I thought he’d pull away after our talk. Instead, he’s closer, as if he’s trying to get as much of me as he can. Before I vanish forever.
I’m not sure it’s such a great idea. The closer he gets, the more it’s going to hurt when I go. Which only makes me want to give him everything I can while I’m here. And one way to help him is by thawing things between Donag and me.
Ever since I learned that her husband—my father—was killed because of Janet, I’ve felt more sympathetic toward her. My newfound compassion increases as I watch how horribly the worsening weather exacerbates her back pain.Lately, she can barely stand upright when she gets out of bed. I fake sleep to give her some privacy, but it’s impossible not to hear her gasps of pain.
The way she hobbles around in those early-morning hours reminds me of Poppa when his bursitis is acting up. But Poppa has medication. That scrap of dead seal Donag keeps in her trunk does nothing but stink.
Oddly, she’s also on her best behavior. Though, like me, she’s probably only doing it for Callum. Which isn’t to say I’m not grateful. I have no doubt many women would’ve taken their fury out on me. Not only am I the love child of her late husband, but I’m the daughter of the much-detested Janet, and half Campbell to boot.
Whatever her reasons, Donag no longer makes snide insinuations when Callum comes around. And he’s been coming around a lot. Only to continue the fact-gathering chats with Donag, of course. Not to see me.
At least that’s what I try and tell myself. But the fact that our work schedules seem to always be in sync can’t be just down to coincidence.
I can’t let myself be silly though. I’m grateful for his friendship, to have him as an anchor. I can’t let it become anything more.
Can I?asks the tiny voice in my head.
That tiny voice is yammering so often lately, it’s etched new grooves in my brain. Which is where the chicken coop comes in, and the deep-cleaning I’ve added to tonight’s castle chores.
The hens scatter when I open the gate, squawking their usual protests as I murmur hellos and you-little-monsters. After the basic chores—fresh water, cleannesting boxes, quick rake—I eye the months of fossilized mess coating the walls and floor.
Perfect. Nothing clears my head like mindless elbow grease. Poppa always says, hard work is the cheapest medicine.
I tie a rag over my nose and mouth, roll up my sleeves, and attack the grime with my wire brush. Soon I slip into that peaceful, unconscious place where my body knows exactly what to do and my mind doesn’t need to engage. The repetitive scrubbing drowns out everything else.
Until a shift in the air makes my skin prickle.
“There’s a fox in the henhouse.”
I jump and slap a hand to my chest, then curl it into a fist when I see Hamish, hunched in the low doorway, leering at me.
Blocking my exit.
“You’re skittish as a colt”—his eyes roam my body—“and twice as leggy.”
I fight not to roll my eyes. “Are you looking for something?”
“You.” He ducks and steps inside—now blocking my exit and my light. I concentrate on keeping my cool, but this space is minuscule. Hamish never seemed that big standing next to Callum. But in this cramped, shadowy coop, he looms. “You’re a bonnie sight.”
I back away ever so slightly. “Whatever.”
“D’you ken why I say so?”
“I don’t care to ken, thanks.”
“I like your dress. A gift from me to you.” His gaze lingers on my tightly laced vest as he purrs, “You could say it’s mine.”
My eyes flick to the door and back, but it’s like he’stripled in size. There’s no way to get out without touching him. “Your dress, huh? I thought blue was more your color.”
His mouth cracks open, like he can’t tell if he should be amused or angry. His expression hardens, opting for angry.
My instincts flare. I don’t think. I just scamper for the exit, pressing my body as close as I can to the wall. But it’s not close enough.
Hamish snatches my elbow. “What’s the rush?”
I freeze. Like the stupid, proverbial deer in headlights.
“You could have your pick of dresses, you know.” He steps closer, stroking up and down my arm.
