Page 67 of The Tartan Thesis

He grabs my wrist and pulls me over to the enclosure. It’s not the same as being guided around by a hand on the small of the back, but I still receive a pleasurable tingle at the feel of his fingers wrapped around my forearm. Like he’s bringing me into his bubble of excitement.

Beau crouches by the fence, hands braced on his knees, and begins addressing the animals in an absurdly high-pitched voice he usually reserves for Flick.

“Well howdy there, little baby coos,” he says with absolute sincerity. “Look at you. You’re so fluffy. Yes, you are. Yes, you are! Don’t you argue with me.”

One of the little cows wanders closer, bringing a mouthful of hay with it, long fringe swaying over its eyes. Beau gasps. “Hi, sweetheart. Oh my goodness, look at you,” he whispers reverently. “You’re like a tiny little baby pocket buffalo, aren’t you? Aren’t you, Chewin McGregor?” I stifle a laugh.

Tourists nearby are openly watching him now, some smiling, others shaking their heads with quiet amusement. Now doesn’t seem like the time to tell him the Scottish Gaelic word for cow is bò. He might keel over in sheer delight if he knew his name means cow.

I pull out my phone and start taking photos of him. When he turns toward the camera, his grin is so enormous and unguarded, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen such unadulterated joy before. Even his love of hot dogs doesn’t hold a candle to his excitement at seeing a small, furry bovine. I snap another pic as he blows the cows a kiss before acting like they sent one back, catching it in his hand and holding it to his heart.

Despite the cold, I feel warm inside. For most of my life, I thought my favorite thing was being the smartest person in the room. But now, seeing Beau like this, I think my new favorite thing is making him smile the way he is right now, and I want to do it over and over again.

20

Beau

Glencoe

Translation: Valley of the River Coe

Usage: Both the name of the larger glen and the name of a Highland village

After losing my mind over my first encounter with a Highland cow, we wander over to the reconstructed turf and creel house on the grounds. The low walls and thick thatched roof make it look like something that grew straight out of the hillside. Inside, the air smells faintly of peat and damp wood, and I have to duck as we step through the doorway.

“This is where people actually lived?” I ask, looking around at the woven walls, stone floors, and timber ceiling, a large opening combining the two rooms of the home essentially into one.

“Aye. People here,” he says, pointing to the floor below us, then points to the smaller space. “Animals there. Keeps the heat in.”

We spend a few minutes poking around and talking about the hardships of mountain living before stopping at the gift shop. I grab a book of Scottish folktales and a couple of Christmas ornaments shaped like shaggy Highland cows, then I grab a few more. Everyone I know needs some furry cuteness on their trees next year.

Torin is browsing the history books when a title catches my eye: How the Scots Invented the Modern World by Arthur Herman. I grab two copies and hand one to him. “We should read this,” I say. “Start an exclusive two-person book club.” Truth is, I do want to read the book, but I also want more excuses to spend time with him when we get back to Edinburgh.

Souvenirs acquired, we head back out onto the road, and it only takes a few minutes to get to our next destination.

Torin goes still and quiet next to me as we pull into Glencoe. The village is idyllic in every sense of the word, nestled into the Glen Coe Valley with Loch Leven lapping at its western edge, misty mountains closing in from all sides. We park and head east on the main road, passing a mixture of old stone cottages and modern homes. Everything is immaculate, clean sidewalks and no litter, and the few people we pass give gentle nods of acknowledgment.

Torin returns each greeting, but he hasn’t said a word since we parked.

We turn down a narrow lane and walk along the River Coe, snow hugging its banks. We pass more tidy abodes, then trek up a small hill, and when we reach the top, I see the reason for Torin’s silence. The Glencoe Massacre Memorial sits on a stony mound to our right. A tall granite Celtic cross stands at its center, set into a rugged cairn base encircled by a low wrought-iron fence.

We pass through the gate and approach the monument. I read the inscription, a dedication to the chief of the MacDonalds of Glencoe and the clansmen who died here, erected centuries later by one of his direct descendants. It’s peaceful and tucked away, and the only sound is the river flowing nearby. It’s beautiful.

“My mother is a MacDonald, you know,” Torin says, voice quiet.

I nod. “Yeah, she told me.”

Then Torin goes quiet again next to me, his gaze fixed on the monument. My heart aches at the look of pained determination on his face. I don’t know what my future looks like with him, but I do know I’ll do whatever it takes to support him right now.

Unsure how to proceed, I hesitate before placing my hand on the sleeve of his coat, pressing gently against his upper arm. “If you need to talk, I’m here to listen.”

His green eyes flick to my face, and I can’t read his expression. I drop my hand back to my side, wondering if I’ve said the wrong thing. I look back at the monument.

Then he clears his throat. “I do want to talk about it. It’s important. But I can’t figure out the words. You know what happened at Glencoe, but it’s not just a series of events. It’s much, much more than that.”

I nod, understanding. “How about you pretend I don’t know anything about it? Tell me the whole story, start to finish. Maybe that will help you get things off your chest.”

He glances down, chewing on his lip.