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that what Niall lacked in integrity, he made up for in balls.
    “Your landscaper was a child fresh from school, Niall. In this region, the plants take years to set down roots deep enough and wide enough to hold the topsoil. The alternative is to fertilize and force the growth, and where does that poison go when it rains, which it has—”
    Across the common room, Hamish was making a racket folding up forks and knives into Royal Stewart plaid napkins.
    “When did you become a stubborn old man?” Niall asked, taking the first sip of divine spirits. “When did you grow deaf and stupid, Declan?”
    No scorn laced those questions, only a hint of the bewilderment Scots had probably felt throughout history when locked in mortal combat with their own cousins.
    “When did you become a whore for the tourist dollar?” Declan asked, just as softly. He and Niall were cousins, way, way back. Granny had explained the connection, but only Belinda had understood it. As much as it pained Declan to think of the valley becoming polluted, the notion that Niall had been contaminated by greed hurt almost as badly. Belinda had believed passionately in clean food sources, but she’d cared for Niall too.
    Or had seemed to.
    “Not the tourist dollar,” Niall said, “the golf dollar. You used to play a decent game.”
    “Now I serve a decent victory drink. The will is authentic, Niall. I’m sorry.”
    Niall touched his glass to Declan’s.
    “Congratulations on finding the will, but we’ve yet to learn what the will means, if it’s authentic. Perhaps we’ll share further rounds yet.”
    The comment was brilliantly ambiguous. Rounds of golf? Rounds of whisky? Of pugilistic litigation? Niall had always been the sort to get perfect marks without breaking a sweat, while Declan had cut classes to watch birds.
    Declan had been up half the night with new lambs and maiden ewes, so his snappy repartee was in short supply, which left a choice between rage and maudlin sentiment, neither of which became a man on a rainy afternoon.
    “G’day, ma’am,” Hamish called from the sideboard. “Welcome to The Wild Hare.”
    A stunning blonde came prowling into the common. Leggy, graceful, and curved like a fine whisky glass. She did lovely things for her jeans, and wore none of the makeup or sartorial noise—jewelry, loud scarves, silly shoes—Declan associated with tourists.
    “Hello,” she said to Hamish, her voice friendly and low. “I see Uncle Donald did not lie. Niall, won’t you introduce me to your friends?”
    Declan appreciated women with almost the same intensity he did a good single malt, and that Niall knew the lady, and merited
that
sort of smile from her, rankled. But then, Niall was about to lose his entire dream, and perhaps fairness required that he have a lady to console him for that loss.

 
    Chapter Three
----
     
    How could three men fill up an otherwise empty room, and with such a blend of tension, sadness, and great good looks?
    The older guy, whom Niall introduced as Hamish, was what the younger two would become and Uncle Donald already was: Tough, weathered, a full head of white hair, twinkling blue eyes, and hands as callused as any farmer’s.
    The younger man, Declan MacSomething,
was
a farmer, if muddy boots, a worn denim jacket, plain black kilt, and the scent of him were any indication. A single wisp of straw clung to auburn locks falling nearly to his shoulders. The boots ought to have been left at the door, but his air of sorrow and determination probably accompanied him everywhere.
    Niall had a hint of the same qualities, but they were muted, tucked away behind civility and natural reserve.
    “Would you care for a wee dram, Miss Leonard?” MacSomething asked. His accent was thicker than Niall’s, his smile more charming.
    Julie had no patience for charming men. “I’m still a bit jet-lagged, but I thought I’d get in a walk before the sun went down. The trail along the river is very pretty.”
    Niall had