In her old life back in Houston, Sam would have been looking for the nearest escape hatch. Business situations were easy for her. Social situations were anything but. Yet there she was, surrounded by scores of people she barely knew, and she felt happier and more at ease than she had in years. The good women of Glenraven showered her with advice about her baby. Everything from morning sickness to false labor to teething—they covered it all. Sam’s head was spinning with information, and she was thankful when the lawn games began and they all rushed off to play. She took the opportunity to slip into the house for a moment’s rest and a tall glass of very cold water.
Duncan followed her into the kitchen. “Is something wrong?”
“Just thirsty,” she said. “Shouldn’t you be out there, running around with everybody?”
“A man needs his own cheering section for inspiration.”
She took a long sip of water. “Cheering is about as much as I can do.”
“And it’s all I’ll ask for now.”
What a strange remark. She looked at him carefully. The same face, the same glorious features. But something was different. Some essential ingredient had changed, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.
SAM’S POTATO SALAD turned out to be an enormous success with her Glenraven neighbors.
“Have you any more of this?” asked Gordon Thornton, the local banker. “I’ve never tasted its like.”
“I’d love the recipe, Samantha,” said Elizabeth Macfadden, wife of the town eccentric. “I’d serve it at the next church gathering.”
Sam, whose culinary skills were extremely limited, preened over the compliments.
“You were right, lassie,” Old Mag said as the two of them went inside to fill more serving bowls. “Your American salad is disappearing.”
Sam almost passed out cold on the kitchen floor. Old Mag had admitted she was human, after all. “It’s one of the few things I can cook, Mag. I was praying it would go over well.”
“And your chili,” Mag went on, shaking her head. “I think they starved themselves for a week before comin’ here, the way they swarmed about the tables.”
Sam laughed as she took the rest of the potato salad out of the refrigerator. “They have been eating a lot, haven’t they?” She met Mag’s eyes. “Seems to me they made quick work of your contributions, too. Your sausages disappeared the second we put them on the table.”
“Ach,” Mag mumbled, obviously pleased by Sam’s compliment. “They fear my evil tongue if they don’t eat my food.”
The two women worked well together. The weeks of party planning had somehow bonded them, and Sam was delighted with the outcome. Mag and Robby were Duncan’s surrogate parents. They fussed over him, chided him and occasionally even ordered him around, and now they were doing that to Sam, as well. She had the feeling there was no greater acceptance.
“We still haven’t heard all the details about your wedding,” William Dixon’s wife, Sally, said as they all dug into their plates of cake and ice cream.
Sam met Duncan’s eyes. “There isn’t that much to tell,” she said, wondering how she was going to manage to sidestep the truth.
“Love at first sight,” Duncan said.
Sam’s breath caught in her throat. He said it so easily, so naturally, that if she didn’t know better she might believe him. “We—well, we didn’t know each other very long when we, um, when we decided to get married.” Every word she said was true, but it sounded as if she was piecing it together from whole cloth.
“Samantha thought our Duncan was a pilot,” William Dixon said to everyone’s amusement. “She hired him to fly her someplace and they had that crash alongside the loch.”
“You still owe me, lassie,” Duncan said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “A deal’s a deal.”
They all laughed except for Sam. That’s what their marriage was, wasn’t it? A deal between two strangers who just happened to be expecting a baby together.
She patted her stomach. “Don’t worry,” she said in what she hoped was a lighthearted tone. “I think you’ll like the compensation.”
That got another roar of laughter from their friends.
“I wish you’d waited to marry here in Glenraven,” one of the women said. “It’s been a long time since we saw a beautiful wedding in the chapel.”
“You should have let us be part of it,” said another woman. “I can’t believe you’d deny us the pleasure.”
Duncan handled it better than she ever could. “That’s why we’re having this party, Annie. This is our celebration.”
“And we’ll have an even bigger party for the baby’s christening,” Sam promised. “The biggest you’ve ever seen.”
“No more talking,” Robby called out. “Time for the dancing to begin.”
As if on cue, she heard the skirl of bagpipes, followed by the sight of five kilted pipers marching over the hill. Down through the centuries, how many other Stewart wives had stood where she was standing and seen the same thrilling sight? She felt connected to each and every one of them.
“Let’s dance Strip the Willow,” Lucy from the Heather and the Thistle suggested.
“No,” said Duncan, his arm still draped around Sam’s shoulders. “An eightsome reel.”
Lucy looked disappointed but she nodded.
“Why the eightsome reel over Strip the Willow?” Sam asked him.
“Because you’re pregnant, lassie. Strip the Willow downs the strongest of us.”
There was little she could say to that. She hadn’t a clue what any of the dances entailed.
“I’m not much of a dancer,” she admitted as the music swelled around them.
“You’ll learn soon enough.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
“Americans square-dance, don’t they?”
“Not every American,” she said, laughing. “But most Texans do.”
“Then you’ll have no trouble.”
“We’ll see about that,” she murmured. At least they called square dances. Here in Scotland you were expected to actually know what you were doing.
To Sam it seemed like a cross between a line dance and a square dance, but the effect was one hundred percent Scottish. Men in kilts spun past her, in tartans
