Page 10 of Death at a Highland Wedding
“In Scotland, we call them kittens.”
I ignore him and creep forward. The mother disappears, the kittens vanishing before I can get a good look at them.
I sag. “Damn it. I wanted to see them.”
“Well, then, I believe we have a perfectly valid excuse for venturing into the wilds.”
I look up to see whether he’s serious. Of course he is. We’ve been here less than an hour and already found an excuse to break the rules.
I should be the responsible one and say no. But there are kittens. Adorable wildcat kittens.
I glance toward the house. Everyone is inside and the blinds are drawn on this side of the house, where the sun beats down. We won’t go far enough to get into trouble.
“Are you offering me a tiger hunt, Dr. Gray?”
He smiles. “I am.”
FOUR
The “forest” turns out to be only a strip of trees maybe ten feet wide. Beyond that is rocky open land dotted with purple thistles. In the distance, a lake shimmers under the early-evening sun, and to our left are a crumbling stone wall and a dilapidated shack. Seeing that vista, I can imagine I’m back in my time, where everything would look exactly like this—the hills and dales undulating into the distance, dotted with stands of trees and maybe a sheep or two.
The wildcat and her kittens have scampered off, and I’m not inclined to freak out Momma Cat by giving chase. We slow and tramp through the field as I inhale the scents of a Highland moor—heather and damp earth and blooming flowers. When I glimpse a heap of rusty red fur in the distance, I let out a gasp of delight, not unlike the one I gave seeing the kittens.
“Coos!” I say, using the Scots word. “Highland coos!”
“Yes, those are cows. They do not have those either in your time?”
I sock his arm. “Yes, we have cows. Even Highland ones—at least, in the Highlands. But I haven’t seen one in years. When I was a kid, my parents had to drive me out of the city just to see them. I had two stuffed ones. A red and a black.”
His brows rise. “You had stuffedcows? And you roll your eyes at people with stuffed tigers in their homes.”
“Toycows. Like teddy bears.”
When he gives me a blank look, I say, “You don’t have teddy bears yet?So, I’m guessing Teddy Roosevelt hasn’t been the American president.” At his look, I throw up my hands. “I suck at history, remember? I only remember the interesting bits, which includes the origin of teddy bears. Teddy Roosevelt—”
“Future American president.”
“Er, yes, but forget I mentioned that part.”
“Oh, I shall not forget it. When he is nominated I shall place a very large wager on his election. I will finally follow in my father’s footsteps, as a seemingly prescient investor.”
“Except you actually will be prescient. Thanks to your assistant-from-the-future.”
“Sadly, she is not very helpful, having mostly forgotten her history lessons.” He mock glowers at me. “You could have made me a very rich man, Mallory. It was most shortsighted of you.”
“Hey, I gave you the DNA tip. That’s gold. Now do you want to hear about the origin of teddy bears or not?”
“Yes, though I will take it with a grain of salt, considering the source and her very poor memory.”
I shake my head. “Okay, well, Roosevelt went on a hunting trip, and wanting to impress the president, his hosts tied a black bear to a tree for him to shoot. He refused, and the papers printed a cartoon mocking him for it.”
“Mocking him for refusing to kill a creature trapped for his amusement? I rather like Theodore Roosevelt.”
“He also believes in a natural hierarchy based on skin color.”
“I am not at the top of that, am I?”
“The United States was originally a British colony. That will always answer your question.”
