Chapter 10
KEIRA
Hamish’s Sanctuary
I need to escape. To breathe. To be alone with my thoughts, far from the inquisitive looks and endless questions from my family.
Two weeks have passed since that infamous tea at the McKenzies’, and the preparations for the engagement party—organized by Maggie, against my will, of course—are suffocating me like a life vest pulled too tight.
The Scottish sun plays hide-and-seek with the clouds as I make my way up the path winding through the hills.
A picnic basket swings from my arm, and behind me, Hamish trots along with the enthusiasm of a schoolboy on an outing.
For a sheep who spends his time causing chaos, he seems strangely happy to be accompanying me on this improvised escape.
“Pick it up, you walking ball of wool,” I call over my shoulder. “At this rate, we’ll get there by dinner.”
Hamish lets out a bleat that sounds suspiciously like an exasperated sigh, but he quickens his pace nonetheless.
My refuge is a small clearing hidden between two hills, in the valley that separates the McGregor lands from those of the McKenzies. An old weeping willow offers generous shade, and a clear stream babbles peacefully nearby. This is where I used to come as a child when I wanted to escape my parents.
I set down my basket and spread a blanket over the green grass.
“There. That’s better,” I murmur.
I lie back and close my eyes.
Far from the engagement preparations. Far from the constant reminders that I’ve committed myself to the most absurd masquerade in the history of the Highlands.
A shadow passes over my face. I crack one eye open and find Hamish watching me with what I could swear is sympathy before wandering off to graze.
I let him go, knowing he won’t stray too far.
He has a remarkable sense of direction for an animal whose main concern is deciding which rose bush to destroy next.
I sit up and pull out my sketchbook. I begin sketching ideas for the cultural center.
Pencil in hand, I lose myself in lines and shapes, momentarily forgetting the complications of my personal life.
Here, it’s just me, the Highland wind, and my dream of creating a place that honors our traditions while making them accessible to future generations.
The sudden silence alerts me. A silent Hamish is usually a Hamish up to something.
“Hamish?” I call, getting to my feet.
No answer. No bleat. Not even the sound of teeth methodically tearing grass.
I slip my sketchbook back into my bag and go looking for him. Knowing him, he could be triggering an avalanche—an impressive feat in summer—or terrorizing a group of unsuspecting hikers.
“Hamish!” I call louder as worry creeps in.
I round a rocky outcrop and stop short at the sight before me.
A few yards away, Hamish stands facing Rosita—the McKenzie sheep. But it’s not their presence that leaves me speechless. It’s what they’ve created.
The clearing has been transformed into something that can only be described as a love nest for sheep.
Tufts of grass have been gathered into what looks like a carpet.
Wildflowers are scattered all around, some of them clearly freshly picked.
And Hamish—that woolly menace—is delicately offering a sprig of heather to Rosita, who accepts it with a flutter of her lashes worthy of a romantic film.
“Well,” I breathe, astonished. “And here I thought you lived only to terrorize the castle gardeners.”
Both sheep turn toward me, and I could swear Hamish looks embarrassed at being caught in such a tender moment.
“Don’t worry,” I add with a smile. “I won’t tell Callum. Your secret is safe with me.”
I approach slowly and sit down on a nearby rock, fascinated by this unexpected display of romance. Who would have thought that Hamish, with his impossible temperament, could be so attentive?
“So this is where you’ve been disappearing to for weeks?” I say. “You’ve created an entire sanctuary for your lady.”
Rosita approaches timidly and sniffs my hand. I stroke her gently.
“Hello, princess. I see our unruly sheep is treating you like a queen. You’re teaching him some manners—that’s good.”
The contrast is striking. Hamish, the rebellious McGregor sheep—undisciplined and chaotic—and Rosita, the elegant McKenzie ewe—graceful and refined. And yet, they’ve found a way to create this small haven of peace, far from family feuds.
A little like Alistair and me pretend to do… only theirs is real.
The thought hits me with surprising clarity. These two animals have a more honest relationship than we do. At least they aren’t pretending.
I sigh deeply and lean back against the rock, contemplating the unlikely scene.
“You know, Hamish,” I begin, feeling a little ridiculous confiding in a sheep but unable to stop myself, “I almost envy your simplicity. You see Rosita, you love her, you build a nest. No contracts, no fake engagement, no complicated families to deal with.”
Hamish lifts his head and looks at me with what I could swear is compassion—if sheep were capable of such a thing.
“Alistair isn’t… what I expected,” I admit softly. “He’s intelligent, stubborn, and funny. Despite our constant disagreements, I’m starting to enjoy his company. It’s… unsettling.”
Rosita walks over and rests her head on my knees, as if offering silent support. I can’t help but smile.
“Thank you for the therapy session, Doctor Rosita. I assume I’ll receive your invoice by post?”
The sound of footsteps on gravel makes me jump. I turn to find Alistair—infuriatingly handsome in simple jeans and a gray sweater—watching us with a mixture of amusement and surprise.
“So this is where the secret club of forbidden lovers meets?” he asks, a crooked smile on his lips.
My heart gives an inexplicable leap. Since when does his smile do that to me?
“How did you find me?” I ask, a little defensively.
He steps closer and affectionately strokes Rosita, who seems delighted to see him.
“I was actually looking for this young lady,” he says, gesturing toward her. “She’s been sneaking off regularly for the past few weeks. I followed her to see where she was going. I didn’t expect to find… this.”
He surveys the carefully arranged clearing with clear admiration.
“Did Hamish do all of this?”
“Apparently,” I confirm. “Who would have thought that walking disaster was a romantic at heart?”
Alistair laughs softly, and for some reason, the sound warms me.
“Proof that appearances can be deceiving.”
He sits down beside me on the rock, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, but not touching. A respectful distance—and yet, somehow, an intimate one.
“You were escaping the engagement preparations?” he asks.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Maggie called me this morning about table arrangements and flowers. I knew you’d find a way to disappear.”
I can’t help but smile.
“You’re starting to know me a little too well for our own good, McKenzie.”
“It’s my job as your fiancé, McGregor,” he replies, a playful glint in his eyes, “to know your escape habits.”
We fall silent, watching Hamish and Rosita, who—indifferent to our presence—simply enjoy the moment. No pretending. No hiding.
“They’re so… themselves,” I murmur. “No pretense.”
Alistair nods thoughtfully.
“They follow their instincts without worrying about consequences. About image. About reputation.”
“And without caring about centuries-old family feuds.”
A comfortable silence settles between us. Above, the sun still plays hide-and-seek with the clouds. And despite everything, I feel… good. At ease.
“Do you want to share my picnic?” I offer suddenly. “I brought far too much food for one person. It would be a shame to waste Mrs. Finley’s scones.”
“Mrs. Finley’s scones?” Alistair repeats, placing a hand over his heart in mock solemnity. “How could I possibly refuse such an offer?”
I laugh and stand, brushing off my trousers.
“Come on. My basket is a little further over.”
As we walk away, I cast one last glance at Hamish and Rosita. They’ve curled up together beneath a low branch, perfectly at ease in their little sanctuary.
A thought crosses my mind—
Maybe our sheep are wiser than we are.
Maybe they’ve understood something we, with all our human complications, have forgotten.
That sometimes… you simply have to follow your heart.
Even when it leads you across the border.