Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
CAT
Sunlight filters through the forest canopy, dappling Bracken’s smooth chestnut coat as she moves steadily beneath me. After last night’s DIY disaster, a leisurely ride is the perfect therapy.
“This is more like it, eh, girl?” I give the mare a light nudge with my heels to keep her moving along the winding woodland path. “You and me, out here in the fresh air like old times. This is a whole lot better than wrestling with that bloody kitchen drawer.”
Bracken snorts softly, which I choose to take as agreement.
The drawer in question is currently lying in disgrace on my tatty linoleum floor after a late-night attempt to fix its wobbly runners went spectacularly awry. No amount of fiddling, Googling, or swearing could coax it back into place. Turns out those smug YouTubers who make DIY look easy are liars.
Still, despite my ongoing efforts to reassure myself that buying my flat was not, in fact, a colossal error of judgement, it is nice to be back in Bannock. Those six years away were great, but there’s something comforting about coming home, like pulling on an old jumper that still smells faintly of childhood memories.
And the best part? Once again living on the same street as Iona and Maisie, my best friends since, well, forever. It’s brilliant—or at least, it should be. In practice? Not so much, given they barely have time to hang out these days on account of being surgically attached to their boyfriends, who just so happen to be my brothers.
It was weird enough when Iona started dating Lewis—even though, to be fair, he’s basically been in love with her since dinosaurs roamed the earth. But then Maisie had to go and fall for Jamie!
Then, just when I thought things couldn’t get any weirder, Lewis and Iona announced a few days ago that they’re no longer boyfriend and girlfriend. No, they’re now fiancé and fiancée.
Which is lovely news, of course. Really. Heart-warming and very romantic. But I expect it means even fewer opportunities for girls’ nights.
Hmm. Seeing as everyone else has a man, I should probably pop into Inverness soon and find myself one. Not for romance, mind. Nah, just for a good shag.
Sorry, but it was a long year in Wick, okay?
A bead of sweat trickles down my neck, the August heat finding me even in the cool shade of the woods. I adjust my helmet then lean forwards to pat Bracken’s neck, only for my hand to come away damp.
“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.
Oh. My. God.
And then I see it: a glint of silver in the sunlight. A piercing through his right nipple. Not a straight barbell like the one in his eyebrow, but circular. How did I miss that before? And who gave him permission to throw that into the mix? Tattoos, muscles, brooding bad-boy energy, and a nipple ring? It’s a wonder I don’t drop dead on the spot.
Right, this is too much for me. Needing a distraction, I spin on my heel and make a big show of inspecting his cottage.
When Aidan considered buying it a few years back, it was run-down, but it’s now neat and well cared for. Through the spotless French windows, I spy a warm rustic kitchen with wooden cabinets and a sturdy oak table.
“Your place is looking great,” I call over my shoulder. “Who did you hire to do the renovations?”
Grunt. Thwack. Apparently, he’s gone back to chopping wood. “Did it myself.”
Considering Robbie has worked in maintenance at the Glen Garve Resort for years, I suppose it’s no shock he’s skilled, but even so, the work he’s done here is downright impressive.
I let out a low whistle. “You’re good with your hands. I like that in a man.”
A sharp breath escapes his nose, not quite a laugh, but close enough to make me wonder if that was his way of suppressing one. Wow, am I getting somewhere with him? And yet, when I glance back, his expression is as cold as ever. Damn.
“I actually just bought a fixer-upper on Main Street.”
Genuine interest lights up those frosty eyes for half a second before his default blank expression slams back into place. “Oh aye?” It comes out almost grudgingly, like he can’t help but be curious even though he resents it. And honestly, I don’t know whether to feel triumphant or insulted that this —not me bending over and giving him an excellent view of my arse, but this —is what finally gets his attention.
“Aye. I’ll be doing it up, just like you did this place up.”
“ You’ll be doing it up?”
“Yes.” I fire back my most saccharine smile. “ I’ll be doing it up.”
“You experienced when it comes to DIY, then?” He leans casually against the axe handle.
“Well...” I wave a hand breezily. “I wouldn’t say experienced , exactly.” Total novice, more like. “But anything I don’t know, I’m sure I’ll pick up in no time. I’ve been bingeing videos from home-improvement gurus on social media.”
His lips twitch—just the barest hint of a smirk—as though he finds this deeply entertaining. “Right.”
“They all swear if you’ve got the will, you can build pretty much anything,” I add, as though last night’s drawer debacle didn’t nearly end me. Fake it till you make it, right?
Robbie releases a low huff of sound and shakes his head. “Well, good luck with that.”
His tone is dismissive enough to make my blood simmer. Before I can decide whether to give him a piece of my mind or swallow my pride like an adult, he nods towards Bracken, who’s now contentedly munching on grass— his grass.
“Your horse is finished its water. And I’ve got jobs to be getting on with.”
Its? Its? Bracken’s a her , obviously. Anyway, it’s a clear dismissal. He might as well have said, You’ve got what you came for, now off you trot. Literally.
Heat creeps up my neck, not from embarrassment but from sheer indignation. I grab my helmet and gather Bracken’s reins. Fine!
I swing myself gracefully into the saddle then nudge Bracken forwards without sparing Robbie another glance, even though every fibre of my body is screaming at me to steal one last ogle at those muscles gleaming in the sunlight.
My resolve crumbles when we’re almost past him. The faint smell of pine shavings reaches my nose, mixed with the salty tang of his skin, and before I can stop myself, I call brightly, “Cheers for the water!” And then, because apparently some part of me refuses to leave with my dignity intact, I add with a cheeky wink, “And the show!”
* * *
“There you go, girl. Go see your friends.” I give Bracken’s rump a light pat, and she trots past me into the field. Her coat gleams, fresh from a well-deserved rubdown. I latch the gate behind her and lean against it, watching her wander over to join the others under the shade of an old oak. She dips her head to graze, completely at ease.
Bannock Stables has always felt like a home away from home. When I was thirteen, the owner, Janice, struck a deal with me—free lessons or a trek in exchange for mucking out stalls and helping with the younger riders. It was hard work but I loved every second of it. Now that I’m back for good, we’ve struck up a similar arrangement, one that’ll work around my teaching schedule.
A sharp whinny cuts through the quiet. I glance across the yard and spot Janice standing by the gate to the indoor arena, peering inside with her arms folded.
“Hey, Janice!” I head over.
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.