Chapter 22
ALISTAIR
Territories and boundaries
Martha knocks on my office door while I’m buried in quarterly reports. Three quick knocks, a pause, then one final tap—her personal code for something unusual is happening.
“Mr. Alistair,” she says as she steps inside, “you have a visitor.”
“I don’t have any appointments this morning,” I reply without looking up.
“That’s exactly the issue. It’s Callum McGregor. He says it’s urgent.”
That gets my attention.
Callum? Here?
The last time a McGregor—other than Keira—set foot on our land, it ended in a full-blown brawl at the 2012 whisky festival. There were photos in the local paper.
“What does he want?”
“He says it’s about Hamish. Apparently… he might be here.”
Hamish. Of course.
The same sheep who already caused a minor diplomatic incident by falling in love with Rosita, our prize ewe. I should’ve known that particular romance wasn’t over.
“Where is he?”
“At the distillery entrance. He refuses to step any farther without explicit permission. Something about enemy territory and protocol.”
I bite back a smile. That sounds exactly like Callum.
“Tell him I’m on my way.”
I take a second to straighten my tie and run a hand through my hair. Not that I’m trying to impress Keira’s brother. Just… maintaining standards.
Callum is waiting exactly where Martha said he’d be—like there’s an invisible line he refuses to cross. When he sees me, he straightens.
“McKenzie,” he greets with a nod.
“McGregor,” I reply in kind. “I hear you’re looking for a sheep.”
“Hamish disappeared last night. Given his recent preferences, I thought he might be here.”
“So you’re accusing my estate of harboring a woolly fugitive?”
A grin tugs at his mouth. “I’m not accusing anyone. Just observing that your land seems to house certain irresistible attractions.”
“You’re welcome to search,” I say, gesturing inside. “But I should warn you—we haven’t spotted any four-legged McGregors today.”
“Appreciated.”
We walk toward the main buildings.
“How’s Keira?” I ask, aiming for casual.
“She was fine this morning,” he says, watching me out of the corner of his eye. “Why? You haven’t spoken today?”
“Not yet. We’re meeting later. Highland Games prep.”
He nods. “Those games matter, you know. Not just an excuse to drink and throw logs.”
“I’m aware of their cultural significance,” I say, a little sharper than intended.
“Of course. You’re the big defender of tradition—with your modernization plans and high-tech visitor center.”
I stop.
“My project is about preserving those traditions—making them accessible. If we stay stuck in the past, we disappear.”
Callum studies me.
“That’s exactly what Keira says.”
The words catch me off guard.
Keira and I… agreeing?
It’s both unsettling and oddly satisfying.
We continue across the courtyard, a few workers glancing at us like we’re some rare phenomenon—McKenzie and McGregor walking side by side without fighting.
“If we’re looking for Hamish,” I say, “we should start with Rosita’s pen.”
“Logical.”
But Rosita greets us alone—with what sounds like a distinctly disappointed bleat.
“She looks let down,” Callum observes.
“Maybe she was expecting someone else.”
“Even sheep have romantic expectations, apparently.”
We search the storage areas, fermentation rooms, and aging cellars.
No sign of wool.
“You know,” Callum says as we pass rows of oak barrels, “Keira’s always been fascinated by distilleries.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. When she was eight, she built a mini distillery in her room. Used Maggie’s apple juice as a substitute for whisky.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
“What happened?”
“Catastrophic explosion. The juice fermented faster than expected. Bottles blew up. Her room smelled like rotten apples for weeks.”
I can’t help it—I laugh.
“I wish I’d seen that.”
“She was furious,” he continues, smiling. “Not about the mess—about the failed experiment. She swore she’d figure it out and try again. That’s Keira. Failure isn’t an option.”
“I’ve noticed,” I murmur.
We step outside, sunlight warming the Highland air.
“She didn’t just love history,” he goes on. “For a while, she wanted to be a chemist. Specialize in distillation. She even had a program picked out in Edinburgh.”
That surprises me.
“What happened?”
“Life. Responsibility. When our father died, there was too much to handle. She stayed. Gave it up to keep everything together.”
I fall quiet.
I’ve never thought about what she gave up.
To me, Keira has always been… unshakable. Certain. Untouchable.
“She never talks about it,” I say.
“Of course not. She hates the idea of anyone thinking she’s not exactly where she wants to be.”
We reach the southern edge of the property—the border between our lands.
“That’s it,” Callum says, stopping by the low fence. “The line. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“Which part?”
“These divisions. Look at it. Your land. Our land. Same soil. Same grass. Same air. The sheep don’t care. The plants don’t care. Only humans draw lines.”
There’s something deeper in his tone.
“Boundaries can be necessary,” I say carefully. “They define us.”
“Sometimes. Sometimes they’re arbitrary,” he counters. “But once they’re crossed… things don’t go back to the way they were.”
I don’t answer.
Warning? Advice? Something else?
“You know this used to be one estate?” he adds suddenly.
“What?”
“McKenzie and McGregor land. One domain. Long ago.”
“I thought we’d always been rivals.”
He pulls out his phone, shows me an old map.
“Highlands, 1850. One name across the valley—McKenzie-McGregor.”
I stare at it.
Stunned.
“Where did you find this?”
“Archives. Keira’s not the only one who digs into history.”
“Why show me?”
He shrugs. “Maybe I’m tired of the rivalry. Maybe I want to understand why my sheep keeps crossing that fence.”
Before I can respond—
A crash echoes from the fermentation area.
We both turn.
“That’s Hamish,” Callum says instantly. “I’d recognize that brand of chaos anywhere.”
We run.
Inside, the scene is… catastrophic.
Hamish stands in the middle of the room, happily chewing malt, surrounded by destruction.
“How did he even get in here?” I mutter.
“Hamish!” Callum snaps. “You walking disaster!”
The sheep looks at us—completely unapologetic—and goes back to eating.
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Not in my distillery. Blood’s terrible for fermentation.”
Callum blinks—then laughs.
“You’ve got humor, McKenzie. Who knew?”
“Hidden talent. Like your sheep’s infiltration skills.”
We search the room and find it—a low ventilation grate, open, leading into a narrow tunnel.
“What is that?” Callum asks, crouching.
“No idea. This building dates back to the 19th century. It’s not on any modern plans.”
Hamish trots over proudly.
“You found a secret passage?” Callum mutters. “You absolute idiot.”
I shine a flashlight inside.
“It could be ventilation. Or—”
“A tunnel between our lands,” Callum finishes. “Would explain everything.”
A physical remnant of a time when our estates were one.
“We should explore it,” I say.
“You can. I’ve got a criminal to escort home.”
He grabs Hamish’s collar—but the sheep resists, pulling toward an old barrel in the corner.
“What now?” Callum groans.
Hamish nudges it insistently.
“I think he’s showing us something,” I say.
“Or more food.”
We step closer.
The barrel is old—oak, worn… carved initials.
A.M. and E.M.
“Archibald McKenzie and Elspeth McGregor?”
Callum runs his fingers over the engraving.
Hamish wedges his nose into the barrel, pulls out something, chewing.
“Barley?” Callum frowns.
“Fate works in strange ways,” I murmur.
“You believe in that?” he asks.
I never have.
But standing here—with the tunnel, the barrel, the map…
“Not usually,” I admit. “But lately… there’ve been too many coincidences.”
We fall silent.
“You know,” Callum says eventually, scratching Hamish’s head, “Keira doesn’t believe in fate either. Says we make our own path.”
“She’s right.”
“Maybe. But sometimes… it feels like the path was already there. Waiting.”
He tugs Hamish along.
“I should get this menace home.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
On the way back, he speaks again.
“When Keira told me about your engagement, I was furious. Thought it was a mistake. Or worse—some scheme.”
I keep my expression neutral.
“And now?”
“I don’t know anymore. I see how she is with you. How you are with her… maybe I was wrong.”
I don’t know what to say.
“Callum, I—”
“I’m not asking for explanations,” he cuts in. “Just one thing—Keira’s strong. But she’s more vulnerable than she lets on. She’s already sacrificed a lot. Don’t make her sacrifice her heart too.”
Then he’s gone.
Leaving me standing there.
Thinking about everything.
The tunnel. The barrel. The past.
And Keira.
The line between what’s real and what’s not is getting thinner every day.
Like Callum said—once certain boundaries are crossed…
There’s no going back.
And I’m starting to wonder if I’ve already crossed one I’ll never be able to undo.