I reach the last letter in the pile. My stomach sinks when I spot the government stamp on the envelope. It’s from the local council. I peel it open.
SURVEY NOTICEis stamped in red ink across the top of the letter. Already annoyed, I scan the contents.
Dear Mr A Gray,
Following our previous correspondence, we are writing to inform you of our intent to survey zones E1 to E14 of your land to assess its suitability for our tourism development plan.
We will be visiting on the 20th. Please ensure all livestock is safely contained and that the relevant areas are accessible to our team.
Thank you for your cooperation.
I crumple the letter as anger surges through me.
The council have been pestering me for almost a year now. They’ve decided to boost local tourism and want to build luxury resorts down by Loch Thara. Unfortunately for them, I own a massive swathe of the land they want to build on. I’ve told them Lochview’s land isn’t for sale more times than I can count. They don’t seem to be getting it.
“Council?” Fraser asks.
I nod shortly. “They’ve invited themselves over to assess our eastern quadrant,” I mutter. “I don’t know what they’re thinking. What kind of tourist comes all the way uphere?” The Highlands are beautiful, but they’re utterly remote. There’s nothingluxuryabout being miles away from the nearest Tesco.
Fraser rubs his chin. “Loads recently. There’s that new spa place on the other side of the village, and a bunch more popping up.”
I stare at him. “What? Why?”
“Christ, you’d know all this if you ever came down to the pub with us. It’s all anyone has talked about in months. Tourists keep posting pictures up here and going viral. Probably ’cause the scenery’s so stunning.”
“The council wants to buy out a two-hundred-year-old agricultural business,” I say slowly, “because ofsocial media trends?”
Fraser shrugs. “Seems like it.”
“What are you going to do?” Cameron asks, eyes fixed on me.
I check the clock on the wall. It’s ten past six. We’re ten minutes behind schedule. I feel pressure start to rise in my chest.
I inherited Lochview Farm from my father five years ago. My family has been farming sheep and goats for their wool for eight generations now, selecting rare breeds and selling their fibre tothe cities to be made into tartan and other clothing. Lochview is one of Scotland’s oldest surviving fibre farms.
It’s a heavy burden. Running a farm is relentless hard work. I’m up at four a.m. most days, and I don’t usually finish until midnight. Every sick animal, every broken fence, every bit of paperwork that needs to be filled out—it all falls on me.
But I keep going, because I have to. Lochview is my family’s legacy. I can’t be the one who fails. It can’t all end with me.
And with an entire farm, thousands of sheep, and Fraser and Cameron to worry about, I can’t afford to get distracted. Ever.
Bad things happen when I do.
“I’m not letting a surveyor onto the property,” I say. “Lochview is mine. They’re not getting an acre.” The minute hand on the clock ticks over. 6:11. I rap my knuckles on the table. “We need to allocate tasks.”
Fraser salutes. “Aight, boss.”
I open up my laptop and divvy out the day’s tasks. As per usual, I keep the majority for myself. Fraser and Cameron are my main help here on the farm, but we’ve also been best friends since we were children. I don’t want to overwork them.
Eventually, I reach the end of my list. “How’s Viola’s littlest doing?” I ask Fraser. Viola was the last of our ewes to lamb this year. She just gave birth last night to two healthy boys and one runt girl.
Fraser grimaces. “Not good. I’ve been bottle-feeding her, but the poor thing is so tiny. Don’t think she’s gonna make it through the week.”
I take off my glasses and rub at the headache forming between my eyes. My father’s voice echoes in my head.What? Are you gonna cry over losing livestock? Animals die. It’s part of the business.
“Right,” I say. “I’ll check in on her later.”
“Aye,” Fraser says, faux-casually. “Hey, so…wanna come for a swim later? We haven’t all three of us been down to the loch in forever.”
