Page 6 of Fierce Highland Longing

“Aye. Down.”

We put him down. Callum shook out his hands, and I got a look at the palms in the torchlight—rope scars across both of them, old ones, and a little finger on the right that had healed crooked. A plain iron ring on the middle finger.

“Boot’s off again.”

“I’ve got it.”

“Leave it. He’ll not miss it tonight.”

At the sixth stop he leaned against the rock and breathed and said, without any particular weight to it:

“What took you down the far end in this?”

“Photographs.” The answer was out of my mouth before the thought had finished forming. “Long exposures. Capturing the surf.”

“Aye.” He hitched his grip. “Wild night for it.”

It came out smooth. I heard how smooth it came out and I kept climbing.

Isla Macrae opened the door before we reached it. Eleven at night and she was dressed, cardigan and shoes, reading glasses on their chain. She took them off when she saw him.

She had the fire built up, and a chair dragged over inside a minute. She set the poker down against the hearthstone and handed Callum the blanket without turning around. He was already reaching.

“Doctor’s in Fraserburgh,” Callum said. “Ninety minutes, this road.”

“No.” Tavish’s eyes had opened. “No doctor.”

He didn’t dress it up. I waited for one of them to argue.

Neither of them argued.

“I’ve seen him about.” Callum wrung the rain out of his cap. “Down the shore. A year, two.”

Isla folded the blanket over the arm of the chair. She took her time about answering.

“Longer.” The woman’s brow wrinkled. “He moves up and down in a pattern folk can read if they care to. Any village that takes him for three weeks a year watches a man go gray ahead of schedule and puts it down to drink or hard living. He has a rhythm; they just never asked what for.”

Callum gave a nod, scraped his boots on the flags, one and then the other, taking his time with it.

“That hip any better?”

“It’s a hip.”

“Aye. Mine too.” He put the cap back on and worked it down. “There’s a lad in Peterhead does them now. Six weeks and you’re up a ladder.”

“I’ve no ladder.”

“You’ve a stair.”

He stopped at the door with his hand on the latch, still working the cap.

“You were at the far end, aye? Past the boathouse?”

My hand went to the camera strap at my throat.

“I was shooting the surf.”

“Right you are. Mind the steps in the morning; they’ll be worse.” He nodded at me, at Isla, and the door shut behind him, leaving only the sound of the storm he’d stepped back into.