"Daddy?"

"Hmm?" came the non-committal reply from behind the steering wheel.

"Daaaddy?" This time it was said with unsatisfied agitation.

"What? What baby?" he asked, raising his eyes to find the little girl in the back seat looking back at him with eyes that were still too big for her pudgy face.

"Are we going back to Grannie and Grandad's?" she asked.

"Yes, baby, I already told you that when we got in the car, remember?" There was impatience in his voice.

That caused her to pause.

He returned his attention to the highway in front of him. The left lane was moving far too slow for his taste and he was itching to press down further on the gas pedal. He glanced down at the speedometer. 85 in a 70. Damn.

"Daddy?"

"Yes?" he sighed, lifting his foot off the pedal in annoyance.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"What are we going back to Grannie and Grandad's?" she asked with a little furrow between her brows. "I was just there."

"Don't you want to see them?" he asked, weaving past a car in the left lane that was not going fast enough to be there.

That stumped her, and she blew out a frustrated breath. "Yes," she replied. "But why again?"

"Daddy has to work a lot for the next two weeks," he told her, not moving his eyes from the road as he settled back into the left lane.

"On wall sheet?" she asked, with a precocious eyebrow raised.

"Wall Street, baby."

"That's what I said."

He sighed and tapped his fingers against the leather steering wheel.

"Remember that city with the clock tower? And the castle? Right in the middle of the city?"

"No," she said with a sullen pout.

"Yes, you do, baby. London?"

While he couldn't be sure, he could vaguely discern a mumbled, "I hate London," from the back car seat. He kept his eyes on the road and chose to ignore her comment.

Her grandparents could talk to her about that kind of language.

"I'll bring you back something," he promised after seeing her still frowning in the back seat.

"Grandad says things do not mean happiness," she recited challengingly.

"Of fucking course he did…" he muttered under his breath. His father had always been more of the righteous type.

"What other things does Grandad say?" he asked, looking in the mirror at his daughter.

"That money do not mean happiness," she added.

"Does not," he corrected.

She huffed at the semantics.

"Does he tell you what does mean happiness?" he asked, an edge undetectable to a child on his voice.

The particularly precious expression returned to her face.

"Love."

"Yeah?"

"He said his whisky helps too," and then as an afterthought added, "but he says I can't have that for a very long time."

The road to the Isle of Skye was just as scenic as the rest of the northern part of the country. Had she not been so concentrated on not colliding head on with a semi-truck coming the opposite direction than her on the narrow road, she would have thoroughly enjoyed the drive.

As such, she breathed a heavy sigh of relief when she finally pulled into the distillery parking lot. She pulled in next to a very nice looking black Mercedes and the killed the engine.

Sleat Distillery.

Ultimately, it was the reason she was here.

Here in Scotland.

But now looking at it, for some reason she felt nervous, hesitant to go inside.

Out of the corner of her eye she watched a Rabbie's van pull up next to her. A quick glance over and she could ascertain is was definitely the same group she had just seen an hour ago. It was enough motivation she needed to get out of the vehicle before their group of 8 got in front of her in line. As they piled out of the van and grouped up, she strode into the entrance of the distillery.

A small bell dinged when she entered the building and a chestnut-haired man looked up from the tall welcome desk he was standing at. He gave her a polite smile that did not meet his eyes.

"Hallo," he greeted her warmly. "Here for the tour, are ye?"

It occurred to her that she didn't actually know why she was here.

For the past week, she had simply been on autopilot.

"Sure," she answered slowly. "When does it start?"

"Oh about 20 minutes or so," he informed her in a thick Scottish accent. It was slightly easier to understand than some of the people who she had spoken with in Glasgow; she had not been convinced they were even speaking English.

"Let's do that," she agreed, pulling out her Louis Vuitton wallet that had been recently filled with British pounds.

"The States?" he asked as he rung her up.

"The States," she confirmed.

"Whereabouts?" he asked.

She grinned with a coy smile that did not meet here eyes. "The cold ones."

The other group of tourists had entered the distillery, the tour guide in his bright green kilt leading the way.

"Yer all set," he said with a smile, handing her a few pounds in change before greeting the newly arrived group.

Isabella busied herself by looking around the distillery gift shop. It had all sorts of memorabilia. There were lovely etched glasses of all sizes, all of their different whisky blends in all different shapes and sizes as well, different clothing apparel which read: Sleat Distillery in various fonts, and various books about the histories of different clans, namely the Clan MacDonald.

Looking at the familiar bottles on the shelves made her smile. Over the years the branding had not changed. It was as friendly and welcoming as it always had been. Just as she remembered growing up.

"Alright okay," the chestnut-haired man said, "Let's get on with it then!"

She stepped over to the Rabbie's group as it was just them who had turned out for the tour and listened as he began his tale. He started walking backwards and they followed.

"Hullo everyone," he greeted. "My name is Jasper and I will be showing ye around this afternoon. The biggest and heartiest of welcomes to ye all."

Isabella felt her lips curl upwards as he launched into the history of the distillery. "This distillery was founded in 1809 by Hugh and Kenneth MacDonald, great great great great grandfathers of the current owner, Edward MacDonald. It has been passed through the family for generations and the same distilling process is still used today as they used back in the olden days. Unfortunately, a fire in 1948 destroyed half of the building and the stillhouse, which we will being seeing shortly, had to be rebuilt. There's of course different theories about the fire, be it arson or extra marital affairs, but we can talk about that later. Follow me please."

The group obediently followed as Jasper pointed out several features of the distillery. They spent a lot of time in the stillhouse as Jasper explained every aspect of the distilling process that went into making their world-famous Scotch.

"The malted barley used in our production comes from Muir or Ord. Most of the stills use worm tubs instead of the modern condenser which some distilleries will use…we believe the tubs will give the fuller flavor because of the higher sugar content."

Isabella followed along with interest, thought he did lose her a few times in getting into detail about the logistics behind the distilling process.

"And ye'll notice that swan neck lye pipes. It's a feature unique tae Sleat. The loop in the pipes takes the vapor from the stills in the worm tubs so some of the alcohol already condenses before it reaches the cooler."

At one point towards the end of the tour, her bladder got the best of her and she slipped away to find the restroom. Jasper sent her back towards the lobby but told her to take a left down the hall with several doors before just reached it. He also told her "tae be quick so as not tae miss the tasting portion of the tour."

Having had more than her fair share of Scotch in her life, she grinned politely but nodded.

The hall proved not to be too difficult to find. It not only had many doors but many photographs. Photographs dating to the early 1900's showed the distillery in different stages of life, always nestled in the strangely colored green hills. The photographs got older as she neared and then subsequently passed the restrooms to the end of the hallway, where a hand sketched drawing of the building was hung, dating the middle of the 1800's. Fascinated, she examined the print.

As she looked at the details, she overheard voices and realized that she had likely passed the border the distillery meant to keep their guests within. At the end of the hallway, she heard voices, seeming to be in a heated argument regarding a business contract of sorts. After years of being a part of those conversations, it was nearly impossible not to immediately place.

The door was cracked, letting the noise travel freely into the hall.

Feeling as if she was trespassing, she spared one last stare at the drawing before turning on her heel and heading back towards the "Water Closet."

"This distillery will close, whether ye like it or not!"

At that, she stopped.

Didn't breathe.

Not Sleat.

There was silence in room where that statement had just been made, followed by a quieter female response, one which she could not make out.

"I've had enough of this! Unless ye have that money, the bank will take this property and all of its contents into possession on Monday!"

It was Friday.

"Ye cannae do that!"

No, they couldn't.

"Oh Mr. MacDonald, ye'll find that I can. And I certainly will."

"MacLeod," the feminine voice started, a sharp edge to her voice. "Where do you possibly expect us to come up with £150,000 in a weekend?"

"That is not my concern," the one voice said sharply. "And quite frankly, I do not expect you to. At this point, this visit is merely a courtesy. I expect that this land and everything on it will be mine come Monday.

There was silence in response to that statement.

Closing her eyes and saying both a string of curses and a prayer, Isabella strode into the room.

"What if they find a business partner to provide the necessary funds by Monday?"

What if?

See you soon.