The Highland Fling(28)

“They seem to be scared of Fergus,” Leith says, stroking the now-silent goat on the back of the neck.

“Scared of a wee goat?”

Carefully I set the chair down, not wanting to provoke the beast. “He startled us with his boisterous hello.”

Lachlan and Leith both laugh, and I shamelessly watch as their thick pecs and defined abs bounce up and down. The Murdachs have good genes, that’s for damn sure.

“Aye, he sure knows how to announce himself,” Leith says, patting Fergus on the back. “But he comes from an impeccable lineage that saved this very town. We would be lost without him. Back in 2001, his father’s life was threatened by the outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease, but it didn’t spread to the Highlands, thankfully. We were nervous, though—it wreaked havoc on England’s agriculture.”

“Well, thank goodness for that,” I say as Dakota hops off the counter.

“Want some coffee?” she asks, acting as if she wasn’t just terrorized by a farm animal.

Leith holds up his hand. “We’re about to go do a training video for our followers. But thank you. We were just stopping by to grab Fergus—he’s a celebrity on our videos—and to see if you lasses wanted to go on a hike with us on Sunday. Picnic up at Corsekelly Castle, like I mentioned in the pub.”

“Training video?” I ask.

“Aye, personal training. The Training Kilts,” Lachlan says. “If you ever see us hopping around town carrying logs and acting like fools, it’s for a training video. We sell training packages with accompanying kilts—and we’re building quite the fan base. Which reminds me, Dakota, would we be able to pick your brain about some new graphics for our website?”

“Of course. Anytime. We’re, uh, not very busy here.”

“The coffee shop is never too busy. Shame,” Leith sighs. “Stuart put his heart into this store.”

“Was it different before Stuart left?” I ask, surprised.

“Aye. Stuart used to sell these delicious butteries with homemade jam. He would sell out by noon. That’s all it was—simple coffee, butteries, and his classic storytelling. Word got round, and tour buses would clear him out. He built quite the happy life. Then he retired, and Finella couldn’t keep up. I’m glad they’re on holibags. They need it.”

“Butteries? What are those?” I ask.

“Ehm, like a flattened croissant,” Leith answers. “Traditional butteries are hard to come by. They’re supposed to be made with butter and lard, but the mass producers started using palm oil, and they’re just not the same.”

“They sound good.”

“They look like hell. Lot of Scots call them the ‘roadkill pastry,’ because they look like they’ve been run over by a car, but have one toasted with some jeely, and I’ll tell ya, you’re in heaven.”

“I’m sad he doesn’t make them anymore.”

Leith sighs and gives the coffee house another look. “Remember when this place used to be full? Maybe when Finella gets back, she’ll have a renewed spirit.”

“Hopefully,” Lachlan agrees and then claps his hands together—prompting Fergus to scream again. The boys laugh, while Dakota and I clutch our hearts. “So, Sunday . . . are you lasses up for a hike?”

I glance at Dakota, who smiles and shrugs. “Sure,” I say. “We really don’t have any plans. Should we bring something?”

“Isla is packing the food. Just bring some water for yourself. Meet you at half ten at the bakeshop.” Lachlan gives us a wave, and then both boys take off.

Once they’re out of earshot, I turn to Dakota and give her a playful grin. “Hear that? Isla is packing us food. Maybe she’ll let you taste her muffin.”

“Grow up.” Dakota chucks a rolled-up napkin at me.



“What on earth are you doing?” Dakota says as she shuts the door to the cottage.

“Damn you, dough!” I scream. I flop back on the kitchen floor and sit cross-legged, my hands extended so I don’t get any of the butter-lard mixture that’s caked on my hands anywhere.

“Uh . . . what is happening?”

“I’m trying to make butteries,” I say, just about ready to throw a fit.

“Is that why you wanted to leave the shop early?”

“Yes,” I answer, exasperated. “I found a simple recipe online, went to the Mill Market, where Shona helped me collect the ingredients, and then I came back here, confident that you’d be coming home to fresh, warm butteries.” I toss my arm toward the pile of melting dough on the counter. “But that is my third attempt, and I honestly think I might throw it down the well.”

“Why are you trying to make butteries?”

“I don’t know. The way Lachlan and Leith were talking about them, I thought it would be fun to get domestic, you know? I make boxed cake all the time; why not try something new?”

“Bonnie.” She walks over and squats down so we’re eye to eye. “You know I love you, but boxed cake is completely different from a homemade pastry.”

“Uh, I do two-tiered boxed cakes. That’s special and challenging.”

“Yes, but it also only requires you to measure correctly and stir. It doesn’t call for yeast and whatever goop is all over your hands.”