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his traveling case on a stool and removed his jacket. After unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling up the sleeves to his elbows, he headed toward the wash basin. For good measure, before he even washed his hands, he splashed some water on his face and scrubbed it.
    It felt good to be inside the snug little cottage. Evan had to admit, though, that he was surprised at how the day had turned out. Never, in his wildest flights of imagination, had he ever dreamed he’d end up in the house of a beautiful, if outspoken and hot-tempered, Scottish girl. Still, what surprised him more than anything was that, despite the foreignness of his situation, he felt strangely at home.
    Perhaps it was his Scot’s blood rising to the surface. Perhaps it was the fact that, despite their superficial differences, people were all essentially the same at heart. Or perhaps, just perhaps, he had always been called here. Called here to find the answers his often lonely, frequently confused, and always searching heart sought.
    Immediately Evan shook off that last consideration. His weariness, combined with the wild, romantic Highland setting, must be putting some strange ideas into his head. Besides, what mattered most right now was getting a hot meal under his belt and a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow was time enough to deal with tomorrow.
    He dried his hands on a small piece of cloth hanging beside the wash basin, then ambled over to where Claire stood mixing a dough of some sort. “Need any help?” he asked.
    She glanced up in surprise. “Nay,” she replied slowly. “I don’t think you’d know how to make bannocks at any rate.”
    He shrugged. “I’ve served a turn or two as trail cook. No one ever complained about my cooking, or took sick from it.”
    “Well, then, watch me carefully.” She dumped the dough out onto a floured cloth she had set on the table. “You pat this into a circle until it’s about the thickness of the width of your fingernail. Then neaten the edges by pressing inwards with the flat of a knife.” Claire paused in the task to point toward the fireplace. “Could you bring me the girdle propped up beside the hearth?”
    “Girdle?” Evan walked to the fireplace and picked up the open, iron-worked griddle by its arched handle. “Do you mean this?”
    “Aye. The girdle. It’s what we use to bake our bannocks—and scones, for that matter—on. You grease the girdle, put it over the fire, and then brown both sides. It usually takes ten minutes on the first side, and about five on the other. Much faster then baking bread in a cast iron pot. Next you slice the bannock into wedges. It’s verra tasty with butter, or even cheese.”
    “Sounds like a handy implement to have—a girdle, I mean.” He grinned. “And what, by the way, is colcannon? A kind of stew?”
    “Nay. It’s finely mashed potatoes mixed with cooked cabbage, cream, and leeks.”
    Evan’s grin faded. “No meat?”
    “Not this eve. Meat’s verra costly. We can’t afford it too often.”
    “Oh.”
    Claire cocked her head at him. “Do cowboys eat a lot of meat, then?”
    “Yes, as a matter of fact they do. Remember, I grew up on a cattle ranch.”
    Ian ambled over. “Every night? Do you eat beef every night?”
    Evan nodded. “If we want. Sometimes we eat a chicken, or some fish, or pork, or even venison or game birds in season. We always raise a few pigs, plus have a henhouse full of chickens for meat and eggs.”
    Their astonishment almost palpable, Claire and Ian looked at each other. Embarrassment filled Evan. Had he overstepped his bounds, or appeared the braggart?
    “Look, I didn’t mean to imply the bannocks and colcannon wouldn’t be plumb delicious,” he hurried to explain. “We all have our favorite foods. That doesn’t mean, though, a man shouldn’t be open to something new and different.”
    He glanced at the girdle where Claire had placed the rounded bannock dough. “Er, shouldn’t you be putting that on to brown? I