Chapter 11
Finn
The woods had begun to thicken an hour before we stopped. Twilight settled into the trees like breath on glass. Thin, grey, and quiet, but for the distant scold of a jay and the soft crunch of boots over loam and moss.
We’d made good time. Eight, maybe ten miles, and not once had Dr. Saoirse MacGregor slowed me down.
Not that I’d say that out loud. I liked my head where it was, thanks verra much.
She hadn’t said much all day as she hiked with steady, efficient purpose, eyes forward, focus tight. Every now and then she’d kneel to check Ajax’s paws or refill our water filters at a stream, but otherwise she was all business. Coiled like a wire, waiting for tension to snap it.
I didn’t blame her. I’d seen that kind of determination before. The kind that came from knowing someone you loved was missing and not wanting to speak the fear aloud in case that made it more real.
Now, at the edge of a sheltered hollow framed by black pines and half-ringed in stone, I knelt to pitch the tent. We were far enough from the trail to avoid curious hillwalkers—not that we’d seen a soul all day—and close enough to the treeline for wind protection if the weather turned.
Saoirse was kneeling a few meters away, coaxing a small fire to life. It wasn’t for heat—we’d sleep warm enough—but for comfort, for light, and maybe a sense of control. She’d scavenged dry wood like she’d done it a hundred times, and she lit the kindling with practiced ease.
I didn’t offer to help. Didn’t need to. She had it handled.
And she was damned good. Better than I’d expected, if I was honest. But again, didn’t say it. One compliment and she’d probably torch me with whatever flint and steel she had in her kit.
The tent snapped taut under my hands, lines drawn, pegs secure. Ajax patiently watched the proceedings, curled beside my pack, head resting on his front paws, eyes always moving.
Once the fire caught fully and started licking up through the kindling, Saoirse rose, brushing off her palms and walking over. She pulled her hair back into a bun with a tie from her wrist, expression set in that composed mask she wore like a second skin.
Her gaze dropped to the tent. Then lifted back to me.
A beat.
Then, “Where’s mine?”
I didn’t flinch. But I also didn’t meet that gaze dead-on, because there was fire behind it now, and not the campfire kind.
“We’ve got one.” I kept my tone level. “Ultralight.”
Silence. The kind that didn’t belong in nature—too sharp, too heavy.
“One,” she repeated.
“Aye.”
Another beat. “For both of us?”
“Only made sense. We had to cut weight. Food for five days, gear, med kits, sat phone. Couldn’t spare the bulk for two shelters.” I shrugged. “Didn’t think it’d be a problem.”
“You didn’t think to mention it before now?”
I finally looked up. Her arms were crossed, her expression schooled tight, but I could see the flickers behind it—irritation, discomfort… something else she probably didn’t have a name for yet. Maybe didn’t want to.
“I didn’t think we’d be discussing sleeping arrangements like it was a five-star booking.”
That earned me a look that could’ve frozen the loch.
“It’s not about that,” she said, voice low. “It’s about expectations.”
“And it’s a tent,” I replied. “Not a honeymoon suite.”
A flash of something crossed her face. Not embarrassment. Not quite. But surprise, maybe, that I’d go there—cut through the tension with dry humor instead of apology.
Ajax let out a quiet huff like he was already tired of our nonsense.
I gestured to the setup. “It’s double-length. Two separate bags. You’ll have space.”
She didn’t answer right away, instead walking past me to look inside. She ducked her head through the opening, inspecting every seam as if maybe she expected to find me hiding an ulterior motive in the mesh lining.
Finally, she stepped back and gave a curt nod.
“Fine,” she said. “But I’m not spooning you if it drops below freezing.”
I blinked. Then laughed. Couldn’t help it.
“There’s a first aid kit in the side pocket,” I said. “You might need it after that ego wound.”
She didn’t smile. But she didn’t scowl either.
Progress.
Ajax rose and stretched, then ambled toward the tent and flopped down squarely in front of it, like a bouncer barring the door. His tail gave a single whump against the ground before he settled.
I eyed him. “Diplomatic as ever, mate.”
Saoirse crouched down beside him, ran a hand over his shoulder. “He doesn’t want to listen to us bicker all night.”
“Canna blame him.” I grabbed the cook kit and set about unpacking our no-frills dinner. “You want curry pouch one or curry pouch two? One has a picture of a mountain goat. The other’s a mystery.”
“Surprise me.”
“Bold choice.”
Ajax had flopped down like a soldier on leave.
His nose twitched toward the wind, tail giving the occasional lazy flick as Saoirse crouched beside him, running her hands gently over his shoulders, his flanks.
A check for injury, sure—but there was more to it.
The way she moved with him, slow and steady, like she’d been doing this for years.
Which, of course, she had. I had to keep reminding myself she was a lot closer to my age than I’d originally thought.
“Still good?” I flicked the fuel tab under our pot of boiling water.
“He’s not showing any soreness or fatigue.” Her fingers traced the edge of one of his saddlebags. “Gait’s clean. Appetite was decent. He seems… happy.”
“Good to hear,” I murmured.
Happy wasn’t a word I’d expected to associate with Ajax. Not yet.
Saoirse shifted to sit cross-legged beside him, letting the dog use her thigh as a pillow without a word. His eyes blinked slowly and then closed. Lucky bastard.
I pulled the satellite phone from my pack and gave her a quick glance. “I’ll check in.”
She nodded, but didn’t move. Ajax’s ears twitched once. I stepped a few paces away from the fire to make the call.
“Nomad to base, check-in one.” I kept my voice low but clear.
Alex’s voice came back almost instantly. “Copy that, Nomad. How’s the weather?”
“Calm and clear. We made good progress today. About ten clicks in, give or take. No visual on anything yet.”
“Any signs of the camps?”
“None. Should hit Isla’s first station by mid-morning tomorrow.”
“Understood. You two all good?”
I glanced back. Saoirse hadn’t moved, still petting Ajax with soft, rhythmic motions that seemed unconscious. “We’re fine. She’s holding up.”
“Keep us posted. I’ll expect check-in two around 0900. Echo out.”
“Copy that. Nomad out.”
I killed the call and dropped the phone back into its pouch. Dinner was ready. Two steaming pouches of vaguely curry-scented mush. Gourmet, it was not. But hot food was hot food.
I stirred the contents. “Dinner.”
Saoirse rose smoothly, brushing dirt from her trousers, and took the offered pouch with a small nod of thanks. We ate in relative silence at first, side by side near the fire. Ajax settled in at our feet again, radiating heat and canine serenity like some kind of four-legged Switzerland.
I was halfway through my meal when I made a play for conversation. Neutral territory. “Tell me about Pippin.”
She glanced up, startled. “My cat?”
“Aye. What’s he like?”
Something shifted in her expression—not softening, exactly, but loosening. Her brow smoothed, and she looked down at her food like she was debating whether to answer.
“He’s cantankerous. Moody. Possibly plotting my death for leaving him with Grandda. But he’s family.” A beat. “I found him when he was a kitten. Someone had set an illegal snare. His back leg was a mess. The surgery was one of the first procedures I completed on my own after I finished school.”
I watched her as she said it, how her voice dipped subtly—warm, sure, almost proud.
“He never really forgave me for it. But he lets me cuddle him sometimes at his command, so I consider that a win.”
“Sounds like he’s got a healthy sense of boundaries.”
“He’s a cat.” She gave the barest twitch of a smile. “They invented boundaries.”
There was a lull—comfortable, for once—so I let myself ask, “Did you grow up with animals?”
Her face twisted in something between a grimace and a laugh. “God, I wanted to. Dogs, cats, horses—everything. It was like a wildlife rescue center every summer at my grandparents’. But my mother—” She broke off with a shake of her head.
Mother, I noted. Not Mum.
“Not a fan?” I guessed.
“My mother kept a Bichon frisé named Celeste. Wore little jumpers. Ate boiled chicken and rice off a china saucer. She thought animals were for showing off, not for touching .” Saoirse stabbed her fork through a chunk of congealed chickpea.
“She used to lose her mind when I brought home injured birds or hedgehogs. Said it was unsanitary .”
“And becoming a vet?”
“Oh, she loved that.” Dry sarcasm practically steamed off the fire with her breath. “Said it was a perfectly filthy profession. Bodily fluids and ungrateful clients and unseemly country types. Very glamorous.”
I studied her profile—how her jaw tightened, the glint of old friction in her eyes. Too dim for rage. Not hard enough for bitterness. Merely… exhaustion. The kind of weathering you got from years of being told your instincts were wrong.
Her fingers brushed unconsciously over the fading bruise along her cheekbone.
“Some days she calls to ask if I’ve found a ‘nice small animal clinic in a proper city yet.’” She gave a tired laugh. “As if mucking out stables and dodging pissed-off horses wasn’t exactly the point.”
I said nothing, unable to tear my eyes off her.
And in the firelight, with her eyes rimmed in smoke-shadow and the last of the bruise yellowing along her cheek, I realized I’d had her pegged all wrong.
She had the voice of Mayfair and the posture of a woman raised in gardens with hired staff. But underneath?
Underneath, she was grit and soft-spoken rebellion and worn-in boots she didn’t give a damn about scuffing.
“Hell of a mismatch,” I said before I could stop myself.
She looked over. “What is?”
“You and her.”
A pause. Then she nodded once. “Yes. But I got lucky. I had Grandda. He taught me that loving animals wasn’t childish or foolish. It was a kind of calling.”
“Smart man.”
“Stubborn as hell.”
“Still smart.”
And then, finally, a real smile broke over her face. Crooked. Small. But real.
“Thanks.” The word came out a little rough.
Ajax thumped his tail once against the dirt between us.
“Think he approves,” I said.
“Probably just wants a bite of your dinner.”
“God help him if he does.”
She laughed. Actually laughed. A quiet thing that came from her chest instead of only her mouth.
And in that moment, sitting cross-legged in the firelight, I knew I was in more trouble than I’d realized.
Because this wasn’t professional respect anymore.
This was intrigue.
And that was always a bad idea.