Jordan changed her lens out for a telescope and put her camera back up to her eye. She wanted a tighter shot of the statue in the distance with the dark branches unfocused in the foreground. It took her a second to find the Jacobite statue again—

But it moved! It actually walked away!

She scrambled to keep him in her sights only to realize she hadn’t captured any of it! By the time she got her finger on the shutter release, she’d lost him. With her naked eye she frantically scanned the little park and caught the quick flap of a stone-gray kilt as it turned the corner of a rock wall. She glanced back where the statue had been, expecting to find the pediment missing its human figure.

The statue was right back where it started.

She’d been so sure…

She finished shoving her equipment back in her bag and headed off for the rock wall. There had to be some logical explanation for the fact that the man she’d just seen hot-footing it out of there had looked identical to the statue she’d studied up close and personal ten minutes ago. Because if there wasn’t some reenactment event going on, she might have just lost her chance to capture an actual Scottish ghost!

Jordan had to wait for one car before she ran diagonally across the street and around the barrier. The sidewalk curved along a low rock wall with the South Esk River just ahead. While she hustled, she swung her bag across her back, slipped her left arm through the shoulder strap, and took off running.

She concentrated on keeping her bag from bouncing, keeping her feet from slipping on the wet cobblestones imbedded in concrete, and keeping an eye out for the Jacobite dude. Two older women, wrapped in shawls, hobbled toward her showing no signs of having seen a ghost. Over their heads, though, Jordan caught a glimpse of the mystery man’s shoulders disappearing into a tunnel as the path sloped down. His gray cap nearly hit the top of the archway.

He was just as large as his statue!

Though her chest flooded with adrenaline, Jordan had to slow down and stand aside to let the two women pass. After they all exchanged pleasant smiles, she took off running again. As long as he didn’t run, she would catch up to him.

Her feet splashed in a puddle as she tromped through the shadows of the tunnel meant for foot-traffic only. Beside it, a taller underpass allowed for vehicles, even large trucks, but only from one direction at a time.

The foot tunnel was 20 feet long and she was through it with no problem. When she came out the other side, he was gone. The sidewalk was clear for a city block, all the way to the bend.

“No!” She turned right and left, but there was no Scotsman in a kilt between her and the river, or between the tunnel and the hillside. “No,” she said again, then groaned.

“Ye sound downright brokenhearted,” said a deep voice from behind her. She spun around. The shoulder of the very mortal-looking ghost was leaning against the opening of the tunnel with one of his ankles crossed over the other, the toe of one boot resting on the ground.

With so little color visible, it was no wonder she’d mistaken him for the statue. Only a tiny line of red ran through the concrete-gray tartan that draped around him in the more ancient-styled kilt. Though the ruffle on the front of his shirt was white, the grey wool of his short jacket had hidden it. And the sash of tartan draped over his shoulder had blocked her view of his dark brown hair that waved against his neck and down to his shoulder. The cap had hidden the rest.

She couldn’t contain her glee at finding him again. “So, you’re not a ghost.”

He bit on the corner of his lip briefly. “Not anymore, nay.”

She laughed to be polite, but since he couldn’t have known what she was talking about, she explained what she’d seen across the park.

“Auch. Now I understand.”

“Then why did you say you weren’t a ghost anymore?”

He cocked his head to one side and looked at her with one eye closed. “Would ye truly care to know?”

“Of course.” She swung her bag off her shoulder and grabbed the zipper in one movement. “Do you mind if I take your picture while we talk? I need to get some shots of authentic Scotland, and you look just about as authentic as it gets.”

“As it happens, I’m in just the mood to do a good deed, now that I’ve met ye...” He turned his head as if listening for her to give him her name.

She smiled at the pick-up line. “Jordan.”

“Kerry Mather, at yer service.”

She pulled her camera up, but the telescope was still on it, so she had to change it out. “You can keep talking while I get my camera ready. You were telling me about being a ghost. You know. Before.”

“Auch, was I? Well, it’s completely slipped my mind now.” He unfolded his arms and she stopped him with an outstretched hand and a panicked gurgle.

Very smooth, Jordan. Very smooth.

“Can you fold them again. And hold that position? The bright green moss on the tunnel is great. It will bring out the red of your tartan, so I’d like it in the shot, too. If you’ll just give me a second…” She lifted the camera and wasted no time, popping off shots like the sun was going down. And through it all, he stood patient and willing, even when she asked him to look off in the distance so she could repeat the same angles she’d just hit. “Wow. That was terrific,” she said, long minutes later. “I can’t thank you enough for indulging me.”

“Certain I am that ye can.” He unfolded his long limbs and started walking toward her with one of those flirty looks in his hazel eyes. “Ye can repay me with yer own time, aye?”

Jordan coughed. “Okay. Looks like I owe you—if we round up—about five minutes.”

“Done!”

They laughed together. He pointed to the path, then fell into step beside her as they continued toward the river. She couldn’t help glancing at her watch.

“Auch, now. Dinna be timing me just yet, lass. I’ll let ye ken when I’m ready to collect my seven minutes, aye?”

She rolled her eyes to let him know what she thought of his flirting and his math. However, she didn’t have anything pressing at the moment, and she already had some pretty awesome shots to examine when she was back at her rented flat, so she went along with it.

“I assume you’re from around here,” she said.

“Auch, aye. Once upon a time, mind.”

“It’s just that you look so much like that statue…”

“My ancestor, no doubt about it.”

“They really fought with pans?”

He nodded and gave her a quick family history of how his predecessors were all big burley men, all smiths.

“Smiths? I thought you said your name was Mather.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Blacksmiths. Kerry Milton Mather, the smith from here in Brechin, was the first to go into battle wielding his large fry pan as a shield. For he knew just how impossible it would be for his enemy to run a blade through it, or a cannon ball for that matter. If the truth were known, he might have been in a great hurry when the fighting broke out. At any rate, the pan did spare his life.

“Later, his son, Kerry Mather the Younger carried that same pan into every skirmish he ever entered, including those that began the first Jacobite Rebellion.”

“That had to be the name I read on the statue.”

“I would assume so, aye. For he was the first to take up the Jacobite cause.”

Since she wasn’t terribly familiar with the local history, she struggled for something intelligent to say. “So you’re a descendant.”

“Aye. And my name, too, is Kerry Mather—Kerry Moffat Mather.” He gestured to his kilt. “It is the Moffat tartan I wear. Fither’s pan, Mither’s clan, as it were.”

“You don’t seem too happy to have a hand-me-down name.”

“Auch, nay. On the contrary. It is my forefathers who wouldnae be pleased. Ye see, I’ve yet to prove myself as they had. I’ve yet to return victorious from battle with the frypan in my hand.”

“Would you care for an American’s opinion?”

His eyes crinkled, like the idea amused him. “Certainly.”

“I think our parents’ opinions—or in this case, an ancestor’s—is highly overrated. Especially someone who has been dead and buried for centuries. In my case, if I followed my mother’s advice, I’d be stuck in Iowa for the rest of my life, like she is.”

He nodded and frowned, nodded and frowned, like he was working through the idea. Then he stopped walking and shook his head. “Would ye care for a Highlander’s opinion of yer American opinion, then?”

She laughed. “Certainly.”

“If ye could so easily suggest such a thing, that our ancestors are dead and buried, and therefore their opinions should be of no consequence, I suspect ye’ve spent too much time watching Scotland through a lens and seeing it not at all.”

That took her back. She believed she appreciated the country a lot more than most. Since the poor man looked worried, however, like he might have gone too far, she had to let him off the hook.

She put her hands on her hips and teased him with an exaggerated, “Oh, yeah?”

He grinned and mimicked her. “Auch, aye.”

“Well, I have three days left. Do you think you might be able to show me this Scotland I’m not seeing? I’ve got to take a ton of pictures, too.”

He nodded enthusiastically. “As it happens, I have a pair of days myself. And aye, if ye’ll promise an open mind, I can assuredly help ye find it, Jordan…uh…”

“Lennox.” She held out her hand and he took it, then pressed her icy cold fingers between his warm palms. “Thank you,” she said, “for warming my fingers, too. You’d think it was October in Scotland.”

He looked worried again. “‘Tis October, nay?”

“It is. And it’s five o’clock. What do you say I treat you to some fish and chips and we save the hunting for tomorrow?” She wiggled her camera with her other hand to show what kind of hunting she was talking about.

“Fish and chips will surely warm us both, Jordan Lennox.” He gestured to the far side of the street and the businesses down the way.

They hurried across and started down the sidewalk again. The only problem was, he’d forgotten he was still warming her fingers. But how could she complain about a man holding her hand who looked like the poster-laddie for the charming country that was Scotland.

He thought she didn’t appreciate what was right in front of her?

Boy, was he wrong.