Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
BLAIR
The wind whips my hair across my face as I stand at the ferry’s railing, watching Ardmara shrink behind us.
Even from this distance, I can see rows of little flags strung between streetlights along the waterfront, bright splashes of colour for the summer festival.
It’s already in full swing. Ellie assured me she’s performing both days, so I’ll get to hear her on her fiddle tomorrow.
Out here on the water, all that bustle feels far away. It’s just sea, sky, and the steady hum of the engines under my feet.
“Look!” Finn shouts, jabbing a finger toward the bow. Beside him, Gus noses the railing, tail wagging, eager to see whatever Finn has spotted.
Sleek grey shapes arc through the water, surfacing and vanishing in quick, playful rhythms as they pace the ferry. Dolphins. Finn’s grin goes incandescent, pure giddy delight.
“Amazing!” I lean over for a better look. “They’re probably racing us.”
Finn nods and giggles, his cheeks flushed pink from the salt air and excitement. He’s been bouncing on his toes since we boarded, thrilled to finally be a passenger on his father’s ferry instead of just watching it from shore.
I turn my attention to Lachlan, standing a few feet away with one hand braced against the railing.
He catches my eye and manages a smile, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw is set just a little too tight.
He’s putting on a brave face but this can’t be easy for him.
Riding the ferry to Corraig without being at the helm.
Knowing that this time he’ll actually have to set foot on the island.
“Careful,” I say, nodding at his white-knuckled grip on the rail. “You’ll strangle that thing.”
His mouth quirks up at the corner. “Keeps my hands busy.”
“If you need a better anchor, I’m right here.”
Something flickers across his face. Gratitude, maybe, or just relief that I get how hard this is for him. He glances at Finn, who’s still scanning the waves, though the dolphins are gone now.
“Fancy seeing the bridge?” he asks his son.
Finn’s eyes go wide. “Really? Can we?”
“Aye, of course.”
So we follow Lachlan through the passenger areas toward the front of the ferry, Gus’s tail swishing at the prospect of adventure. Lachlan gives the bridge door a quick rap before pushing it open and stepping inside.
The bridge is smaller than I expected but impressive in its efficiency, all clean lines and gleaming instruments, windows offering a panoramic view of the water ahead.
At the wheel stands a man with weathered features and grey hair.
When he sees Lachlan, his face splits into a big grin, the crow’s feet at his eyes crinkling even deeper.
“Well, well. Look what the tide washed in.”
“Innes.” Lachlan gives a short nod but there’s warmth behind it. “Meet Blair and Finn. Blair, Finn, this is Innes MacLeod. He covers the sailings I don’t do.”
“Hi!” Finn chirps.
“Nice to meet you.” I extend my hand and Innes shakes it with a firm grip.
“Innes has been very good to us,” Lachlan explains, quieter now. “Switched his schedule so I could do the runs that fit around Finn’s school.”
“Just made sense,” Innes says with a shrug. “Family comes first.”
I can’t help but smile at that. “That was really kind of you.”
He dips his head then looks at me with a glint of curiosity. “So, Blair, if you don’t mind me asking, how do you fit into this here crew?” He nods toward Lachlan, Finn, and Gus.
“Oh! I’m, uh, the nanny.”
“Well...” Lachlan clears his throat, colour creeping up his neck. “She’s a wee bit more than the nanny.”
“They kiss,” Finn announces matter-of-factly. Which, of course, sets us all off laughing.
“Out of the mouths of babes!” Innes, still chuckling, crouches a little to meet Finn’s eye. “Now, young man, how’d you fancy a turn at the wheel?”
Finn’s mouth drops open. “Really?”
“Aye, of course. You’re up, captain!” Innes nudges a wooden box into place by the wheel. “You might need this.”
Finn scrambles onto the box and grabs the wheel, his grin stretching ear to ear. Lachlan steps in behind him, steadying him, his much larger hands closing gently over Finn’s.
“Steady as she goes, lad,” he says, his voice low.
My chest squeezes at the sight. Father and son, guiding this massive vessel like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The ferry docks at Port Mairead, where whitewashed cottages huddle around the harbour as if bracing against the Atlantic wind.
We file off with the other foot passengers—no car today.
Stronaveagh, the village where Lachlan grew up, is a mile and a half along the coast, but he suggested we walk there.
Said it’d let Gus have “a bit of a runabout”.
I figure it also buys him a little extra time to brace himself before facing the village he hasn’t set foot in for four years.
We set off along a coastal path that hugs the shoreline, Gus’s nose twitching at all the new scents.
The narrow trail winds between patches of heather and gorse, bursting with purple and yellow.
To our left the sea glitters, to our right green hills rise.
Finn skips ahead with Gus, glancing back every so often to make sure we’re still following.
As the path curves, a rocky islet comes into view just offshore, dotted with black-and-white birds waddling about like tiny dignified butlers. “Puffins!” Finn shouts, pointing.
My breath catches. I’ve seen them in documentaries and children’s books before, but never in person. They’re adorable. Flashes of bright orange beaks and feet, their little tuxedo bodies shuffling about like they’re waiting to be seated at a black-tie dinner.
I glance at Lachlan, grinning, but his jaw has tightened again. I slip my hand into his and give it a squeeze, and for a moment at least it seems to draw him back to me.
Finn, oblivious to the tension radiating from his dad, chatters on about the puffins, then points excitedly when a seal’s whiskered face breaks the surface of the water before dipping under again.
A few steps later he’s chasing a butterfly.
His delight is infectious—for me, at least. Lachlan only seems to retreat further into himself the closer we get to his old home.
Soon we crest a small hill and a village comes into view below us: stone cottages with slate roofs clustered along the shoreline, more houses trailing up the slope behind.
A small church with a square tower and what looks like a community hall sit near the centre.
From up here it looks like something off a postcard or a period drama set—timeless, unchanged for decades, as if the outside world has forgotten it exists.
Lachlan halts. The wind tugs at his hair but he doesn’t otherwise move. His shoulders have gone rigid, his jaw tight enough to crack.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
He gives a single nod but no words. Then, after a moment, he sets off again, each step heavier than the last. We make our way into the village, and Lachlan leads us to a low cottage facing the small harbour, its bright blue door shouting louder than the muted greys and browns of the cottages around it.
He stops outside it, still saying nothing.
I glance at him uncertainly. “Is this the house you used to live in?”
Another wordless nod. The silence stretches so I turn to Finn. “Do you remember this place, buddy?”
Finn wrinkles his forehead, concentrating hard. “Aye, I think so.” But he sounds doubtful, like he’s trying to convince himself rather than actually remembering.
Before any of us can say more, the front door of the neighbouring cottage swings open and a man about Lachlan’s age steps out.
He’s broad-shouldered and sun-browned, with dark hair that looks like it never quite obeys a comb.
He stops dead when he sees us, eyes going wide, disbelief flashing across his face.
“Bloody hell,” he breathes. In the next heartbeat he’s striding over and hauling Lachlan into a fierce hug. Lachlan is rigid in his grip, and for a moment I’m not sure he’s going to react at all. But then he lifts a hand and hesitatingly pats the man’s back.
When he finally lets Lachlan go, the man beams at Finn. “Finlay! I don’t believe it. Last time I saw you, you barely came up to my knee!”
Finn blinks, uncertain, clearly not recognising him.
“I’m Torquil,” the man says, crouching a little as he offers his hand. “But everyone calls me Torq. I grew up with your mum and da.”
Finn shakes his hand, a shy smile forming. “Nice to meet you.”
Gus, apparently deciding he should introduce himself next, trots over to Torq and plants himself in front of him, tongue lolling, awaiting his hug or handshake.
Torq ruffles Gus’s ears with a laugh. “And who’s this handsome lad?”
“That’s Gus,” Finn says proudly.
Torq’s gaze swings to me. “And you must be . . . ?”
“Blair,” I say. “I’m the nanny.”
I don’t expect Lachlan to say what he said to Innes, that I’m “a wee bit” more than that. This is different. This man knew Leanne. Grew up with her.
“She’s...” Lachlan begins. “Well, she’s more than the nanny, actually.”
For a beat, everything hangs on Torq’s response. Then he chuckles. “Good for you, mate. I’m glad you’ve found someone. We’ve all been worried about you, you know.”
Relief softens Lachlan, loosening his shoulders, easing the tightness around his eyes.
“Right then,” Torq says. “Let me go round some folk up. Don’t you dare disappear on me, Lachlan Munro.” He strides off toward the next cottage along.
I lay a hand on Lachlan’s shoulder, just meaning to steady him, but he glances away. When he looks back, his eyes are suspiciously bright and he’s blinking hard.
Finn stares at him in horror. “Da? Are you crying?”
Red tinges Lachlan’s cheeks. “Aye, lad. Even Da cries sometimes.”
Without hesitation, Finn grabs one of his father’s hands and squeezes it tight. Then he shoots me a look and jerks his chin toward Lachlan’s other hand, as if to say, Well? What are you waiting for?
I take it, weaving my fingers through Lachlan’s and giving his hand a firm squeeze. A promise that he isn’t facing this alone.
“Lachlan Munro, as I live and breathe!”
We all turn to see a woman with a hand pressed to her chest. A man follows her from her cottage, then three kids tumble out too, wide-eyed and curious. Torq flashes us a grin and heads straight for the next house, knocking on its door too.
“Brace yourselves,” Lachlan mutters under his breath. “A lot of introductions are coming.”