Chapter 8
MARY
Anything but That
(Or How Going Back Home Doesn’t Go Entirely as Planned)
The plumber arrives twenty minutes late.
I don’t hold it against him because, technically, I’m already at the end of my rope, and twenty extra minutes won’t change the disaster my life has become.
He inspects the living room ceiling with the leisurely pace of a snail that has all day ahead of it.
Which probably isn’t even the case.
“So?” I finally ask after what feels like an eternity.
He scratches his graying beard.
“It’s not great.”
“I’d noticed, thanks.”
“The whole ceiling’s gonna have to be redone. The plaster’s ruined. And we’ll need to check whether the water damaged the beams. Not to mention redoing the plumbing entirely, of course.”
My stomach tightens.
“How long will it take?”
“I’d say two months. Minimum.”
I blink.
“You said it would be quick…”
“Yeah, well, I took a better look. It’s worse than I thought. The bathtub leak is only the tip of the iceberg. Honestly, you should be glad it happened, because it helped me spot another pipe that was about to burst.”
Of course.
Because my life can’t simply be catastrophic.
It has to be epically catastrophic.
“So what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Not my problem, miss. I fix houses. I don’t house people.”
He shrugs with an indifference that makes me want to throw something at his face.
I should probably work on that impulse, because throwing things at people has never solved anything.
I take a deep breath.
Count to five.
Then to ten.
Then abandon the idea of staying calm altogether.
“All right. Start the repairs as soon as possible.”
“Earliest I can do is next Monday. Got other jobs before yours.”
“Next Monday?” I choke out.
“That or in a month. Your call.”
I clench my jaw so hard I wonder whether I’ll need to see my dentist very soon.
“Monday will be fine,” I mutter at last.
He leaves with the same slowness he arrived with, leaving me alone in the middle of my devastated living room, my buckets lined up like soldiers in a pathetic army.
I stare at my phone as though it might magically provide a solution, but of course, nothing happens.
I let out a sigh and grab my parka from the entryway.
If I can’t solve my own problems, I can at least deal with my patients’.
I have a feeling today is going to be very long.
The bakery smells amazing.
That’s undeniable.
The room above the bakery, however, feels like a sauna scented with yeast and accompanied by a heavy metal soundtrack.
“There you go,” Mr. McKenzie says while showing me around what can only be described as a closet. “Cozy, isn’t it?”
“Cozy” is a generous euphemism for tiny, suffocating, and probably illegal.
The single bed is shoved against the wall.
The window only opens halfway.
And the heat rising from the ovens downstairs turns the place into a furnace.
I’ve already considered several backup options.
Except nothing seems to be going my way right now.
Mrs. MacLeish’s bed and breakfast?
“Sorry, sweetheart, we’re fully booked.”
The inn in Inverness?
Not a single room left.
Even Emma, my cousin by marriage who lives in a tiny apartment above the dry cleaner’s, has no room.
“Lachlan turned the sofa bed into a bookshelf. I’m really sorry, Mary.”
So when I walked into the bakery to buy food for my emotional breakdown, and the baker offered to rent me the little room upstairs, I thought I’d been saved.
That was before I stepped into the closet Mr. McKenzie calls a bedroom.
“Is it always this hot?” I ask, wiping sweat from my forehead.
“Depends. In summer, yeah.”
He pauses to think.
“Winter too, actually. But it saves money on heating.”
I glance toward the tiny adjoining bathroom, so small I wonder how anyone enters it without slamming into every available surface.
“And the noise?”
“What noise?”
At that exact moment, music blasts somewhere downstairs.
Heavy metal.
Screaming guitars and drums that sound like a jackhammer.
Mr. McKenzie smiles.
“Oh, that. That’s just my son. He likes listening to music while kneading dough. Motivates him.”
“What time does he start?”
“Four in the morning. Every day. Even Sundays.”
I close my eyes.
Inhale.
Exhale.
“I’ll think about it.”
“It’s a hundred pounds a week,” he adds. “Paid in advance.”
A hundred pounds to slowly roast alive while listening to Metallica at four in the morning.
I barely manage to suppress a bitter grimace.
“I’ll let you know.”
I end up sitting in my car parked outside the bakery, forehead pressed against the steering wheel.
Even the smell of the fresh scones I just bought fails to cheer me up.
No matter how I turn the problem around in my head, I know there’s only one option left.
No.
Anything but that.
I let out a low groan, but my phone is already in my hand, my fingers hovering over the number I swore I’d only use in case of extreme emergency.
I bite the inside of my cheek before pressing the call button.
“Hello?”
Maggie’s voice is cheerful.
“Grandma, it’s Mary.”
“Hello, sweetheart! How are you?”
There aren’t thirty-six ways to do this, so I might as well do it quickly and properly, like ripping off a Band-Aid.
“I need help.”
Silence.
Then:
“Tell me everything.”
I explain the situation: the water damage, the upcoming repairs, the impossibility of finding a place to stay in the village.
“Oh, you poor thing!” she exclaims. “I have the perfect solution!”
“You do?”
“Absolutely! Come stay at the castle. We have plenty of room.”
I stare at the bakery storefront through the windshield while considering my options.
But honestly, between the bakery from hell and McGregor Castle, the choice is obvious.
“I’ll come by late this afternoon.”
“Wonderful! I’ll let Jamison know.”
My car is loaded with suitcases and my morale is at rock bottom when I pull up in front of the castle.
Jamison greets me with his usual professionalism.
“Miss Mary. Welcome. Mrs. McGregor is expecting you.”
“Where is she?”
“In the sitting room. But allow me to take you directly to your apartments. She asked me to make sure you’re comfortably settled.”
My apartments.
The word feels pretentious for what’s probably a servant’s room, but at this point, I’d gladly take a broom closet as long as it’s not above a metal-loving baker.
To my surprise, Jamison heads toward the castle entrance.
When he notices I haven’t followed him, he turns back toward me.
“The castle will soon be full because of the upcoming Highland Games,” he informs me. “Your cousins are all on their way. You’ll be staying in one of the cottages, which will offer both peace and privacy.”
Am I truly surprised by this latest twist of fate?
Honestly, not at all.
I probably should’ve seen it coming.
My life has become a living illustration of Murphy’s Law: everything that can go wrong will go wrong.
Jamison leads me through the castle grounds.
The late afternoon sun illuminates the gray stone, and despite my exhaustion, I have to admit the place has charm.
My gaze lands on an animal.
Hamish.
The family’s legendary sheep is standing near a tree, staring at me.
Not like a normal sheep.
No.
He’s looking at me like he knows something I don’t.
“Hello, Hamish,” I say as I walk past.
He lets out a bleat, then falls into step behind us.
“Hamish, no. I’m tired. I don’t have the energy for your nonsense.”
He keeps following me, trotting along with determination.
Jamison, walking ahead of me, doesn’t seem to notice.
Or pretends not to notice.
With him, you never really know.
We reach the cottage, a charming stone building with small-paned windows and a polished wooden door.
“This will be your accommodation, Miss Mary. You’ll be sharing the space with our other new temporary resident.”
I stop dead.
“Our other what?”
“Temporary resident,” Jamison repeats as though this is perfectly logical. “The castle is indeed full, but this cottage contains two separate bedrooms. You’ll still have your privacy, naturally.”
I don’t even have time to ask who this other resident is because Jamison has already opened the door.
“If you’ll follow me.”
He leads me into a small, cozy living room.
With a fireplace.
Soft armchairs.
And… a sheep.
It’s not Hamish, who remained outside the cottage door.
This is another sheep.
Massive.
Imposing.
With thick black wool and a stare filled with what can only be described as pure contempt.
“Ragnar,” I say weakly.
“He appears to have made himself at home here today,” Jamison explains.
“And nobody chased him out?”
“He’s rather difficult to move, but I’m certain he won’t stay long.”
The sheep continues staring at me.
“Your room is the one on the right upstairs,” Jamison says, completely ignoring the intense visual duel taking place between Ragnar and me. “I’ll leave you to settle in.”
And then he leaves me alone with the animal.
I straighten, slipping into professional veterinarian mode.
“Ragnar, we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Mary. I’m a veterinarian. You have nothing to fear, but you are going to have to leave.”
I slowly approach him, hand outstretched, using every calming technique I’ve ever learned.
Ragnar lets out a low growl.
A growl.
A growling sheep.
Well, apparently I’ve seen everything now.
“It’s okay,” I murmur. “I just want to make sure you’re all right.”
I keep advancing.
Ragnar backs up.
“Come on. Be nice.”
He stares at me with unsettling intensity.
Then, without warning, he charges.
I yelp and throw myself backward, crashing onto the couch.
Ragnar stops mere inches away from me, looming over me as though trying to prevent me from standing.
“Ragnar, stop!” I say in what I hope sounds authoritative.
He doesn’t move.
Just stares.
Judges me.
That’s the exact moment the front door opens.
A male voice, gruff and tired, echoes through the room.
“Ragnar, enough!”
The sheep immediately stops and turns around.
Then, as if by magic, his entire attitude changes.
He trots toward the newcomer with affectionate bleats, rubbing against his legs like an oversized, deeply devoted cat.
Slowly, I sit up, heart pounding, and lift my eyes toward the man who just walked in.
Tall.
Dark hair.
Rain jacket.
Face…
No.
No, no, no.
It’s him.
The man with the Land Rover.
The one who pulled me out of the ditch.
The one I accused of being condescending before taking back my thanks.
He stares at me too, and I can tell he recognizes me.
His expression shifts somewhere between discomfort and resignation.
“You,” I blurt out.
“You,” he replies in the exact same tone.
We remain frozen there while Ragnar keeps rubbing against him with obvious satisfaction.
“What are you doing here?” I finally ask.
“I live here.”
“Excuse me?”
“Temporarily,” he clarifies.
I look at Ragnar.
Then at him.
Then back at Ragnar.
Then at him again.
“Is this a joke?”
“I wish.”
He kneels to scratch Ragnar’s head, and the sheep looks blissfully happy.
The same sheep who, thirty seconds ago, was prepared to trample me.
“Is that your sheep?” I ask incredulously.
He lifts his eyes toward me and looks at me as though I’ve lost my mind.
“No. But he seems to think otherwise.”
“He follows you everywhere?”
“Since I arrived, yes. Apparently, I’m the chosen one.”
The sarcasm in his voice almost makes me smile.
Almost.
“He just charged at me.”
“I know. I saw.”
We look at each other.
The absurdity of the situation settles over us like thick fog while my brain finally connects the dots.
There’s only one outsider around here right now, and he’s the one every villager has spent days complaining about.
“So,” I say slowly, “you’re the doctor everyone in the village keeps talking about.”
“Finn McLeod,” he says. “And you’re the veterinarian who came back to the Highlands. Mary McGregor.”
Silence settles between us.
Then, as though the situation isn’t surreal enough already, Hamish appears at the window.
Watching both of us.
I gesture toward him.
“And that’s Hamish. The two of them hate each other. Nobody knows why.”
The doctor looks at Hamish, then Ragnar, then me, but says nothing.
I sink back against the couch cushions, suddenly exhausted by this day that absolutely refuses to leave me alone.
“What a day,” I murmur.
He sits in the armchair across from me, and Ragnar settles at the feet of his favorite human like an especially devoted guard dog.
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“What brought you here?”
“A village meeting at dawn to discuss my ‘unsuitability for the Highlands.’”
I arch an eyebrow.
“Seriously?”
He nods gravely.
“Public vote included. Six votes against one. Mine.”
A small laugh escapes me despite myself.
“It’s the Highlands… Nothing ever changes around here.”
Outside, Hamish bleats.
Ragnar answers with a sound that resembles a sheep insult.
The doctor sighs.
“This is going to be a long cohabitation, isn’t it?”
I look at him.
This gruff man who pulled me out of a ditch, who seems just as trapped as I am, and who somehow managed to win the heart of a psychotic sheep.
“Very long,” I confirm.
Ragnar looks back and forth between us, visibly pleased with how events are unfolding.
Outside, I watch Hamish wander away through the park.
The strangest day of my life has just taken an even more absurd turn.
And I haven’t even unpacked my suitcases yet.