Page 7 of Highland Games
‘Er, hi, erm… Morag who runs the post office said you might be able to sort me out? I mean, I need some wo—fuel for my Rayburn. I’m Zoe by the way,’ she trilled manically, thrusting forward her hand as if to shake his.
He didn’t move. She faltered and dropped her arm, chewing nervously at her bottom lip. God, she had done it this time. Or was he a deaf-mute?
‘I know who you are,’ said the man-bear. ‘You’re the wildlife expert.’
Zoe shut her eyes. Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, GROUND OPEN NOW! She sighed, opened her eyes and faced him down.
‘Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot last night. I was scared and you were, er, something. Now, as you can see, I’m here to stay for at least the next thirty years before I give my home back to your boss, so please can I just buy some wood, then I can get out of your hair.’
Zoe could have sworn a glint of humour flashed across his face as she spoke, but then the lights went out.
‘No.’
‘Er, what?’
‘No, you cannot buy any of the estate’s wood.’
‘What? Why not?’
‘Because I say so.’
‘What if someone in the village wants some?’
‘They can buy as much as they like.’
‘Then I’d like to buy some for Morag.’
He smirked. ‘Nice try, but still no. And don’t come back in ten minutes wearing a wig and a moustache, you’re unforgettable.’
Obviously not in a good way, she inwardly groaned. ‘But why won’t you let me buy any?’
He paused. ‘Because I’m not enabling your insanity any further. Have you ever spent a winter in the Highlands? Have you even considered what you need to do to the place? The first time you set a fire, whatever is currently nesting in the chimney will go up in flames taking you and the cabin with it. I’m not going to be the one who sold you the wood that killed you.’ He raised his massive, calloused hands, ticking off each point. ‘One, it doesn’t have electricity; two, plumbing; three, water; four, a phone line; five, mobile signal; or six, sewerage. Christ, it doesn’t even have a frigging door! You need to get back in that lovely little car of yours and go back home. You don’t belong here.’
You don’t belong here. Zoe’s throat constricted. This was the only place she had ever felt she truly belonged. Tears pricked at her eyes before anger replaced them.
‘How dare you! And who are you to decide what I do or don’t do? Lord of the bloody manor? I’m not taking orders about my life and my land from someone who looks like they sleep in a hedge. And you’re a fine one to talk about belonging. You don’t even sound Scottish!’
Thor’s brother shrugged, turned his back, picked up the axe and started chopping again.
Unbelievable! As he moved to pick up a new log from the pile, Zoe leapt forwards, grabbed the pieces he had just split and legged it out of the courtyard with a victorious yell. She was going to have his wood whether he liked it or not…
Rory watchedher run out of the courtyard. He then buried the axe in the tree trunk he was splitting the logs on, walked over to a long, low building on the side of the courtyard and through the door. This was his workshop. He’d made it his kingdom and his world.
An old German Shepherd, asleep in a dog bed to one side, woke as he entered, getting up, tail wagging happily, to greet him. Rory walked to the large workbench in the centre of the room, scratching behind the dog’s ears. Lying on the bench was a large wooden door, almost finished. It was a door he was making for the cabin, the cabin he wanted for himself.
When Mad Willie left, Rory presumed it would revert back to the estate. No one in their right mind would want to live there. No one except him. He was used to hardship, to solitude, and now he craved it. He wanted isolation, he wanted freedom. But now this city girl had arrived and put a spanner in his works.
He knelt down. ‘Bandit, my friend, how about a W-A-L-K?’
Bandit nuzzled his head against Rory’s neck, then trotted to the door. Rory followed him out, striding to the estate’s 4x4 and opening the cab door for Bandit to bound in. The truck was powerful; built for the territory and capable of taking on any weather the Highlands could throw at it. The loathsome coat of arms of the MacGinleys was emblazoned on the bonnet and doors but nicely covered with a veneer of mud. Rory preferred it that way.
He negotiated the narrow streets around the castle with ease, driving out of Kinloch and along the road towards Inverness. A few miles out he cut left up a muddy track, to unload several bales of hay and feed for a tenant farmer’s Highland cattle and check the stream had not frozen over. It would soon be time to move them from the higher ground so they could be fed more easily and find better shelter. Once the cattle had been checked, Rory and Bandit left the truck and headed out onto the glen.
The landscape opened up before them; the undulating hills shrouded in mist, seamlessly merging into the slate grey sky. It was still and quiet, as if the world was holding its breath, poised on a knife edge of change, waiting to see which way to fall.
As his feet picked up the pace, he breathed in deeply through his nose; smelling the cold, damp peaty air, inhaling the wide-open space. He’d adopted the trick of nostril breathing from his army days. On exercise in Africa, he’d woken early one morning to find long distance runners passing by their camp. They were there, then they were gone. Light and lithe, a whisper through the landscape. The next morning, he got up earlier, and ran beside them for a few miles, puffing and panting as they hooted with laughter at the man who outweighed them all combined. Rory knew he was fit, but they were effortless. On day three he studied them. They only ever breathed through their noses, matching their respiration to their stride. By day four he had mastered it, and the runners rewarded his observation skills with high fives. He could see this had been the beginning of a lifelong interest in mastering his body and his mind; skills that helped in the darkest times of his life.
He stopped, and turned to see how far they had walked, winding his fingers into Bandit’s fur.
