He grins. ‘You’re late.’

I glance at my watch. It’s barely eight thirty.

‘I’ve been up since five,’ he says, folding his arms and leaning against the door frame. I pretend not to notice his tanned and thick forearms. Again. And when he looks at me just a little too long, that anxiety in my stomach twists into something that’s not any better. ‘Waiting.’

I clear my throat, ignore the heat I feel climbing up my neck.

‘Come in,’ he says, moving back to open the door wider.

The farmhouse is surprisingly small. A tiny galley kitchen next to a tinier bathroom. A white-painted living room with heavy furniture and a deep fireplace. It smells of peat and pine.

‘Not much to the place. Euan had it built about eight years ago, just before I started farming the land. Front room, bathroom, and kitchen. Only two bedrooms upstairs,’ he says, nodding to a narrow, steep staircase. ‘Ceilings are low; they’re pretty much in the roof space apart from the dormers. Would you like a tour?’

‘Ah, no,’ I say, and am appalled to realise that the idea of being in any bedroom with him seems more intimate a prospect than even ceilidh dancing. ‘It’s fine, thank you.’

He moves towards the kitchen. ‘D’you want a coffee?’

I don’t. My stomach is still recovering from my first, but I’d welcome the space from him it offers. ‘Coffee would be great, thanks.’

When he returns, and far too soon, I actually find myself stepping back as he hands me my coffee. Our fingers touch briefly, and this time it does feel a little like being electrocuted.

‘So, there’s another Scots tradition you might not be aware of, Maggie.’ He fixes me with that slow, generous grin again, nods towards the living room window. ‘Never waste a moment of sunshine.’

*

We walk west, passing the blackhouse.

‘See all those dark scars across the moorland?’ Will says, pointing towards the blanket bog beyond the road. ‘They’re opened peat banks. We’ll be harvesting them soon.’

‘Who?’

‘Whole village, whole island. Early April we’ll start turfing, but the real work, the cutting, starts around May.’ He smiles at me. ‘Hard bloody work, but it’s the best time of year. Family comes back from all over to help, and once it’s done we have the mother of all parties. Lasts for days.’

I smile back. ‘I doubt I’ll still be here then, so …’

‘Never say never, Maggie.’

I clear my throat. ‘Those yours?’

He glances towards the half dozen sheep sitting on the road up ahead. ‘Yep. Orange and purple dye’s mine.’ He claps his hands as we reach them and they get up slowly, balefully, before sauntering off onto the grass.

‘Should they be here?’

‘We don’t build fences for the sheep. They run free all over the islands. Makes for better conservation.’

‘Charlie said landowners got rid of the islanders and replaced them with sheep because they made more money.’

Will laughs. ‘Man, you got the whole exploitation, injustice, and centuries-of-persecution spiel? He usually saves that for the summer tourists.’