but generally I need thawed hands for that.”
“I put fresh logs in the barn this morning before I left for the training session. I presume you know how to light a fire?” It wasn’t a serious question. Luke Whittaker had written a book on wilderness survival, and even had she not had that volume on her bookcase, she would have known he was the sort of man who could survive in the harshest of conditions, the sort of man who could produce a spark from two sticks before you could say flame.
“You could come and light my fire for me.”
“That is the cheesiest line I’ve ever heard. I hope you’re better at lighting fires than you are at picking up women or you’re about to suffer from a nasty case of frostbite.”
She put her foot to the floor and the last thing she saw before she drove away was the smile on his face.
Winter days in the Scottish Highlands were often gray and gloomy, but today was a perfect blue-sky day. The landscape was shrouded in white, smooth and undisturbed, like icing on a Christmas cake. The surface caught the sun and sparkled like a million crystals.
Why would she even think of leaving this beautiful place, filled with people who loved and cared about her? Being here wasn’t a sacrifice, it was a choice. She’d been four years old when Suzanne and Stewart had packed up their lives and moved from their home in Washington State to Scotland to be close to Stewart’s family.
Unlike her sisters, Posy had no memory of it.
She drove past the Parish Church and waved to Celia Monroe, who was emerging from an appointment with the doctor.
On impulse, she screeched to a halt outside the small library and grabbed the bag from the back seat.
This was a job she’d been putting off for weeks.
“I’m going to be told off like a six-year-old,” she confessed, and Bonnie wagged her tail in sympathy.
Bracing herself, Posy strode into the library. It had been threatened with closure many times, but the locals had defended it as fiercely as a clan defending their lands.
The woman behind the desk clucked her disapproval. “You have a nerve showing up here, Posy McBride. Your books are more than a month overdue.”
Posy leaned across and kissed her. “I was stuck up a mountain, saving lives, Mrs. Dannon.”
“Oh, go on with you. You were the same with your homework. Always late, and always an excuse.” Eugenia Dannon had been her English teacher at school and she’d despaired of Posy, who had spent her days gazing out of the window at the mountains.
“I probably owe you a lot of money in fines.”
The woman waved her away. “If I fined you every time your books were late, you’d be bankrupt.”
“I love you, Mrs. Dannon, and I know that deep down you love me.”
“Aye, more fool me. Now run along and help your mother.”
Run along? Did people actually still say that kind of thing?
Posy grinned. In Glensay they did, even when you were almost thirty.
“Next time you’re in the café, I’ll give you an extra-large slice of chocolate brownie.” She was halfway to the door when Mrs. Dannon’s voice stopped her.
“Did you read any of the books?”
“Every one of them. Cover to cover.” Grinning, she jogged out of the library.
She hadn’t read the books, and Mrs. Dannon knew it. Posy was willing to bet that half the people from the village who used the library didn’t read the books. But taking books out meant that Eugenia Dannon kept her job, and since her husband had died two years before, she needed both the money and the companionship the library offered. Everyone in the village had suddenly developed a serious reading habit.
When the officials looked at the statistics, they probably marveled at how well-read the people who lived in Glensay were.
Posy knew for a fact that Ted Morton used the complete works of Shakespeare to stop his kitchen door blowing shut on windy days.
Still smiling, she popped into the small store next to the library. Glensay had one general store that sold all the essentials.
“Hi, Posy.” The girl behind the counter smiled at her. “Your lodger was in here yesterday. He bought a packet of razors and deodorant.”
“Right.” Posy grabbed toothpaste and soap and dumped them on the counter. She’d often wondered if Amy and her mother kept a list of what people bought, and used it for profiling. “Maybe he’s going to help me shear the sheep.”
“Really?”
“No, not really. I was joking.” She’d been at school with Amy and the other girl hadn’t got her jokes then, either. Obviously she didn’t have a future in comedy. “Ignore me.”
“Personally, I like a man with stubble.” Amy rang up Posy’s purchases. “He’s sexy. You’re lucky having him living with you.”
“He’s not living with me, Amy. He’s in a different part of the building. Separate properties. There’s a floor and a door between us.” It seemed important to clarify that, given Amy’s tendency to draw interesting conclusions and then broadcast them widely.
“Still—it could be romantic.”
It could be, but if it was, then Amy wasn’t going to find out about it.
Trying to work out a way of keeping her private life private, Posy stuffed the toothpaste and soap into her pockets. “Thanks, Amy. Have a good one.”
She paused outside the door to read the noticeboards. They provided a fascinating snapshot into the life of the village. Pets lost and found, a tractor for sale, minutes of two local meetings and a plea for new members of the village choir. Posy loved to sing. She might have joined the choir had people not told her that her voice sounded like a cat being tortured. Her family encouraged her to find other ways to express her happiness, so these days she sang in the bath and sang to her dog, who often howled in perfect harmony.
Seeing a minibus approaching from the distance, Posy hurried back to her car.
The older members of the community who couldn’t get to the village store by other means used the minibus service. Posy tried to avoid its arrival whenever possible because greeting everyone took half a day.
Five minutes later she hurtled through the door into the welcoming warmth of Café Craft. She ripped off her coat as she half ran to the counter where her mother was deep in conversation with two women from the village. Christmas music played softly from the speakers and the fairy lights that she and her father had secured around the windows shone like tiny stars. The exposed brickwork of the walls was partially covered in paintings by local artists. Posy rotated them regularly. This month she had selected those with winter themes.
As well as art, they sold pottery made locally, knitwear produced exclusively for them, locally made heather honey and a variety of crafts hand selected by her mother, who had a keen eye for
