A thread of an idea was born of that.
She couldn’t stop the madness or the mayhem, either in the world or inside her head. Maybe it was that very helplessness that had eventually taken such a heavy toll on her psyche. So … if she couldn’t continue to subject herself to the ravages of war … perhaps she could turn her attentions to what happened after. What had those wars eventually wrought for the people who’d fought in them?
Maybe it was time to train her lens on the other side of the equation.
Smokescreen? Cop out? She wasn’t really sure. It was only a shadow of an idea … and she was aware she might simply be fooling herself into thinking there was merit to it, or substance in it worth pursuing. She was trudging over rocky soil at dawn, dodging sheep, and heading to the shore to take pictures of the abbey … and the tower … and later, the castle. From there, she wasn’t certain. She had research to do. And, if the wisp of an idea took on substance, there would be interviews to schedule.
It shouldn’t excite her, that burgeoning idea of hers. It should terrify her. But her fingers were itching to get to work. And she hadn’t felt like that in a very, very long time. Longer than she would have ever admitted—even to herself.
She scrambled over the second stone wall, navigated through another herd of mingling, black-faced sheep, then headed west around the base of Cruinish, toward the north track. The shoreline was still a mile off, but the distance melted away as the hike gave her time to think, to plot, to plan.
Kinloch wouldn’t be the most interesting place to document a history of then and now, but it was where she was, away from everything, and everyone who worked with her. No one would ever have to know if it turned out to be a ridiculous folly.
Deep in thought, feeling physically weary, but mentally energized by the new plan, she jumped a shallow gully that ran alongside the north track. She’d barely scrambled to the side of the road, slipping a little as she tried to gain purchase on the stretch of loose dirt and rocks between her and the pavement, when a single headlight pierced the fog, followed by the blare of a horn. The motorbike was right on her, leaving her no time to leap out of the way. Then came the sound of skidding tires, as it left the road on the far side and slid sideways in the soft dirt before depositing its rider into the bordering gully just beyond.
“Oh my God.” Tessa managed to right herself without falling back into the gully behind her, then ran across the narrow track. “Are you okay?” She had to shout over the sound of the motor that was still humming on the bike, but was more interested to find out if the driver was injured. “Are you hurt? Should I go for help?”
She gingerly skidded down the steep side of the gully, then hopped across the mud-and-water-filled trench at the bottom, slogging through the muck on the other side as she made her way to where the rider was presently rolling to his back, groaning. Well, swearing, actually, she realized, as she got closer.
“Just wait a second, I’ll help you.”
It wasn’t until she was almost on top of him that the heavy mists, still thickly banked down in the gully, parted enough so she could see him more clearly. “You,” she said, stopping short, the hand she’d been extending freezing in mid-reach.
“Christ, I should have known.” Roan sat up, ignoring her half-hearted gesture to help pull him up, then made a face as the muck oozed in around the waistband of his trousers when he shifted backward to reposition his booted feet. “Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.”
“Here,” she said, resolutely sticking her hand out. “Let me help.”
He eyed the hand as if she was shoving a snake at him.
“Look, I get that we’re not best buddies, but I’m not an ogre who takes pleasure from the misery of others.”
“Could have fooled me,” he muttered, as he pushed himself up. He climbed from muck to bank, then up to the side of the road where his bike still lay, the motor spinning.
“No, please,” she said flatly, “I can climb back up on my own.” She hopped the gully again, and found a rocky section that made climbing back to the roadside a bit easier.
He wasn’t paying any attention to her, but was crouching over his motorbike, which was now silent.
“Will it run?” she asked, walking toward him, despite the urge to simply turn around and keep on walking toward her original destination.
“Run, yes. Roll, I’m no’ so certain.”
She skimmed her gaze over the frame, and noted that one of the wheels did look a bit … warped. “That’s not so good.”
“No, it’s not. And I have an appointment at”—he glanced at his watch from habit, no doubt, only to swear under his breath again as his shirt cuff slid back to reveal the timepiece was covered in thick gunk, with a few choice pieces of gully debris sticking to it as well—“doesnae matter much now, anyway.” He straightened and moved the bike so it was well off the road.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, though she wasn’t certain why she was still engaging him in any form of conversation. He was clearly unhurt, and just as clearly not remotely caring whether she stayed or left. It was just … she didn’t feel right walking away from the scene of an accident. Especially one she was at least partly responsible for.
“Walk into town. Borrow Graham’s truck, pick up my bike, take it to Magnus’s shop.” He finally glanced at her. “What on earth were you about, wandering out here in the wee hours of dawn? The sun’s no’ even fully up yet.”
“Heading to the shore,” she answered, not that it was any business of his. But he didn’t look so smug with his ridiculously perfect dimple filled with gully mud. And that made him slightly less annoying to her. “I’d give you a lift, but as you can see”— she gestured to her feet—“I’m sorry though, for making you crash. I didn’t see the headlight until it was too late.”
There was a beat, then he said, “Not to worry. Worse things could have resulted.” He scraped the mud from his face and combed his gunked-up hair back from his face.
It was all kinds of wrong that looking like something from the La Brea Tar Pits made him seem much more rugged. She could imagine how smug he must have been when he realized she’d chosen him, and only him, as their best chance at getting into the Highlander calendar. It probably annoyed the hell out of the village charmer to look anything other than his GQ best.
“You might want to consider a shower first, before borrowing a truck,” she said. “Just a thought.”
He glanced down at himself, then surprised her with a smile and a short laugh. “I’d like to think Graham is a good enough friend no’ to mind a bit of mud.” He plucked a twig and a clump of muck from the pocket of his khakis. “But perhaps ye have a point.”
She refused to become one of the charmed. It would be a lot easier if he’d stop smiling. A gunk-filled dimple only diluted his charm so much.
He turned and looked back up the track from the direction he’d come, then the other way, which led into the village proper.
She had no idea where he lived, but she assumed they were closer to town than to his home. She couldn’t have said what prodded her to offer an alternative. Surely it was her guilty conscience talking. “Kira’s place is probably closest,” she said. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you cleaned up there. She’ll be up and in her studio by now.”
To her further surprise, she could have sworn he blanched. Just a little. Right