Page 48 of Scotlander

She bent forward so abruptly he thought she was going to throw up. Just as he was stepping forward to check she was okay, she shot back, gales of laughter pouring out of her as her head slammed again his chin. ‘Oh god!’ she screamed. ‘Are you okay?’

He rubbed at his jaw. It hurt, but, compared to everything else? He’d survive. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure?’ She stepped forward and cupped his face with her hands, giving his cheeks soft little kitten pats. Too abruptly he took her hands in his and gave them back to her.

She curled them up into tiny fists and pressed them against her chest as her eyes blinked away whatever it was she was trying not to feel.

‘I’m fine. Really.’

It wasn’t much of an apology, but the tenderness of her touch had caught at the seams of something he hated admitting to himself. He was lonely. Coming back to Balcraigie always made him feel it more, as if his busy life in Inverness was just a disguise for the fact that no matter what he did, or where he lived, he was destined to be the cheese who stood alone. He knew it was partly his fault. He’d been the one to shove a wedge between himself and the villagers here at Balcraigie, but they hadn’t exactly helped. It wasn’t as if it was his father’s fault he’d been born in England. Or that he’d scraped and saved to buy the farm when no one else nearby could.

It was interesting, he noted, how much help they were giving Orla, a born and bred local. If he’d asked to borrow costumes or asked for a volunteer to fake marry a bunch of superfans in the name of saving Balcraigie, he knew exactly the response he’d get. Cold shoulders.

He ignored the glaring omission that, in order to know there were costumes to borrow and actors to make use of one had to actually be part of the community. This was a place that looked after its own and somehow, through the years, Finn had felt squeezed out of it.

Willa waved her hand in front of his face. ‘Hello? Are you sure I didn’t give you a chin concussion? And if not, can you please McSplain to me what the fuck is going on?’

‘What’s McSplaining?’

‘Mansplaining with a Scottish twist,’ she said as if it was obvious. ‘Look.’ She shifted her fists to her hips. ‘From what I’ve seen? An “immersive Jacobean experience” isn’t all that’s going down here at Balcraigie Castle, am I right? Or am I right?’ She gave a little round the world hand snap.

Despite himself, he laughed. ‘You’ve a magical way with words, m’lady. Perhaps you should pursue poetry while you’re here?’

A flash of mischief lit up her eyes. ‘I’d be good at it, huh? Stop your blether . . . I need some heather.’

He gave her a round of applause. ‘Oh, aye. It’s clearly your gift.’

Willa’s smile softened. ‘Look, I don’t give a monkey’s if you’ve seen the show or not. This whole thing is a level of weird I’m not used to, but seeing as we’re outliers on the superfan front? We owe each other a pinky promise not to tell the others.’

‘I’ll shake on that.’ They did and, once again, the moment of connection was more than skin against skin. It felt like a promise. A pact.

‘Right, then.’ Finn pointed towards the barn. ‘Now that we’re joined at the hip and know each other’s deepest, darkest secret, how about you tell me why you’re here if you’re not slavering after the Scottish totty.’

She stopped and gave him a quick once over. ‘A girl does not have to have seen Outlander to appreciate the merits of a man in a kilt.’

A hint of swagger entered his step. She thought he was a hottie, huh? Well, the feeling was mutual. To detract from his weird strutty walk, he spun the spotlight round to her. ‘Los Angeles? That’s where you’re from, is it?’

Her expression briefly shadowed. ‘Only about twelve people are actually from LA.’

So . . . ‘Where are you from?’

‘The land of dream crushing and aspiration hobbling.’

‘Texas?’ he guessed.

She laughed, her expression reading as if he had so very much to catch up on. Poor, simple Scottish totty that he was.

‘I’m from a small town in the bumfuck middle of nowhere, Oregon.’

‘Sounds lovely. You work for their tourist board, do you?’

She gave him a you-have-got-to-be-kidding look. ‘Sorry to break it to you, bud, but the small-town American Dream done broke a long time ago. For me, anyway. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.’

Finn winced. While farming in rural Scotland hadn’t been his mother and father’s inherited professions, it had been their most precious gift to Finn. From as long as he could remember, he felt predestined to be the caretaker of this land. He loved it. Absolutely, bloody loved it. The smell of the earth after it had been ploughed. The cows. The sheep. His awareness of the weather and how it affected everything. The bees, the hay crops, when the heather would come into bloom and so much more. It was as if the knowledge had come preloaded in him. Not being able to plan for a future here at Balcraigie was like looking at a set of Ikea instructions: painful before it had even begun. He cleared his throat and gave his neck a scratch. ‘What does your family do?’

‘Grease monkeys and do-gooders.’

‘And you? Did the apple fall far from the tree?’