‘I hate you,’ I said to his profile picture. Voicingmy thoughts aloud might help me resist the temptation to send them out into the internet for anyone to peruse. I didn’t know what my middle-aged followers would think of the vitriol bubbling inside of me. ‘You were meant to be my friend and you used me. You don’t get to tell me my Insta etiquette is flawed because your life etiquette is majorly fucked.’
Throwing my phone to one side, I rage-cooked a toasted cheese sandwich then grabbed my laptop. Anger galvanised me into action and the warped logic of my brain decided the best way to show Jamie that coming here hadn’t been a huge mistake was to catch up on the paperwork I’d been putting off since my arrival. My initial impressions of each site had to be documented and compared, the placement of each examination square noted and justified.
Hours later, I sent an email to my dissertation supervisor containing huge attachments of all the work I’d done so far. I looked up from my laptop and blinked. The cosy glow from the fire and reflected light from the snow shining through the window over the sink provided scant illumination.
I hadn’t checked the exact time Callum left this morning, but he’d been gone for most of the day. The sun disappeared early this far north, but he would normally have stomped back to the cabin by now. We’d enjoy an extra-long hug before I pelted him with questions about his day while he made bread and mouth-watering meals.
Hopping between rugs to avoid flagstones that were icy cold even through my thick socks, I peered out of the window over the sink. The snow had stopped falling, but there was no sign of Callum.
Despite my failure to feed myself a decent breakfast, I hadn’t done too badly with bread and cheese at lunchtime, and the stews Callum prepared each night didn’t look toocomplicated. I could at least make sure Callum came home to something vaguely edible.
Bypassing bread making, since Paul Hollywood made it abundantly clear that wasn’t a task for someone with my lack of cooking prowess, I grabbed vegetables and a joint of meat from the fridge. The aromas that filled the cabin as I stirred the bubbling concoction in the pan weren’t too dissimilar to those that perfumed the air when Callum cooked.
I was proud of the meal I produced, my victory only dampened by the fact that Callum hadn’t arrived home before it was ready and it was now too dark to spot him outside.
‘You don’t need to worry,’ I reassured a snoozing Albert as I carried my lone bowl of stew over to the sofa. ‘Callum knows what he’s doing. He’s been living up in these mountains for years and he can look after himself.’
Every time the wind whistled down the chimney or a log popped in the fire, I looked over at the door just in case the sound heralded Callum’s return. I half watched the first few episodes ofSex Education, a programme that would shock Callum to his very core. Even the accumulating comments on my Instagram posts couldn’t distract me, though Lucas’s envy-filled whines did take the sting out of Jamie’s snideness.
At midnight, I accepted defeat and got ready for bed. Only, I wouldn’t sleep in the bed tonight. Maybe for the first time since I’d arrived, Callum would take his rightful place. Surely he’d be too cold and worn out to carry me through to the bedroom when he eventually came home.
I snuggled under several blankets on the sofa, so was perfectly positioned to witness Callum’s arrival several hours later.
It triggered a deluge of emotions.
Shock, since the door thumping open jolted me from a deep sleep. Joy, that he was back safe. Worry, because he’d been out for so long. Relief, as he was clearly hale and hearty, grunting as he took off his boots in the dark. And finally fondness. I’d missed him and his hugs while he’d traipsed about in the snow.
I flicked a lamp on, and all those emotions were buried under abject terror.
Callum blinked in the sudden light. His jeans were caked in mud and snow, his arms cradled to his chest. His face was drawn with exhaustion.
Oh, and he was absolutely covered in blood.
I jumped up from the sofa. ‘What the ever-loving fuck happened to you?’
CHAPTER TWELVE
CALLUM
I’d stepped out of the cabin and into a nightmare. Others might see snow and think of snuggling under blankets and waiting it out, but my charges didn’t have that luxury. Across the mountains, goats screamed.
Lost. Disoriented by the snow. Freezing and alone.
I’d stood beside the frozen river, my attention demanded in a hundred different directions. The notes of distress were too numerous. I didn’t know how I’d be able to help them all.
Clenching my fists, I took a breath. And another. The cool indifference of the snow filling me, I headed in the direction of the nearest goat in distress. I might not be able to help them all, but I’d save every one I could reach in time.
Hours passed in a blur as I led individuals and herds to the shelters scattered across the mountains. The goats were normally good at finding the strategically placed huts, but too many days had passed with the threat of snow lingering in the air. It had switched off their instinctual fear. When the snow finally came, it fell too thick and fast for them to get to safety.
I used my advanced senses to search out the goats and guide them to the nearest shelters. Twice, I fell into drifts of snow. The second time, my arm caught on a sharp rock. Blood coated my side before my healing kicked in and knitted the skin together. It was slower because of the cold. All my body’s reserves were being used to keep my temperature up.
The sun had set and the snow stopped when I heard a faint bleat. I ushered the goats I’d been leading into a hut. They fell silent as they huddled together on top of a pile of straw. This goat’s gentle cries must have been lost under the racket the others were making. I turned in the direction I’d come.
She’d found temporary shelter under an overhanging rock. The state of her legs made me wonder if she’d toppled over the ledge and had used her remaining strength to drag herself to relative safety. Her back hooves stuck out at odd angles and her fur was matted with blood. A broken leg was usually a death sentence for a goat out in these mountains. Two meant she had no chance of making it through.
She stopped bleating when she spotted me. It was the goat carrying twins. I fell to my knees beside her. She breathed harshly as I ran my hands over her distended stomach. Some of the blood on her legs was a result of the messy breaks, but there was far too much for that.
She was giving birth, and it was going badly.
