Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [75]
“I wouldn’t worry about that. Colin drives an old Ford truck. It’s black. That was likely him cleaning up the trash left from the night before.”
“Any reason to think Colin might mean you harm?” he asked as he handed her the helmet.
She shook her head. “Sorry, you’re barking up the wrong tree there, Jago. Colin would never hurt me. There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for me.”
He shrugged, unwilling to let go of his doubts. “Colin is in love with you. Maybe he resents you letting me into your life.”
He gunned the engine and set the Harley wheeling down the road.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I’d say I want to buy this house, but I think you might hit me,” Jago teased, as he poured The Macallan Scotch into two old-fashioned glasses and then added a dash of water and a couple cubes of ice.
Asha merely smiled as she diced carrots, a cucumber and fresh mushrooms for the salad. Her eyes filled with pride as they followed him around the living room. He couldn’t contain his covetous gaze; he savored the rugged beauty of the honeyed oak and red cedar plank-covered floors, ceilings and walls, the high, exposed beams overhead. The whole front of the three-story, A-frame was mostly glass, with no curtains to obscure the breathtaking view from the lodge at the top of the hill. It opened onto a huge deck, which jutted out slightly over the hillside.
What’s His Name zoomed about the house, his tail vibrating like Jeep in the old Popeye cartoons. Upon arrival, he’d first rushed to the kitchen—as though making sure the house came with the necessities—then he’d dashed here and there, checking everything. Poor thing nearly wore out his fat self.
Once his inspection was complete, he started to spray the fireplace to mark it as his. Asha had tossed a throw pillow at him, screaming, “Don’t you dare!” and warned him they had made an appointment at the vet’s on Friday. She grumbled something about turning him into a eunuch if he sprayed the first thing in the house. He must’ve believed her for he behaved after that. He quickly established his favorite spot on a window seat near the river stone fireplace. Just a minute ago, he’d run over, hopped up on the recessed window and focused on a squirrel, sitting and chattering on the deck rail in the twilight. The cat turned his head and gave Jago one of his funny smiles, the orange eyes clearly saying, Yeah, this will do.
Jago scratched the kitty’s broad head. “Yeah, this will do nicely, Puss,” he murmured lowly.
“Stop whispering to that mangy cat,” Asha teased.
The cat whipped his head around and glared at Asha, clearly saying, Who’s mangy?
“You two can conspire all you want—I’m not selling this house. My house. Mac left it sitting, neglected for years. I’ve spent a lot of time getting it into this shape.” She shrugged. “I guess it has memories for him—about my mum—ones that he’d rather dismiss. Only, I find peace here. When I cut the deal to trade him my shares in the farm for his part of The Windmill, I made him toss in the house to balance the exchange.”
“Why do you stay at The Windmill motel when you have this absolutely marvelous castle atop the hill to live in?” This was biting at Jago, had been from the start, how the Montgomerie sisters were often at odds with their upbringings, seeking quiet, less flamboyant lifestyles than that of the ancient English manor, Colford Hall.
Asha shrugged, going to the refrigerator and removing cheese. “This is a home. I love coming here, working on it, bringing it back to life. Only, it needs more than just me.” She concentrated on running the block of aged cheddar back and forth across the hand grater, clearly avoiding his stare. He could see she didn’t want to say, It needs a family.
“I love this house, lass. I can’t imagine one more perfectly designed. It’s elegance and style, and yet comfortable, welcoming—you feel like you could put your feet up on