Page 13 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)
Chapter Nine
T he weekend vanished in a haze of long walks with Bronte and another phone call from my lovely, concerned in-laws pleading with me to go and stay with them.
I assured them I was fine, under the circumstances. What did fine actually mean? In my case, it meant limping from day to day, seeking some sort of twisted comfort in the beauty of the angry waves.
Over the weekend, there had been fleeting glimpses of the new lighthouse keeper and his dog.
I liked Kane, but as for him, if I never saw him again, it would be no hardship.
If Mitch thought he could just sweep into Rowan Bay and erase the legacy of Barclay and the other Hogan lighthouse keepers before him, he was in for a shock.
The Hogan family’s history was stamped into the fabric of not only the lighthouse but the town itself and no new broom could change that.
November was well and truly here. There was a crackling, sparkling frost lacing everything from the heather in my late grandparents’ garden to their picket fence.
I padded around the cottage in my pink and white checked pyjamas, dressing gown and fluffy thermal socks. The heating system in the cottage worked well, but being so close to the bay meant that the sharp wind could still worm its way up and in.
After letting Bronte out into the garden for a run around and to do her first ablutions of the day, I shoved down a slice of toast with a lash of butter and made a pot of tea. I was forcing myself to eat, just to keep going for her, really.
I showered and dressed in automatic mode.
Out of the sitting room window, the tips of the waves glinted under the chilly, marmalade sunshine.
I switched on my phone and caught sight of one of my favourite photos of Joe in my photo gallery. He’d been running and his shock of blond hair was dishevelled. He was grinning at me, his animated eyes sparkling with love.
I snapped my attention away from the screen and dropped my phone down onto the sitting room table, as though it was scorching my fingers.
I thought about what I was doing here and why I’d come.
It was to escape, run away from the nightmares that had besieged me in London.
But they were still there; the dark reality of it all.
What Joe had done and the implications of it were lingering, even though I’d driven hundreds of miles, in the hope they’d vanish in the rear-view mirror.
I’d been na?ve. Visions of my six book covers, with their embossed lettering and colourful, escapist artwork paraded in front of my eyes next.
That side of me was gone. Not just the trusting, romantic side, but the passionate, enthusiastic, romance author, too.
Joe might have been happy to pretend he was someone he wasn’t– live a double life– but that wasn’t who I was.
I knew that much. Maybe I could write a serial killer or a slasher thriller and have Mitch as the villain?
No. Tempting though that was, it wasn’t me either.
My scattered thoughts were interrupted by Bronte startling me. She’d sprang up from the rug and burst into a fit of frantic barks and growls.
‘Whoa, young lady! What’s up with you?’ Maybe she was picking up on my tension.
Bronte ignored me and continued to fix her furious stare across the sitting room and out of the window behind me.
Her tail was static and her paws pounded into the mat again and again as she let rip with another stream of noise.
‘You really don’t like those seagulls, do you?’
I rolled my eyes and turned around, expecting to see a brazen gull strutting up and down on the window ledge, deliberately winding her up.
But it wasn’t an arrogant gull.
There was a man staring at me through the sitting room window.
His black and grey hair was lifting off his craggy face in the wind. He had sharp features and the upturned collar of his checked coat was flapping against his cheeks.
It took a few seconds for my brain to catch up and process what was happening.
That was when I screamed.