Page 44 of Kilt Trip

“Aww now, you rushed right past Duncan and straight for his coos!” Logan said in a mock-scolding voice. The tourists laughed, turning their attention to the middle-aged man in a green windbreaker and baseball cap embroidered with fluffy sheep and the word meh.

“Welcome to the Ewes and Coos Farm. As you can see, we raise these sociable beasts, as well as a large flock of sheep, following the old ways of sustainable land stewardship. Now, once these mongrels realize you haven’t any food for them, they’ll wander away, and Logan will want to bring you out to the old croft house.” Duncan tussled Logan’s hair, and Logan smoothed it down like a disgruntled child, much to the amusement of the group.

While Emo Boy’s mom tried to work up the nerve to pet a coo’s pink nose with the encouragement of the boisterous Australian couple, Addie sidled up next to Duncan. “So...what kind of kickbacks do you give other tours?”

“Och, we like to think of it as a partnership.” He zipped his jacket a bit higher. “Logan brings the groups, and we give them a memorable experience.”

A diplomatic answer if ever she’d heard one.

Logan gripped the crook of her elbow and dragged her away from Duncan. “Come meet Hamish.”

Reaching his hand out, Logan waited for Hamish’s lick. The coo was sort of adorable, like a redheaded yak in desperate need of a haircut. “Go on, introduce yourself.”

As soon as Addie reached for him, Hamish about-faced—quite gracefully for weighing two thousand pounds—and shook his hairy rear end back and forth in a perfect cow rendition of neener neener neener.

She stepped back, mouth falling open in shock, a prickle of indignation spreading over her neck.

Birdie and Gertie, the octogenarians whose excitement had not dimmed, clung to each other, cackling. Emo Boy hadn’t looked up from whatever replaced her generation’s version of a Game Boy but somehow already had his phone out, recording this embarrassing moment.

“You trained him to do this, didn’t you?” Addie asked Logan, whose full-blown smirk made him look exceedingly culpable.

“I swear I didn’t,” Duncan said, hands held up in surrender, tears leaking out of his eyes.

“What is it with livestock in this country?” she grumbled. Logan did nothing to restrain his smile.

As Duncan predicted, the coos eventually tired of taunting the group and headed farther into the pasture.

“I know a bonnie wee trail we can take to get a real sense for the land and see a restored nineteenth-century cottage.”

They followed Logan onto a graveled track while he answered questions about thistles, birds, and the weather. His description of the crisp air and chilling wind was spot-on. The land was beautiful in a haunting kind of way. Windblown grasses, bent and rusting, filled the valley. Snow powdered the rounded peaks in the distance, without a tree in sight.

A place untouched by time.

It called to Addie in its unyielding wildness.

Logan made his way up and down the line of travelers, chatting and probably making sure Cowboy Hat and his wife weren’t going to expire from the exertion.

Addie turned on a switchback, and the pebbled spot slipped out from under her. Her weight shifted too far onto her heel to recover her balance. Her arms flailed out to no avail. She was going down, shutting her eyes against the impact of hard ground when strong arms grabbed ahold of her.

Logan.

His big hands gripped her waist, steadying her. She might’ve lingered a moment too long when his chest met her back. “You’re doing brilliantly. I knew those wellies would come in handy,” he whispered in her ear and patted her hip.

Not an ass slap. That would have been completely inappropriate. But it was close enough that all her hormones rose to the challenge.

“Shut up.” Addie regained her footing and ignored his chuckle, suddenly hyperaware of her own movements. The irrational desire to adjust her hair flitted through her mind before she tamped it down. She wasn’t fourteen, for Christ’s sake.

And she definitely didn’t watch him walk away.

They reached the end of the path, and Logan held out his arms to a dilapidated shack. “Welcome to the cottage.”

Addie snorted. Hut would be a generous term for the low stone roundhouse with an unruly mop of thatch on top.

“This cottage allows us to step back in time and imagine life in the Highlands in the 1800s. Come in, come in.”

Addie ducked down low as they all crowded inside. Who knew what was living in the roof.

“A whole family would dwell in this one room,” Logan said. “They farmed the land and raised cattle and chickens, but this was a hard life, only for the most resilient of people.” After a detailed explanation of life in that period, Logan released them from the damp, earthen house.