LITMIR.BIZ

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      It felt remarkably like hope.

      The village was every bit as pretty as she had imagined with stone buildings and cobbled streets. Not that Emma had time to admire more than a passing impression because the train had been a bit late and now she had to hurry. That it was much darker for the time of day and probably a lot colder than London didn’t seem to matter when the brightly lit shop windows revealed colourful decorations already in place.

      She found herself smiling when she hurried past a pub called simply The Inn, which had sprigs of holly on the door framing a handwritten sign that said, ‘There’s plenty of room.’ Maybe the innkeeper with the sense of humour was one of the group of people under the streetlamps, installing a massive Christmas tree in the village square that needed men with ropes and a lot of shouting in a brogue so thick it sounded like a foreign language.

      Her heart sank, however, when she entered the medical centre and the grandmother of her imagination fixed her with a look that could probably strip paint.

      ‘D’ye have an appointment? The doctor’s no’ got time for extras unless it’s an emergency. Clinic hours are over.’

      The bell on the door behind Emma clanged again before the grandmother had finished speaking and her attempt to decipher more than half the words she had just heard was interrupted by a woman’s voice.

      ‘I’ll take care o’ this, Eileen. We’re expecting Emma.’

      Her jaw dropping, Emma turned to face an elegantly dressed and very beautiful older woman, who was smiling warmly. ‘I take it you are Emma?’

      ‘Um … yes. And you’re …?’

      ‘Catherine McAllister. Adam’s mother.’ She looked past Emma’s shoulder. ‘Is Adam in, Eileen?’

      ‘Aye. The wee bairns as well.’ The sniff was disapproving. ‘I’ve told the doctor it’s no’ a good idea, having bairns in there. They’ll break something. Or—’

      ‘Why don’t you head off early, Eileen?’ Catherine was still smiling. ‘I know how busy you must be at the moment. Isn’t there a choir practice this evening?’

      ‘Aye … well, if you’re sure, Mrs McAllister.’

      ‘I’m just sorry I won’t be here to hear all the Christmas carols.’

      ‘It’s tomorrow you leave, aye?’

      ‘Mmm. I hope so.’ She turned back to Emma. ‘Adam’s sister is having her first baby. In Canada.’

      ‘Oh … how exciting.’ Emma couldn’t miss the play of emotion on the older woman’s face. ‘She’ll be so happy to have you there. I … I lost my mum last year and I miss her all the time but that’s when I’ll miss her the most, I think.’

      When she had a baby? If she ever had a baby would be more truthful. But she’d said too much already, hadn’t she? Maybe revealed too much as well, judging by the searching look she was getting. Emma bit her lip but Catherine was smiling. Her eyes were full of sympathy and the touch on Emma’s arm was more like a reassuring squeeze.

      ‘Come with me, Emma. We’ll go and find that son of mine.’

      Could she leave her backpack and guitar in the waiting room? About to step away, Emma caught another glare from Eileen that was punctuated by another eloquent sniff. Hastily, she picked up her luggage and followed Catherine across the waiting room and through another door. She was still trying to readjust her mental image of the children’s grandmother and, because she wasn’t watching, the guitar was at enough of a sideways angle to catch on the door in front of her so she almost fell into what was obviously a consulting room.

      The man, who had one hip perched on the edge of a large wooden desk, jerked his head in her direction. The two children, who were on the floor in the middle of a game that involved a stethoscope and bandages, looked up and froze.

      There was an awkward silence and Emma could feel herself blushing furiously as she manoeuvred herself into the room. What had possessed her to bring such an unwieldy extra piece of luggage, anyway? Did she think she might go busking in Braeburn’s village square if she didn’t land this gig of being a nanny?

      What made it so much worse was that the doctor who’d sounded nice but brusque on the phone was just as different from what she’d imagined as the grandmother had been. The fuzzy image of a plump and fatherly country GP had just been bombed. Adam McAllister was tall and fit. More than fit. With his jet-black hair, olive skin and sharply defined angles of his face, he was probably one of the best-looking men Emma had ever seen.

      Except that he was scowling. While his mother had surprised her by being so unexpectedly nice, the pendulum had swung in the opposite direction now. Adam McAllister looked uncompromising. Fierce. Angry even?

      At her?

      ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said, the words rushing out. ‘The train was … it was …’ Oh, help. He was looking at her as if he knew. Had he somehow managed to access her medical records or something?

      ‘The train’s always late.’ Catherine was pulling out a chair. She smiled down at the children. ‘What’s happened here? Has Poppy broken her leg again, Ollie?’

      ‘Aye. I’m fixing her.’ But the small boy’s attention was diverted now. ‘Who are you?’ he asked Emma. ‘And what’s that?’

      ‘I’m Emma. And this is my guitar case.’

      ‘I want to see.’

      ‘Maybe later.’ Adam McAllister’s offer did not sound promising. ‘Your gran’s going to take you to see the tree going up in a minute. And then you’re going home for your supper.’

      ‘After some proper introductions,’ Catherine said firmly. ‘Emma—this is Oliver and this is Poppy. Ollie and Poppy—this is Emma … Sinclair?’

      ‘Miss Sinclair,’ Adam corrected.

      ‘Emma’s fine,’ said Emma. ‘Hello, Poppy and Ollie. You’re twins, aren’t you?’

      They stared at her. They had brown eyes like their father but their hair was much lighter. Poppy still had golden streaks in her long braids. She also had something clutched in her hand.

      ‘Is that Barbie?’

      Poppy nodded. ‘She’s got a pony,’ she offered. ‘At home.’

      ‘Lucky Barbie. I love ponies.’

      ‘I’ve got a pony, too.’

      ‘Jemima’s not a pony,’ Oliver said. ‘She’s a donkey.’

      Emma blinked. Catherine laughed. ‘Adam probably didn’t say much on the phone,’ she said, ‘but there are a few pets at home. Do you like animals?’

      ‘Yes. I had a job in a pet shop once. We had lots of puppies and kittens and rabbits. Oh, and hamsters and mice and rats, too.’

      Poppy’s eyes were round. ‘I love puppies. And kittens.’

      ‘I love rats,’ Oliver said. ‘Can I have a rat, Daddy?’

      ‘We’ve probably got some out in the barn.’

      ‘I want one for a pet. Inside.’

      ‘No.’ The word was almost a sigh. ‘You can’t have a rat, Ollie.’

      ‘But why not?’ With a bandage unfurling in his hand to roll across the floor, Oliver scrambled to his feet. ‘You said I could tell you what I wanted most for Christmas. And I want a rat.’

      ‘They smell bad.’ Emma had been the cause of what was becoming a family disagreement. She needed to do something. ‘And they’ve got long tails that are all bald and pink and … icky.’

      ‘Icky?’

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