Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

C allum Fraser stood in the rain, studying the hand-painted sign of The Enchanted Tea Cup. His grandmother's directions had been specific— Cockburn Street, off the Royal Mile, just around the bend --but he still hesitated. The whole thing felt daft. Here he was, thirty-four years old, following the instructions of a woman who still bought him woolly socks every Christmas because his feet were constantly cold the entirety of his seventh year of age.

Rain dripped from the brim of his flat cap onto the worn leather of his jacket. He’d inherited the coat from his father along with the sheep farm, the ancestral home, and the tendency to let work consume him. His jeans were muddy at the cuffs despite being rolled up, and his boots had tracked Highland soil across half of Inverness already.

He scratched his jaw, wondering when he'd last bothered to shave. Time had a way of sliding past when you spent your days with sheep and your evenings with account books.

The bell announced his entrance with a delicate ring that seemed to mock his bulk. He removed his cap and sent rainwater spattering onto the worn floorboards.

"Well," said a woman's voice. "You must be Meggie Fraser's grandson."

Callum's head snapped up. A small woman with silver-and-red-streaked hair stood behind a counter laden with new teapots, boxes, and a pricing gun. "How did ye?—"

"She called to tell us you were coming." Another woman, nearly identical to the first, emerged from between heavy curtains. "Though we expected you yesterday."

"I almost didnae come at all,” he blurted, before he tasted the rudeness of the words. He ducked his head in apology. “Gran can be...persistent."

"Meggie’s never shy about what she wants." The second woman patted his arm and waved to the first. “I'm Loretta, and this is my sister Lorraine."

"Callum," he offered. "I dinnae wish to waste yer time. Gran seems to think ye can help me find..." He faltered, unsure how to explain what he didn't understand himself.

"A purpose beyond the farm?"

"Someone to share your evenings with?"

That got his back up. “I never said?—"

"Don’t mind us, dear. We’ll get you a nice cup of tea and have a chat, shall we?” Loretta gestured to the break in the curtains. “Just choose a cup while I put the kettle on."

Callum stared at the overwhelming display in the back of a large room filled with tables and meant for parties. "I don't know the first thing about teacups." The confession carried echoes of many similar admissions.

I don't know the first thing about dating. About romance. About letting someone trespass into my life.

"The cup knows you," Loretta said. "Trust in that."

He dismissed her ridiculous idea and moved carefully to the shelves, careful not to bump anything. Odd ideas ran rampant in his head, brought on by the odd company, no doubt. And he had the silly notion that these cups—over a hundred of the delicate things—watched him. As if they knew a man whose hands were calloused from mending fences and delivering lambs had no business coming near them.

But there, level with his belt buckle, sat a cup with a whimsical frog painted on the side. The creature wore a tiny crown and sober expression. Something about its mix of dignity and humor caught him. He could imagine his Gran watching him with the same look on her mug.

"That one," he said, pointing.

The sisters exchanged a look of pure shock, then tried to hide it.

"The Frog Prince," Lorraine sang. "How perfect!"

"I don't follow," Callum said, watching as Loretta carefully lifted the frog cup from its shelf.

"Just a coincidence. Nothing you’d care to hear about." She carried it to a table, then she and her sister headed for another curtain. “Sit and relax. We’ll fetch the tea. And Callum?”

“Aye?”

“Don’t leave. I promise you’ll be glad you came.”

He removed his jacket, draped it over the back of his chair. Intended for smaller people than he, the chair creaked ominously when he sat. The sound of rain was distant now, muffled by so many velvet curtains. The walls were solid. No windows or doors. No escape.

The sisters returned in only minutes, but those minutes had been torture. He had no business leaving the farm. If the Good Lord wanted him to have a wife, He should have delivered one in a livestock lorrie with a tag on her ear that read “For Callum Fraser.” That way, there’d be no guessing, no wondering what to do or what to say, or whether he was howkin’ in the wrang field.

“Here we are.” The sisters emerged again, one carrying a tea tray and a steaming pot. “Nothing helps get off on the right foot like a cuppa.”

They sat across the table from him. The one poured tea into the frog cup, added milk just the way he liked it, and passed it to him. A plate of fresh-baked biscuits followed, and the smell of them reminded Callum of Gran’s cooking on holidays.

“Now,” she said, “tell us why ye think Meggie sent you to the city.”

He fortified himself with a sip and a whole biscuit before forging forward. "Honestly? It’s not a mystery. Gran's been after me to take better care of myself. Says I work too hard." He shifted uncomfortably. "Started leaving travel magazines around the house."

"And what did you think of them?" The sister to his right tested her tea and pretended the question was casual, but she was studying him. And whatever the test, he reckoned he was about to fail. "Any particular destination catch your eye?"

"Didn't really look at them." "Shouldn’t be leavin’ the farm. Not with tuppin’ season coming on."

"But Meggie said you have lots of help.” It wasn't a question.

"Aye, good help. My cousins, Allen and Fergus. Four others. Jamie's been with us since before my father passed. And his boy's learning the trade." He frowned. "But that's not the point. The farm's my responsibility."

"The way it was your father's responsibility?" Lorraine's voice was gentle. "And his father's before him?"

"Aye. And now it’s four times the size as they had.”

“Nothing wrong with tradition,” said the one on the right. But they were only patronizing him. He should go...

"No indeed." Loretta poured tea for herself. "But there's nothing wrong with new traditions. You can build your own traditions. And maybe find someone to help you with that."

If he were honest, he hoped for such a miracle daily.

"Gran says I'm turning into a hermit," he admitted. "Says I'll wake up one morning and realize twenty years have passed while I wasn't lookin’."

"Wise woman."

"Aye, well." His hands engulfed the cup. "She also believes in fairies and talks to her roses."

"That doesn’t make her wrong. After all, she sent you to us, which was the wisest move of all.”

He inhaled deeply and released his breath with a loud sigh, resigned to the fate his Gran had pushed on him. "Then I assume ye can help me.” He couldn't keep the skepticism from his voice. "With what, exactly?"

"That depends entirely on what you're willing to accept." Loretta settled into a chair across from him. "We suggest a journey."

"A holiday," Lorraine added. "Somewhere warm."

Callum's laugh held little humor. "I havenae taken a proper holiday since university. Wouldn't know where to start."

"We were thinking somewhere specific." Loretta's eyes gleamed. "Have you ever considered America?"

"America?" He stared at them.

"Arizona, to be precise."

"Arizona," he repeated flatly. "That’s halfway ‘round the world. All desert and cattle ranches and..." He trailed off, remembering one of Gran's magazines. “Far too hot. Heat stress is a problem over ninety degrees Fahrenheit.”

“For you or your sheep?”

“For sheep.”

They both laughed, then one found her tongue. “No one said anything about taking your herd with you.”

“Ah, right. Right.”

"The desert has its own kind of magic," Lorraine said. "Its own way of making a person see things differently."

"And sometimes," Loretta added, "what you're looking for is looking for you too."

Callum lifted the frog cup, studying his distorted reflection in the tea's surface. "I'm not looking for anything."

"Of course not, dear." Lorraine patted his arm. "But it might find you anyway."

He took a sip of tea, and studied the dark remnants in the bottom of his cup. For a fraction of a second, he could have sworn he saw something there—the smile of a woman with black curls. But that was ridiculous.

Wasn't it?

The sisters watched him with knowing smiles, as if they knew what he’d imagined.

Again, he sighed and surrendered. "Tell me more about Arizona."