---

Elias parked Jane’s hybrid and set the brake. “If I bring up Maryland’s agricultural conservancy program, act as if you’ve never heard of it, please.”

Jane undid her seatbelt and stashed her sunglasses in her shoulder bag. “Elias, for purposes of this meeting, I am your lawyer. That means you level with me about anything that pertains to legal matters. You don’t keep cards up your sleeve so you can whip them out if Maitland wants to play mine’s bigger than yours.”

No wonder Dunstan had married her. “Jeannie would get on with you famously. Have you met her?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure. Henry had recently made his appearance when Dunstan and I were in Scotland, and being a new mom takes precedence over attending weddings. So why are we meeting with Maitland if you’re thinking of keeping the farm?”

They were fifteen minutes early, because Elias had no tolerance for people who were habitually late. Money could be replaced—in theory—but time lost was gone forever.

“I cannot afford to keep the farm, Jane. I simply did some research last night in preparation for this meeting.” And because Violet had asked him to, though not in so many words.

“I know the general idea with agricultural conservancy: You sell your development rights to the state, more or less, and agree to keep your land in agricultural production.”

There was more to it than that—much more—but Jane had the basics in hand.

“Any final words of advice?” Elias asked, checking his tie in the rearview mirror. He’d had to borrow a suit from Dunstan—Violet apparently didn’t frequent her own powder room—but the fit and quality of the suit was surprisingly good. The alternative—kilted finery—would not have turned heads in Edinburgh, but surely wasn’t the done thing here.

“You want advice? I have some advice. Get drunk with Dunstan. He has a beautiful singing voice, but I don’t know any of the songs he does, and now that he’s married, his old drinking buddies don’t come around much. I’m not sure what he misses more, the buzz or the songs.”

Maitland’s office was on a narrow street about two blocks from the courthouse. A hundred years ago, the street would have been pretty, with flower boxes on every window, and plenty of sunshine finding its way through the oaks on either side.

Now, those oaks had lifted and cracked the sidewalks, the foliage was dense enough to give the street below a gloomy feel, and the houses were leaning on each other for support, twigs and leaves peeking from the gutters.  

“I might not know the songs either, Jane. Why does nobody build with stone here? Nothing else lasts as well.”

“We build with stone,” Jane said, zipping her bag closed. “Fieldstone, anyway. You have a beautiful stone barn on your property that Max Maitland will probably bulldoze right off the face of the earth.”

Violet would hate Elias for that. She’d hate him for a thousand other betrayals too, but the day she had to watch that barn turned to rubble, she’d consign Elias to an eternal case of poison ivy.

“I thought my attorney was supposed to keep my best interests foremost,” Elias said, hitting the unlock button.

“Elias, my expertise regarding land development wouldn’t fill a shot glass. You know that and I know that, and Maitland will probably figure it out in the first five minutes. I’m your wingman because Dunstan couldn’t get out of court on short notice.”

A squirrel set out to cross the street by virtue of leaping along a power line overhead.

“Dunstan had court today? He said you knew more property law than he did.”  

“Holmes v. Holmes. Domestic relations, at which he excels. I know nothing about real estate, he knows about the same. Let’s get this over with.”

Let ’s get this over with. A fitting candidate for the Brodie family motto, except Elias was the only Brodie left to spout it. 

He would have held Jane’s door for her, but she was out of the car and marching down the sidewalk before the squirrel had reached the opposite side of the street. Elias snatched his pack from the backseat and followed.

“I’ve made the acquaintance of Violet Hughes,” Elias said. “She’s the one who mentioned the agricultural conservancy business.”

“I don’t know her well, but what I do know, I like. Is she messing with you?”

Mortally. “In what sense?”

“Violet’s rabidly opposed to developing Damson Valley, Elias. Pick up the local newspaper when a controversial zoning variance is being considered, she’s the citizen you’ll see quoted. Has all sorts of arguments against turning farmland into housing developments. Of all the farms in all the valleys in all of the United States, your farm is right across the road from the person who’ll hate you most for selling to Maitland.”

They approached a row house painted a hue that might once have had pretensions to bland yellow. Now, the paint was faded to a color Elias had seen in some of Henry’s most odoriferous diapers.  

“So I’ll do my silent, shrewd routine,” Jane said. “You be the charming, bon vivant globetrotter whose investment advisors suggested ditching the extraneous provincial real estate.”

“Do they teach you how to talk like that in law school?”

“Yes,” Jane said, trotting up the front steps, “and how to charge obscene sums for it too. Hold still.”

She turned a gimlet eye on Elias, smoothed his lapel, nudged at the Windsor knot in his tie, and punched him on the shoulder.

“Relax, Elias. This guy wants your land like you probably want to get back to Scotland. He’s got deep pockets backing him, and you’re prepared to be reasonable.”

To be fussed at and twitched at by a woman who regarded looking after him as her right… Elias had had to learn to recognize the behavior, because a boy who endured adolescence without a mother had gaps in his vocabulary when it came to women. Jane was not finding fault with his appearance. This was her version of a pep talk before battle.

“I will be relieved to get away from this heat and humidity,” Elias said, and he was prepared to be reasonable—for a Scotsman talking business.

Reasonable, up to a point.

Jane had her hand on the doorknob, when Elias interceded. “Globetrotting bon vivants pride themselves on their Old World manners when approaching the lion’s den.”

She let him hold the door for her, but handled the introductions with a receptionist who struck the balance between friendliness and professional decorum on the nose. That boded well for Maitland’s chances, as did his handshake.

Firm, brief, not out to prove anything.

The pastries were quaint—the truly high powered financial meetings offered attendees only designer bottled spring water and pretty glasses from which to drink it. The flowers made Elias miss Violet, who would be arranging to visit her mother in Florida, weeding her vegetable garden, and putting up strawberry jam.

While Elias saved his castle.

Elias Brodie was precious.

Max had never heard such a Hollywood-perfect Scottish accent in real life. Brodie also had a gold ring on his left pinkie, wore a purple plaid tie with his forest green suit, and flashed the self-conscious smile of a man about to endure a meeting that would doubtless bore him. Brodie likely played a mean eighteen holes when he wasn’t busy crewing for a friend in the America’s Cup.

“Would anybody like coffee?” Max asked.

“Black, please,” Jane de Luca said, hefting a shoulder bag onto the table. She extracted a sleek little silver laptop and popped it open. “Elias, anything for you?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

Brodie held Jane’s chair, and Jane put up with that. Made no fuss at all, and Jane de Luca was a first rate, bare-knuckle fusser. The county bar association speculated that Dunstan Cromarty had married Jane de Luca just so he wouldn’t have to oppose her in the courtroom.

Max fetched the coffee, putting up with Bonnie’s smirk from the front desk. He set Jane’s coffee in front of her—he’d made sure the pot was fresh before pouring—and cracked open a bottle of water for himself.

“Jane, you’re here as counsel for Mr. Brodie?” Max asked, taking the seat before the window.

“I certainly am, while you represent exactly whom?”

“I’m Elias,” Brodie interjected. “Formality is fine for occasions of state, but we’re discussing a simple business transaction.”

Occasions of state. Hooookay. Old money from the Old World. Max had done his homework, and Brodie was actually some sort of nobility, to the extent nobility was still a thing in the United Kingdom.

“I’m representing New Horizons, Inc.,” Max said, “and my team is very interested in acquiring a sizeable property in Damson Valley.” That was Brodie’s cue to smile handsomely, admit his desire to sell, and spend the next hour looking expensive and polite.

Brodie managed the expensive and polite part, but he said nothing.

“Elias owns the largest single, privately held parcel in the county,” Jane said, “in fee simple absolute with no liens or encumbrances. What do you have, Max? Elias didn’t come all the way from Scotland to play slap and tickle.”

Max had an urge to pitch Jane de Luca out the window. “Elias, I mean Jane no insult when I point out that she’s a first rate attorney, and much respected, but she doesn’t practice a lot of real estate law, not at the level of the transaction I hope you came here to discuss. A certain protocol is typically observed, because an exchange of assets of this magnitude requires trust between the parties. May I tell you a little bit about New Horizons and our community building philosophy?”

“Spare us the dog and pony show, and the gratuitous shaming of counsel,” Jane shot back. “I do enough real estate—”

“Jane,” Brodie said, quietly. “I’d like to hear the man out. I’m somewhat familiar with the field of economics, Mr. Maitland. You needn’t oversimplify.”

Economics—the dark science, if it was a science at all. “Call me Max, Elias, and I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

Max went into the four-color glossy spiel, half a century of commitment to blah, blah, blah, so that Maryland families could prosper in safe, wholesome, blah, blah, while singing the national anthem over the grill every summer and churning out Harvard-bound prodigies in increments of 2.4 tax deductions.

At least half of it was true.

“Very impressive,” Brodie said, “and I applaud any business that puts mission before money, though not instead of money, of course.”

“Of course.” Whatever that meant.

Jane was clicking away on her laptop, her expression disgruntled.

“Jane, do you have any questions?” Max asked.

“How much and when can we see paper?”

Brodie looked pained, but Max mentally saluted him on his choice of attorney. “I can email a redacted draft contract at the conclusion of this meeting, but I’ve yet to hear Elias admit to an interest in selling. Before I send detailed terms, I’ll need you to sign a non-disclosure at least, and a 90-day guarantee of exclusivity. We’ll need to run a certification on the title, and do some preliminary tests on ground water quality and environmental—”

“A moment, Max,” Brodie said. “Jane, have you had a chance to research that agricultural preservation business yet?”

Max’s mood went from cautious elation to queasy dread. “I can tell you about the agricultural conservancy program, Elias. It’s a fine feature of the Maryland legislative landscape, and we’re justifiably proud of it.” We being the hayseeds who hated their offspring enough to prevent development of land in perpetuity.

Jane’s expression had gone bunny-in-the-headlights, which at any other time would have been reason to gloat.

“Please do enlighten us,” Brodie said. “The Scots are quite keen on preservation generally, and I’m no exception. I’ve only recently learned of these preservation arrangements and would appreciate an expert’s explanation of them.”

Max hammered on the theme of preservation—preserving the land owner’s options, preserving flexibility for future generations, preserving control of private assets free from state easements, and most of all, preserving Elias Brodie’s right to squeeze every dime out of a property that a sale to New Horizons could earn him.

“The environmental stuff can get really tedious,” Jane said. She held her coffee under her nose, and sniffed before taking a sip. “I’ve never even seen a forestry plan, Elias, much less soil certifications or wetlands preservation plans. Sounds a little complicated, but I’m sure we could find a firm to subcontract all of that to.”

“For a price,” Max added. “Unfortunately, the construction season is well underway, and the companies doing seasonal environmental work are usually booked months in advance. If owning a farm is your ambition, you should certainly look into the preservation program at your leisure. I can tell my team you’re not interested in pursuing negotiations at this time, and we’ll look into other projects.”

Jane closed her laptop. “You should consider all of your options, Elias. Max is right.”

Why would Jane de Luca advise her client to walk away from a deal that would be enormously lucrative for the client, and probably for Jane as well?

Because she’d found another buyer? Because she’d gone behind Max’s back straight to Sutherland, who was ever one to shoot his mouth off at the worst possible time?

“Here’s something to consider,” Max said. “Two things, actually. First, any deal will come down to a price per acre, and I’ve done some research on your property.” He tossed out a price per acre that Sutherland could easily afford, one that would hold up in appraisals and project financing negotiations. A fair price in other words. Not generous, not scalping, but fair.

“That figure means little,” Jane said, “until we negotiate terms. Any transaction will be conditioned on tests and certifications, preliminary wells, water quality evaluations, and permitting, to name a few. You could saddle Elias with all of that, and then walk way. Don’t think you’ll dazzle us with numbers, Max, though I don’t blame you for trying.”

“I’m sure Elias knows how complicated a major land transaction can become, and for that reason—”

“The deal will not be complicated,” Brodie said. The genial guy with the whisky commercial accent was gone, though a veneer of relaxed cordiality remained.

Had Brodie expected to walk out with a check? “Development is a complex undertaking, Elias. Even the planning and zoning phase can take years, and for all that time, the price of labor, materials, and equipment—”

Brodie held up a hand, the gold ring winking in the morning sun. “You have money, I have land. You buy the land speculatively, assuming all risks pertaining to development; I am compensated a fair price for transferring title to you. My land for your money, and we can do business. Anything more complex or protracted, and I’ll find another disposition for the property.”

Well, damn it all and a half, as Bonnie would have said.

“The price per acre is, of course, affected by the terms,” Max said, mentally taking a baseball bat to Violet Hughes’ blog posts. He kept track of her rabblerousing, and the demons in SEO-hell had apparently delivered her recent rant about agricultural conservancy easements right onto Brodie’s browser.

“One assumes price and terms are interrelated,” Brodie said, getting to his feet. “Now that you know my terms, I’ll give you the rest of the week to come up with a lump sum offer. Jane is available should you wish to discuss the matter, though I can’t imagine a simpler arrangement.”

Jane rose as well, and again Brodie held her chair.

“Max, you wanted to make two points,” Jane said, stuffing her laptop into her shoulder bag. “Was there something else you wanted to bring up?”

In other words, don’t call me until you have a number.

“The second point is the more important,” Max said, getting to his feet. “Development around here has a bad name, Elias. Tree huggers and climate change alarmists will tell you all development is bad. The problem is, their concerns have some validity. The environment matters and energy policies should be sustainable and responsible.”

Jane tossed her bag over her shoulder, but Brodie was listening. Max hadn’t exactly underestimated him, but neither had he read him correctly.

“Go on,” Brodie said.

“Some developers will turn a piece of land without regard to ecological concerns, Elias. They won’t lay out roads so cross traffic turns are minimized at peak hours, because they don’t care how long somebody has to idle at a stop light when taking the kids to school. Some developers stash the moderately priced dwelling units at the back of the development, because low income home owners are less likely to gripe about shoddy upkeep, and if the rest of the development never sees the clogged storm drains and sagging gutters, the maintenance can wait. There are endless dirty tricks that haven’t been zoned or regulated out of bounds, and I know them all.”

Brodie was studying the glad-somethings in the blue vase on the windowsill. “Are you boasting of this knowledge, Mr. Maitland?”  

Mr. Maitland, no longer Brodie’s best new good old buddy Max.

“I’m not ashamed of it. Working construction for eight long summers means I’ve seen a few developments done right, and I’ve seen a lot of them done wrong, from curb and gutter, sediment and erosion control, to tree-save plans, to electrical grid, home wiring, to everything in between. I don’t build crap, Elias. I develop land, and there are costs associated with that, but there are costs to every choice we make. Turn that land over to me, and I’ll treat it and the people who make their homes there with respect.”

Max had delivered this speech to Elias Brodie only because it was necessary to keep the deal alive. In Max’s experience, people with access to great wealth either developed a scrupulous conscience as a function of their privilege or they bent rules on a whim.

Brodie apparently had a conscience and a better grasp of land development than Max had realized.

“I appreciate those sentiments,” Brodie said, extending a hand, “and your time. I assume you know how to reach Jane?”

Jane shoved a card at Max, though her office was less than two blocks away. “Thanks for your time, Max. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

Max escorted them to the door, because a man who held a woman’s chair would expect that kind of etiquette. Sutherland would fall all over himself trying to ape Brodie’s manners, if the two ever met.

Which they might.

“Well?” Bonnie said, when the office was free of Jane de Luca and her Highland land tycoon.

“Well, what?”

“How did you do?” Bonnie said, enunciating each word. “Should I be looking for a j-o-b or did you just get your dirty dibbles on the prettiest farm in Damson Valley?”

Violet Hughes owned the prettiest farm in Damson Valley. “It was a good news/bad news sort of meeting,” Max said. “He’s smart and competently represented, which is inconvenient, though manageable. Brodie isn’t about to let us vet the land while he holds title. In other words, Sutherland can’t have his cake and eat it too, which is also inconvenient, though manageable.”

“Kinda like you,” Bonnie said. “Inconvenient and manageable. I’ve been meaning to ask you, where did you get the gladioli? They’re the best I’ve seen this year.”

“At the farmers market. I shop there every week.”

Bonnie hooted with laughter, and Max had no idea why.

Elias took a moment to savor the sight of Violet Hughes in her garden. She worked her way on her knees along a row of staked plants, tossing weeds into a bushel basket. Her straw hat hid her expression—and hid Elias from her view—but he could hear her lecturing her vegetables, while he, like a fool, stood two yards away, aching to keep her in his life.

“Worry and work, work and worry,” she muttered. “I promised myself I would not turn into my father or my mother.” A clump of greenery, dirt clinging to the roots, went sailing into the basket. “I’m worse than they were, and that means I’m awful.”

She tore up another plant, peered at it, and patted it back into the soil. “Sorry, buddy. I’m not at my best. Elias met with Maitland this morning.”

Eavesdropping was not honorable.

“I’m meeting with Dunstan and Jane’s bank tomorrow morning,” Elias said. “Do you always talk to your vegetation?”

“Beans are good listeners,” Violet replied, sitting back on her heels. “Hello, Elias.”

She hadn’t ordered him from her property—always a good sign. “Hello, Violet. Have you drafted a resignation from the farmers market board?”

“Mailed it this morning. I thought I’d feel guilty, but I’m bearing up just fine. Give me a hand, Elias. Delayed onset muscle soreness from haying, and not enough stretching have laid me low.”

When would she have time to stretch, for pity’s sake? Elias offered her his hand, and didn’t turn loose of her when she’d gained her feet.

“Maitland is not quite the snake I had anticipated,” he said. “We are negotiating.”

Violet shook free of his grasp and tossed her hat onto the pile of weeds in the basket. “Elias, you cannot trust that man. If you must sell your farm to him and his sharks-in-seersucker, don’t get screwed in the process.”

“I’ve been thinking about our discussion yesterday.” Had thought about it for most of the night, and had read every blog post she’d put up for the past year. She missed some weeks, but not many. “I’m gathering information, and considering options, which is simply prudent business.”

The sun was beating down, and clouds piling up to the south suggested a storm was building. “Don’t mess with me, Elias, and I might let you live. Did you cut a deal or not?”

“I did not. I might not.” Before he braced Jane and Dunstan with his ideas, he wanted to talk scenarios through with Violet. Jane and Dunstan were lawyers, and family, but Violet knew what it took to wrest a crop from the earth, to care for livestock.

And she knew Maitland as only dedicated foes could know each other.

“Grab the other handle,” Violet said, picking up one side of the basket. “My ewes believe in doing their part for the environment. So what did you and Maitland discuss?”

“I told him I will sell him the land for a lump sum, the title to transfer from me to him at the time of closing. It’s not what he or his investors want, but it’s what I need.”

“Cash,” Violet said as they walked across the yard, the basket of greens between them. “Gerald O’Hara only got the lecture half right.”

Perhaps she’d been out in the heat too long? “I haven’t made Mr. O’Hara’s acquaintance.”

“‘Land, Elias Brodie…’” Violet intoned in a mock baritone. “According to some, land is the only thing that lasts, but the guy who said that never met my mortgage banker. Payments last until hell freezes over. Hello, my wooly darlings.”

Her darlings apparently knew what the basket meant, and were bleating and cavorting around in their pen. Violet shook the weeds from the basket in a row on the ground, and the sheep were soon devouring every last leaf and root.

“Have you started to itch yet?” Violet asked.

Elias picked up the empty basket. “No, and I’ll thank you not to remind me. Jane laughed uproariously while Dunstan kindly told me where the cortisone cream was. Seems poison ivy ambushes many an unsuspecting Brit new to the wilds of America.”

“I love to hear you talk,” Violet said, wandering over to a gray metal water tub in the shade of the barn’s overhang. “It’s not your accent, or not entirely that. It’s your eloquence. If you weren’t an earl already, somebody would have to earl you.”

She lifted the handle of a pump and added water to the metal tub. “They’ll drink more if I top it up with the cold stuff. What did you come here to say, Elias?”

I am falling in love with you. Elias had been infatuated many times as a younger man, and when his enthusiasms had run their courses, he’d learned to enjoy attraction, and to settle for that and sincere liking. He’d respected both of his fiancées, and Christina was still a dear friend.

But this aching, relentless desire simply to be with Violet was new and raw. He’d been as happy to spend yesterday afternoon poring over website analytics with her as he’d been to share a night in her bed.

By contrast, he’d dreaded dumping messages and emails at the end of the day, even though some of those communications were from family.

“I came here to gather information,” Elias said. “And you can, of course, bid me to leave at any moment. I have a meeting set up with the largest commercial bank in Damson Valley tomorrow, and I will present myself more knowledgeably if I have the benefit of your thinking. I’m to join Dunstan and Jane for dinner this evening, but I’d rather talk to you first.”

“You met with Maitland,” Violet said, shutting off the water. “I should tell you to go to hell by way of the muck pit and the poison ivy patch.” She shaded her eyes with one hand, and scanned the sky. “I do believe summer will soon be here. That is a stinkin’ big bank of thunderclouds.”

Ah, but she had not told him to go to hell—yet. “This isn’t summer?”

“This is merely warm. We get stretches of weather over a hundred degrees, and so humid it doesn’t cool down at night to speak of. You ever hear the term blizzard babies? They compensate for the fact that few children are conceived around here during the month of July.”

“How long have you been out in the sun, Violet?”

“Years. Don’t look so worried, Elias. I’m not big enough to throw you off the property, and you didn’t sign a deal with Maitland. You’re safe for now.”

No, he was not, but if a Scot claimed one skill from the moment of his birth, it was the ability to coax a bonfire of hope from a smoky wisp of inspiration.

Violet slapped her hat onto Elias’s head, and they returned to the house.

“I’m changing out of my grubbies,” she said. “Help yourself to anything.”

Violet disappeared up the steps, and Elias forced himself to check his email—Jeannie again, and confirmation that the bottle of single malt he’d sent Angus had been delivered. Niall had left another message, which Elias would return later, and cousin Magnus—newly married to a whisky distiller from Montana—had flagged the most recent email as urgent.

“That is not a happy expression,” Violet said, coming down the steps. “But then, I don’t know if  I’ve seen you happy.” She wore a lavender sundress, and had undone her hair and piled it on her head with a big wooden clip, creating a dewy, summery—kissable—picture.

“You’ve seen me quite happy. I am not happy now. I have two plans to discuss with you, and there might be others. We’ll start with two.” And who knew where the discussions might lead.

As if offering a celestial retort to Elias’s hopes, thunder rumbled in the distance.

“The sun room is my favorite place to listen to the rain.” Violet breezed past Elias, giving him a whiff of lavender and a peek at the nape of her neck.

When they reached the sunroom, both dogs were splayed on the floor, though the cat was nowhere to be seen. Violet sat on the sofa, where she and Elias had spent such an agreeable afternoon, and Elias took the place beside her.

“The problem to be solved is that I need money,” he said, “a lot of it and fast. The agricultural preservation easement is worth considering, but I don’t know enough about it.”

“And you don’t want to put all your eggs in one basket,” Violet said. “Hence, you have more than one plan. Let’s start with selling your development rights to the state in perpetuity.”

Her analysis of Elias’s situation was thorough, balanced, and as disinterested as a woman could be when discussing what was probably her fondest wish.

“Why isn’t your farm in this program?” Elias asked, when Violet had answered myriad questions. She got up to close a window, and the dogs lifted their heads to watch her. Outside, the sky was growing overcast, and a breeze stirred the leaves of the trees along the hedgerows. 

“My development rights have not been sold to the state for two reasons,” Violet said, as thunder sounded again. “First, it’s not a simple application process, as you’ve learned. You have to have the right kind of soils, a forestry plan if you have more than 24 acres of woods—and I do—and there are other costly hoops to jump through. In my case, the bank would probably get the entire sum, so I’d be giving up my heirs’ rights for the pleasure of enriching the bank. Kinda like when you sell the back forty acres. The whole amount goes to reduce your principle owed.”

“A consummation devoutly to be avoided,” Elias said. “What’s the second reason?” And thank you, sincerely for resuming your place beside me.

“The funds available to the conservancy program are limited. I want that money to go to the farmer who has to choose between development and land preservation. I will never, ever, not if I live to be ninety-five and have only one laying hen to my name, allow this farm to be developed. I’m not the farmer who needs the program.”

“You need the money, though.” And she needed exactly what she was providing Elias—somebody to thrash through her problems with her, a fair hearing, a fresh take on the endless challenges she faced. 

A trusted partner, as Jane and Dunstan were partners.

“I need money,” Violet said, tucking a foot up under her, “but I need to be able to look myself in the eye more. What’s your second plan?”

Elias had come here hoping for forgiveness, possibly, and—in his wildest, most honest dreams—a renewed exchange of affections. The erotic affections were apparently to remain an unfulfilled wish, but overshadowing that frustration was an odd pleasure.

Violet listened to him. She didn’t lecture him, as Zebedee and Angus had, and she didn’t expect Elias to wave a financial wand and make her wishes come true, as everybody from clients to cousins so often did. Instead, Violet took Elias’s concerns to heart, despite his differences with her, and her willingness to share his burdens even theoretically was a precious comfort.

“My second plan,” he said, “is not complicated, though I’m not keen on it. I’ll simply take out a mortgage on the farm, and use the money to finance my renovations. I’ll bank a significant enough sum so the interest covers the mortgage payments, and use the rest as I see fit.”

Violet took his hand in a loose grip, as casually as she might have petted her cat, while Elias forgot all about mortgages, lump sums, and interest rates.

“The preservation program is cumbersome,” she said, “and time-consuming, and it would tie up your land forever when you’re not even a farmer. A loan would be relatively quick, and leave you the option of developing the land later. In your shoes, I’d apply for the loan.”

He kissed her knuckles, for her honesty, for her courage. “I don’t want to be a farmer, and I don’t want to carry a mortgage on a property I’m not sure how to manage. Neither option is a true solution, but I appreciate your hearing me out.”

Violet was silent for a moment, while lightning flashed, and Sarge whined.

“Can you sell that castle, Elias?”

“No, I cannot.” Which made his decision simpler, and his emotions more complicated. “Scotland has so many historic properties that the public has all the castles they’ll ever need, and private buyers have their choice of many properties already renovated. Then too, if I put the castle on the market in its present condition, all of my other assets would lose value.”

Violet drew a fingertip along his knuckles, a beguiling caress though she clearly had her mind on business. “Can you put off the renovations?”

Jeannie’s emails made it increasing obvious Elias could not. “Delay would be unwise. I suppose it’s like looking after the land. If you don’t do the weeding, fertilizing, and cultivating at the first opportunity, the job becomes more and more difficult, until you’re better off starting over on fresh turf instead of trying to reclaim what’s been so badly neglected.”

The breeze had become a steady wind, whipping the foliage like so much wheat. The dogs had moved to sit at Violet’s feet, while Elias felt a sense of nerves soothed.

Violet had taken his hand, she was tucked close to his side, and that was more than he’d expected.

“This farm was not in good shape when I took over,” Violet said. “I’m guessing your predecessors kept kicking the renovation ball down the field, hoping for a pot of gold.”

“Your people have been in this valley for five generations, Violet. This is your home, and you’ll fight to the last chicken for it. My people have been in that castle for fifty generations. You mentioned being able to look yourself in the eye, and it’s my castle to save. I can’t turn my back on it, or on the family who expect me to put it to rights. Should the kind powers grant me children someday, I don’t want to leave them a legacy of debt and disrepair.”

The rain started, a hard spatter against the windows that settled into a steady downpour.

“In other words,” Violet said, “you might yet have to go to bed with the devil. I comprehend that, Elias, and I loathe the very thought.”

This discussion had settled something for her. Elias could feel the calm in her, and while he wouldn’t call her mood accepting, exactly, he was encouraged. They’d rationally discussed options, and while neither choice was a panacea, both were worth considering.

“I love a good storm,” Violet said. “It’s not the best way to water the crops, because so much runs off instead of soaking into the ground, but it lets me sit still for a while without feeling guilty.”

She shifted against him, scooting down to pillow her cheek against his thigh.

Desire leapt, as did tenderness. Elias snagged a quilted throw from the back of the couch and draped it over Violet’s legs. When she didn’t object to that presumption, he unclipped her hair, and slowly massaged the back of her neck, until her breathing became slow and regular, and she was a sweet, warm weight, sprawled beside him.