Must Love Scotland Read Online Free PDF

local government was unpredictable. The council members could be cheerfully accommodating or cheerfully contrary as hell.
    “You forgot the mustard on that one,” Donald said around a mouthful of sandwich.
    “I don’t care for mustard.” Niall set the second sandwich aside. On the third, he did use mustard, because Julie Leonard had asked that mustard be stocked for her use, so she must like it.
    “I don’t favor strutting around the links with a bad back,” Donald said, “but you’ve trouble afoot, Niall. I was enjoying a pint down at The Wild Hare and overheard Declan MacPherson holding forth about some great-great-great-grand-dame’s will. He says he has the evidence he needs to not only stop your golf course expansion, but end up with ownership of half the land. Thought you’d want to know.”
    The knife slipped, smearing mustard on the counter.
    “Declan MacPherson is an idiot,” Niall said, tearing a paper towel off the roll and cleaning up the mess. “He thinks Scotland should be covered primeval oak trees, and we should all be living in stone cairns while wolves are reintroduced to the Highlands.”
    Donald studied what was left of his sandwich, though pretending to have a bad back must have worked up an appetite, for only a crust remained.
    “Declan MacPherson is a determined man, Nephew, and his people have farmed those hillsides from time out of mind. I thought your energy would be better spent seeing what he’s about instead of hugging pretty American ladies in the yard for all to see.”
    Donald stooped—easily—to pet the cat on the head, and then left, munching the last of his sandwich, and trundling down the porch steps as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
    ***
    Declan MacPherson would not have set one muddy boot inside The Wild Hare in the middle of a workday, but the love of his life was to be found there and he needed to celebrate with her. She waited for him, unprepossessing, even dusty, on the shelf behind the bar. A twenty-eight-year-old bottle of Longmorn knew a lot about waiting. Her company cost a man dearly, but the pleasure she offered defied poetry.
    “Was a time you and Niall Cromarty would have played a round and shared a wee dram,” Hamish Campbell observed, all uninvited of course. The man who owned the bar gossiped where he pleased.
    “Was a time, I had a sister alive and healthy,” Declan said, holding his whisky glass under his nose. A proper whisky glass had a feminine shape, gently curved out toward the bottom, and didn’t spill its contents even when tipped over.
    “Was a time, the people in this valley weren’t so damned greedy,” Hamish shot back. He dried a beer mug so thoroughly, his white towel squeaked across the glass. Hamish had reached the stage of life where his years were measured in the ferocity of his eyebrows and the shamelessness of his interfering. He and Donald Cromarty could have been twins, and nigh came to blows over the cribbage board regularly.
    “It’s not greedy to preserve the land so it will continue to produce food that’s safe to eat,” Declan said, inhaling slowly through his nose. The bouquet was exquisite, all fruity mysteries and pungent, feisty promises.
    “Not safe, but
organic
,” Hamish scoffed, “which your own granny would laugh at. Put the cow shite on the fields same as anybody else, she did.”
    Hamish had probably stolen kisses from Declan’s granny, who’d farmed the land herself after her young man had died of meningitis.
    “The manure I put on my fields isn’t full of pesticides, fertilizers, and God knows what,” Declan retorted. “Turn half the valley into a golf course, and we won’t be able to fish our own streams, but that’s no matter, because the streams will silt up in a few years and we won’t have any fish.”
    Hamish slapped at the bar with his towel. “We’ve had nine holes to play on since before your granny was born, and the fish haven’t complained. You’re Scottish, you ought to