Page 50 of The Clifftop Cottage

His throat tightened. That scar was all that was left of it.

The memories came anyway.

The too-bright hospital room.

Sorcha bursting through the doors, breathless and pale.

The doctor’s voice – kind, careful, final.

Their parents hadn’t made it.

It had been them ever since. Just him and Sorcha.

Gabriel breathed out slowly, pressing his palm flat over the scar before turning away.

He pulled on a T-shirt, layered a jumper over it, grabbed his dad’s old walking stick and stepped outside, Chep trotting eagerly at his heel. The air had that sharp, waiting feel to it – the kind that meant weather was gathering. The forecast might have said otherwise, but Gabriel had learned not to trust it.

He checked the radio. He checked the app for emergency crews.

Still, he trusted his own body most.

Like his father, and his father before him, he could read the sky. He could smell snow before it fell, feel storms building in the weight of the air. And today, everything in him said a wild night was coming.

Best to get the sheep under cover.

He stepped onto the worn cobbled lane outside Braemar House, a solid old stone place that had once been part of a grander estate. Now it was just his. Chep darted ahead, ears up, zeroing in on a cluster of seagulls fighting over the remains of someone’s late-night chips.

The dog lunged, scattering them all but one stubborn gull, which stood its ground for a few seconds before finally flapping off with an offended squawk.

“Don’t wind them up,” Gabriel muttered, though Chep was already trotting back.

A passer-by tipped a hand in greeting. Gabriel nodded, the familiar rhythm of small-town life easing something in his chest. His father had been the same, known by everyone, even if he never remembered all their names. Gabriel managed with a smile and easy talk.

“To be a braw day,” the man called. “They say it’s going to be a belter.”

“Better get the trunks ready,” Gabriel said with a grin even though he knew better.

By nightfall, the wind would have stripped every bit of warmth from the air.

The path skirted the edge of the golf course before dipping into woodland. He could have taken the van, but this walk always settled him – gravel crunching underfoot, the dull crash of waves beyond the cliffs, leaves floating overhead.

When they reached the field, the sheep were already drifting towards the gate until Chep leapt onto the low wall, sending them into alert stillness.

“Now, don’t wind them up, Chep. You’ve got mischief in you today,” Gabriel said, shaking his head.

He leaned on his stick, scanning the flock. The grass was still good, but if his instincts were right, it wouldn’t matter. Better to move them closer to shelter, to the land his brother-in-law let him use when needed.

A sharp whistle and Chep was off, circling them with smooth, practised control.

Gabriel watched, listening to the wind.

Once the sheep were settled, he started home, then stopped. Rather than looking at Braemar House, his gaze drifted left. The cliff walk stretched away, and from here he could see a few cars parked below.

Erica.

His stomach tightened.

If the storm came in hard, she’d need to know. The cottage might not stand up to it the way his place would. He pulled out his phone, but with the signal up there …