Page 33

‘Will!’ calls Horse.

‘Willow!’ we shout together.

‘Whaaa—’ I cry, slipping on mud, shooting forward and reaching for a branch, which turns out to be a bramble. It stabs me in the hand, making me cry out in pain. I’m expecting to hit the ground, but I’m caught as I fall.

‘Whoa. Gotcha,’ says Horse’s deep voice, and I feel myself being lifted upright again. That same zipping sensation runs through my body at the touch of his hands under my arms.

‘Thanks,’ I manage to stutter, shocked by my world suddenly being pulled from under my feet, literally. My cheeks flush, and I swallow and look down at my scratched hand.

‘Let me look,’ he says, taking it in his large, rough one. And again, I feel like a puppy with the zoomies is zipping through me from head to toe.

Despite the cold of dusk falling, I’m feeling hot. I’m feeling eighteen again.

‘It’ll be fine,’ I say, but I don’t pull my hand away. There are little flashes of red blood where the bramble has punctured the skin.

‘Here.’ He pulls the bandana from around his neck and gently brushes the blood spots away. The zoomies are getting faster, this time right in the pit of my stomach, thundering around so fast it’s making me light-headed. Horse wraps the bandana around my palm and ties it firmly.

‘That should help until we get back.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, looking up at him and feeling the excitement slow as something shifts inside me. It’s as if everything is just finding itself in the right place, exactly as it should be. As if a piece of missing jigsaw has just been found and fitted in to complete the picture. I feel myself trembling with an anticipation and trepidation I haven’t known in a long time.

‘Woof!’

The bark seems to break the spell. I spin away from Horse, almost slipping again.

‘Tegan?’

‘Woof!’

‘She’ll be with Willow,’ I say, hurrying forward. ‘Sounds like they’re at Ty Coed.’

‘What’s that?’ he asks, following close behind me.

‘The old woodman’s cottage we used when we had help on the farm. I had thought about turning it into a holiday let,’ I say, breathless. I’m not sure if it’s the talking and walking quickly, the cold, or . . . something else that seems to have taken my breath away. ‘But getting it up to letting standard would take quite a lot of work, I think, and money. Just clearing these pathways for starters. Tegan!’ I call out.

‘Will!’ Horse shouts from behind me.

‘I’m here!’ Willow shouts back.

And we round the corner to see him, beyond Ty Coed, the little stone cottage in the clearing. He is cross-legged on the ground, staring up at the biggest tree in the forest. I feel a rush of relief and the unexpected tears that seem to pop up out of nowhere more and more frequently these days.

Willow is looking up at the tree – the very first tree Paddy and I planted here. Next to it is the wooden shed where we used to take payment from customers and put the trees into netting before helping them back to the yard to load them into their cars. I loved the smell of the freshly cut trees, that freshly cut pine scent, full of hope and joy. It was a special time. The families that came to buy them were smiling as they left. Yes, I’ve seen meltdowns in the middle of the forest as disputes broke out over which tree was going to be the family tree that year, but generally by the time they’d agreed on one and carried it back to the car, their Christmas spirit had returned. Other than those who’d bought too big a tree and had to find a way to attach it to the top of their vehicle or squeeze in next to it, a branch tickling the driver’s ear all the way home. But the magic of the real tree seemed to work every time, bringing smiles to people’s faces.

And now Willow seemed to be finding peace amongst the trees, too.

‘This is where you are,’ I say softly, stepping a little closer without crowding him. After a moment, I add, ‘This was the first tree Paddy planted on the farm. It’s always been my favourite.’

‘I like that one.’ He points to one next to it, smaller and fatter. ‘I think it gets overlooked.’

‘You could be right,’ I say. ‘It’s a lovely shape.’

‘Just right, I’d say,’ says Willow.

‘Just right,’ I agree. ‘It’s getting cold. We should get back to the house. Tegan will want her dinner.’

He looks at Tegan sitting next to him. ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘And the ducks and Gloria need putting away too, in case of the fox.’ He’s clearly clinging to the little routines that have become part of his life here at the farm, and I hate the conversation we’re going to have to have about leaving.

Once we’re settled in the kitchen, I try and cajole Willow into eating with the suggestion of a supermarket biryani from the freezer, but it doesn’t work. He shakes his head. He is sitting on the little sagging two-person sofa in the kitchen with Tegan by his side, his head down.