—Right? Maybe Scotland has some kind of magical effect on me. Or maybe Ewan is just an exceptional coach.
I can’t stop the slight grimace at the mention of my friend, which doesn’t escape her notice. Her smile widens.
—Keira told me you were jealous, she says, teasing.
—Keira talks too much, I mutter, feeling my ears heat. I wasn’t jealous. I was… concerned about Ewan’s teaching methods.
—Of course, she agrees solemnly. That’s exactly what concerned men do—they glare at their best friend when he touches their wife’s shoulders.
—I did not glare.
—You looked at him like he’d just suggested turning the castle into a theme park.
—Typical Hollywood exaggeration, I grumble, though I can’t help smiling.
The path climbs gently, revealing an increasingly sweeping view of the McGregor lands. The sun begins to dip, painting the horizon in shades of amber. I’ve seen this view a thousand times,but today it feels different—like I’m seeing it through Jane’s eyes.
—It’s beautiful, she breathes, stopping to take in the valley.
—Yes, I agree, though my gaze is fixed on her rather than the landscape.
—I understand why you love this place so much, she continues. There’s something timeless about it.
—Exactly. Every generation of McGregors has stood here, looking out at this same view. It’s both a privilege and a responsibility.
—A heavy one sometimes, she guesses, her insight catching me off guard.
—Sometimes, I admit. But today, it felt lighter.
She looks at me, curious.
—Why today?
—Because you were here.
The words hang between us, simple yet heavy with meaning. Jane blushes faintly and turns her gaze back to the horizon, but a small smile plays on her lips.
—Look, I say, breaking the moment, that cabin over there.
I point to a small stone structure halfway up the hillside.
—It used to be a guard post, built centuries ago to watch for rival clans. I used to spend hours there as a kid, imagining myself as a Highland warrior defending our land.
—Show me, she says, her enthusiasm reminding me exactly why her presence has become so essential to me.
We head toward the cabin, but halfway there, the Scottish weather reminds us of its unpredictable nature. Dark clouds gather as if conjured from thin air, swallowing the sun.
—I don’t like the look of that, I mutter, scanning the sky. Storms roll in fast here.
—Are we far from the castle? Jane asks, suddenly uneasy.
—Too far to make it back before the rain starts. But the cabin’s close—we can take shelter there.
The first heavy drops fall before I’ve even finished speaking. Within seconds, the drizzle turns into a downpour. Jane lets out a small cry. I grab her hand, and we run toward the stone shelter.
The wind rises sharply, turning the rain into horizontal sheets. Lightning splits the sky, thunder cracking close behind. Jane slips on the soaked grass, and I catch her instinctively, my arm wrapping around her waist. We make the rest of the way like that—half running, half stumbling—until we finally reach the cabin door.
I shove it open. It creaks in protest. Inside, it’s simple but dry: a single room with a small fireplace, a rustic table, two chairs, and what looks like a wooden bench along one wall.
