Page 13 of Merging Wright

“What?” The eerie chill in her voice turns my head. She stares back at me, eyes full of surprise . . . and hurt.

“What happens here needs to stay here.” And I’m not being snarky about some Vegas tryst.

“I would never . . .” She adamantly shakes her head, propping her arms over the steering wheel. Her position suggests I’ve offended her. Her shock tells me she doesn’t deserve the offense. She’s come with me—no questions asked. She drove the hours it took to get here. She’s missing days of work for the shitshow ahead.

I’m such a bastard.

Her gaze remains focused out the windshield a second longer. Then her arms slip off the wheel, and she looks at the center of the steering wheel. Her expression shifts from puzzled to determined. She straightens. “Fine. I’ll sign whatever you need.”

I should thank her for being here. Express some kind of gratitude for the role she’s about to play. Instead, I pop open my door and step into the yard where I had never planned to set my feet again.

Within seconds, Ma is out the front door and rushing down the porch stairs to me. “Mach.” My name in her soft Scottish lilt tightens my chest. I’m close with my mother. I never faulted her for the mess of our lives. She did what she could to love us, care for us, protect us.

“Ma.” I open my arms, bracing for the impact of her hug. She has a small frame, but a solid stature, and she hugs tight, like she can shield me from any storm despite her thin arms. I embrace her back while the soft crunch of gravel behind me suggests Jane is approaching. Releasing my mother, I wave at Jane. “Ma, you know Jane.”

Ma turns to Jane. “You’ve picked the bonniest lass.” Although our family is something like five generations from the original forefathers, Ma has a light Scottish accent, inherited from her mother who was born and raised in the homeland, as Fischer called it. Ma also adopted some Scottish affectations and sayings and uses them at her convenience.

I roll my eyes at Ma’s comment while agreeing Jane is beautiful.

She steps up to Jane and brings her into a firm embrace, as if Jane was family, as if Jane is my wife. Ma holds a little longer than necessary and Jane peers up at me, brows furrowed as she pats Ma’s back. Concern etches her pretty features.

“Ma, let her go.”

“I’m afraid to.” Ma chuckles before finally pulling back but keeping her hands attached to Jane’s upper arms, like she really means it. She doesn’t want to release Jane for some reason. “You must be tired from your trip. Are you hungry? I would have made haggis for ya’ but it’s banned in the U.S. Don’t know what all the fuss is about. I made a good stew instead.”

Jane looks up at me over my mother’s head. She doesn’t look like the stew type, but she surprises me.

“I haven’t had a good stew in forever.” She extricates her arms from Ma’s grip but then hooks her arm through my mother’s and leads her toward the house as if she’s the owner and not the guest.

“Guess I’ll get the bags.” Sarcasm drips from my tongue.

“That’s what husbands do,” Ma calls over her shoulder, as if she’d know. And I almost shout back that I’m not a husband. Jane is not my wife. But Ma is already in on this farce. She’s the one who told me to bring a wife with me, after all.

What I don’t understand yet is why we’re playing this ruse.

9

Playlist: “Kinfolks” – Sam Hunt

[Jane]

I adore Mach’s mother. Having spoken to her on the phone and encountering her in our office once or twice, she’s been pleasant and jovial, and so unlike her son. She’s much shorter in stature than Mach’s six-plus feet, but she’s fierce in spirit. I’d place her no more than mid-sixties which means she had Mach when she was relatively young.

Mach and his twin.

Mach’s statement that he doesn’t talk to his brother explains only the teeniest bit why his brother has never been mentioned. I’ve heard rumblings that Mach and Tucker are actually brothers though I don’t understand the logistics. I only know Tucker has a twenty-something son who beams when he looks at Mach and glares in disdain when he sees his father. I’ve encountered the snooty Jude Ashford less than a handful of times, and it’s a handful too many.

Camilla leads me into the house, which shows signs of age but is spotlessly clean. Hardwood floors with well-worn rugs highlight the front parlor on the right of the entrance. A dining room with ancient wallpaper and lit wall sconces brightens the left. A staircase before us looks unsafe as it’s missing a banister and railing, and the walls could be misinterpreted as shiplap, but it’s actually exposed wood slats.

Mach’s mother continues to tug me forward, leading me to a kitchen off the dining room which has seen better days, not to mention the layout is cramped and curved in an L shape.

“Have a seat, lovey. Let me get you something to drink.” She’s doting on me like I’m the prodigal child, as opposed to her actual son, who sheepishly enters the kitchen a few minutes after us. His hands slip into his pockets, gaze taking in the room. Eventually, his head hangs as if he’s embarrassed by this place.

“We won’t be here long,” he mutters only for me to hear.

“It’s fine.”

His mother rounds the L-bend in the room with small glass canning jars in hand, each containing a sliver of amber liquid. She places one before me, hands one to Mach, and keeps the third. Mach lifts his and takes a sniff.