Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 547(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 547(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
“You need a good yelling at if it’ll save your bloody life!”
“Fuck you!”
“Fuck you!”
Somehow we’d moved closer to one another, a mere inch of air separating us. Heat and frustration emanated between us, drawing us together inexplicably. Something flared in Ramsay’s eyes and my breath caught as his head bent toward mine. My body bowed like a magnet, ready and willing to take on the invitation, to take out my anger on his body.
But just as suddenly, he jerked away, blinking rapidly like he was taken aback by his own actions. He glared like it was my fault. “You’re leaving and I’m not leaving until you’re out of here. I’ll fix the supports.”
Now mad at him for two reasons, I ripped off my hard hat and dropped it at my feet. Seething, I stormed past him, throwing over my shoulder, “Remember who the boss is, McRae.”
“Aye?”
Something in his mocking tone had me whipping around. “I’m the one paying the wages here.”
His dark, brooding look caused a deep, low flip in my belly I absolutely resented. “You might pay the wages … but that doesn’t mean you’re my boss.”
“That’s kind of how it works.”
“Don’t tempt me to teach you that nobody is my boss, Silver.”
I shivered at the heated threat. “Whatever. Make sure you lock up when you leave.”
“Will do. And there are healthier, more productive ways to channel the rage you have inside you.”
I scoffed. “Mr. Monosyllabic is suddenly Mr. Perceptive, full of advice?”
Ramsay gave me an annoyed look that made me feel like a five-year-old. “I have thirteen years on you, woman. More if you count the multiple lives I’ve led. I know rage when I see it. I know when it’s gotten to a point where you either let it eat you alive … or you find a way to master it.”
Just like that, the fury turned to tears that thickened my throat. “And what do you suggest as a way to master it?”
His expression was solemn. “Find something that calms your mind.”
“Like you with your woodwork?”
“Aye.”
“I don’t think taking up knitting is going to help,” I replied softly, my resentment toward him deflating as reason returned.
“No. But once this place is up and running, you’ll have a purpose.”
“Is it enough?”
“Most days. On the days it’s not … you …” He looked away, and I disliked the loss of his expression. “You remind yourself that only the people who shouldn’t win if you lose yourself to the anger.”
Frustrated tears, tears he missed because he’d turned away, slipped down my cheeks. I watched as Ramsay kept his back to me, tightening screws on the braces holding up the ceiling. Wiping my cheeks, I walked away and quietly let myself out.
8. Ramsay
The mood in the Fisherman’s Lantern (locally known as the Lantern) should have lifted Quinn’s, but I could see as we settled on the stage, he was stiff. He wanted to be anywhere but here and I didn’t blame him.
The Lantern was the most famous hotel, bar, and restaurant in Leth Sholas. Housed in a red-painted building on Main Street, its twelve bedrooms were continually occupied through the summer months. It was not only a tourist destination, it was a local favorite for a drink.
The month of June saw the pub area packed with tourists and locals alike.
The full band wasn’t onstage. At smaller venues, we reduced our sound from five to three. Murray Shaw, who ran a successful fishing company, was our bass drum player, a large drum that strapped to the front of his chest and stomach. He beat the drum in a sideward motion, releasing a loud boom of beat, and so the bass was better suited for larger venues and outdoor performances.
As it was, Quinn was our snare drummer, and Forde Dallas, his best mate, was on the tenor drum tonight. That was raucous enough for the pub. I was our bagpiper as was Laird Macbeth, but the two sets of bagpipes were also too much here. At smaller venues, we alternated performances. Tonight, he’d sat this one out along with Murray, and they were at a table in the middle of the pub.
The three of us stood onstage, me in the middle of a bristling Quinn and a resigned Forde.
Quinn had been in a ferocious mood for several days.
“Ready?” I asked him.
He tried to clear his scowl but cleared his throat instead. His voice boomed out over the cacophony of the pubgoers’ conversations. “Fàilte gu the Lantern!” He welcomed the audience in Scottish Gaelic.
Immediately the room began to quiet.
Quinn waited, expression still stony. “We’re three parts of the Leth Sholas Pipe Band. If you hate the pipes, now is the time to leave.”
I met Murray’s gaze across the room. He shook his head with a heavy sigh. Laird stared at the fire as if he hadn’t even heard Quinn. As if he wasn’t here. He probably wasn’t. We’d told him he didn’t need to come tonight, considering his mother was on her deathbed, but he’d insisted he needed the break.