I don’t wait for a response. I bolt from the room, stride down the hall—and instead of heading to the bathroom, I grab my shawl and make straight for the front door.
I need air. Space. Distance.
The cool Highland breeze greets me like an old friend, heavy with heather and damp earth. I inhale deeply, feeling the tension slowly drain from my shoulders. The sun is just beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the hills that makes everything look like it belongs in a Celtic legend.
I head away from the castle, following a narrow path to my favorite refuge—a low stone wall overlooking the valley. It’s where I come to think, to sketch restoration plans, or simply to escape the suffocating concern of my family.
I sit in my usual spot, ignoring the dampness seeping into my jeans. Below, I can see the McKenzie distillery, its chimneys releasing thin ribbons of smoke into the clear sky. And beside it,the parcel of land I’ve been fighting for—the perfect site for my cultural center. A place to celebrate Highland craftsmanship and history in a way that honors tradition while making it accessible.
A piece of land the McKenzies want for themselves.
“Bloody McKenzies,” I mutter into the wind, realizing I sound exactly like my grandmother.
Footsteps approach behind me. I turn to see my mother walking toward me, a soft smile on her lips.
“You ran,” she says simply, sitting beside me.
“Tactically repositioned,” I correct with a faint grin. “How’s Hamish?”
“We cornered him near the greenhouse. He looked very pleased with himself. Honestly, I think that entire performance was his way of protesting dinner with a stranger.”
I laugh softly.
“That sheep is more protective than all the McGregors combined. I should knit him a plaid in our colors.”
“You know she’s not doing this to torture you,” my mother says gently.
I sigh.
“I’m less convinced with every new candidate. Did you see this one? He wants to turn a historic watchtower into a selfie backdrop. Selfies, Mother.”
She stifles a laugh.
“He may not be perfect.”
“I’m already worried about the orthodontic bills for his future children… Thank God I won’t be their mother.”
She squeezes my shoulder.
“Maggie is afraid you’ll miss out on happiness. She doesn’t understand that not everyone needs the same things.”
“It’s not that I’m against the idea of… you know,” I say, staring at the horizon. “I just have other priorities right now.This cultural center could really make a difference—preserve traditions that are disappearing.”
“I know, sweetheart. And it’s admirable.”
“Then why does it feel like everyone expects me to shove my ambitions in a drawer and focus on finding a husband?”
She smiles, a little wistful.
“Welcome to the eternal paradox of being a McGregor woman. Strong enough to lead a clan, but still expected to have someone beside you.”
I groan.
“Well, I can manage just fine without ‘help,’ thank you very much.”
Her gaze drifts toward the McKenzie distillery.
“You know, Maggie wasn’t always like this. She grew up in a time when women had even fewer choices. I think she’s projecting the opportunities she never had onto you.”
