“What about Elijah, Father?” asked Will. “Should I—”
“In the barn,” Charles murmured, blinking. “He’ll be all right. Don’t go out until the storm breaks, Will. Too dangerous . . .” His eyes closed.
They covered him warmly, and when the kettle boiled, Livvy fed him hot tea laced with whisky while Will supported his shoulders. Charles struggled to push himself upright, a faint color flushing his thin cheeks. “Livvy, I found a buyer in Edinburgh,” he said urgently. “A firm of
blenders. Not Pattison’s. Whatever happens, you mustn’t sell to Pattison’s.”
It had been a bad year for whisky. The industry had overproduced and overexpanded in the boom of the early s, and now supply had inevitably begun to exceed demand. Rumors had been flying that Pattison’s, one of the biggest blenders in all of Scotland, was on the brink of financial collapse, and Charles had journeyed to Edinburgh in hopes of finding another market for the distillery’s stock.
Livvy felt the jolt of fear in her breast, saw the panic flare in Will’s eyes. “Of course not, love,” she murmured soothingly, easing him down again among the blankets.
“Ye can tell us all about it tomorrow, when you’ve had a wee bit rest.”
But Charles tossed his head from side to side, more agitated, shivering. “Tomorrow—the men won’t be able to get here. You’ll have to manage, you and Will. The distilling—we can’t afford . . .”
“Ye’ll be back on your feet by then,” she told him, stroking his forehead. “No need to worry, now.”
Her words seemed to calm him, and after a few moments she felt the tension leave his body as he lapsed into a chill-wracked sleep.
“He’ll be all right, won’t he?” croaked Will, meeting her eyes as she smoothed the blankets.
“Aye, of course he will,” Livvy said sharply, knowing it was herself she sought to reassure as much as her son.
“It’s no but a chill.” She thought of her physician father, snug in his bed in Grantown, and wished desperately for his advice.
But in this weather, Grantown-on-Spey, only fourteen miles away, was an impossible journey. Nor would the doctor be able to come from Tomintoul. The Braes of
Glenlivet in a snowstorm were as isolated and godforsaken as the moon. There would be no help until the storm broke—even then it might take days to clear the roads.
But she had some skill, and more determination, and she was damned if she’d let this bloody place defeat her.
Blinking against the sting of tears, she smiled at her son.
“Och, your father’s made it home, Will, when many a man wouldn’t. That’s enough to be thankful for, till the morning.”
“I’ve always said you were a wee bit daft in the heid, Callum MacGillivray, and now I know it’s so.” Callum’s aunt Janet stood in the door of the stable, her hands on her hips, glaring at him. She was a formidable sight at the best of times, a square, blunt-featured woman, with her graying hair cut short and a face permanently scoured by the Highland winds. Angry, she looked even fiercer, and Callum found himself struggling for a coherent reply.
He was never very good at expressing himself aloud, although he did well enough in his own head, and with the murmured singsong understood by the horses and dogs. Touch, however, was another matter altogether. The lightest grip on the reins told him what a horse was thinking, let him communicate his wishes to the beast; the delicate quivers on a rod and line translated to him the language of fish, the deep, slow rhythm of the salmon, the quicksilver music of the trout.
“It canna be helped, Auntie Jan,” he said now, knowing he sounded surly, and that it would aggravate her even further. “I’ve something else to do.” He reached down automatically to stroke Murphy, his black Labrador.
“Something more important than keeping this stable on its feet? You know we’ve had this weekend’s riding
party booked for months—and how did you think I would manage without your help?”
“Ye can take the party yourself,” Callum offered. “Let Dad drive the van.”
Janet greeted this with the snort of contempt it deserved. “That would be a fine thing, your father in the jail for drink driving and all the tourists’ baggage along with him.”
The MacGillivray stables were a family concern, but Callum’s father, Tom, had for years been more a liability than an asset. Tom MacGillivray drank, and not even decent whisky but gin, a cheap habit learned during his days in the army. This meant he could be counted on for helping with the morning round of chores, but by midday he was uselessly maudlin and had to be kept out of sight of the customers. By suppertime they had to pry him out of his chair in order to feed him, after which, somewhat re-vived, he would meander down the road to the pub until closing time.
The stable visitors who did encounter Tom were apt to find him quaint, with his worn tweeds and flat cap, unless they got close enough to smell him.
“Aye.” Callum agreed with his aunt reluctantly. “That’s true enough. But I still canna take out the riding party.”
Tomorrow morning they were expecting a group of six for an easy ride along the Spey valley, with an overnight stop near Ballindalloch. Although the stables still taught the occasional riding class for novices, most of their business had come to depend on the trekking trade. Guided by Callum, a dozen sturdy hill ponies carried riders on jaunts that varied from overnight to a full week, taking in local scenery as well as historic sights. Janet had ongoing arrangements with a number of bed-and-breakfasts that provided accommodation for the guests as well as sta-
bling facilities for the horses, while she ferried the baggage from place to place in the stables’ large, green van.
It was a division of duties that she and Callum had perfected, and for a number of years they had worked together as a smoothly oiled unit, a partnership. She stared at him now in consternation, squinting a little against the evening sun. In the merciless light, he could make out new lines around her eyes, and the smears of stable muck on her old jacket.
“Callum, lad,” she said more gently, “are ye no feeling well? Is there something wrong with ye?”
He felt ashamed at her concern, but there was no way he could possibly confide in her. “No, Auntie, I’m well enough. It’s just that I have some . . . personal . . . things to see to.”
Janet’s stubby hands balled into fists again. “If by personal, ye mean that blond trollop in Aviemore—”
“It’s naught to do with Alison, and she’s no a trollop,”
he snapped back at her, his own temper rising. “And I’ll thank ye to keep your opinions of my friends to yourself.”
They glared at each other in a standoff until he sighed and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Och, I don’t blame ye for being angry with me. I’ve put ye in a difficult position. How would it be if you took the party out, and I drove the van?” That at least he could manage, without abandoning his own plans. “It’d do you good to get a wee bit fresh air,” he added, daring her to smile.
Janet snorted and shook her head at him. “You’re in-corrigible, lad,” she said, with exasperated affection.
“You’ll drive some woman mad, you mark my words. All right, I’ll take the ride tomorrow, but you can finish up the evening rounds on your own.”