Page 47 of Scotlander

‘Right!’ Finn swung his truck to a practised stop in front of an enormous clapboard and rail ties barn. ‘How are you around livestock?’

Chapter Seventeen

Finn knew he was being a git, but handovers with Duncan never brought out the best in him.

He didn’t like owing the man and even though, on paper, Duncan was the one who owed him, it never felt that way. He was about to explain as much to Willa – forewarned was forearmed and all that – when Duncan jogged out of the barn and propped himself so close to the Land Rover that Finn was forced to roll down his window rather than open the door, step out and give each other some much needed personal space. As ever, it felt like a power play.

‘Alright, lad?’

I’m thirty-three years old now, Dunc, but . . . whatever.

‘Aye.’

The passenger door slammed. Finn watched, gobsmacked, as Willa skipped round the front of the Land Rover towards Duncan. She looked like a bouncy, ebony-haired unicorn.

When she got to Duncan she extended her hand, then, at the last minute, pulled it back, opting instead for a curtsey. ‘Greetings, gentle sir. I’m known as Willa.’

Duncan smiled. A miracle.

‘Alright there, lassie? I’m going to presume you’re one of Orla’s guests, then?’ He shot a glance at Finn that was difficult to read. ‘And Finn’s.’

‘Yessir.’ Willa dropped the yesteryear demeanour and gave him an America-style salute. ‘I’m Finn’s fake bride. Mrs Willa Jamieson, at your service.’

She threw Finn a smile, her chin lingering on her shoulder for a moment as their eyes met. A hit of electricity crackled through him as powerfully as their kiss had. Then she looked away. Probably because he hadn’t apologised or explained himself after the wedding. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to do it. Maybe there’d been a bit of See . . . I can play along with your charade when he’d first lowered his mouth to Willa’s, but the moment their lips had connected? Fireworks. And now he was doing the classic guy thing of ignoring how vulnerable it had made him feel by being an arse. Orla’s news hadn’t helped. He thought of this morning’s phone call with the bank manager. A sharp reminder of their collective reality. This marriage thing was pretend. And no amount of perfect kisses would change the fact that unless they took in this year’s harvest, these next few weeks at Balcraigie would be their last.

While his brain churned through the uncomfortable reminders of just how knee deep in shit they all were, Willa was throwing sunshine-bright questions at Duncan. Why wasn’t he being a Jamie? Was he into cosplay? Had he ever been to LA? To his surprise, his stepfather was answering them. In monosyllables, sure, but it was more than he usually got.

They were more of a storm-clouds-and-low-rolls-of-thunder kind of family. Willa, he suspected, came from a white-picket-fence-avocado-on-toast-no-toxic-feelings-allowed kind of family.

He watched as Duncan eventually ran out of steam in the face of Willa’s machine-gun-question style. He didn’t have much in his arsenal beyond a tight nod, so he tipped her one of those, then stuffed his hands in the pockets of his gilet and started giving Finn a quick run through. ‘I left the girls out as you said, had a wee look round. No one looked ready apart from Jolene. She’s not pushing yet, but she’s standing away from the herd, so I reckon you’ll have a wee one before long.’

‘Thanks.’ Finn reached for the door handle and gave the door between them a pointed look. Why did Duncan always have to get into his space?

Duncan took his cue and shuffled back a few steps. ‘I’ll shove off then, shall I?’

Willa’s eyes shot to Finn.

‘Thanks, Duncan. It was good of you to cover for me.’ It was a begrudging thank you and they both know it.

‘Nae bother, lad.’ Duncan gave the Land Rover’s bonnet a couple of claps with his hand. ‘It’s always a pleasure to spend some time with the girls. Especially now that—’

Finn shot him a look that dared him to say it. He knew he had to sell the girls, but goddammit, he was going to pick the moment when he hooked the livestock trailer up to the truck, not Orla. Not the bank. Not anyone.

Duncan didn’t take the challenge, just turned and walked towards his own, weather-worn blue Land Rover with a hand raised in farewell.

‘Wow,’ Willa said when he’d driven off. ‘That wasn’t awkward at all.’

When he didn’t answer, she persisted, ‘Is this part of the whole Outlander thing? Playing out some centuries-old family feud?’

He shrugged.

‘Oh my god,’ Willa giggled. ‘I forgot you hadn’t watched it.’ She cackled again.

‘What?’

‘We are going to be so busted if anyone finds out.’ She pulled a fake grumpy face. ‘You were supposed to be able to help me fake it!’

He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Sorry. Do you want a divorce?’