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ed it wouldn’t take forever to warm up. Zac stumped back into the house with a handful of mouldy, damp twigs.
“That’s not firewood,” Laurel said, trying to sound light and teasing rather than exasperated. She wasn’t sure she managed it. “I meant logs. You know, proper—”
“I know what logs are,” Zac said, “and there weren’t any there.”
“There must be—”
“You look, then.”
Suppressing a sigh, Laurel headed outside—it was still sleeting rain—to the lean-to on the side of the house where the wood had been kept when she’d been a child. She and Abby had gone out to fetch logs many times, holding their arms out while the other piled logs into them, and then tottering back inside, barely able to see above the firewood in their arms.
The lean-to was still there, no more than a rusted roof of corrugated iron and a few rotted-looking poles to hold it up, but where Laurel had remembered neat stacks of trimmed logs, there was nothing but a few twigs and dead leaves. She groaned out loud.
“Told you,” Zac said when she returned inside.
“You were right. I’m sorry.” She let out a dispirited sigh. No cosy fire then, at least not tonight. “I suppose, since Eilidh is spending the winter in Spain, she didn’t need to bring in firewood for the season.” She tried to sound practical but she felt as if she could cry. It would have helped if Eilidh had told her to bring firewood, or better yet, arranged for Archie to deliver some, but why should her aunt have had to do the heavy lifting, when Laurel had made such an unexpected request? She’d be able to buy some tomorrow. It didn’t have to be a big deal.
And yet, right then, it felt as if everything was going wrong. The Rayburn had started to clank, and Laurel feared she would soon have to fiddle with the dial, most likely to no avail. There would be no cosy fire, no warming and hearty stew, no bubble bath. The cottage was freezing, and everything was musty and damp and rather awful.
It felt about as far from Christmas as she could possibly be—this was the anti-Christmas holiday, Laurel reflected grimly as she struggled to think what to do. Everything was cold and dark and lonely, a Christmas worthy of Scrooge or worse.
“There must be a space heater somewhere,” she finally said. “I remember Eilidh having one…”
“What, like a million years ago?” Zac shook his head, his face a mask of derision, and Laurel couldn’t blame him. This wasn’t the quaint, picturesque place she’d painted, not by a long mark. Part of her had the mad urge to hop in the car and go home, but that was impossible. There was no ferry until tomorrow and in any case, she certainly didn’t have the stamina to drive another nine or ten hours tonight.
Still, the thought was painfully tempting.
“We’ll make do as best we can for tonight,” she finally decided. “And tomorrow we’ll sort out the firewood and the cooker and everything else.”
“How?”
“I suppose we’ll have to see Archie.” She really didn’t know what to make of Archie MacDougall. He was like no one else she’d ever met, and she could imagine him laughing at her when she explained how she couldn’t start the Rayburn, or find firewood, or basically do anything.
Why’d you come, lass?
Why, indeed.
Laurel squared her shoulders. “I know this isn’t what either of us expected, Zac, but it will get better. We’ll make sure it does. Together.” The last was said hopefully; maybe they could see the funny side, bond over temperamental cookers and lack of firewood…
Zac stared at her for a moment, his lips twisting, his eyes dark and shuttered. “This place sucks,” he said, and then he turned and walked out of the room.
Chapter Four
Sunlight streamed across the wide oak floorboards of the guest bedroom as Laurel blinked sleep out of her eyes. She’d slept surprisingly well, considering the cottage was freezing, the duvet slightly damp, and the whole place feeling distinctly unwelcoming.
With the sun having finally risen, however, Laurel’s mood did, as well. She slid out of bed, grabbing her dressing gown and belting it tightly around her as she took in the view from the window—a tangle of overgrown garden with a weathered wooden gate that led through long grass to a sliver of silvery beach, and then the sea—dazzling blue under a cobalt sky. It was breathtaking, and it reminded Laurel why she’d loved it here so. It was a much-needed reminder.
In daylight, Eilidh’s cottage looked even shabbier and yet somehow less strange. Dark, shadowy corners weren’t hiding places for spiders or mice, at least not on this morning.
The Rayburn still didn’t seem to be working, but the electric kettle was, and the space heater Laurel had dragged out of the dusty loft last night threw off a welcoming if somewhat sterile heat. It wasn’t a wood fire, by any means, but it was warm.
Zac was still asleep, and Laurel had no desire to wake him up, grateful to have a few moments’ peace at the start of the day—although a glance at the clock made her realise it was already after nine, and the sun had just risen. Goodness.
The kettle clicked off and Laurel made a cup of coffee with the provisions she’d bought, thankful that she’d thought to do a full shop in Thurso before they’d boarded the ferry. Tesco superstore or not, she was glad to have whole milk for her premium ground coffee this morning.
The day looked so bright and welcoming that Laurel decided to open the door and explore the garden, although the still, frosty air made her shiver inside her thick fleecy robe and lambswool-lined slippers.
The garden she remembered from childhood had been orderly, in a wild way—tangles of raspberry bushes and foxgloves higher than her head, masses of lavender that gave off a warm, dusty scent, and a single sunflower poking proudly towards the sky.
