Plunging into work was an excellent panacea. Especially against oversexed Highlanders and sly-eyed cooks who imagined encounters with ghosts.
What better way to bust such stress-bringers than to busy herself with her plans for One Cairn Village, a project she secretly thought of as Brigadoon Revisited.
Her very own tartan-ribboned ticket to fulfilling the most difficult stipulation of Lady Warfield's bequest.
The one that required her to reunite the clan and assure that its members looked favorably upon Lady Warfield's memory.
Mara puffed a strand of hair off her face and allowed herself a moment of silent satisfaction. She glanced at an untidy pile of envelopes, the most of them bearing foreign stamps, then looked across the room to Ben.
Unlike Scottie and Dottie, the aged collie didn't seem bothered by the room's cold. He still sprawled where he'd plopped down earlier, snug and content in front of the hearth fire.
"Your lady will be well remembered," Mara promised him, not at all surprised when he thumped his tail on the hearth rug as if he'd understood.
It was a promise she meant to keep, too.
And not just for her own selfish reasons.
Ravenscraig was growing on her, she wouldn't deny. But so were its people. The mystery piper no one would admit to. The twin maids with their bright curls and blushes. The tiny white-haired Innes, who persisted in asking Mara after Lord Basil's health. Gordie, the one-armed gardener, who'd even given her a sprig of lucky white heather.
Even Murdoch.
No, especially the cantankerous old man, she admitted, a hot thickness tightening her throat.
Unthinkable if Ravenscraig were overtaken by strangers from the National Trust of Scotland and the bandylegged steward suddenly found himself displaced.
But that wasn't going to happen.
She wouldn't let it.
Cash donations for the MacDougall memorial cairn were already pouring in from all around the world. Some clansmen were even sending stones. Beautiful stones from every corner of Scotland and as far away as Cape Breton and beyond.
Her pulse slowing at last, she turned on her laptop and flexed her fingers. The memorial cairn was taking care of itself.
One Cairn Village was the project needing her best organizational skills.
Named in honor of the cairn she meant to see erected at its heart, One Cairn Village was also a nod to her genealogy-obsessed father, Hugh, and the plaid-hung house of her childhood: One Cairn Avenue.
A picture postcard of a Highland village of old, One Cairn Village would consist of a ring of whitewashed cottages, each one boasting a bright blue painted door with a window on either side. The most idyllic spot would be chosen, a special place thick with gorse and heather and views of both the sea and the surrounding hills.
A haven.
A cozy retreat to attract MacDougalls and other Scottish Diaspora, with each cottage hiding a tiny craft or workshop that would offer everything from Innes's handmade candles and soaps to Celtic jewelry, woolen goods, heather honey, and pottery.
Gaelic and piping lessons could be given, and one cottage, the largest, would house a state-of-the-art research center for those eager to trace their own Scottish roots.
MacDougalls willing to stay and work at One Cairn Village would be made welcome. Other visitors could stay in smaller, equally quaint holiday cottages or the Victorian-style lodge she hoped to build near the village.
An ambitious plan, but doable.
If MacDougalls aching for a piece of the Auld Homeland took the bait and came.
Determined that they would, she opened one of Lady Warfield's old-fashioned ledgers and ran a finger down the rows of carefully penned names and addresses.
Each one represented a member of Mara's extended family. Far-flung clan members who just might thrill to the thought of contributing a trade or talent to One Cairn Village.
Or at least wish to visit.
She'd scanned only a few pages when the spidery handwriting began to blur.
She couldn't
What better way to bust such stress-bringers than to busy herself with her plans for One Cairn Village, a project she secretly thought of as Brigadoon Revisited.
Her very own tartan-ribboned ticket to fulfilling the most difficult stipulation of Lady Warfield's bequest.
The one that required her to reunite the clan and assure that its members looked favorably upon Lady Warfield's memory.
Mara puffed a strand of hair off her face and allowed herself a moment of silent satisfaction. She glanced at an untidy pile of envelopes, the most of them bearing foreign stamps, then looked across the room to Ben.
Unlike Scottie and Dottie, the aged collie didn't seem bothered by the room's cold. He still sprawled where he'd plopped down earlier, snug and content in front of the hearth fire.
"Your lady will be well remembered," Mara promised him, not at all surprised when he thumped his tail on the hearth rug as if he'd understood.
It was a promise she meant to keep, too.
And not just for her own selfish reasons.
Ravenscraig was growing on her, she wouldn't deny. But so were its people. The mystery piper no one would admit to. The twin maids with their bright curls and blushes. The tiny white-haired Innes, who persisted in asking Mara after Lord Basil's health. Gordie, the one-armed gardener, who'd even given her a sprig of lucky white heather.
Even Murdoch.
No, especially the cantankerous old man, she admitted, a hot thickness tightening her throat.
Unthinkable if Ravenscraig were overtaken by strangers from the National Trust of Scotland and the bandylegged steward suddenly found himself displaced.
But that wasn't going to happen.
She wouldn't let it.
Cash donations for the MacDougall memorial cairn were already pouring in from all around the world. Some clansmen were even sending stones. Beautiful stones from every corner of Scotland and as far away as Cape Breton and beyond.
Her pulse slowing at last, she turned on her laptop and flexed her fingers. The memorial cairn was taking care of itself.
One Cairn Village was the project needing her best organizational skills.
Named in honor of the cairn she meant to see erected at its heart, One Cairn Village was also a nod to her genealogy-obsessed father, Hugh, and the plaid-hung house of her childhood: One Cairn Avenue.
A picture postcard of a Highland village of old, One Cairn Village would consist of a ring of whitewashed cottages, each one boasting a bright blue painted door with a window on either side. The most idyllic spot would be chosen, a special place thick with gorse and heather and views of both the sea and the surrounding hills.
A haven.
A cozy retreat to attract MacDougalls and other Scottish Diaspora, with each cottage hiding a tiny craft or workshop that would offer everything from Innes's handmade candles and soaps to Celtic jewelry, woolen goods, heather honey, and pottery.
Gaelic and piping lessons could be given, and one cottage, the largest, would house a state-of-the-art research center for those eager to trace their own Scottish roots.
MacDougalls willing to stay and work at One Cairn Village would be made welcome. Other visitors could stay in smaller, equally quaint holiday cottages or the Victorian-style lodge she hoped to build near the village.
An ambitious plan, but doable.
If MacDougalls aching for a piece of the Auld Homeland took the bait and came.
Determined that they would, she opened one of Lady Warfield's old-fashioned ledgers and ran a finger down the rows of carefully penned names and addresses.
Each one represented a member of Mara's extended family. Far-flung clan members who just might thrill to the thought of contributing a trade or talent to One Cairn Village.
Or at least wish to visit.
She'd scanned only a few pages when the spidery handwriting began to blur.
She couldn't
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