The Winds of Glenhoolie: The Glenhoolie Series, #1

By Gail Harkins

As a young professor in a young college in a young state, Claire Agnew has a bright future, but yearns for the roots that come from a long history. A Christmas visit to Scotland only feeds that longing.

Alec Kincaid has the deep roots Claire craves, and Glenhoolie Castle to prove it. With family history that stretches back 1,000 years he's focused on the future, trying to build the wind farms that will bring prosperity and much-needed energy to this remote region of Scotland.

As Christmas approaches, past and future vie for Claire's heart and mind. Can she make a place for herself among the winds of Glenhoolie, and should she?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rainforest Press
• Release date: Feb 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781386024484

Book preview

The Winds of Glenhoolie

Gail Harkins

Published by Rainforest Press

Copyright ©2012 Gail Dutton

Cover Design: Sean Dutton

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

The Winds of Glenhoolie

A Novella

Chapter 1

A stinging sleet drove into her eyes, forcing tears and obscuring her vision. It didn’t matter. Claire squinted through the icy needles beyond the battlements, beyond the scraggly evergreen bushes of broom, through the forest and into the distant past. There was movement. Shadows crept through the heather. Silent. Ever closer. She sensed the anticipation of battle about to be joined. Leaning forward, peering through ice-encased lashes, she saw the glint of steel beside tartans. Bagpipes moaned in the distance...or perhaps it was merely the wind whistling around corners and through the parapets. She held her breath, unwilling to break the spell.

Miss? The castle is closing now. I hope you’ve enjoyed your visit.

Claire’s distant gaze snapped to the attendant approaching in his down jacket, a tartan scarf wound around his neck. She exhaled deeply. She glanced back to the heather, the shades of long-dead warriors absent. In their places were only the scraggly bushes of broom that dotted the Scottish highlands.

Thank you. Yes, I’ve enjoyed Castle Glenhoolie very much. She pulled her own scarf tighter around her throat and followed the docent off the battlements.

——

Claire’s fingers still ached from the cold and her lips were still numb when she entered the village pub, just a few kilometers away. Opening the heavy oak door, the blast of warmth was a welcome relief from the cold outdoors, and the aroma of spirits and hot food broadened her smile as she closed the door behind her. Logs crackled in the fireplace at the rear of the room, inviting her to share their warmth. At this early hour, a table was available nearby. Sitting in the chair nearest the fire with a bowl of French onion soup, cupping a mug of hot cider, the chill within her began to wane.

Feels good, aye? The man at the next table cradled a cup of hot coffee in his hands as he stretched long legs toward the fireplace. He was, perhaps, in his early thirties, just a couple years older than Claire herself. To her eyes, he was devastatingly handsome, with wavy black hair that threatened to fall into eyes the color of the cider in her mug. A gunmetal gray fisherman’s sweater accentuated broad shoulders, but his hands weren’t the calloused hands of a workman. They looked, instead, as though they had wielded more keyboards than caulking guns.

Claire smiled and nodded. One more mug and I may be thawed.

He smiled in empathy. This woman with auburn hair curling around her shoulders seemed familiar. Didn’t I see you at the castle earlier?

I was there, Claire acknowledged, but I can’t vouch for what you saw...

A literalist! He laughed, showing white teeth and dancing eyes. Claire was warming, instinctively, to this handsome man.

You were on the parapet for hours, as I recall. He said this with assurance, but Claire was quite certain she had been alone. In fact, she was one of only a few visitors that day. She raised her eyebrows in challenge.

He smiled, then explained. There aren’t many visitors in the dead of winter. I was talking with the laird and looked out the window... a few times. It’s a great view.... Did you enjoy the tour?

Very much. She smiled in return. There’s something about the place that’s just, well, comfortable. I know that sounds strange. Maybe it’s just that real castles are still novel to me. She laughed slightly. We don’t have castles where I’m from, so I tend to soak them in. My name is Claire, by the way, she said, extending her elegant hand.

Alec. His handshake was firm. You’re still cold! His own large hands radiated warmth as he unexpectedly clasped both her hands in his. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. He continued, That’s one of the downsides of those great piles of stone. They’re bloody hard to heat!

Claire pulled her hands away, once more cupping her mug of hot cider. He ignored her retreat and finished his coffee just as a snow plow drove past.

That’s my cue. He rose, maintaining eye contact. Claire, I hope we’ll meet again.

His eyes were warm and inviting. Alec strode toward the door, confirming Claire’s assumption of narrow hips atop long legs.

I hope so too, she said softly to herself.

——

By 9 the next morning, thoughts of Alec of the twinkling eyes had been pushed aside and her mind was on business. Claire reviewed her notes. The latest proposal would site 180 wind turbines along the local ridges. It had taken six years of debate and £5 million to reach this point, but there was still controversy. She knew from experience that it wasn’t a sure deal.

Claire walked the few blocks from her hotel to McAlister Woolens, noting the posters in the windows. A