If Not For Love - A Highland Romance

Chapter 12

 Twelve

"How's my lass?" Neal hugs me and kisses my cheek.

"I'm good. How are you?"

"Well, I'm here with ye, so it's a bonnie day!"

"Stop trying ta steal me wife, da, and get yer own."

"I jus' may have to." He closes his eyes, sniffing the air. "Somethin' smells verra good."

"I hope it tastes as good," I say. "I followed the directions to all the recipes exactly."

Neal laughs. "I'm sure it will be grand."

"How was your trip?" Tavish asks.

"Twas good ta spend time with the wee ones again, but it took a lot out o me this time. Glad ta be back."

"We're glad to have you back," I tell him. "And I'm sure your appetite is intact."

"Och, to be sure. But before we eat," he adds, sitting down, "will ye share a little more about yer grandmother?"

I smile and nod. Tavish's father had been fascinated the first time I shared bits of Grandma's life with him. He said that though he didn't know her, he felt a kinship with her just the same.

"I'll get the journal for you," Tavish offers. "It's in yer office, right?"

"Aye, thanks." When we married and Tavish's home became mine, he decided that I needed my own place to write since he has a room for his work. He bought a desk and chair and turned one of the spare rooms into an office for me. I then decorated it with photos, plants and large colorful cushions, transferring it into a writing haven. Since it is next to our bedroom, I have a perfect view of the loch. I asked Tavish why he hadn't chosen the room for his tartan making. He said he preferred to work facing the front of the house. That way he could keep an eye out for coming visitors and customers.

Tavish hands me the book and sits close to me. I grin at the eagerness in the eyes of the two men. They are like children waiting to hear a story.

When I was sixteen, I moved back to Black Mountain. My oldest sister had moved back the year before and lived in her own apartment. I stayed with her for a while. I missed Mama, but it sure was nice being out on my own.

It was about this time that I met the man I would spend the rest of my life with. Milton Stone had just gotten out of the army when we met on the train. He was a good-looking man. Tall with toffee-colored skin, curly hair and a gold tooth that winked at you when he smiled, he was the quite the catch and caught many female eyes wherever he went. But I was the one he picked. And I was no slouch myself.

I had barely turned seventeen when we were married, and a year later our first daughter was born. Six more pregnancies quickly followed, but only three produced children, two more girls and a boy. The children provided us with a lot of laughter and many tears. It was a hard life, made even harder when Milton began drinking. I loved the man to death, but he became volatile when he drank and he hit me quite few times until I put my foot down. I finally told him one day it was me or the bottle. I was done being a punching bag. He knew I was serious, so he gave it up.

I'm not saying everything was rosy after that. We still had our trials, but life was better and we took on everything together.

"I don't know how she did it," I murmur. I don't know if I could forgive a man for hitting me, and I promised myself a long time ago that when–or if–I ever got married, if he hit me one time, I would not be around long enough to give him a second chance because there is always a second time, no matter how much they promise otherwise.