Highland Shorts: Highland Books

By Emma Baird

Praise for the Highland Books series:

"I absolutely adore your writing style which just pulls me into the story and keeps me hooked. Love it…"

 

"I rrreally enjoyed this book. Rrreading was so much fun!!"

 

"Love it! The plot, the characters: I love Stewart! :D"

 

"It was a beautiful book. Different from the cliches where everything moves so fast.. This one took its time and I loved you for exploring their characters in detail. Amazing job."

 

"Thank you so much for writing this! I enjoyed it so much. I was so glad to find a book so different from those over-the-top lusty stories. I greatly enjoyed the humour and all the interactions. Keep it up."

 

"Such a fun book. I just read it completely this afternoon, so thank you for writing & posting your book! Really enjoyed it"

 

Welcome to the magical village of Lochalshie! Here you will find nosy neighbours, women looking for a second chance at love—or even a first one—and a man contemplating his marriage on the eve of his wedding.

This collection of short stories centres on the characters featured in the Highland books, and is a companion to the series.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emma Baird
• Release date: Feb 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393730620

Emma Baird

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Emma Baird works as a writer by day and night. In daylight hours, she scribbles blogs for people and advises on communication. When the sun goes down, she lets her imagination run riot and comes up with weird genres such as plus-size vampire erotica. At some point, she hopes the stuff she comes up with in the dead of night will allow her to write more of it during the day… She lives in Scotland with a patient husband and two demanding cats. You can visit her website here: https://emmabaird.com and she’s on Twitter @EmmaCBaird

Book preview

First published 2021

Copyright © Emma Baird 2021

The right of Emma Baird to be identified as the author of this work has been identified by her in accordance with the Copyright, Patents and Designs Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be subject to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Entirely. Except for those in the public eye who are referred to in a tongue in cheek way.

Cover design by Enni Tuomisalo of https://yummybookcovers.com

Published by Pink Glitter Publishing. If you would like to receive (infrequent) email newsletters from the author, please email her at [e-mail].

https://emmabaird.com

INTRODUCTION

Hello there! I assume if you’re reading this collection of short stories, you’ve already read the other Highland books, and so the characters are familiar to you... If not, welcome anyway! I hope you enjoy this short introduction to Lochalshie and everyone who lives there.

For those of you who have read the books, I wrote the short stories in between writing the five novels that make up the series so there are some things that happen in the short stories that do not reflect what happened in the books. One of the short stories was the pre-cursor of book number five, Highland Christmas, although what happens in the short story differs from what happened in the book, and it’s set in a different year.

I also attempted to imagine what life in Lochalshie might be like in lockdown... much cheerier than the reality, I suspect. I doubt very much a hotel like the Lochside Welcome would be able to survive the length of the lockdown we’ve had in the UK.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this collection.

Best wishes,

Emma Baird, February 2021.

THE NIGHT WE FIRST MET

Ranald McLatchie’s sister re-defined the word ‘bossy’.

He told her that. They were close enough for it not to offend. Or, more likely, the word sailed over her head. Bossy, she said, was a term only ever used to describe women. A man couldn’t be bossy—a leader, perhaps, or someone who made it clear what he wanted.

And I want you to get in the car right now, she said, grinning at him. She stood in his ramshackle kitchen, a stylishly dressed woman out of place. The ancient farmhouse with its thick stone walls, parquet flooring and the faint air of dung was no place for designer outfits, high heels and sleek bobbed hair. Rose might have grown up here the same as he did, but she’d left years ago—metaphorically and physically.

He shrugged and looked down at himself. Filthy overalls, fingernails ingrained with black and five o’clock shadow closer to midnight. He wasn’t fit for Rose’s drawing room. Magnolia walls and cream carpets gave no quarter to even the smallest speck of dirt.

Rose’s turn to shrug. Oh, I allowed enough time for you to shower, shave and whatever else you men need to do to make yourself presentable. I’ll get myself a coffee. Off you go.

You had to get up early to catch Rose out. When she dropped the invite—just a few of our friends for dinner, you’ll love them—he nodded. He had no intention of going. Farmers always had an inbuilt excuse. Sheep escaping (heaven knows they did that all the time), a cow in a breach delivery emergency or fences in urgent need of fixing.

He’d been on the point of going into the house to phone and cancel when she showed up in her fancy BMW, the vehicle’s shiny red sides splattered in mud thanks to the farm’s pot-holed road.

Ran-dan! she said, picking her way over muddy puddles and suspect piles and letting herself into the house. The trouble with farmhouses in the north-west of Scotland was that you seldom locked the door. Thought I’d offer you a lift to our wee party this evening. You can get a taxi home.

The Ran-dan nickname was her idea of a joke. ‘Out on the ran-dan’ had been one of their uncle’s phrases—a raucous night out with your pals, sure to lead to inebriation. Ranald didn’t do raucous or nights out.

Inebriation? Sure. He was Scottish. Alcohol was life’s lubricant. But he preferred drinking on his own, the reward for the end of a tough working day, taken at the kitchen table or in front of the telly, and the guarantee of zonked out sleep afterwards.

When he returned to the kitchen fifteen minutes later, Rose clapped, and wolf whistled.

Let me see your hands.

For God’s sake, woman.

She grabbed them anyway, inspecting the nails. In the late 20th century, dirt became unacceptable, verboten even. His hands were clean, the tiny whorls of his fingers that marked him out as unique free of dirt. He’d scrubbed his nails too, the scent of coal tar overwhelming.

You’ll do, she said. I don’t suppose you thought of doing anything as civilised as getting us a bottle of wine or a box of chocolates to say thank you?

Rose made condescension into an art form. Fair enough, he hadn’t intended attending. But Ranald kept a well-stocked kitchen. He opened his fridge. Take your pick. Sémillon, Montrachet, and a champagne bottle faced her. Ranald watched her round her eyes, purse her lips and swallow back surprise.

I made some shortbread earlier, he added, pulling down a tin from the top of the old-fashioned dresser that ran along one of the kitchen walls. Want to try some?

A bigger revelation, perhaps? If it was the oldest sibling’s role to order the younger ones about, the younger one got to be unpredictable.

No, I’m sure it’s fine. Come on, then. Let’s get going.

In the car, she ran over the invite list again. It sounded no better when repeated. Friends of Rose and her husband, Ian. Couple number one, their neighbours. Couple number two, Ian’s deputy head teacher at the school they both worked at, and his wife. Couple number three...

... and Lucille Davenport. She’s the new French teacher. Awfully pretty.

Ranald, his attention fixed on Maggie Broon’s Boobs (the locals’ tongue-in-cheek nickname for the twin hills that towered above the loch), snapped to attention.

Let me guess, he said. Lucille’s single.

Rose, her hands gripped to the steering wheel, shoogled in her seat. She’s new to the area, Ran-dan. This time she attached no sarcasm to the old nickname, only pleading fondness. And you’re...

So many ways to end that sentence. All alone and rattling around that big old farmhouse. Forty and still not married. A loner, a misfit, a damaged man no sane woman would want.

... my favourite, absolutely gorgeous younger brother.

Bless Rose and her lies.

Whatever. Just promise you won’t leave me alone with Ian.

A teacher all his life, Rose’s husband excelled at lecturing. He’d never figured out how to talk to people when they weren’t a captive audience—pupils in a class schooled not to interrupt or disagree.

Ranald! Rose exclaimed. She didn’t argue the point.

They pulled up in front of Rose and Ian’s home, a towering three-storey house on Lochalshie’s High Street. So far, the summer of 2000 had been kind. The rain stayed away, the temperatures soared, and the villagers had grown accustomed to blue skies. Tonight, the weather did it again—enveloping warmth that cajoled you into staying outside. Rose and Ian’s guests congregated there, couples number one, two, three...

A small boy, red-haired and sullen faced, stared at the ground as a woman snatched toffees from his hand. He’d been stuffing them into his mouth.

Ca suffit, she declared. C’est mauvais pour les dents!

The boy looked up, catching Ranald’s eye. Ranald pulled his best sneer, cheered when the boy grinned back at him. He curled up a fist, sticking his middle finger in the air at the woman’s back. A shocking thing to do to your mother, Ranald supposed, but he sympathised with the boy. Like him, Ranald was at a stupid, grown-up, dull party when he could have been in front of the telly. Or in bed reading The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, a book he’d picked up from the WH Smith in Inverness the other week, or comatose in the kitchen thanks to the whisky.

Ranald rather than the boy for that last scenario, obviously.

It didn’t surprise him when the red-haired boy wandered over and stood beside him. Rose and Ian’s kids did their dullest best. Primed by their parents, they weaved their way among the guests armed with crisps and dips. Would you like some, and Can I get you a drink? Ranald’s young companion had (wisely) decided they weren’t his best bet company-wise.

Ranald took a bowl of crisps from one of them—Aileen? Lachlan?—and appropriated a ramekin of virulent pink dip.

Want some? he said to the red-haired boy.

Aye, all right then. The boy took a handful of crisps, scooped up a big blob of dip and shovelled it into his mouth.

Does your mum let you eat this stuff? Ranald asked. The blonde woman—Lucille?—now bullied someone else, grabbing their glass of wine and