Page 83 of Scotlander

After an excruciatingly taut silence, Jeff broke it.

‘I’m willing.’ He pulled Rosa in close to him. ‘This is the trip of a lifetime for us and, I know I’m speaking for Rosa here, but we want it to end on a high. If we can be a part of saving this place, we want to play our roles.’

Rosa beamed up at him and mouthed, ‘My hero.’

‘I’m in,’ Gabe said, his eyes latching on to Willa’s. ‘I’ve got resources. Let’s make use of them.’

ChiChi said she knew she wasn’t very practical, but she was willing to put her hands to anything she couldn’t break.

Jennifer stabbed her knitting needles into her basket and pronounced herself a woman of action.

Jules cheered and shouted, ‘I fucking love you, Mother!’

They all threw around enthusiastic high fives and fist bumps and Jeff, the largest of all of them, pulled everyone into a massive group hug. They all stank. Their clothes were filthy. Their smiles cut through it all.

When they eventually untangled themselves, all eyes, once again, turned to Willa.

‘Right, then, chook.’ Fenella gave her a little salute. ‘You’ve got your army, now run us through what it was you wanted us to do.’

Chapter Thirty-Six

Willa’s plan was out there, but . . .

The alternative was eating Finn alive.

When she’d come to him and told him her idea, he’d been dubious. What had made him agree to come out here to the stable’s courtyard was the spark in her eye. The one that flared bright when she spoke about Balcraigie and how much being part of their immersive experience had meant to her. How much being with him had meant to her.

So, here he was, sitting with a group of people he’d planned on turning away from his home, only to discover they were all willing to give everything they had to help him keep it.

When they’d got there, everyone looked nervous. Finn and his family. All the guests. Even the lads – Errol, Trevor and Alastair – men who Finn had rarely seen crack so much as a sweat during a fistfight down the pub. They were quiet and restless. Fidgety.

Finn was still trying to wrap his head round the proposal. He used Willa’s trick of repeating what he’d just heard back to her. ‘So, what you’re saying is, you want me to announce to the world that we’re broke and that we need their help.’

‘Not the world.’ Willa shook her head. ‘Just the superfans.’

He scratched his short nails into his scalp as if the accompanying pain might summon a voice – his father’s, his mother’s, anyone with a solid, pragmatic Scots approach – to tell him that saying yes would be akin to pleading guilty to murders he hadn’t committed.

He looked across and caught Duncan’s eye. He was the most practical of all of them. The first to announce he thought someone was a barmstick for dreaming dreams beyond their station. Surely, he’d say no to this.

And yet, against the odds, Duncan gave him one of those nods that in Duncan-speak translated as, Go ahead, lad. It’s a risk worth taking.

The plan was simple. Clear. Ask superfans to help them harvest the potatoes by hand. If no one showed up, they would be back where they were today – on the brink of bankruptcy – but at least then they knew they would have tried.

And that was what made the difference, wasn’t it? Trying. Giving a desperate situation a last blast of passion instead of shaking your head and saying, ‘No chance.’

He’d walked away from Balcraigie once. He didn’t want to do it again.

Willa was literally shaking with nerves, her dark eyes almost as black as her irises.

He turned to his stepsister and asked, ‘Are you happy with this? Giving it a go?’

His heart ached for Orla. Tear-streaked, red-cheeked, visibly exhausted from the hard work and emotional strain – and yet, against the odds, she was smiling. ‘It’s not like much else could go wrong, could it?’

Oh, there was a lot that could go wrong. No one could come. The rain could come early. There wouldn’t be a market for traditionally harvested heritage tatties.

And yet, despite this, a thousand other bleak outcomes begging to be considered, not to mention the endless list of health-and-safety concerns he could rattle off with barely a thought . . .

‘Aye,’ he finally said. ‘I think it’ll work.’