Chapter 6
Chapter six
Lance
Jacob, my neighbor’s collie, bounds into the burn. Splash!
He launches himself at the poor woman whose demise I’d watched from the path.
She’d been walking along in front of me, hips swaying to whatever was blaring through her headphones, two tiny terrier dogs weaving around her boots. It had been a pleasant view until she tripped over a log and vanished down the bank.
Jacob drags on his lead, desperate to investigate.
By the time I reach her, she’s sitting in the freezing burn, soaked to the bone, looking like she’s survived a Wild West battle.
Older than I first thought, forties maybe, with a craze of blonde curls plastered to her cheeks, her thick-rimmed black glasses sitting askew on her nose.
Jacob tries to help by washing her face with his tongue. I wade in and hold out a hand.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” I ask again. “Hell of a slide you took.”
She giggles, looking completely mortified. “Yes, sorry. Thank you for helping. Oh my fucking god, how embarrassing. I was too busy singing along to Elvis.” She glances around. “Shit. Where are the rats?”
“Rats?”
“Yes. The little rats I’m walking. Bet the little shits have done a runner again.” She huffs. “I know I’m going to lose one of them before their owners get back.”
“Rats? You were walking rats?”
“Not real rats, you dipshit.” She laughs, warm and full of humor. Completely unashamed. “Dogs. Tiny rat dogs.”
Fuck. She called me a dipshit. And somehow, I’m captivated.
A rustle in the bushes announces the escapees. They scamper down to the side of the burn, wagging their tails like they haven’t just abandoned her.
“Not your dogs, then?” I ask. “How come you’re walking them?”
“House-sitting. Over at Eden House. They came with the job.” She sighs. “The goat’s Satan, the cat’s a sadist, and the dogs treat me like hired help.”
“Sounds like you have your hands full…”
I help her wade out of the clear water. She clambers up the bank, and I place my hand on her back to steady her.
“It’s not what I expected,” she mutters. “But it’s a change.”
Back on dry land, she ruffles Jacob’s ears. He grins up at her in only the way a collie can, wide smile, floppy pink tongue. Cartoon caricature in real time.
“He’s not mine either,” I admit. “Got a new neighbor. She’s elderly. I take him on some longer hikes.”
“I suppose we should try an introduction again,” she says with a smirk. “My name’s Katie Clark, arrived here a few months ago.” She shakes her head as if remembering something funny. “And what a few months I’ve had.”
No idea what compels me to offer, but I hear myself say, “I have quite a bit of experience with animals. If you want, I could help.”
Her eyes narrow playfully. “What did you say your name was? For all I know, you could be an outlaw.”
“Major Lance McDonald, ma’am. British Army. Reasonably safe to be around.”
Her grin blooms, bright and wicked. “Well, Major, how can a lady refuse that offer?”
After rounding up all the four-legged troublemakers, we head toward Eden House. The owners are incredibly private. People in town whisper all kinds of nonsense—drug deals, trafficking, you name it. What people don’t understand, they invent.
We arrive at Katie’s little cottage. The second we step inside, I’m hit with warmth and calm. Flames crackle over wood, something mouth-watering simmers on the stove, and bright cushions are scattered everywhere.
Then I see the painting.
Hell.
A man railing a curvy woman over a table. Graphic. Sexy. And the bloody detail…
I blink. “Did you paint this?”
She flushes, cheeks turning magenta pink. “No, it’s inspiration.”
“Inspiration?”
“I’m an erotic novelist. I look at pictures of people fornicating to get going.”
“Get going?” My brows rise.
“To write, you dipshit. Don’t be a dirty bastard.”
I laugh, like really belly laugh. I can’t help it. She’s damn chaos wrapped in sugar. Totally dangerous.
“I’ll believe you, ma’am,” I say with a wink.
“So, Major McDonald,” she teases. “Tell me about yourself. Been in Aviemore long?”
“Aviemore born and bred, ma’am.” I pretend to tip an invisible cap. “Only left to serve her Majesty.”
The mugs clink as she pours the tea.
“Signed up for the British Army at eighteen. Sandhurst. Back here soon after, met Ainsley, and we had Hannah. Iraq was meant to be my last tour.” I swallow. The next part hurts. “Came home in July, found Ainsley with my so-called best friend.”
“Shit,” Katie blurts. “What a cow!”
Her bluntness makes me chuckle, the self-pity evaporating.
“Did you box the guy up?” she demands. “I hope you cut his dick off, fucking prick. Knobscratcher cheated on me countless times. Nothing fucks you up more.”
“Knobscratcher? Who the hell is Knobscratcher?” I choke out.
She wipes the tears from her eyes. “My ex-husband. Twenty years I wasted with that good-for-nothing bastard. He doesn’t deserve a name.”
There’s no hiding the pain behind the comedy. The break in her voice. The hurt she’s not ready to face. I understand.
The conversation drops away, silence settling between us.
And I feel it. The attraction. Strong and inconvenient. Ridiculous, if I’m honest.
Katie is older. Curvier. And completely not my type. But it’s there—the want, the need. She’s enchanting, and I don’t want to leave.
“Would you like some supper?” she asks softly. A simple question that hums with an invitation for more. I should decline, but…
“Katie,” I say, heart thumping, “I believe I would like that.”