a daft and irresponsible thing...
Gradually she became aware of the ringing of the phone in the upstairs hallway. She waited for someone – anyone – to pick it up, but no one did, and it continued to ring.
With a mutter of irritation, she flounced out of bed and flung the door open. ‘Hello!’ she snapped as she snatched the handset up.
There was no reply, only silence. But someone was definitely on the other end.
Her annoyance deepened. ‘Who is this, please?’
And although she waited, no one spoke; but Caitlin was certain someone was on the other end of the line. She was about to hang up in disgust when a sudden, crazy-hopeful but impossible thought occurred to her.
‘Niall?’ she asked in a low, intense voice. ‘Niall, is that you?’
Rhys grabbed his coat and went downstairs, his face set and his thoughts churning. He needed to get away from the castle, and away from Natalie. He needed time alone to think.
Relieved that he ran into no one as he crossed the entrance hall on his way to the front door, Rhys let himself outside and thrust his hands deep in his pockets. Bloody hell, but it was cold. He’d forgotten how bone-chilling a Scottish winter could be.
And it was much worse if you were small and didn’t have a decent coat to keep you warm.
He strode down the drive, lost in black thoughts as he listened to the sound of his feet crunching over the hard-packed snow. His breath came out in plumes as he walked.
For some reason, his thoughts strayed to his one – and only – pony ride. His stepfather had taken him and his mum to a local fête when Rhys was five, or perhaps six. Pony rides were on offer in a fenced-off field, 50p for a couple of circles around the paddock on a knackered mare. As the attendant lifted Rhys up onto the horse’s back, he clutched the animal’s mane with white-tipped knuckles and tried hard not to cry.
‘Look at you, holdin’ on for dear life to that harmless creature!’ his stepfather exclaimed, and shook his head in disgust. ‘It’s just a wee bloody pony, Rhys! It’s a shame, a lad as big as you, blubbering like a girl. Good thing you’re no son of mine,’ he’d muttered under his breath.
But Rhys had heard him. And he’d had no use for horses – or his stepfather – ever since.
He remembered other things, too. How he’d cowered in fear, his stomach churning, as his stepfather beat his mother. How he hid under his bed, huddled with his adopted brother Jamie, dreading the sound of his father’s key turning in the lock in the evening.
I’ve plenty of experience with fatherhood, Rhys reflected grimly, and all of it bad.
How in hell could he ever hope to be a decent father to his own son or daughter when he knew nothing about it? He had no basis for comparison.
And how could he ever hope to make Natalie understand?
His footsteps slowed as he heard the distant, rhythmic thwacking of an axe echoing from somewhere within the woods nearby. He and the groundskeeper, Colm, spotted one another through the trees at the same instant. Rhys lifted a hand briefly and turned to go.
‘It’s a mite cold out to be walking,’ Colm called out as he shouldered his axe and approached Rhys.
‘I needed to get away. For all its size, the castle was beginning to close in on me.’ He glanced at the stack of freshly split logs piled nearby. ‘Need a hand?’
‘I wouldn’t say no.’
Rhys took the axe Colm handed him. He hefted a log onto the top of a stump, swung back the handle, and split it open with a single, satisfying crack. The scent of pine filled the air. Before long, an impressive stack of firewood piled up between the two men, and Rhys found that the physical effort calmed him and focused his thoughts.
When they finished, he helped the groundskeeper load a nearby truck bed with the cord of wood they’d just cut.
‘Thanks,’ Colm said. He glanced at a stone cottage a few yards away. ‘I’ve whisky inside, if you’ve time for a dram,’ he offered.
Rhys masked his surprise at the offer. He and the ginger-haired man hadn’t exchanged so much as a word before today. But he agreed. ‘I’d like that.’
He followed Colm’s broad back inside the cottage. The sitting room was small but cosy, with a fire burning in the great stone fireplace, and a sofa and chairs covered in faded chintz arranged around it. The smell of wood smoke permeated the room.
‘Nice,’ Rhys observed as he shrugged off his coat and tossed it across the back of a chair. ‘Does this place go along with the job?’
Colm nodded. ‘Aye. It’s one of the perks, if you will.’ He turned away to pour their drinks.
‘And what are the other perks?’
He shrugged and handed Rhys over a tumbler of whisky. ‘Solitude. Quiet. Being my own boss.’
‘Thanks.’ Colm’s life, Rhys realized, wasn’t that much different than his own. Oh, they were worlds apart in terms of their livelihoods; but they both held fast to their independence.
Yet more and more, Rhys’s old life – flying all over Europe on business travel, living out of a hotel, indulging in the occasional brief (and meaningless) relationship, the freedom to do as he damn well pleased – was slipping away. From the time he’d left home at sixteen, he’d been responsible for himself, and himself only. Soon he’d be responsible not only for his wife, Natalie, but for their yet-to-be-born son or daughter as well.
And he wasn’t sure he was ready for it.
Colm lowered himself to the sofa and Rhys followed suit, and the men lapsed into silence as they sipped their whiskies, content for the moment to mull over their thoughts as the fire spit and crackled before them. The warmth of the room and the whisky soon spread through Rhys.
‘My wife’s pregnant,’ he said after a moment, and frowned down into the amber depths of his glass. ‘I just found out this morning. I’m not sure how I feel about it.’
‘You’re not happy?’
‘Yes. No. Oh, hell...I don’t know.’ Rhys glanced up. ‘What about yourself? Do you have any kids?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Nor a wife, either.’
‘You never married?’
‘Once.’ The word was abrupt. ‘It was a long time ago. Why don’t you want a bairn, then?’
Rhys drained his glass. ‘The thought of a baby, helpless and dependent on me, scares the hell out of me. My stepfather...he beat my mum, and hurled abuse at me on a regular basis; he came home most nights in a drunken stupor. How can I hope to be a proper father, with him as my only example?’
Colm shrugged and reached out to pour them each another dram. ‘No man knows what he’s doing
