Page 20 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

Chapter Seven

Halloween had come and gone in a blur of tumbling copper leaves, flapping witches’ costumes, scary clowns and Barclay and Mags’ goodbye celebrations at The Sea Shanty.

All the locals had bid them farewell, in a riot of bagpipes, fresh seafood buffet and raucous sea-shanty karaoke.

Being surrounded by other people was the last thing I wanted to do, but I’d steeled myself, slipped in the back of the pub with its fishing nets and shells plastering the walls and given them both my best wishes for the future. I presented them with an ornamental lighthouse, which they loved. ‘We’ll keep in touch,’ a watery-eyed Mags had said to me, her dangling, jewelled, raindrop-shaped earrings dancing under her purple-coloured hair.

Now the first of November was promising the imminent arrival of Bonfire Night.

I tried to keep busy, faffing around in the cottage, walking Bronte until we were both exhausted and trying not to think about Barclay no longer in situ at the lighthouse.

Barclay’s replacement was expected to arrive anytime, but I found myself mentally comparing them – even though I had no idea who his successor was – and felt guilty I was being rather childish.

Mia had called to inform me that Nancy and Jeremy had been in touch yesterday and asked for a scanned copy of Greta’s letter to be emailed to them. ‘I sent it to them straight away,’ she said. ‘They probably decided they should see it for themselves.’

It was a crisp, brisk afternoon and Bronte was champing to get out to the woodland close by and investigate the carpet of leaves.

I bundled myself into my coat, hat and scarf and secured Bronte in her harness and lead.

I’d just closed the door behind me, locked it and was pushing my phone into my coat pocket, when another dog – a German Shepherd – came bounding over the garden picket fence and launched itself at me, its friendly tongue flapping around.

Its big paws were clotted with mud.

I found myself staggering backwards but managed to keep myself upright.

‘Kane! Stop that! I’m so sorry! Come here!’

I brushed the mud off my coat.

The dog’s owner was standing just a few feet away. He was tall and dark-haired. He shoved his curly hair back from his face as he appraised me out of arresting eyes that were the colour of the Mediterranean. ‘Are you okay? He’s over excited. We’ve just moved in up there and it’s all a bit new.’

Beside him, Kane gave a lash of his tail.

It took me a few moments for my brain to unscramble this. Moved in up there. ‘Sorry, where?’

‘The lighthouse. I’m the new lighthouse keeper.’

I could feel my eyes boring into him. My chest gave an odd clench of sadness about Barclay’s departure. ‘You’ve got very big boots to fill, I can tell you that.’

He eyed me. His attention flitted to Bronte beside me and back again. ‘Sorry, who are you?’ His Scottish accent was a deep rumble. I was aware that this man was studying me from head to toe. I straightened my back. ‘I’m Rosie. Rosie Winters.’

He shifted from foot to foot in his heavy black boots. He hesitated. ‘Are you a relative of Barclay’s?’

‘No. A friend. An old family friend.’

His dog, who was wearing a blue collar with his name, Kane, emblazoned across a gold disc dangling from it, trotted forwards a few paces and gave Bronte a curious sniff. Bronte eyed him and then did the same back. They were circling each other tentatively.

‘I’m Mitch Carlisle.’ He angled his head to one side. He continued to watch me from under his dark, arched brows.

My thoughts skittered around.

I was aggrieved that this man was standing where Barclay should be. It seemed almost incomprehensible that there would no longer be a Hogan as the lighthouse keeper in Rowan Bay. Hundreds of years of continuity and tradition had been ended by love. It was bitter-sweet.

I found myself glowering over at Mitch, unable to disguise my disapproval of him. His broad frame cast a wintery shadow.

My jaw clenched. The testy, acerbic Rosie was back again in full force. ‘Well, you certainly didn’t hang around, did you?’ Barclay was born and bred in Rowan Bay, grew up for a spell in industrial Greenock. I thought of his love of the sea, of his career in the merchant navy before he became Rowan Bay’s lighthouse keeper in 1983. He was built into Rowan Bay’s fabric, just like his lighthouse ancestors before him.

I knew I was being unreasonable, but I couldn’t help it.