“I feel like we’re eloping,” Carol said, frowning at Ryan, barely able to keep up with his long stride while she teetered in high heels as he hauled her out of the house to his vehicle.
He raised his brows. “Just a meeting to set some things right.”
That’s what he thought.
“Hope you’re not too disappointed when you go home alone to your bed tonight without the answers you are looking for.” She gave him a sweet smile as he opened the pickup door for her, and she climbed into the passenger’s seat.
His expression was noncommittal. “My conscience is clear, and I sleep well at night. What about you?”
She turned away and looked out the windshield as he still held her door, waiting for her response. She didn’t sleep well at all. Certainly not last night after fighting the craving to shape-shift half the evening. Her lack of sleep had nothing to do with having a bad conscience and all to do with the moon and a wolf named Ryan who had come to her in a vision. Mervin, too, wearing his red-and-white-striped jacket.
“I sleep wonderfully well.” She gave Ryan a quick smile.
He smirked. “Right. That’s why you have dark circles under your eyes. I am trained to observe people and objects. I notice things.” He took a deep breath. “This won’t take long.”
Which suited her just fine. She folded her hands in her lap and nodded. “Let’s get it over with. The sooner the better.” But she wanted to look in the visor mirror and see for herself if she had dark circles under her eyes. She hadn’t noticed when she smoothed lipstick over her lips or applied makeup earlier.
He shut her door, skirted around his vehicle, and climbed into the driver’s seat.
There was no figuring what was going on in Ryan McKinley’s investigative mind, but why was she bothered by the notion that he’d be leaving soon?
He considered her for a moment and then nodded. But something was off in the way he acted. As though he had to finish this so he could get to more important business back home, yet he didn’t want to let go of the business here so quickly, either. What was that all about anyway?
Ryan circled the truck around the drive and then headed toward town.
No, it was something deeper than that. Something sexy, more primal, more wolf. If she shape-shifted, would it help her to recognize better what was going on between them? Or was her usual cynicism about men blocking her ability to see what was really happening?
Giving up on psychoanalyzing the situation further, she leaned into the seat and smelled the fragrance of new leather. She noted the spotless dashboard and a medallion hanging from the rearview mirror as it swung with the movement of the truck. She tried to glimpse the words etched on the medallion, on a brass plate below the name MacKinlay.
“What does the motto mean?”
“‘We force no friend; we fear no foe,’ which was the motto for the Clan Farquharson. But some say we were associated with the Buchanan clan instead. Others say a people named MacAnleighs might have been more related to our origin.”
He didn’t say anything further, and she prompted him, “Go on. Family roots fascinate me. Sometimes the meaning of a name gives a hint to a family’s origins. Maybe something about their character that is passed down from generation to generation.”
His mouth curved up a little. “Never know. Since we had more family in the area of Braemar, we go with Clan Farquharson’s motto. McKinley is a variation of MacKinlay. Some say the name originated from the Gaelic ‘Mac Fhionnlaoich,’ meaning ‘fair hero.’”
“Fair hero. Hmm. See? What did I say?”
“Yes, but another meaning is given. ‘Son,’ for Mac, ‘of the white warrior.’” He waited for her response.
She smiled. “Seems, with the occupation you’ve chosen, you carry the gene that validates the claim for both the motto and the meaning of your name.”
“I try to live up to the name, to make my ancestors proud.”
She noticed the blanket lying on the seat between them, a predominantly blue-and-green plaid wool with black and red threads woven in, accentuating it. She ran her hand over the soft fabric.
“It’s old,” Ryan said.
“It represents the McKinley clan?”
“Yes. It was my grandfather’s.”
Chill bumps raced along her arms. Lelandi had explained to Carol how the lupus garous lived long lives, thirty years for every year after they reached puberty. So his grandfather could very well have fought in clan battles and been a clan chief even. Or not. He might have just been a sheepherder, for all she knew. She’d read so many Highland romances that the idea she could be sitting next to the descendant of one of those brawny men—barelegged, barefooted, and bare… she smiled… bare-assed men of the kilt—made her melt a little.
Ryan glanced at her and gave her a suggestion of a smile. Her cheeks instantly flushed with heat. He winked. “You may see visions of the future, but I wish I could read your mind.”
Her face heated anew. She pushed some of her hair behind an ear and looked out the windshield. “What did your grandfather do as an occupation?”
“Fought for the clan, took a mate, raised a passel of kids, and whittled in his spare time.”
“Whittled?”
Ryan chuckled. “That he did. Played the bagpipes, too.”
She sighed and touched the blanket on the seat, imagining what it would be like to fall into one of her romance novels and feel the soft plaid on a Highlander’s hardened body until he slipped it off and settled it on the heather. Hand outstretched, he’d offer to take her into his world and show her just how hardy a Highlander could be.
Her lips dry, she was sweeping her tongue over them when she caught Ryan glancing at her again. “Have you ever been to the Colorado Scottish Festival and Rocky Mountain Highland Games?” she asked wistfully. She had loved the place on the one chance she’d had to visit. All those Celts dressed in different tartans. The music. The games. The food.
“To listen to the pipes and drums, to step to the Celtic tunes, dance in the Highland competitions, participate in tug-of-war, and the parade of clans? I’ve participated every year for the past four years.”
“Do you win?”
“Every year.”
“The truth?”
He smiled. “The truth is that a werewolf’s strength gives me a bit of an advantage.” He shrugged. “I can’t help it. Have you been?”
She sighed. “Once. All those men in kilts with great-looking legs nearly did me in.”
He gave her another shadow of a smile. “Do you have a Scottish background?”
“MacDonald, on my mother’s side of the family. Our motto: ‘By sea and land.’ We have an armored hand holding a cross for the clan’s crest. After I went to that one festival, I went away to college, but I hope to go this summer again. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
And see Ryan in a kilt, his legs bare, naked biceps and back straining to pull at a rope as men on the other side fight to win the game. Darien probably wouldn’t even let her go to the festivities, unless some of his people were willing to watch her.
Or if she had a mate already. And then her mate probably wouldn’t be interested in going there unless he had Celtic roots. She chewed on her bottom lip. She had to find other men who appealed like Ryan did, since she didn’t think Jake or Tom would ever make a move in her direction.
Then a new thought came to her. The librarian and masseuse were from another pack. Why couldn’t she go to their pack, or even Ryan’s, and see if someone who suited her better was in one of those packs?
She patted Ryan’s thigh, making him tense and speed up as he barreled down the road.