Page 72 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

He returned a few moments later with more logs than were needed. He cradled them in his arms and crouched down in front of the open fire. The russet flames lit up the contours of his angular face. ‘Still wild out there,’ he remarked, giving the logs a good prod with an iron he picked up from beside the fireplace.

Mitch returned to his armchair and sank back down on it. He pushed a frustrated hand through his dark hair.

I didn’t think he was about to say anything else, judging by the guarded expression in his eyes.

‘That’s not fair,’ I blurted, the Talisker firing up my assertiveness. ‘I just opened up to you and answered your questions, and now you’ve gone all moody on me.’

‘No, I haven’t.’

I nodded so hard I thought my alcohol-induced brain would rattle. I stopped. ‘You cut my questions dead then and went to collect logs you didn’t need.’ I could hear my voice. It sounded husky and a little slurry. Not like me at all.

Mitch muttered something under his breath. Conflicted emotions took hold of his dark features. ‘Okay. Okay.’ He ground his teeth together and stared down at the red patterned rug. Then his deep, Scottish accent broke through the quiet. ’If you must know, I used to own an outdoor activity centre in the Lake District.’

‘Okay. That sounds great.’ I angled my head. ‘Is that when you were doing a lot of pitches?’

Mitch looked discomfited. ‘Aye. Pitching to potential clients, sponsors, that kind of thing. And it was great. I loved what I did until…’ His voice vanished.

‘Until?’ I prompted.

He stayed quiet for a few moments, as though gathering himself. ‘Until there was an accident.’

‘What? You had an accident?’

Mitch swallowed. ‘Not me.’ There was another agonising pause. ‘It was the son of a wealthy businessman from New York; the father made his money in real estate.’ He paused and then carried on. ‘The lad was larking about out on a rock climb with a couple of friends. One of my instructors and I were accompanying them. We told the lad to stop, but he didn’t take any notice. He was too busy showing off.’

‘What happened?’

Mitch bit his bottom lip. ‘He fell and suffered serious injuries. It took him a long time to get back on his feet again. He had to have a lot of rehab.’

I gasped. ‘That’s awful. But it wasn’t your fault, Mitch.’

‘His father didn’t see it that way.’

‘Why? What did he do?’

Mitch glanced down at a slumbering Kane. ‘The father hired a couple of hotshot lawyers. I think he saw himself on some sort of crusade. Despite it being the boy’s fault and witnesses there corroborating what had happened, he successfully sued me for negligence and I had to close the doors on my business, make people redundant, the whole nine yards.’ Mitch’s face paled at the painful memories. ‘I had such a good thing going on there, but in one fell swoop, I was ruined.’

My chest ached for him. ‘I’m so sorry. When did this happen?’

‘Four years ago now.’ Mitch clicked his tongue as he dredged it all back up again. ‘The boy’s father – Don Colton – wanted money and was determined to ruin me, but he didn’t want the story being splashed across the newspapers, as he was rumoured to be involved with some dodgy office block scam in New Jersey.’

‘So, what happened?’

Mitch looked resigned. ‘Don Colton took out a civil action against me. That’s when I lost everything.’

I shook my head. ‘You mustn’t take the blame.’

Mitch cut me off. ‘The lad in question was only twenty, Rosie. He had such a bright future ahead of him.’ He focused on the coffee table in front of us. ‘Noah – that’s the boy’s name – was a promising artist. A painter. He’d been accepted by the Glasgow School of Art.’ He stopped talking, regrouped and then picked up the story again. ‘I hear he suffers from bouts of depression and anxiety now and he’s struggling to drum up any enthusiasm for his painting.’

It took me a moment to unscramble what Mitch had just told me. This young lad, Noah, was going to study art. He’d been a promising painter. The young man had been close to his dreams. Then the accident happened; Mitch took the blame on his shoulders for the terrible incident, and as far as he was concerned, Noah losing out on a career in art was down to him.

Things began to slot into place.

Maybe that was why Mitch had insisted on trying to help secure an exhibition of my grandma’s work. He felt responsible for what had happened to this young man and saw it as a way to make amends. Was he trying to appease his own guilt? He was doing this in order to deal with his emotions over the accident. He was trying to right a wrong in his conscience. ‘That’s why you’re so keen to help with my grandma’s paintings,’ I said softly.

Mitch didn’t answer. He just stared past Kane and Bronte slumbering on the rug in front of the fire as the snowflakes danced outside.

I then leant forward far quicker than I should have and then wished I hadn’t. Whoa! That whiskey was gorgeous, but it was making my head float. I slowly lowered myself back against the sofa cushions.