she’d been sent were clear enough, and she soon found the gate to the rough road she was to follow. At first the track wound through deciduous woodland, but soon she was out of the trees and heading steeply upwards.
The ride became bumpier, banks of loose gravel and the occasional pothole suggesting that water gushed down here in torrents when the rain was heavy. In low gear, she pressed on, climbing higher and higher, an edginess about the unfamiliar route causing her to chew at her bottom lip.
She reminded herself that first journeys always felt strange. Once she knew the way it would feel different.
After jolting up the track for what seemed like an eternity, the terrain levelled and she found herself crossing wild heathland towards another short ascent. From the top, she caught her first glimpse of the bothy, nestling against a steep hill. She stopped the vehicle and gazed down on it in delight.
It reminded her of a gypsy caravan without wheels, except that it was much larger. It had a tin roof with a round chimney, and in front she could see a broad deck with what looked like a hammock suspended on a giant wooden frame. With a happy sigh she rolled on and completed the final bumping descent to her new home.
She killed the engine and burst from the cab. After the sheer magnificence of the view, and the pleasing architecture of the bothy itself, the first thing she noticed was the silence. It was almost deafening. For a moment she forgot the heartache that had brought her here and stepped onto the deck, stretched her arms wide and twirled a slow, happy circle. This place was perfect.
She tried the door, just in case, but it was locked, so she pressed her nose to the glass and peered inside. The décor was simple. Bleached wooden floors, a grey linen sofa softened by a moss-green mohair blanket draped over one of its arms. A small black stove squatted in the corner of the main living area, and if she squinted sideways and looked up she could see a narrow wooden staircase leading to the mezzanine sleeping area. It was achingly romantic.
She felt a familiar stab of anguish and turned away. On the hammock, she sank backwards, giving herself up to the gentle sway and creak of the canvas. She lifted her left hand, traced the outline of the absent ring with her right index finger.
She’d had her whole future mapped out before Dan had delivered his coup de grâce. She’d been planning their wedding when he’d flown over from Berlin to tell her that he’d fallen in love with Maria. He said it had just happened, that it wasn’t his fault. Then he’d gone back to Germany and she’d been left to cancel everything.
Phone calls to suppliers. Phone calls to her family in Ireland.
She knew her father had tried to sound disappointed for her sake, but she had been able to picture the relief on his face. He’d never liked Dan. Neither had her brothers. She’d never felt so alone in her life. How desperately she’d needed her mother then, but her mother wasn’t here any more, so she’d had to cope—whatever that meant.
She’d come to Strathburn to escape and to heal, to find some tiny piece of herself she could nurture back to life. If she could get back on track with her work, if she could properly lose herself in it, then maybe the world would start to make sense again.
The sound of an engine thrumming somewhere lower down the slope jerked her out of her melancholy. She levered herself off the hammock, crossed the deck and ran across the track to a vantage point overlooking the hill. Her eyes narrowed as she watched a vaguely familiar figure pounding a quad bike up the slope towards her, and then her breath caught in her throat as she realised, unequivocally, that the man riding towards her was the man who’d changed her wheel.
AS HE PULLED the quad onto the track Milla caught herself fidgeting with the hem of her vest and stilled her hands before he could notice. She didn’t understand why he made her nervous, other than that he seemed so...unreachable.
To make up for her prickly behaviour at the roadside, she’d smiled and given him a wave as he’d driven up the slope towards her, but he’d seemed intent on the business of navigating the quad through the heather and hadn’t noticed her, so she’d felt foolish and, inexplicably, a little hurt.
As she waited for him to park and switch off the engine she told herself she was being overly sensitive, too ready to find rejection where none was intended. She drew in a breath, resolving to be open and friendly.
‘Hello again.’ She took a step towards him. ‘We keep meeting in remote places. Should I be worried that you’re stalking me?’
He looked up, the ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘It’s purely coincidental, I promise. You must be Camilla O’Brien.’
‘Must I?’ She smiled. ‘My name’s Milla—Camilla’s a bit too “jolly hockey sticks” for my liking.’
She was gratified to see his cheeks creasing into a smile as he swung off the quad, but when he looked up again it had disappeared.
‘Okay, Milla. I’ve got your key.’
The smile he’d tried to conceal had transformed his face into something beautiful, and for some reason she wanted to see it again.
She looked at him expectantly, and when he met her gaze blankly she lifted her eyebrows. ‘Do you also have a name?’
He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘I’m sorry—it’s been a long day.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Cormac Buchanan.’
‘It’s nice to meet you, Cormac—officially this time.’ She stretched her hand to his.
For a dizzy moment she lost herself in the golden light of his irises. She felt the warm dryness of his palm against hers, a pinprick of static. She released his hand quickly.
‘Buchanan? You’re the owner of the estate?’
He shook his head. ‘One day, maybe. For now I’m running errands.’
She couldn’t resist a little mischief. ‘Well, I suppose it’s like any job. You have to start at the bottom and work up.’
A smile seemed to tug at the corners of his mouth and then it faded away. She felt her brow wrinkling. Did Cormac Buchanan not have a sense of humour? Maybe she was being too familiar, overstepping some invisible mark unique to estate owners. She couldn’t work out what she was doing wrong.
She was about to ask him if she could just have the key, when she saw his gaze shifting to the four-by-four.
‘I see you got your wheel fixed.’
‘Yes, the man at the garage was able to do it right away.’
‘That’s good.’ He glanced at her and reached into his pocket. ‘Right. I’ll open up and help you in with your stuff, then I’ll show you the ropes.’
He pulled out a key and motioned for her to walk with him to the bothy door.
Milla frowned as she fell in beside him. She could never have accused Cormac Buchanan of being impolite, but she had the distinct feeling that he was keeping her at arm’s length, and for some reason it felt like a personal slight.
She caught herself shifting into that defensive gear which seemed to have become her default setting since Dan had dropped his bombshell, and she only just managed to keep a sliver of sarcasm out of her voice. ‘Thanks, but I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.’
He unlocked the bothy door and stood back for her to enter. ‘It’s no trouble at all. It’s why I’m here.’
Milla stepped past him into the bothy and instantly her mood lifted. The interior space felt warm and comfortable and completely connected to the outside. It wasn’t just that the floor-to-ceiling windows let the outside in; the colours and textures of the interior had also clearly been chosen to echo the view.
This sanctuary was to be her