Page 39 of Bonetide

I give him an incredulous look. “Well, yeah?”

He looks at me for a long moment and the world seems to still. The wind has died entirely. The only sounds I hear are the faint breath of the horse, the gulls a long way off, and the dry rasp of the bracken when the air finally moves through it.

“I want to know you, Iris. As much as you’ll let me. As long as you’ll let me.” His voice has gone lower, a timbre I feel in the marrow of my bones. “Whatever you call that—between friends and more than friends—is your business. I’m not going to put a name on it for you. I came around the bay because I wanted to see you. I’m asking you to the rocks because I want you there. And I can’t come to your cottage because I made you a promise, and I’m a man who keeps his promises.”

“That’s the most you’ve said to me at once.”

“Aye.”

“And it still doesn’t quite answer the question.”

“No.” The smile comes back. Smaller. “But it’s closer than I’ve been before.”

I guess that’s progress?

“I’ll think about it,” I mutter. Because unlike him, I’m not promising anything.

“I hope you do,” he says, eyes glittering.

Then the horse turns with a snort and he rides off across the moor without looking back. His mount moves in a slow rolling canter, the kind that says it could go faster but is choosing not to. It’s one hell of a beautiful sight.

I stand there with my sketchbook, watching him go. I don’t try to draw it. I’d only make it worse.

My phone has three texts from Maddie when I get back to the kitchen.

you alive?

Iris?

has the neighbor gotten you laid yet, or are we still pretending we’re not pretending?

I write back: Not yet. Going for a drive rn.

She replies instantly: good. go far. text me later.

I put down the phone. I look at the kettle, thinking I might have a cup of tea but I’ve already had enough caffeine from the coffee this morning, and I’m out of sugar anyway.

What I want is a real stiff drink, in a room with people in it who don’t know my name, and don’t look at me the way Alasdair does. I want to get the bartender at the Torridon, who struck me as the no-nonsense kind, to tell me something about my neighbor and his castle, something Alasdair wouldn’t want me knowing.

I told Maddie I was going for a drive, so I get the car keys.

The Torridon is the same as it was the first time, with the lazy fire and a mixture of locals and tourists. The bartender glances up when I come in, and frowns in that way of faint recognition.

I pull up a seat at the bar and eye the beers on tap and the menu.

“What can I get for you?” he asks.

“Whatever’s local on tap, amber preferred, and the special for lunch.”

He fills the glass. “American, aye?”

“Aye,” I say, still feeling silly when I say it with my accent.

“I remember ya. You were the one taking over the Galloway place down the road.”

“That’s me.”

He sets the amber pint in front of me. “I’m John MacLeod. Welcome back.”