Page 7
“Whoa, girl, you’re as sweaty as I am.”
I should’ve thought to bring water, for both of us. Rookie mistake. The River Garve runs through these woods—it would be the perfect spot to let Bracken cool down and take a drink. But where’s the access point from here? If only I had a better sense of direction. I’ve only ever stuck to the well-trodden paths.
I glance around for any hint that might tell me which way the river is when something catches my eye: a glimpse of a stone wall through the trees. Oh! That must be Robbie MacDonald’s place. His cottage—which is more or less in the middle of nowhere—sits right at the forest’s edge, connected to the main road only by a dirt track.
At one point Aidan, Ally’s best friend and Iona’s big brother, thought about buying the cottage, but Robbie snapped it up. Ironic, really, given how much Ally and Aidan loathed Robbie back in the day. Not that their feelings towards him have changed much over the years.
Robbie isn’t exactly what you’d call “neighbourly”, which I suppose goes without saying, given he lives in a cottage so remote it might as well have a do not disturb sign nailed to the front door. He’s not really a fan of people in general, more of a “leave me alone so I can brood in peace” kind of guy. But surely even he wouldn’t begrudge me and my thirsty horse some water on a day like this? He can’t be completely heartless. Right?
“Come on, then,” I say, nudging Bracken towards the clearing. “Let’s see if Bannock’s Big Bad Wolf is home.”
As soon as we break through the line of trees and into full sunlight, I pull Bracken to an abrupt halt. Because there he is.
Robbie MacDonald stands near a neat stack of firewood, shirtless, his skin gleaming under the afternoon sun. His shoulders ripple with muscle as he lifts an axe high above his head before swinging it down in one powerful arc, wood splitting cleanly beneath its sharp blade with a satisfying crack.
My mouth goes desert-dry, and it’s got nothing to do with thirst.
Robbie tosses the logs onto his pile, his jet-black hair clinging damply to his forehead, sunlight catching on the silver barbell in his left eyebrow. Tattoos wind their way across his chest and arms like intricate maps of a life lived boldly. All, I’m sure, have a story to tell.
Swallowing hard against what feels suspiciously like nerves (which is strange, as I’m usually confident around men), I clear my throat and call out scratchily, “Hiya, Robbie!”
His icy-blue eyes snap to me. No nod of acknowledgment, no polite “hiya” back, not even a twitch of his mouth that could be mistaken for a smile. Nothing.
“Er . . . would you mind if I nabbed some water for Bracken? She’s parched.”
After a pause, he jerks his chin towards a brass tap that protrudes from the wall of his cottage. Then he sets up another log on the chopping block. His silence is both captivating and maddening. The axe descends again, slicing through the log with ruthless efficiency.
Determined not to let his broody indifference get to me, I slide down from Bracken, unclip my helmet, and shake out my auburn braid. “Cracking day, eh?”
Robbie doesn’t look up, just makes a noncommittal grunt then adds another pair of split logs to his collection.
Unperturbed—mostly—I wander over to the tap and twist it on. Water gushes into the battered bucket below. I glance over my shoulder at Robbie, but he’s still ignoring me. It’s as though I don’t exist.
No, no, no. This won’t do. I can’t stand being ignored. If he thinks he can out-stubborn me, he’s got another thing coming.
“Must take a lot of strength to chop wood like that,” I remark as the bucket fills. “It certainly looks like hot and sweaty work.”
Thwack! Another log splits, but otherwise, no reaction.
Leaning down, I take a sip from the tap then swipe at my mouth with the back of my hand. When I glance his way again, I’m annoyed to see he’s still not looking at me. Seriously? I happen to know these snug tan jodhpurs showcase my arse beautifully, thank you very much. I’m kind of insulted he didn’t even sneak a peek.
Well, since I’m apparently invisible, I might as well use this superpower for some uninterrupted ogling, right?
Turning off the tap, I lift the heavy bucket and set it beside Bracken, who plunges straight in, drinking noisily, her tail swishing lazily behind her. Meanwhile, I let my eyes roam over Robbie, observing the fluid shifts of muscle as he moves, the tattoos twisting their way over his forearms and shoulders like living artwork. A sprawling Celtic knot winds up his right forearm before melting into some sort of mythical beast across his biceps. On his chest, shapes and symbols shift in the sunlight, fascinating me.
To be honest, I think Robbie MacDonald has always fascinated me. When I was a kid, his name was practically a byword for trouble. He was constantly scrapping (mostly with Ally), smashing things up, even shoplifting. He kept the local police busier than anyone else in town, racking up multiple warnings and even landing a suspended sentence for his antics.
In a bigger place, his actions might have been dismissed as ordinary teenage rebellion, but in a small and otherwise idyllic town like Bannock? His defiant and unpredictable behaviour set him apart.
Most small-town rebels grow out of it eventually, but Robbie never shed his shadows completely, or at least not in the eyes of Bannock’s rumour mill. Even now, years later, something simmers beneath his exterior, something raw and untamed.
“Why not take a picture?” The sound of his voice hits me like a slap. It’s low, rough, and laced with sarcasm. “It’ll last longer.”
Well, hello to you too. I cross my arms loosely over my chest. “I’m not the one who decided to chop wood shirtless in public.”
Those blue eyes meet mine once more, the intensity of his stare sending a shiver down my spine. “Except . . . it’s hardly ‘public’, is it? This place isn’t easy to stumble across. You have to purposely leave the footpath.”
Leaning his axe against the chopping block, he pulls a rag from his back pocket and rubs it over his shoulders—and then across his pecs—in lazy sweeps.
