Under a Storm-Swept Sky

by Beth Anne Miller

  I had bigger things to concern myself with than Rory not liking me.

  Chapter Three

  Rory

  Way to go, jackass. I watched Amelia stalk up the hill, her curtain of shiny brown hair swinging against her back. Though I wasn’t sure why my advice had caused a confrontation. Well, accusing her of holding up the group before you’ve even started walking might have had something to do with it. After insulting her in the van.

  I shouldn’t have said that. I was already on edge, which was why I’d walked down by the water. I’d hoped to clear my head, to find some zen in preparation for the week to come, and it hadn’t worked. And suddenly she was there, gazing out over the quiet harbor, looking as though she’d found the peace I’d failed to achieve—except for her hands, which had clutched the railing like it was the only way she could keep upright.

  Like she was terrified of what lay ahead.

  That was what had set me off. If she was afraid, it meant she was likely inexperienced. Which was fine on an easy trail, but not on Skye. Inexperience led to mistakes. It put other people in jeopardy and led to injury—or worse. You just had to look at the reports from Mountain Rescue to see how true that was.

  Maybe I was overreacting. Tommy, with all his psychology classes, would say I was projecting—transferring my own worries on to her. And maybe he would be right.

  I trudged back to my B&B and entered the room I was sharing with Tommy. He looked up from his phone, his smile fading. “What’s wrong?”

  I sighed. Tommy knew me too well. “I just had a confrontation with Amelia.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Amelia from the group?”

  I pulled my fleece over my head and stared at him. “Do you know another Amelia I’d be likely to encounter in Portree on this particular evening?”

  He rolled his eyes. “No. I guess I’m just trying to figure out why you would have started another fight with a lass in the group who you barely know.”

  “What makes you think I started it?” Christ, I sounded like a twelve-year-old.

  “Because she seems like a nice lass, because you already picked one fight with her, and because I’ve known you for a long time. You always get snappish when we do the Skye Trail.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You do. You could say no, you know, ask Scarlet to have one of the others do Skye. But you never do.”

  I sank down on the edge of the bed and scrubbed my hands over my face, then met his steady gaze. “No. I have to do it. You know I do.”

  He nodded. “Aye, I know. I just wish you’d stop torturing yourself.”

  The Skye Trail was challenging, but that wasn’t what either of us was talking about. I’d guided plenty of other treks, some much more difficult than the mountainous and unpredictable Skye Trail, and I’d “bagged” dozens of Munros—the nickname for Scotland’s peaks that stood three thousand feet or higher.

  There were other reasons why the Skye Trail was difficult for me—and why I would keep doing it, over and over again. I had to.

  It was my penance.

  Chapter Four

  Amelia

  The next morning, after a forty-minute ride from Portree, our group gathered in a car park on the north end of Skye. Our guides were in cargo shorts and lightweight fleeces, while the rest of us were in long pants and heavier jackets against the chilly morning. Was it a macho thing, or were they really not cold?

  “Welcome to the beginning of the Skye Trail,” said Scarlet. “Tommy, you want to start the briefing?”

  “Rory and I will alternate who leads and who brings up the rear. The Skye Trail isn’t easy. Sometimes we’ll be walking along the edge of a cliff, or out on an exposed ridge in the wind. There are sections where there’s no trail at all, and sections where we’ll be crossing a bog or a burn—that’s a small river for the Yanks who don’t know the lingo. And the weather is often unpredictable. If either of us gives you an order, we expect it to be followed, as it’s for your safety and that of the group. There won’t be any facilities along the way—pretty much ever—but feel free to duck off the trail when you need to.

  “As you’ll see this week, the trail does occasionally run close to a town or village, but sometimes it doesn’t, which is why some nights we’ll be in a B&B or hostel, and other nights we’ll be camping.”

  Right. While most people our age chose to vacation near a beach, or perhaps someplace where you could do a hike in the afternoon, Carrie had chosen to walk across half the Isle of Skye. Not because that was the only way to get around—the map had clearly shown that there was at least one perimeter road that would get us almost to the same places—but because she wanted the challenge. And so I would do it. Because she couldn’t.

  Rory spoke up. “Today’s walk will probably take about six hours, but remember, it’s not a race. We are a group, and we will do this trek as a group. If you wander off ahead, you are no longer our problem, as we won’t be leaving the others behind to go look for you.”

  I thought about that jagged, imposing mountain range that had been silhouetted against the sky, and a shiver ran through me. I pictured myself wandering around looking for the trail. Alone. Terrified. Hours passing, watching the sun beginning to set, knowing it would soon be dark and a wrong step could mean injury or death. I closed my eyes. I can’t do this. I’m so sorry, Carrie, but I can’t.

  A hand came down on my shoulder. “We won’t leave you behind, Amelia.”

  I opened my eyes to see Rory in front of me. His sunglasses were pushed to the top of his head, and his eyes were steady as he looked into mine. I hadn’t noticed their lovely gray-green color the night before.

  “Wh-what?”

  “It’s Tommy’s and my job to make sure the group stays together. We’re not going to leave anyone behind, I promise. It’s bad for business,” he added with a slight quirk of his lips.

  His attempt at levity worked, and I could feel myself calming down. “Good to know.”

  “It’s why Scarlet keeps the groups small,” quipped Tommy. “So the guides don’t have to worry about counting too high.”

  “Yeah, once you guys run out of fingers, it gets dicey,” she said.

  Everyone laughed at that. I managed a small chuckle. “Okay?” murmured Rory.

  “Yeah, sorry. I just had a moment. Thanks.”

  He nodded and returned to his pack, leaving me both surprised and relieved by his unexpected kindness after last night’s jerkage. He squatted down, his cargo shorts riding up to reveal his muscled thighs—not that I noticed—and opened his backpack. “My first aid kit is at the top of my pack. Tommy’s is in the same place. It’s extremely unlikely that either or both of us will become incapacitated, but just in case.”

  Just in case?

  “We both carry emergency blankets, extra torches—flashlights to you Yanks—and extra food and water,” Rory continued. “You’ll find that most mobile phones don’t get consistent service out here, but we’re both wearing transponders on our packs, which Scarlet will monitor. In the event of an emergency, we can activate an additional signal that she’ll see. There is also a volunteer Mountain Rescue group, which you can reach by dialing the police first. But it could take them a while to get out here.”

  He said it so calmly, but my stomach was roiling again.

  Calm down. These guys are professionals. They’ve done this many times before, and they know what they’re doing. It’s just a safety announcement, like the ones they do on airplanes.

  I knew that. But still.

  He zipped up his pack and slung it onto his back. It looked a lot heavier than mine, though he didn’t seem bothered by it.

  “Okay, guys,” said Scarlet, “Tommy and Rory will update you on the terrain and conditions as you go, as well as tell you about the sights you’ll see. Don’t hesitate to ask them questions—challenge them a little,” she added with a grin. “And if you have any issues, please let them know so they can help.”

  “Especially blisters,”
said Tommy. “Those will be your worst enemy on the trail, but if you start to feel one forming, we can hopefully prevent it from getting worse.”

  “Today should be sunny and mild, though as we’ve said, Skye is known for its unexpected weather changes. Make sure you use sun cream so you don’t burn. Okay, have a great walk, and I’ll see you later!”

  I took a few quick shots of the group as we fell in line behind Tommy.

  And we were off.

  The path was easy enough to start with, and before long, we caught a glimpse of a ruin on a cliff that jutted into the sea.

  “That’s Duntulm Castle,” said Rory. “It was once a MacDonald stronghold—though not Tommy’s branch of the clan—and is, of course, rumored to be haunted.”

  It looked like a strong wind would send the rest of it tumbling off the edge. What kind of people had lived in this forbidding place, subject to the whims of the wind and the sea?

  A short while later, we reached a fence with a gate. Tommy approached it first.

  “This is called a kissing gate,” he said. “You’ll see why in a moment.” He slipped off his backpack and unlatched the gate, pushing it open as far as it would go, which was just wide enough for him to step in and sidle around it. He would have to face us and push the gate closed in order to continue. “It’s sometimes considered tradition for the person going through the gate to kiss the next person in line as they face each other when passing through. Who’s next?” he asked with a waggle of his eyebrows.

  “That’ll be me,” said Gordon, sauntering up as everyone laughed. Tommy planted a loud kiss on Gordon’s cheek. “Sorry, Lucy,” he said with a wink.

  “Oh, that’s okay. You can have him,” she said, but happily accepted a real kiss from her husband as she passed through after him. Everyone seemed to be up for the “tradition,” kissing cheeks or lips as they passed through the gate.

  Mike from Maine gave me a friendly peck on the cheek as he passed through. But when I turned around, it was just Rory behind me. We stared at each other for an awkward moment, and then he suddenly knelt to re-tie his boot.

  Whatever. I let the gate slam into place and joined the rest of the group.

  “Well, that was a cop-out,” said Megan.

  I laughed at the disappointment on her face. “It’s okay. He’s not my type, anyway.”

  “Girl, that lad is everybody’s type,” said Molly.

  “Ohhh, aye,” said Pat, and we all laughed—even harder when Rory looked at us questioningly as he passed.

  Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as I’d anticipated. The group seemed nice, and the walk was easy so far. I was starting to sweat under my layers, so clearly Rory and Tommy knew what they were doing with their lightweight clothes. We went up a hill and veered off onto a small path that continued to a summit. The wind was stronger there, and it felt good against my hot skin.

  Rory slung his pack to the ground. “I’m sure some of you are overheated, so let’s take five minutes to de-layer. While the mornings might be chilly, once you start moving, you’ll warm up fast.”

  With that, he stripped off his fleece, the bottom of the shirt beneath riding up to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of his taut abs. I looked up just as his head emerged from his fleece, the sun catching the tousled waves and turning them burnished copper.

  Okay, fine. He was my type.

  My fingers itched to touch that gorgeous hair. Down, girl. It’s only a matter of time before he opens his mouth and ruins the moment, anyway. He ran his own hands through his hair, then tied some kind of bandanna/headband thing around it to keep it out of his face in the increasing wind.

  I dragged my eyes away, focusing on my own de-layering. I peeled off my fleece and shoved it into my pack. That done, I looked around. There was a small hut a few yards away.

  Tommy led us to it. “This is a bothy,” he said. “It used to be a coast guard lookout, but is now primarily used by walkers as a shelter. And like other bothies you’ll find scattered around the Highlands and islands, anyone is welcome to use it.”

  The bothy had a long, low shelf to place a sleeping bag, as well as some chairs. Windows provided an incredible view out over the water. It would be amazing to spend the night there (even though there was no toilet or electricity). I took a bunch of pictures for Carrie.

  “Amelia!”

  At Rory’s shout, I turned to see the rest of the group already descending the cliff path on the other side. Shit. The last thing I needed was for him to snipe at me again. I stuffed my phone into my pocket and hurried to catch up.

  He was waiting for me, his sunglasses hiding the impatient look I was certain was there. “Sorry,” I mumbled. He just gestured for me to precede him down the path.

  We climbed over a few stiles—sections of fence where a short, ladder-like setup enabled us to swing our legs over—and then skirted around a huge boulder sitting terrifyingly close to the cliff edge.

  From there, the path dropped down at an impossible angle. I froze, clutching my poles against a sudden wave of vertigo.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” said Tommy, forging ahead without even pausing. I could hear Carrie’s voice in my head. Come on, Amelia. You can’t quit two minutes into the first day.

  No, I couldn’t. I cautiously started down the rocky steps, using my poles for balance. But Tommy was right, it wasn’t quite as bad as it had appeared to be, and it wasn’t too long before we scooted down over some tricky parts and emerged onto a grassy path at the bottom. Breathing a sigh of relief to have made it down in one piece, I turned to look at where we’d come from—and gasped.

  The cliffs towered over us. We’d hiked all the way down that?

  I turned back as Tommy spread his arms wide, encompassing the view of the sea behind him. “Welcome to Rubha Hunish, the most northerly point on Skye. We’ll explore the headland for a few minutes; then it’s back up the cliffs and south along the coast.”

  Wait, what? We’d come all that way down to poke around for a few minutes and then go back up? What the hell was the point? I looked at my fellow trekkers for commiseration, but they all seemed to take it in stride, eagerly—if carefully—following the path along the cliff.

  Okay, it was a pretty awesome place; gulls cried out as they circled overhead, and larger white birds with black-tipped wings dove dramatically into the sea beyond.

  “The big, white birds are gannets,” said Rory. “You can sometimes see puffins here as well, but it’s too early in the season for them. And if you look closely at the sea stacks,” he continued, pointing at the tall columns of rock that jutted up from the foaming water, “you can see ropes hanging, left by climbers.”

  “People climb those?” said Linda. “Are they crazy?”

  “It’s like any other extreme sport,” said Rory. “More challenging means more exciting.”

  We reached the end of the headland, where the sea churned menacingly. Farther out, it almost looked like— “Did I just see a blow out there?”

  “You might have,” said Tommy. “We get minke whales here in the summer, but sometimes they’re here earlier in the season, too. Show me where.”

  I pointed slightly to the right of the headland. After a moment, I saw another, followed by a brief glimpse of a dark back as a whale broke the surface. From the excited murmur of the group, everyone else saw it, too. I tried to take a photo, but it was just too far away.

  Megan was also trying to get a photo, but she had a proper camera, not just her phone. “Can you get it?” I asked.

  She snapped a few shots, then lowered the camera. “Maybe? I zoomed it in as far as I could, but I think it will probably just end up being a splotch on the water. I’ll have to check when I can see it on my computer.”

  “That’s what happened to me the first time or two I went whale watching,” I said. “I could never time it right, and all I got were photos of splashes.”

  She looked at me with interest in her eyes. “You’ve seen whales before, then?”

&nb
sp; “Yeah, off Massachusetts. My best friend and I go every summer.”

  “That sounds brilliant!” she exclaimed. “Will you go this summer as well?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “We’re starting new jobs out of town, and I don’t think we’ll have the—” I broke off suddenly. What the hell was I doing, rambling about the new jobs Carrie and I were supposed to start later in the summer, as if everything was normal? How could I have forgotten, even for a second, that things were anything but normal?

  “Is everything okay, Amelia?”

  I managed to smile. “I’m fine. Sorry. I, uh, hope your photos come out.”

  I turned away from the edge and started following the trail back around the headland, cursing myself.

  The path back up the cliff was even steeper than I expected. I had to stop every few steps to rest my aching legs and catch my breath. I’d thought I was in pretty decent shape, but this climb was kicking my ass.

  Everyone else passed me, which was a relief. Bad enough to be struggling, worse to hold up everyone who wasn’t.

  Two minutes later, I stumbled, catching myself on my pole. God, it wasn’t even two hours into the first day. I had seven days of this—of ascents and descents and uneven ground and trying to keep up with a group of people whose hiking experience was clearly more extensive than walking all over New York City and one awful hike five years ago.

  I hated hiking. I’d sworn I’d never do it again, no matter how many times Carrie had coaxed, cajoled, and begged me to go with her. And while it hadn’t been bad when it was easy, now I remembered why I hated it—that feeling of being at the back of the group, with everyone always impatiently waiting, watching others making it look so easy.

  I took a few quick photos of the intimidating cliffs above, hoping everyone would assume that was why I’d stopped.

  “Amelia,” Rory began, but when I glared at him, he paused. “Are you all right?” he asked, coming down to me.