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have some regard for the Game.”
    Not this. Not Hamish’s golf sermon, which made the thunderings at the kirk of a Sunday pale by comparison.
    “I enjoy a round,” Declan admitted, “same as the next man, but farming is about food. Golf is about recreation and tourist dollars.”
    Which Scotland took cheerfully enough, but with hundreds of golf courses already in operation, some of them going back to the 1700s, another back nine was hardly necessary.
    “Golf is about—” Hamish fell silent—a momentary development of course, and in the mirror behind the bar, Niall Cromarty’s sizable frame filled the doorway to the Hare.
    “Come in, Niall,” Hamish called, “and share a wee dram with MacPherson. He’s ranting, as MacPhersons will do, about unhappy fish and clean shite.”
    Niall had aged, gone from a big, bold boy with a love for golf, to a cold, hard man with a love for coin. Declan regretted the loss, but he’d regret the loss of his farm more.
    “Cromarty,” Declan said. “Hamish has taken down the Longmorn, and you’ll want a dram.”
    Ten years ago, Declan could have read the emotions flitting behind Niall’s blue eyes, but then, ten years ago, Declan had had a pretty, lively sister, and she’d been in love with Niall.
    Niall put a silver credit card on the bar. “A dram then, and another for MacPherson.”
    A fool and his money. “I’m buying,” Declan said, a twinge of regret kicking him in the wallet. “When I’ve finally won the fight to protect my sister’s dream, the least I can do is buy the loser a drink.”
    Hamish set the bottle on the bar between Declan and Niall, who’d put his fancy plastic away and slid onto the next stool. Niall smelled good—not like cow shit—but like lily of the valley, meadow grass, and a touch of mint.
    Like success rather than hard work.
    “A drink to Belinda’s memory, then,” Niall said, as Hamish set a glass in front of him. “Have you a plan to run your cows over my golf course, MacPherson?”
    Declan had considered it. Cows and sheep got loose all the time, and the Highlands were substantial beasts.
    “The nine holes you have now aren’t the issue, Niall,” Declan said, pouring the consolation dram for his enemy. “It’s the plans you have to expand, to develop land in the watershed for my stream, to landscape the slope north of my farm, and north of the loch that provides water for the entire valley.”
    Niall held his glass up as if to study the lovely amber color of his whisky. Good whisky was kind to light, and when Niall swirled his glass, the potation caressed the sides, a hint of legs without being heavy.
    “The studies have been done, Declan. The lake is safe, the stream is safe.”
    Why didn’t Niall sound like a man whose dreams were safe, then?
    “The lake and stream are very safe,” Declan said, passing Hamish a credit card that still bore a crease from where the bull had tromped it, a metaphor for the pounding any farmer’s credit took regularly. “Your title to the slope is being attacked as we speak. I found the will.”
    Such was the gulf between them, that even this disclosure provoked no discernible reaction in a man Declan had once considered a friend.
    “Any document purporting to be a two-hundred-year-old will must be authenticated,” Niall said, considering his drink.
    More than two hundred years, for Nancy MacPherson had died in 1787.
    “I’m seeing to the authentication, and in any case, the discovery of the will is enough to stop your plans for ripping up that slope.”
    Hamish ducked out from under the bar, though he wouldn’t go far. This confrontation was too juicy not to eavesdrop on.
    “I’ll not rip up the slope, Declan. I’ve shown you the sediment and erosion control plans, shown you the final landscape design. The fairways will be the next thing to the natural contour of the land, and the greens will require only modest earthwork.”
    Niall had brought those plans over in person, which showed