Bruce shrugs. ‘He sold Cladh Dubh to Historic Scotland thirty years ago.’

‘Aye, well.’ Alec smirks at Thom. The two of them are thick as thieves. Always leaning against the bar at Am Blàr Mòr, heads together, glowering at anyone who comes close. ‘I’m betting they gave him a far better price than he’ll get from us or the government.’

‘He’ll get a better price than he deserves,’ Thom says, downing the last of his beer with a scowl. ‘Are we playing this hand or what?’

I raise on the turn, and then the river, until only Thom and I are left in for the showdown. He grins at me with tall leaning teeth, pushes his big specs up the bridge of his nose. ‘Two pair, kings and threes.’

I put down my cards. ‘Three nines and king, ace kickers.’

Thom’s curses drown out Bruce’s laugh. And Charlie whistles loud, starts pouring drams of whisky.

‘You know,’ Alec says, giving me a look that instantly makes me feel wary. ‘If you’re interested, me and Thom run a serious game for a few guys over in Ùrbost once a month. You’re welcome to join us.’

‘Aye. Maybe,’ I say, after a pause. Because – Land Fund snub or no, poker game or no – Mary would probably kill me if I didn’t at least pretend to be interested. Though I’ve no intention of playing a serious game of cards with anyone. Let alone Alec and Thom. I’ve gambled far too much already.

*

I don’t leave. I’ve plenty opportunity as the others pull on their coats and head back to their homes, one by one. But by ten p.m., I’m still there, sitting at Charlie’s table, drinking his whisky and home brew. Charlie makes no comment on it, even when we’re the last men left. Only feeds more peat into the stove and sits back down.

‘I should be heading home,’ I say, uncomfortable in the sudden silence, and in my strange need to stay.

‘Ach, it’s early yet. Mary’ll not mind, I’m sure,’ Charlie says, pouring us both another whisky. ‘You work hard enough for two men, Robert.’

Ordinarily, this would make me bristle; I’d find some kind of insult in his words, a smug dig behind his smile. But tonight I can see it for what it is, perhaps even him for who he is. There is no insult, no dig. Perhaps there never has been.

‘Still, it’s never enough,’ I admit, and it feels shockingly good to do it. ‘Unless nearly all the ewes are pregnant, I’ll be lucky to survive this year.’

If Charlie’s surprised by my words, he doesn’t show it. ‘They’re a prolific breed, the Hebrideans. Reckon most of them not shearlings will give you twins, no worries.’

I nod and drink my whisky even though I don’t share his confidence.

‘You’ll be less glad of that come March,’ Charlie grins. ‘Lambing season can be pretty brutal. You’ll need help.’

‘I’ll be fine.’ Having Bruce around the blackhouse is one thing; the rest of the village something else.