These are excellent,” he said. “I’m more of a raspberry man, myself, but that is delectable fruit.”

A raspberry man, though not razzberry, as an American would have pronounced it. Rasp-bury.

Violet had been around all manner of attractive guys. Her hay dealer was six-foot-three, roped with muscle, and had a smile as wide as Nebraska. The Knightley brothers were three fine specimens of local manhood, and Niels Haddonfield, manager at the therapeutic riding stable, had more Saxon-warrior handsome going than was decent—and he was a nice guy.

But he wasn’t a rasp-bury man.

“Have another,” Violet said. “They taste better when they’re snitched.” They tasted best of all when sun-warmed, fresh from the vine.

“Forbidden fruit is the most delicious.” Mr. Brodie helped himself to a second small berry. He paused before eating, sending Violet a smile that was…

Trouble. That smile was pure, sweet, succulent trouble, and yet, it had nothing of pandering in it. Elias Brodie’s smile was conspiratorial, a little self-conscious, and even a touch naughty, but it was naughtiness shared among fellow snitchers of berries, not a man flaunting his wares at a woman.

 “What will you do with your farm?” Violet asked, selecting another berry for herself. “It’s a terrific property, has plenty of arable land, good pasture, solid structures, fences are in good repair, and not too much deadfall on your wooded acres.”

“Would you like to buy it?” He lounged back so his elbows rested on the top step.

She’d adore owning the Hedstrom property. “I can barely afford my own place, but then, a competent farmer seldom turns a profit. Aren’t you hot in that jacket?”

Elias Brodie wore beautiful clothing, probably hand-tailored. But even lightweight wool was wool, and the temperature still hovered near eighty.

He sat forward and shrugged out of his coat, hanging it tidily over the porch rail. Next he slipped gold cufflinks into his pants pocket and turned back his cuffs.

“The last time I saw French cuffs was at a funeral,” Violet said, then crammed another strawberry into her mouth—one she’d neglected to denude of leaves.

“We wear our kilts for send-offs,” Mr. Brodie replied. “Also for weddings and celebrations. So what would you do with my property, if you’d inherited it?”

His gaze as he surveyed the rolling fields and lovely barn across the road was bleak. Of course, he missed his uncle, and Violet had been an idiot for mentioning funerals.

“With the land that isn’t under leased cultivation, I’d take off as much hay as I could, though a lot of it’s only suited for round bales. I can put you in touch with an excellent hay dealer up in Thurmont who might be able to find you somebody to make up your first cutting on short notice. You can do a summer wheat crop, there’s still time for corn if July doesn’t get too hot, and you are ideally situated to start a co-op garden.”

Violet’s corn had gone in two weeks ago, and thank God no late hard frost had come along to ruin it.

Mr. Brodie crossed long legs at the ankle, as if lounging on farmhouse porches was what Scottish businessmen did best.

“That’s twice you’ve mentioned cooperatives, Violet. Are they popular in this area?”

As the sun sank toward the Blue Ridge off to the west, Violet waxed eloquent about co-operative farming, community gardens, fresh produce, children getting outside, and how to teach simple gardening techniques. Without intending to, she’d soon circled around to the topic of which she never, ever tired, the backbone of American agriculture, family farms.

And Elias Brodie let her talk. He stole the occasional strawberry, slipped in a request to charge his cell on the porch outlet, ambled back to the steps, and let Violet talk some more.

By the time she was tossing out the url for her blog and website, both dogs were dozing at Elias’s feet, and Violet was mentally thanking Zebedee Brodie for having such a lovely nephew. Maybe all Scots were good listeners, maybe neighboring was something that came naturally to them.

The strawberries were capped, the crickets had started to chirp, and a pitcher of icy lemonade had been consumed. Elias had tossed his ice cubes into the grass before swilling his lemonade, and the afternoon had given way to evening by the time Violet wound down.

“You’re passionate about your agriculture.” Elias rose and extended a hand to Violet. She accepted the help because her butt was numb.

He picked up the bowl of strawberries and the knife. “Should the berries be put in the refrigerator? One doesn’t want them to spoil.”

Unlike raspberries, strawberries did not mold in mere hours, but yes, the produce ought to be chilled.

“Have you had dinner?” Violet asked, taking the berries and knife from him.

He gathered up his jacket and his backpack. Both dogs came to their feet. “I’m off-kilter if you must know. I left Scotland somewhat precipitously, and I do not enjoy air travel. I’m fairly certain if you put food in front of me, I’d be ravenous.”

“Come into my kitchen. I can feed you, and you can tell me about farming in Scotland.”

“You needn’t go to any trouble,” he said, stuffing his cell phone in a pocket, and collecting the empty glasses. “I don’t want to impose and I honestly know very little about farming in Scotland—or anywhere.”

Well, damn. Chances were he wouldn’t be moving in next door. “We’re neighbors. Sarge and Murphy like you, otherwise you would not get past my front door.”

In other words, Violet knew she was being stupid, admitting a strange man to her house. Except what guy intent on bad behavior would lounge on the front porch for more than an hour first, pet the dogs, snitch strawberries, and listen to endless raptures about vintage tomatoes?

“You ought not to allow me into your home, Violet. We’ve just met, and you’re isolated here.”

Violet snitched one last strawberry, trying to label her feelings. The hint of a scold in Elias’s words rankled—she’d been taking care of herself more or less since childhood—but he wasn’t exactly chastising her.

Maybe he was being—she rummaged around for the right word— protective?

“You are among strangers,” she said, “far from home, and you’re hungry. If you don’t mind plain fare, I’d like to share a meal with you.”

“You have a hay crop coming off soon. Will you let me help you with that?”

Violet understood the fine line between charity and hospitality, between pride and arrogance. “You’ll hate me if I let you make hay. Dirtiest, hardest, most back-breaking, curse-inducing work there is.”

“I enjoy hard work, what little I’ve done of it. We’ll share a meal, and you’ll introduce me to the business end of a hay wagon.”

“Assuming it doesn’t rain.” Violet gestured Elias into her house, but paused a moment to study the property across the road. For the third time in an hour, a dark blue SUV drove slowly past. She knew that vehicle from somewhere, and she didn’t like—

Recognition struck, with equal parts anger and anxiety.

God rot Maxwell Maitland to the foulest manure pit. Abruptly, Violet wished she were holding her shotgun, and not half a bowl of fresh, succulent strawberries.