The Gifford sisters nodded in unison.
He looked at his sweetie tin, thought of his cruive cottage up in the hills with its patch of ancient woodland, the wagtails and snow buntings that pecked around him as he ate his breakfast every morning. He thought of the deer and his fireside, his stars, and his wildflowers in summer.
He stuck his hand in his pocket and fished out another tenner. ‘Go on then.’
Rhona, satisfied in the knowledge that he was a sweet fellow beneath all the growling, swapped the note for the last of his change.
He gave a guarded grunt, just in case they tried to detain him further, and turned, pocketing the coins and making an awkward attempt at pulling free his grandfather’s compass so he could slip the brown-paper-wrapped parcel of tablet safely inside his pocket, thinking only of how he’d have a wee taste of it on his way back up to the cruive. ‘Thank you, then. Cheerio.’
Head down, boots shifting. He was stocked up and he wasoffski(which is the Highland version ofoutta here).
Only…Ooft!He’d hit a pillar or something. Smack bang! Ploughed straight into it in his haste to get away.
Only the pillar was turning on him, apologising, gripping at Finlay’s coat to steady itself from falling. ‘Whoops, sorry!’ the obstruction was saying, a warm hand gripped over Finlay’s cold one, the initial impact having shoved the delicate old compass hard into Finlay’s chest while something chilly and solid scraped his knuckles; a mobile phone, Finlay guessed. These hillfooters are addicted to their mobile phones.
It was all Finlay could do to keep his compass protected in his palm while clinging to his ration box in case his precious goodies fell to the floor.
The apologising man – who had tufty red hair like a woodland squirrel and eyes just as wide – was asking him if he was OK.
‘Absolutely fine,’ Finlay said, attempting to step away.
The man was still on high alert and wildly staring, his handstillpressing against Finlay’s.
The redhead’s eyes flitted down to where their skin touched before yanking his hand away. ‘God, sorry. I…’
‘Nae damage,’ Finlay assured him, though that metallic phone case would likely have left a graze over his knuckles, but he wasn’t thinking about that right at this moment. Instead, he was thinking about this pair of green eyes. All the greener against the man’s auburn hair. Red and green. The colours of the mountains in autumn. Odd, Finlay never normally noticed these things.
He was suddenly aware of the Gifford sisters looking on and nudging each other. Finlay determined to get away all the faster.
He tried to dodge around the man, but they both stepped aside at exactly the same time, leaving them chest to chest like they were dancing ‘Strip the Willow’ at a Hogmanay ceilidh.
‘’Scuse me,’ Finlay tried, close to losing his patience.
‘You’re the one joining us for the meeting at the surgery, aren’t you?’ the man was saying.
Not you an’ all!Finlay wanted to say.
Why?Whywould he be here to meet people? He did everything he could to avoid meeting anyone. Didn’t they know that about him down here?
‘On Monday, at half five?’ the man was saying. ‘Senga’s going to make us her chocolate digestive squares specially.’
Dangling a carrot like that wasn’t going to work either. Finlay glowered harder to get the message across: he wasnotone to chat.
‘You’re a mountain ranger, aren’t you? The rangers’ station manager told us they were providing a nature expert from their team. We’ve already got Cary the carpenter helping build the raised beds and drafting a design plan for us. I’ll be sorting the funding streams. Livvie Cooper’s our new events manager. She’ll be managing the press side of things and…’
Finlay stopped trying to escape and looked at the man – handsome, slender – and smiling as he wittered on, hopeful for something Finlay couldn’t give.
‘I’ve nae idea what you’re on about, but whatever it is, it’s not my thing.’
Undeterred, the man was unlocking his phone, reading something from his planner. ‘Are you not Finlay Morlich?’
Hearing his name from those lips made the earth rattle below his feet like that day in June when there’d been one of the range’s rare earthquakes and he’d stood at the door of his cruive while the whole mountain roiled for all of five seconds and the birds had instinctively stopped singing.
‘That’s me. What of it?’
‘I’m Murray… Murray McIntyre?’
Finlay shrugged. This guy clearly didn’t see there’d been a misunderstanding of some kind.
