“Oh yes. When she was eight, she built a mini distillery in her room. Used Maggie’s apple juice as a substitute for whisky.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
“What happened?”
“Catastrophic explosion. The juice fermented faster than expected. Bottles blew up. Her room smelled like rotten apples for weeks.”
I can’t help it—I laugh.
“I wish I’d seen that.”
“She was furious,” he continues, smiling. “Not about the mess—about the failed experiment. She swore she’d figure it out and try again. That’s Keira. Failure isn’t an option.”
“I’ve noticed,” I murmur.
We step outside, sunlight warming the Highland air.
“She didn’t just love history,” he goes on. “For a while, she wanted to be a chemist. Specialize in distillation. She even had a program picked out in Edinburgh.”
That surprises me.
“What happened?”
“Life. Responsibility. When our father died, there was too much to handle. She stayed. Gave it up to keep everything together.”
I fall quiet.
I’ve never thought about what she gave up.
To me, Keira has always been… unshakable. Certain. Untouchable.
“She never talks about it,” I say.
“Of course not. She hates the idea of anyone thinking she’s not exactly where she wants to be.”
We reach the southern edge of the property—the border between our lands.
“That’s it,” Callum says, stopping by the low fence. “The line. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“Which part?”
“These divisions. Look at it. Your land. Our land. Same soil. Same grass. Same air. The sheep don’t care. The plants don’t care. Only humans draw lines.”
There’s something deeper in his tone.
“Boundaries can be necessary,” I say carefully. “They define us.”
“Sometimes. Sometimes they’re arbitrary,” he counters. “But once they’re crossed… things don’t go back to the way they were.”
I don’t answer.
Warning? Advice? Something else?
“You know this used to be one estate?” he adds suddenly.
“What?”
“McKenzie and McGregor land. One domain. Long ago.”
