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“And why doesn’t somebody tell that guy he’d have a lot more friends if he bothered to clean his boots?”
    She negotiated the rain-slick steps to the Hare, stone so old countless feet had worn down the middle of each tread. Niall remained at the top of the steps, and when Julie turned to hustle him along, his nose was twitching.
    Then his cheeks and his lips joined in, until a great hooting laugh came out, just as the sun broke from behind a cloud.
    Niall Cromarty was a handsome man. With laughter in his eyes and a genuine, beaming smile on his face, he was a terribly, awfully handsome man.
    Julie marched off toward the path in the trees, determined not to hold even handsomeness against him. He was her golf coach, after all.
    ***
    Niall’s legs were long enough that he needn’t be seen running after Julie Leonard, though in full sail, she moved along at a good clip.
    “Next time you see Declan, you might explain to him about cleaning his boots,” Niall said. Though a wife would have broken Declan’s muddy-boots habit years ago.
    Julie slowed, marginally. “I doubt there will be a next time. You two were snorting and pawing as if the last juicy bone in Scotland lay between you.”
    “We’ve uncomfortable truths we’d rather not air, so we scrap over the land instead.”
    Niall checked the impulse to take Julie’s hand and teach her the fine art of the saunter, because they had yet to gain the trees. Every curtain along the high street had a pair of curious eyes behind it, and the last thing Niall needed now was to become an object of gossip—of further gossip.
    Julie took the right path around the village’s cathedral—the coldest church on the planet, according to Niall’s mum—and Niall did touch her arm.
    “You can’t get through that way. They’re forever repairing the old part of the church, and unless you want to scramble over the fences, we need to go back the way you came.”
    Right through the woods, which this late in the afternoon would already be in long shadows.
    “Is it safe?” she asked.
    Americans.
“We might come across Uncle Donald, but he’s trying to convince us his back is troubling him, so it’s probably safe enough.”
    She took off around the graveyard where Niall had chased his cousins as a child.
    “Your nap must have restored your energies,” Niall said.
    “I have a schedule, Niall, and the rain has stopped. We can probably hit a bucket of balls before it gets dark. Why does MacPherson hate you?”
    “Hate is a strong word,” and, Niall hoped, inaccurate. Declan was simply a Scotsman bearing a grudge.
    “He was gloating,” Julie said, stopping before a hunk of worn, gray granite that came to about waist height. A Cromarty likely lay beneath it, or a MacPherson. Nobody knew which for sure anymore.
    “You don’t gloat over another’s misfortune unless they’re your enemy,” Julie said.
    Somebody was gloating over Julie’s misfortunes, based on her tone.
    “Let’s have a seat,” Niall suggested, because he’d always found the cathedral grounds peaceful, and at this time of day they’d be private.
    He led Julie to an alcove along the church wall where the bench would be dry. Moss grew in the cracks between the stones, despite the lack of light. Even the moss was tenacious in Scotland.
    “Once upon a time,” Niall said as they took a seat, “Declan’s sister Belinda fancied me. I was touring a fair amount, beginning to make a name for myself, so our interest in each other wasn’t exactly steady.”
    “Touring?”
    “Playing golf.” Though golf had little enough to do with second-rate hotels, bad food, and worse sleep. “If I was in town, we’d spend time together. Declan and I are the same age, and were friends. Declan’s the protective sort.”
    Something buzzed. Julie extracted a black smartphone from her jacket pocket, scowled at the screen, then stashed the phone away again.
    “Declan isn’t protective of you, apparently,” she said.
    Nobody