Chapter One

As we drove through a grove of trees, the road abandoned its serpentine path and made a beeline for an old, but solid-looking, farmhouse. A barn and pens rambled haphazardly a stone's throw across the drive. Beyond the weathered homestead, a hill rose sharply, but only after a narrow, rut-filled road squeezed along the border of its ascent.

We drove up to the south end, where a driveway pocked with chuckholes led to a side entrance. Fergus honked the horn, got out, and opened our door. Shannon and I scrambled out onto the soft earth.

"Okay, ladies, we've arrived at last. Set your dainty feet on sheep country. It's a sensation you will feel only in Scotland. And you'll feel it from your toes to the end of your nose before the day is done."

Our laughter subsided as we walked through an entranceway leading into a cluttered patio. An assortment of clay pots lay overturned and broken with telltale hints of better days as soil and faded blossoms spilled out onto the ground. An old wooden stool, crippled from time, a tire beyond repair, old tools, and bits and pieces of mechanical parts bearing no identity in my own world filled the remainder of the forgotten corners. I wondered what happened to the apple-pie order I'd seen along the roadside, small farms seemingly raked clean of all debris, all surrounded with the rolling green hills of the countryside, littered only with the dotting of woolly, white sheep and cavorting lambs.

Fergus, Shannon's uncle, must have detected a hesitation in my step. He placed his hand under my elbow, saying, "Don't let the clutter bother you, Megan. Believe me, the farmhouse is in a te

...