shoreline is a smudge of orange, just beginning to show beneath the melting snow. From here, the loch is so large and shining that it is easy to misread the size of the ships that lie on its surface.
The hills sweep up out of the ground ahead of her, their tops still wreathed in cloud. But the sky is blue, the heavy snow clouds have moved on, and it will be a fine day. She follows the burn, a glimmering crack, the water sparkling like a necklace of diamonds among the softer white of the fresh-fallen snow. By the time she reaches the rowan pool, she has worked up quite a warmth. The rowan tree is hung with frosted particles like sugar icing. The only sound is the beat of tiny wings as some snow buntings fly up, white like rising snowflakes, apart from the flash of black on their wings.
She leaves Thistle by the tree, tied to a boulder. He is also well camouflaged: only the tips of his grey tail and his unruly mane – and his knobbly knees – standing out. His neat little black hooves are hidden, sunk into the snow. She sets to work in the silence, her brow furrowed in concentration. She reads the tracks: the delicate Ys of the birds busily criss-crossing all over the place; the long oval shapes of a hare; the solid shuffle of a grouse; the stealthy holes of a fox. The snow is yellow in places where an animal has peed. There are dark holes where rabbit droppings have steamed through to the ground.
She has to be careful. The snow has drifted deeply in places, hiding crevices and cracks in the ground. She comes across the multiple tracks of deer not much further up. They have sheltered in the lee of the hill, where the boulders make a natural cave. The wind seems to have shifted, possibly because of the lie of the peaks above her. There is less snow on the ground, more for the deer to eat. She creeps forward. Peers beyond the next boulder. She cannot see the herd – but she can see a stag. Either the hinds are around the corner, or they have scarpered and this is a lone male. She crouches, inching forward on hands and knees to get a better look. The stag is about four hundred yards away from her, in a dip across a narrow part of the burn. Still no sign of any hinds. Her rock is slippery. She moves carefully, hoping she won’t cause a vibration that dumps the snow above on top of her.
The stag snuffles at the ground. Suddenly it lifts its head. Its nostrils dilate. Olivia stops and drops flat, her cheek scratching against the hard crust of snow. She slowly lifts her head. The stag is staring at something she cannot see, in the opposite direction. He is magnificent: all muscle and searching eyes and flared nostrils. His ears swivel. His neck is thick and shaggy. There is the black scar down his flank. He flicks his tail. The tips of his nostrils move, in and out, twitching, smelling, searching for whatever it is he thinks he’s heard.
As the stag turns and springs away, a loud crack whips out across the snow and Olivia sees the animal stumble awkwardly as if he has been hit, but then his feet find the ground and he is off like the wind across the hillside and down the pass and deep into the crags and contours of endless wilderness.
Olivia’s heart races with him. For a moment her mind is blank, and then she wonders who else could be up here in the snow and the wind? And who would go for a stag at this time of year? Or a stag like that at any time of year?
She doesn’t dare move. She doesn’t want anyone to spot her. She strains to see anything against the glare. And then she spots something: a figure wading through the snow, dark against the sparkling crust. Olivia presses herself as flat as possible down on the rock. She wants to see who it is, but she can’t. They are still too far away.
The figure draws slowly closer, hampered by snow. As it approaches, Olivia holds her breath: she doesn’t want the vapour to give her away. She can’t see his face, but it is definitely a man. He looks at where the stag was. Glances around. He looks down at the ground again. He paces around, shaking his head and pulling his arms tighter around his body, rubbing at his shoulders. His clothes are flimsy, too thin in this cold. A sudden gust dislodges some snow from above her and the movement makes the man jump. He stares in her direction, his body rigid. Waves of fear course through her body. Surely he will see her. But now he is hurrying away as fast as he can. She lies still until the desperate figure is out of sight, feeling the cold and damp seep into her knees and elbows. By the time she dares to move, she is stiff as new leather. She pulls herself up and then slips and scrambles back down the hill as quietly as she can, not wanting to look back, half-expecting the man to jump out at her. She is relieved to see Thistle still there, his eyes half-closed, unaware of her panic. There is some comfort in his presence, but not much. As they stumble and trip down the hill, she keeps glancing over her shoulder. But there is no sign of anyone else.
It takes almost two hours for her to reach the farm. Her clothes are now damp with sweat, and Thistle is fed up with being pulled, digging his feet into the ground in protest. The fire in the tack room is leaping in the grate, warming the backs of the men who are seated at the table, cupping hot mugs of tea laced with whisky from the bottle that Mac keeps behind the old dresser. As soon as they see Olivia’s face, they slam their mugs down, the sound marking an end to their easy conversation.
‘What is it?’ Mac asks.
‘There’s someone out on the hill.’ Mac frowns, his blue eyes sinking into the leathery face. ‘With a gun,’ she adds. The men scrabble to their feet, chair legs scraping on the flagstones. Someone runs to fetch Ben Munro, who arrives on his bicycle, dressed in his Home Guard uniform and carrying a rifle. Olivia repeats what she has seen. The men discuss in Gaelic. Mac collects two more rifles and a shotgun, talking to his wife quietly in the doorway of the house.
‘Off you go now,’ Ben Munro says to Olivia. ‘Run home. Stay indoors until you hear otherwise.’
‘Don’t you want me to come and show you?’
‘Och no, lassie. It’s no place for a young lady up there.’
‘But …’
‘Go on, now.’
Olivia watches the men tramp up into the hills, small, steady, determined. She feels a sudden stab of anxiety for the pathetic creature she saw out there. She turns for home as the men fold into the hills as if they are a part of them.
Hours later, when the only sound on the hill is the trickling of water back towards the loch, Ben appears at the bothy. ‘We couldn’t find anything,’ he says. ‘It’s been snowing, and a herd has trampled right through there.’
‘I suppose he’s hiding somewhere,’ she says, thinking out loud.
‘No, no. Whoever it was is probably sitting by a nice warm fire somewhere towards Gairloch.’
‘You think it was a local?’
‘We’ve had poachers for centuries. I’m sure we’ll have them for centuries more. Your aunt is nae bothered. And nor should you be. There’s plenty to go around.’
‘But he didn’t …’
‘Look,’ says Ben, ‘whoever it was will be long gone. No one can survive out on those hills in these temperatures. We’ll stay vigilant, but keep off the hill for a wee while. Find yourself something more ladylike to do. Mrs Munro is still looking for more people to help knit scarves for the troops …’
Olivia nods, but she has no intention of doing such a thing. She would rather be captured by Germans than join the knitting circle.
Winter finally turns to spring, and Thistle can be let out into the small paddock behind the farmhouse while Olivia cleans out his stable. She rubs the pony down in the yard, watching the dust dance in the bright, cold sky, running her hand along his flank as he blows in her hair. She slips the head collar from his shaggy head, untangling the thick mane where it catches in the buckle. Thistle shakes his whole body, from his velvety nostrils to his broad rump, a huge shudder of relief. Then he wheels around and races off across the field, head down, bucking with freedom, searching for the patches of grass that lie temptingly in the sunshine.
Back in the stable, clearing the dirty straw, not for the first time Olivia wishes there was a light so she