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Finlay’s face lights up, and I feel the warmth of it bleeding into my chest, filling me with an urge to bury myself in it and steal some of his brightness. The good feeling is chased away by the pang of disappointment that Rhona hasn’t taken to me as much as Finlay has, but there’s still time. She’ll come around eventually.

Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

6

Lachlan

I place the hay bale farther out in the field; the cows are already starting to gather where I drop it even before I’ve fully set it on the ground. I turn the tractor off and hop down, pulling my shirt from my back pocket and wiping my brow with it. The weather is downright finicky lately; one day we get a regular downpour and the next I’m sweating in September.

I grin to myself, remembering the look on Keyanna’s face when she caught sight of me. It was a very obvious case of checking me out, and I find the idea of that satisfying. Even if only because I can assume it will only annoy her further, being attracted to me and not wanting to be.

It also assuages my reaction to her a bit.

I can’t pretend that her fiery hair and her freckles and her pouty mouth don’t appeal to me; on the contrary, if I weren’t so determined to maintain the upper hand when it comes to the newest addition to the MacKay clan, she might catch me having an obvious case of checkingherout. Which, just as I assume it is for her, is infuriating. Keyanna MacKay is the last person on earth that I should be even remotely interested in, physically or otherwise.

I scratch one of the cows—Bethie, I think, but it’s nearly impossible to keep up with the names Finlay gives these overgrown wooly pups—under the chin, grinning at her lowmooas she chews at a bit of hay. I’ll need to track down Girdie after this like I told Finlay I would; it’s true that she’s due anytime, and we’ve lost too many calves these last couple of months to mothers dropping in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Listen to you, I think bitterly.Practically one of them, aren’t you?

I remind myself why I’m really here—tending the farm being the furthest from it. In the six months since I arrived, I’ve searched the property high and low for answers to my predicament, foranythingthat might lead me to answers that might prolong my inevitable fate, but to no avail. After so long, I’ve started to worry that those answers don’t exist, but knowing what’s waiting for me if that’s true leaves me no choice but to press onward.

I wonder sometimes what my da might think if he knew I was making nice with the enemy; no doubt he’d tan my hide for even giving them a proper hello or the time of day—but I tell myself that if he knew why I had to, if he knew all the secrets and the lies were forhimas much as they are for me, I have to believe he would forgive me for it. Hopefully.

I pat Bethie’s neck, murmuring, “That’s a good girl.”

There’s no sign of Girdie on the horizon, and I worry that I’m in for a long day if she’s wandered off the property again. I should have just penned her when I brought her in earlier, but I caught sight of Keyanna and Finlay moving about the backside of the main house, and, well…I got distracted.

It’s just that it’s socurious. Her being here. Especially now. I can’t help but wonder if it means something. If thedaughter of MacKaymyfather warned me about has by chance stumbled into my lap at what might be my darkest hour. And what does it mean if she has?

Too many questions and not enough answers, I think.

Not yet, I promise myself.

I pat Bethie again, pulling my now-damp shirt over my head and fixing my cap after. I suppose I have other things to worry about for now. Can’t exactly play the part of a farmhand if I don’t actually do some farmhanding. The creek I found Girdie at is across the property, and something tells me she’s got it in her head that this will be a good place to give birth, as misguided as it is.

I glance up at the sky, noting there are hours of daylight left.

Good, I think.Plenty of time.

By the time I have Girdie penned up in the barn—I’m an absolute mess. My wellies are caked in mud, which creeps higher up the legs of my jeans, and I’m so drenched with sweat from this very uncharacteristically hot day for this time of year that my shirt clings to me like a second skin.

I latch the lock on the pen where Girdie is currently pacing back and forth, reaching between the bars to pat her snout. “There now, girl,” I soothe. “S’for your own good, aye?”

I hear footsteps behind me, and when I turn toward the barn entrance, I spot Brodie shuffling inside, carrying a bucket. He goes still when he sees me, his brow furrowing ever so slightly before giving me a stiff nod.

“Afternoon, Lachlan,” he says.

I nod back at him. “Same goes.”

“Got some scraps here for Finlay’s pig,” he says, lifting the bucketin explanation, looking awkward as he does. “Was looking for him to make sure there’s nothing he’s too finicky about letting the thing eat.”

Conversations like this are pretty much the norm for Brodie and me; he goes out of his way to avoid me when he can, and I’m happy to let that habit continue. The guy strikes me as a bit odd, really. Always skulking about the farm.

“Haven’t seen Finlay since this morning,” I tell Brodie. “He was showing your cousin around.”

“Ah.” Brodie nods. “Probably drove her off to show her some of his favorite spots, I’d wager.”

“Seems a good guess,” I answer.