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She turns at the sound of my voice, her long greying ponytail swinging behind her. “Cat! How was your ride?”

“Brilliant. Bracken was a good girl, as sweet as she’s always been. Some things never change. But who’s this beauty?”

I nod towards the horse being worked in the arena, a sleek black stallion whose coat gleams like obsidian. His powerful frame tenses, and he jerks sideways on the lunge line, tossing his head in clear defiance.

Janice’s face, etched with years of working in the elements, softens into a smile. “That’s Midnight. We’re looking after him for a private client.”

“He’s magnificent.”

Midnight prances to the side again, wild energy radiating from every taut sinew in his body.

“Aye, but he’s a fair handful. Barely three years old and already he thinks he rules the world.”

Billy, who’s in his late fifties and is one of the stable’s most senior instructors, lets the line slide just enough through his gloved hands, giving Midnight the room to widen his circle.

Something about the stallion—his barely contained power, his untamed spirit—reminds me of a certain topless woodcutter.

I was thinking of venturing into Inverness to find myself a man, but maybe that’s not necessary. Not when Bannock has its own brand of fun, specifically tall, tattooed, and broody Robbie MacDonald.

Aye, he’s one stallion I’d very much like to ride.

CHAPTER FIVE

ROBBIE

“Christ, Drew, not like that.” I reach over and take the trowel from his hand. “This whole section will collapse if you keep at it that way.”

Drew steps back and wipes sweat from his brow with his forearm. “Didn’t realise there was a wrong way to slap mortar on a wall.”

“There’s a wrong way to do everything.” I demonstrate the proper technique.

It’s another scorching day, and the sun beats down mercilessly as we work on repairing a section of the low stone wall that borders the main pathway leading to the resort entrance. It’s the kind of heat that makes your clothes stick to your skin and your patience wear thin. But at least the sprawling branches of a nearby sycamore cast enough shade to keep us from roasting alive.

“Sorry we can’t all be master craftsmen,” Drew mutters, but there’s no real annoyance in his voice. He watches as I smooth the mortar with practised strokes. “Where’d you learn all this stuff anyway?”

I shrug. “Here and there. Picked things up.”

The truth is, I’ve always been good with my hands. Even as a kid, I could take things apart and put them back together again. It’s the one thing my da has never complained about—my ability to fix what’s broken. Everything else about me, though? Fair game for criticism.

“Well, you’re bloody good at it.” Drew accepts the trowel back. “No wonder Craig keeps you around despite your . . . extracurricular activities.”

I snort. “You make it sound like I’m running a drug ring, not occasionally shagging a guest.”

“Speaking of which . . .” Drew grins and his eyes gleam with mischief. “Any new prospects on your radar?”

“Nah.” I shake my head and lift another stone into place. “I try not to make a habit of it, but sometimes it’s hard to resist.”

Even as I speak, my mind flashes to yesterday, to Cat McIntyre appearing out of nowhere astride that chestnut mare. Her auburn hair escaping from her braid . . . her hazel eyes sparkling in the sunlight . . . and those jodhpurs hugging every curve of her arse and legs.

I had to look away when she bent over to drink from the tap, the fabric stretching tight across her backside. And, oh man, the way those dimples flashed when she smiled, the light catching the tiny stud in her nose . . .

Fuck.

Cat McIntyre is off limits for about a dozen different reasons, starting with her being Alasdair McIntyre’s wee sister. Pretty sure he’d murder me if he so much as caught me looking at her sideways.

“You’ve gone quiet.” Drew nudges me with his elbow. “That means you’re thinking about someone.”

“I’m thinking about how this wall won’t fix itself while you stand there yapping.”