‘A wedding—’ Milla swallowed the lump in her throat and managed a smile. ‘How lovely. I’ve got directions for Strathburn... Through the village, next right towards Calcarron, then left up a track...?’
‘Aye...up the track for about a mile and a half. If you like, I’ll phone the manager and tell him you’re on your way—then he can meet you there with the key.’
She felt warmed by Mary’s kindness. This community spirit reminded her of her home in Ireland. ‘That’d be grand, thank you. I’m just getting a puncture fixed at the garage and then I’ll be on my way.’
‘Right you are. I’ll tell him. See you later.’
* * *
At the gates to Calcarron House Cormac stopped and let the car idle. He closed his eyes, reminded himself that it was Rosie’s wedding—she was going to be the centre of attention. With a big wedding to gossip about, it should be easy for him to pass under the radar, but this was a small community.
Everyone knew he was struggling to come to terms with Duncan’s death—even his mother had used the phrase ‘PTSD’ once—but he knew it wasn’t that. He’d simply been shredded by grief and he didn’t know how to put himself back together; he couldn’t make sense of the world any more, or understand his place within it.
At the barracks it was easier—he was just another emotional casualty—but here he’d have to weather the curious looks, tactfully deflect the subtly loaded questions and, for Rosie’s sake, he’d have to pretend that he was absolutely fine.
He drew a breath and slid the car through the gates.
At the sight of the house he felt a momentary joy. He’d almost forgotten how much he loved Calcarron, with its turreted gables and mullioned windows, and as he lifted his bag from the back seat he smiled at the muffled swell of barking he could hear coming from inside. When the front door opened, the baying split the air and three ecstatic Labradors bounded towards him, followed by the slender figure of his mother.
‘Tyler, Mungo, Crash—Whoa, calm down!’
The dogs tangled into his legs, butting their wet noses and tongues into his hands. He stroked their sleek black coats, rubbed the broad, noble heads, laughing in spite of himself at such uncomplicated affection.
‘Cormac!’ Lily Buchanan wrapped her arms around him, then stood back and studied his face. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. Everyone’s a little giddy and I’m going quite mad with it all. I could use an ally.’
He gave her a knowing look. ‘It’s only Rosie’s wedding. It’ll be a walk in the park.’
She grimaced as he picked up his bag and threw an arm around her shoulders.
‘“A walk in the park” is not the expression I would have chosen, but anyway, let’s go inside. Rosie and the girls are dying to see you, and I warn you, she’s got a wedding spreadsheet on her laptop.’
* * *
In the drawing room Rosie and her three bridesmaids were discussing the décor for the marquee. With the introductions over, Cormac sank into an armchair and listened half-heartedly. He loved this room, with its high ceilings and overstuffed sofas, its shelves lined with books and family photos in silver frames. Over the fireplace hung an oil painting of a magnificent stag; perhaps it wasn’t quite as fine as Landseer’s Monarch of the Glen but he admired it even so. Like everything else at Calcarron, it was freighted with a lifetime’s worth of memories.
In spite of his misgivings, it felt good to be back. The estate was in his blood and would belong to him one day—sooner rather than later if his father had anything to do with it. He wanted to go for a walk, get acclimatised after his long drive, but it wouldn’t be polite to disappear so soon after arriving.
‘Cor!’
He heard his name and looked up.
‘So, while you do all the outside stuff,’ Rosie was saying, ‘we’re going to do all the finishing touches—it’s a woodland theme, with foraged greenery, and we’re using jam jars with strips of tartan ribbon and hessian to make tea light holders for the tables...’
Cormac felt his attention wandering. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Rosie to have her dream wedding—he was here to help after all—he just couldn’t get excited about woodland themes and tea lights while people were dying in wars.
Rosie was trying to create a Scottish themed wedding. Wasn’t the place itself enough? Why did she want to underline everything with tartan? Perhaps his mother had been right—they were all giddy with wedding planning. The sooner he could get on with his list of outside jobs the better. He certainly wouldn’t be able to fake interest in this kind of minutiae for a whole week.
He wondered how his brother, Sam, was coping with it all. Happy-go-lucky Sam, who was notably absent. Perhaps that was the trick.
Lily swung through the door with a loaded tea tray and Cormac got up to carry it for her. As he set the tray down on the coffee table Rosie caught his eye, sprang to her feet and pulled him into a hug.
‘Thanks for coming to help with the wedding. I really appreciate it.’ She leaned in to his ear and whispered. ‘I’m so preoccupied—I haven’t even asked you how you are.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘We’ll chat later, okay?’
With the tea poured, Cormac lifted a cup from the tray and retreated to the relative seclusion of the bay window, where he gazed out over the view he loved.
The well-tended garden descended gently to the edges of the loch. Loch Calcarron was the jewel in the crown of the family estate, flanked by steeply climbing slopes with purple mountains beyond.
‘Where’s Sam?’ he asked.
Rosie was handing round shortbread. ‘He was up at the bothy this morning, getting things ready for the artist who’s arriving today, and then he went fishing. Can you see his boat out there?’
At the mention of a new artist at the bothy Cormac felt a rush of something indefinable attached to a memory of teasing green eyes.
He forced himself to focus on the expanse of loch in front of him. ‘I can’t see his boat. Maybe he capsized...’ As he suspected, no one was listening to him.
He heard one of the girls ask what a bothy was, and Lily’s voice rising in explanation.
‘Traditional bothies are small stone structures where walkers can shelter or stay overnight, but what we have is an artist’s bothy. Rosie’s grandfather was a keen amateur artist. When artists’ bothies started springing up in remote places he thought it was a wonderful idea. Calcarron Estate is large. We have plenty of space. So he said we should build one too—let artists come to enjoy all the things we take for granted. We hired an architect to design something practical and comfortable and we located it right up in the hills. Splendid isolation and all that. It’s very popular.’
Rosie interjected. ‘It’s a large wooden hut basically, but a contemporary design. There’s a deck in front, overlooking the hills, and this year Sam’s installed one of those big hammocks, so guests can chill out with the amazing view, or even watch the stars at night. The living space is bright and airy because of the picture windows, and we designed the studio with opaque roof panels, so it’s got perfect light for working. There’s a cute wood stove, which keeps the place cosy when it’s cold, but my very favourite part is the mezzanine bedroom—it’s so romantic. I did the interior design—I can show you some photogra—’
Lily held up her hand. ‘Is that the telephone...?’
Cormac seized the opportunity. ‘I’ll go.’
His mother’s voice faded as he escaped to the kitchen and hooked the receiver off the phone on the wall. ‘Buchanan.’
‘Is that you, Sam?’ The female voice sounded hesitant.
‘No, it’s Cormac—’
‘Cormac! It’s Mary Frazer, from the shop in Ardoig. How are you?’
He wasn’t good at small talk, but since the local shop was Gossip Central it was imperative that he sounded politely upbeat. ‘Ah, hello, Mary. I’m fine, thanks. What can I do for you?’
‘I’ve had your bothy guest in the shop just now and I said I’d call to let you know she’s on her way, so you can meet her there with the key. Sam usually—’
‘Thanks, Mary. I’ll send him.’
‘Well, you might wait a while, mind. She said she was having a wheel fixed, or something, before she comes up...’
Cormac felt his heart tightening in his chest and he swallowed hard. ‘Okay, thanks for letting us know. Bye for now.’
He didn’t mean to hurry Mary off the phone, but he had the impression she’d have talked on and on and he simply couldn’t. He leaned against the wall and tipped back his head. So the artist with the puncture was their new bothy guest. He didn’t understand why the news had caused his pulse to spike. She was striking, of course, and rather abrasive, but there was something else too, hidden in her eyes...vulnerability, perhaps?
Suddenly Lily appeared through the door. ‘Are you all right, Cor?’
He shook himself and met her gaze. ‘I’m fine. Just tired from the drive, I suppose, and all that wedding chat... You weren’t wrong. It’s going to be quite a week.’
Lily patted his arm. ‘It’ll be fine. Once Dad’s home you can hide in his study, drink whisky and talk about estate business. Who was that on the telephone?’
‘It was Mary, from the shop. She was calling to say that the new incumbent is on her way up to the bothy.’
Lily frowned. ‘Damn your brother. The bothy and its guests are supposed to be his responsibility. He’s taking advantage, of course. Cormac’s coming home so I’ll go fishing and let him take over.’
‘Me?’
‘Would you mind?’ Lily shot him a sly smile. ‘It means you can escape the clutches of Bridezilla and her handmaidens and you can take the new quad bike. A ride up the hill will soon blow away the cobwebs.’ She opened the dresser drawer and handed him a stag’s horn key fob. ‘It doesn’t take long to do the show-around and go over a few safety points. By the time you get back we’ll be ready for pre-dinner drinks.’
Cormac pocketed the key. He could hardly refuse, since Sam was AOL, and hadn’t he just been thinking about getting out for a walk? If he could deal with the bothy business quickly he’d have time to go up to the ridge before dinner. It was his favourite place, and the perfect antidote to wedding fever.
He moved towards the door.
‘Hang on.’ Lily was leafing through a large blue book. ‘Our new artist is called Camilla O’Brien.’ She looked into his face and smiled. ‘What a lovely name. You never know, Cor, she might be young and pretty.’
* * *
With her puncture fixed, Milla left Ardoig. The directions she’d been sent were clear enough, and she soon found the gate to the rough road she was to follow. At first the track wound through deciduous woodland, but soon she was out of the trees and heading steeply upwards.
The ride became bumpier, banks of loose gravel and the occasional pothole suggesting that water gushed down here in torrents when the rain was heavy. In low gear, she pressed on, climbing higher and higher, an edginess about the unfamiliar route causing her to chew at her bottom lip.
She reminded herself that first journeys always felt strange. Once she knew the way it would feel different.
After jolting up the track for what seemed like an eternity, the terrain levelled and she found herself crossing wild heathland towards another short ascent. From the top, she caught her first glimpse of the bothy, nestling against a steep hill. She stopped the vehicle and gazed down on it in delight.
It reminded her of a gypsy caravan without wheels, except that it was much larger. It had a tin roof with a round chimney, and in front she could see a broad deck with what looked like a hammock suspended on a giant wooden frame. With a happy sigh she rolled on and completed the final bumping descent to her new home.
She killed the engine and burst from the cab. After the sheer magnificence of the view, and the pleasing architecture of the bothy itself, the first thing she noticed was the silence. It was almost deafening. For a moment she forgot the heartache that had brought her here and stepped onto the deck, stretched her arms wide and twirled a slow, happy circle. This place was perfect.
She tried the door, just in case, but it was locked, so she pressed her nose to the glass and peered inside. The décor was simple. Bleached wooden floors, a grey linen sofa softened by a moss-green mohair blanket draped over one of its arms. A small black stove squatted in the corner of the main living area, and if she squinted sideways and looked up she could see a narrow wooden staircase leading to the mezzanine sleeping area. It was achingly romantic.
She felt a familiar stab of anguish and turned away. On the hammock, she sank backwards, giving herself up to the gentle sway and creak of the canvas. She lifted her left hand, traced the outline of the absent ring with her right index finger.
She’d had her whole future mapped out before Dan had delivered his coup de grâce. She’d been planning their wedding when he’d flown over from Berlin to tell her that he’d fallen in love with Maria. He said it had just happened, that it wasn’t his fault. Then he’d gone back to Germany and she’d been left to cancel everything.
Phone calls to suppliers. Phone calls to her family in Ireland.
She knew her father had tried to sound disappointed for her sake, but she had been able to picture the relief on his face. He’d never liked Dan. Neither had her brothers. She’d never felt so alone in her life. How desperately she’d needed her mother then, but her mother wasn’t here any more, so she’d had to cope—whatever that meant.
She’d come to Strathburn to escape and to heal, to find some tiny piece of herself she could nurture back to life. If she could get back on track with her work, if she could properly lose herself in it, then maybe the world would start to make sense again.
The sound of an engine thrumming somewhere lower down the slope jerked her out of her melancholy. She levered herself off the hammock, crossed the deck and ran across the track to a vantage point overlooking the hill. Her eyes narrowed as she watched a vaguely familiar figure pounding a quad bike up the slope towards her, and then her breath caught in her throat as she realised, unequivocally, that the man riding towards her was the man who’d changed her wheel.
Copyright © 2018 by Ella Hayes
ISBN-13: 9781488043543
Resisting the Italian Single Dad
First North American publication 2018
Copyright © 2018 by Katrina Cudmore
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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