“Oh, well done you.”
He assumed it had been some brilliant move on my part, but it was just the opposite. More like,Well done Nick. He’d made me believe he was looking into refinancing what little debt we had, getting a thorough market analysis of the business, an appraisal of our home, and every little thing of value we owned.
Then he’d dropped the subject, waved off my questions as if he’d thought better of it.“Maybe someday we can open a second location,”he’d said. “It was just good to find out where we stand.”
Two months later, he’d insisted I take a morning off—so I’d be home when a woman came to serve me with papers. I hadn’t even known our relationship was in trouble. All our energy wentinto the business, sure, but our success was our joy, our why. At least I thought it was.
Yeah,I’d believed itbecause he’dsaid it, a hundred times, to all our friends, to anyone who asked if we had children.
“The Last Chair is our child. We love this place. This is our why.”Then he’d pull me close, give me a squeeze and a kiss to prove it. It was our schtick.
But for Nick, it hadonlybeen a schtick.
“Margo, you won’t believe this!” Phillip waved at a woman across the room who was as dark as I was light. She had black sleek hair I instantly compared to my curly strawberry blond that I controlled with braids. She wore a loud orange ski suit, which might have been a conscious choice where avalanches were concerned. I wore white with just a touch of blue. When she neared, Phillip pointed to me. “This is the woman who made your favorite pie.”
Her eyes flew wide. “Sugarbush Onion Pie?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “The Last Chair. She just sold it.”
“Sold it? You must tell us if the new owners will do the pie justice. We always planned to go back again, but we won’t if we can’t get your delicious pie.”
A slight accent slipped through. French, maybe Spanish. In a ski town, working with the public, you get an ear for dialects.
“Yes, you should go back.” Whether or not I ever would was the question. “I’m the only thing that’s changed about the place. Same staff. Same menu. I’m sure you won’t be able to tell a difference.” As if I’d had nothing to do with every little choice, every little tweak.
The woman held out a glove. “Not if they’re smart. I’m Margo Sud-Nelson.”
“Matty,” I said, and shook her hand, then reached for my skis. I’d almost said Matty Gaines, but I wasn’t that anymore.And I wasn’t quite ready to go back to Danner. For now, Matty would have to do.
“You’re on your own?”
“My friend had to cancel at the last minute.” I was pleased I was able to sound nonchalant about it.
Margo nodded. “You are welcome to stick with us, if you intend to take the Ryovan track.”
The other option was to ski around the perimeter of Loch Morlich, which I probably should have chosen, but it sounded too much like opting for the bunny hills.
“I do. But don’t let me slow you down. I’ve spent too much time in the kitchen and not enough time on my skis this last year.”
The trek leader finally noticed I was ready. “Right, then. Everyone to me, if ye please. Time to meet Scotland’s Cairngorm Mountains properly. If ye remember nothin’ else, remember a long blow on yer whistles if ye’re in trouble. We’re in for true blue skies, as I said, but if a storm blows up, or visibility drops, gather the stragglers and get inside the tree line. Remember the markers, and keep yer eyes on the tracks of the man ahead. Right? Right.”
Markers? I must have missed that part of the instructions. But I wasn’t going to delay everyone further by asking. I’d just have to follow the tracks ahead and hope whomever made them knew where they were going.
I patted the lump of my whistle dangling beneath my layers.
No worries…
CHAPTER THREE
Cian stood in the trees out behind John’s armory and waited for the man to finish his business with a pair of elderly women. Usually, the place was deserted the first Saturday of the month, and he could sneak through the back entrance without anyone in town laying eyes on him, but not always. Thus, he was ever so vigilant when nearing the township of Aviemore.
It rankled him that he was forced to skulk like a villain, as if he had no right to walk down the lanes as everyone else was free to do. But others had no reason to hide who they were, and no one from whom to hide…
As always, he’d left his furs in a hidey-hole back in the forest so as not to draw too much attention as he pulled his wee sled behind him across the snow-covered fields. His great kilt always caused a few heads to turn, but leaving that behind would cause a much bigger ruckus. This was still Scotland, after all. And a man had every right, these days, to wear his clan’s colors.
It was pity more men declined to do the same.
Cian made his way to John’s door and left his nigh-empty sled by the wall. Only after a long friendly haverin’ would they load the thing with the supplies he’d requested the monthbefore. He couldn’t wait to see the look on John’s face when he showed him the hilt he’d made for a broadsword. He’d hesitated to bring down the beautiful beast he’d taken it from, but a man had to eat, had to cloth himself, and had to lend his share of work to the world.
