Chapter 2
Mo
Now
Fearnhall, Scotland
As a general rule, Mo McDonnell did not believe in looking back. You make your choices and keep on moving. It’s best not to linger.
But now and then, she had a dream.
That morning, Mo had jolted awake from chasing a girl through a field of purple flowers, melting green Popsicles on checkered linoleum floors, and a black stallion in a circle of white petals.
She was 90 percent sure it meant nothing, but the possibility stoked something in Mo’s soul back to life.
She paced back and forth in front of her glowing laptop.
It was nearly the twentieth anniversary of her move to Scotland.
Perhaps that was why she’d dreamed of her niece, Delilah.
Or maybe it was the moment the photo fluttered to the ground like an autumn leaf when the old magnet holding it had run out of juice.
Mo had nearly missed the glossy corner jutting out from under the fridge.
She’d nearly missed what was happening now.
A hard knock on the door yanked her back into the room.
“Oi, Mo! Tell me you’re decent!”
Mo threw herself into the kitchen chair and clicked frantically to wake the now-sleeping laptop. “Uh, yeah,” she yelled back. “Come in!”
The doorknob rattled, accompanied by a muffled, “Fuck me, these gloves.”
Her screen brightened with a rainbow wheel spinning in its center. Mo silently willed technology to work for her, just this once.
“Lend us a hand?”
“Whaaat?” She did feel guilty leaving him in the cold, but she needed to buy herself time. “I can’t hear you! The rain!”
“Oh, aye,” he mumbled. “The raaain.”
The wheel vanished and her draft reappeared. She held her breath with her finger hovering over the trackpad.
She could turn back now and nothing would change. She would be safe.
Or . . .
Lachlan ducked inside from the black night in a flurry of frosty air—so unlike the skin-and-bones boy who’d first knocked at her cottage many years before. Mo slammed the laptop shut and stood, toppling her chair in her bid to seem casual.
His golden eyes narrowed as he stepped out of a heavy boot with a knowing smirk. “If you’re struck by lightning before morning, shall I clear your internet history?”
Mo’s shoulders bunched by her ears. “Guilty pleasure videos.”
He shrugged off his jacket. “Which ones?”
Mo thought of a lie. “Soldiers coming home.”
He tutted. “Propaganda.”
“Like I said. Guilty.”
Lachlan shook out his thick, auburn hair and held his woolly cap over his heart. “The ones with the dogs get me every time.”
Mo released her held breath. “Me too.”
“So, what’s it gonna be tonight?” He mimed great concern for the chair he’d recently refinished as he set it back on its feet. “Battleship? Or Scrabble?”
Mo set out two whisky glasses. “I’ve had enough of war for one evening.”
He squatted beside the crackling fireplace and ran his fingers along the stack of board games. “Battleship it is.”