I was saved from any more thinking by the “path” before me, which was all rocks. Like yesterday, I hummed to myself and just concentrated on where I was putting my feet, forgetting about Rory and Tommy and everything else.
We reached the bottom, but there was no time for a breath of relief before there was a sharp climb, which eased out a bit before the next summit.
Finally, we reached the Storr, the last peak on the ridge. It was an optional summit, as the trail didn’t go over it, but when Tommy asked if we wanted to go up to the top, none of us hesitated. There was no point in coming this far only to avoid this last, tallest peak. We posed for a group photo at the summit and then began the descent, which took us down another rocky slope and over a fence.
And then we were faced with the stunning Old Man of Storr, a solitary pinnacle of stone in front of the cliffs. Beyond the Old Man was a view out to a sparkling loch.
For the first time since the Quiraing, there were other people around. Lots of them, taking advantage of the now beautiful day. It was jarring after so many hours of relative silence to hear dozens of voices, to have to wait for the split second when no one was in front of me to snap a photo. I much preferred the quietness we’d had all day.
From there, it was a relatively easy descent to a car park.
“Just a little farther,” said Rory when we reached it. “There’s a great spot to camp on the beach at Bearreraig Bay, which is a shortish walk from here.”
“When you say ‘shortish walk,’ what exactly do you mean?” asked Linda.
“Yeah, don’t think we’ve forgotten your ‘this is the last hill today’ promise yesterday that turned out to be a lie,” added Gordon.
“They’ve got you there, boyo,” said Tommy.
Rory’s lips quirked. “Shortish in that you could be sitting down, pretending you’re drinking a cocktail, within half an hour. Or so. If we stop talking about it and start walking. And I don’t lie,” he said to Gordon. “It’s just that our definitions of ‘hill’ are not the same.”
“He lies,” Gordon quipped.
“Okay, let’s get moving,” said Tommy. “We’ll be on the road for a bit, so stay alert.”
It was the main road up the coast from Portree, and I was glad that we weren’t on it for more than a few minutes before we turned onto a path. From there, we crossed a dam and then veered away from the path to a viewpoint overlooking the bay.
Rory stopped us there. “Okay, guys, the path down is pretty steep, so take it easy. I know everyone’s knackered, and I don’t want you twisting your ankles—or worse—because you’re too tired to watch where you’re walking.”
Rory had, in fact, lied, despite what he’d said earlier. The path wasn’t pretty steep, it was very steep. My knees, already shaky from hours and hours of steep ascents and descents, were screaming. One foot in front of the other. I tuned out everything and everyone, and just took one step at a time, clenching my teeth so I wouldn’t cry out in pain. The path zagged to the right, and I stopped for a moment, leaning heavily on my poles.
“Let me take your pack.” I looked up to see Rory, hand extended. I shook my head. “Amelia, give me your pack. It will be easier for you.”
“I just need a minute.” I didn’t want it to be easy. Nothing about this trek was supposed to be easy.
He nodded once and stayed where he was, not saying another word. After a minute (okay, maybe more like two), I adjusted the straps of my pack and started down the path once more. Rory walked in front of me, glancing over his shoulder every few steps to check on me.
He didn’t ask how I was or offer to help again, for which I was grateful. Finally—finally—we reached the bottom of the path, emerging onto a pebbled beach. The others were already setting up their tents as far back from the shore as they could.
Rory gestured to a flattish spot with only a few pebbles. “You can set up here. Give a shout if you need anything.”
I set down my pack and rolled my shoulders, grateful to have the weight off me for the rest of the day. I undid the straps holding my tent and withdrew it from its sack, setting everything out in front of me.
I’d set up the tent before I left home. I’d watched YouTube videos on it, read the directions. I had this.
I reached into the tent bag for the directions. But they weren’t there. “What the hell?” I turned the bag inside out. Nothing. I rummaged through my pack, messing up my meticulous packing job. But they weren’t there. I must have left them at home.
Okay, I could do this. It wasn’t rocket science. I unrolled the tent and spread it out flat, then picked up a pole and began working it through the narrow sleeve. So far, so good.
But when I got all the tent poles inserted and tried to stand it up, it caved in.
“Dammit! What am I doing wrong?”
“What are you doing wrong?” said Rory, looming over me with a frown on his face, like a teacher disappointed with his student. “Let me see.”
I couldn’t deal with him schooling me again. “No, it’s fine. I’ve got it.”
“Don’t be daft. Let me help you, or you’ll be sitting here all night trying to figure it out.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing that I brought a flashlight with me, isn’t it?” I retorted. I knew I was being unreasonable—okay, bitchy—but it had been so mortifying to have him watch me struggle all day, and I didn’t want him to think I couldn’t do anything right.
He opened his mouth as if to shout at me, and then snapped it shut and closed his eyes for a moment.
I knew what he was doing—I’d done it myself often enough. “Are you counting to ten?” I hissed.
He opened his eyes, which were that same silvery color they’d been earlier when he’d yelled at Tommy. “Aye, I am,” he said, his accent rising to the surface. “Because I don’t know what the hell you’re tryin’ to prove. It’s been a long day, and you must be knackered. Why can’t you just let me help? You clearly don’t know what you’re doing.”
I stomped over to him. “Stop talking to me like I’m a child!”
His eyes flashed with anger. “Then stop goddamn acting like one and let me help you!”
“No!”
I could hear Carrie cackling, imagined her with a sack of popcorn, her head turning to one of us, then the other, as if she were watching a tennis match. But I couldn’t give in. Not now. “For the last time, I don’t want your help. I’ll set up my own damn tent.”
“Not tonight, you won’t.”
We spun to see Tommy standing beside my fully set-up tent, staring at us like we were both children. The others were very carefully not staring at us, but I could only imagine what they were thinking.
All the wind went out of my sails. Now I just felt…ridiculous. “Tommy, I—”
He held up his hand. “It’s been a long, hard day, and we’re all tired and hungry and cranky. You two can fight about the tent—and whatever else—later, okay?”
“I… Thank you,” I said, my shoulders slumping.
“You’re welcome.” He headed for his tent.
Rory stalked to his own tent and ducked inside.
How had this turned into such a mess? Because you turned it into a mess. He was just trying to help.
By the time I unrolled my self-inflating sleeping mat and my sleeping bag and set them both inside the tent, I’d calmed down enough to face everyone. I grabbed a spoon and a packet of some sort of freeze-dried meal from my pack, pulled on a fleece, and joined the others, who congregated at a cluster of boulders.
“I’m sorry, guys,” I said. “I don’t know what the hell came over me.”
Jack, one of the brothers from Maine, waved away my apology. “You’re just over-tired. Makes for a short fuse.”
“We’re all tired. No one else acted like an angry toddler. Just me.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, honey,” said Lucy, laying her hand on my arm. “You’ll sleep well tonight and can start fresh tomorrow.”
I w
asn’t so convinced.
We gathered around the camp stoves that Rory and Tommy had carried in their packs. The stoves were essentially small fuel tanks with a water canister attached to the top. You lit the flame, boiled some water, and then poured it right into the food packets, stirred it up, and voila, dinner. I dug into my “Chicken Pad Thai,” expecting it to taste awful, but it was actually pretty good.
Everyone was quiet as we ate, as if we all had enough energy for eating or for speaking, but not for both. Tommy told us that the beach was a good place to look for fossils, so after we packed the empty food packets and utensils into plastic bags and tucked them inside our packs to be disposed of in Portree the next day, the others set off to see what they could find.
I looked around for Rory—now, while everyone else was occupied elsewhere, was a good time for me to apologize to him, something that I needed to do before we started out tomorrow. I had been acting like a stubborn toddler, and I should have just accepted his help.
I looked up and down the beach, but didn’t spot his distinctive red hair. His tent was a few yards away from mine, and I cautiously approached. “Rory?” I rattled the zipper. “Rory, it’s Amelia. Are you in there?”
No answer, so he was either ignoring me, or more likely—because he was our guide and probably wasn’t allowed to ignore me—he was just using the “loo,” the out-of-the-way spot beyond the camp they’d designated for us to take care of business, with precise instructions on what to do—and what not to do.
Whatever, I’d find him later. I took out my phone to call Helen. But I had only two bars of battery power, and no way to charge the phone until tomorrow night. I could make a quick call, but then I wouldn’t be able to take any pictures tomorrow, because I couldn’t let the battery run completely down and be unreachable.
It was a no-brainer, really. I needed to document every moment of this trip for Carrie, and she would understand if I didn’t call. “I’m sorry, Ree,” I muttered.
The sea was deep blue in the evening sunlight. It would probably feel good on my sore feet. I tucked the phone in my pocket, rolled up my pants legs, and pulled off my boots and socks, wincing as the small pebbles dug into my tender soles.
The water lapped gently against the shore. So inviting. I dipped my toes in—and shrieked. It was frigid. I was used to cold water—the ocean off Long Island’s south shore never got above the mid-seventies, and that was in August or September, after it had been baking in the sun all summer. But this was like an ice bath.
Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to step all the way in. The cold water did feel good on my aching feet—or maybe my feet had just gone numb and that was why they didn’t hurt anymore.
I turned back to the beach just as Rory, clad only in a pair of blue gym shorts, strode into the sea and started swimming parallel to the shore with long, powerful strokes, as if this was the Caribbean and not a freezing Scottish bay.
Is he insane? How could he swim in that water without a wetsuit? I watched his figure get smaller and smaller before he turned around and started heading back.
“He does this a lot,” said Tommy, joining me at the water’s edge.
“Is he a masochist? Or one of those exercise fanatics?”
“He doesn’t do it for the exercise. He does it to clear his head.”
Oh. With the stress of that climb down, and the stupid argument with Rory, I’d forgotten about the earlier incident between him and Tommy.
“Isn’t there—I don’t know—a less cold way for him to clear his head? Isn’t he worried about hypothermia?”
“Nah, he’s been swimming in these waters his whole life. We both have. When he has a lot on his mind—which is more often than not—he goes for a swim or a walk in the evening to tire him out so he can sleep.”
He turned to me, no trace of humor in his eyes. “I know you two have butted heads, and that you probably think he’s a dick. He really isn’t, he’s just…complicated. It doesn’t excuse the way he’s treated you, and I swear I’ve never seen him act that way before—he’s usually just quiet and broody. So try not to take it personally, and I’ll talk to him.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“He can’t act that way to a paying client.”
I laid my hand on his arm. “Please don’t. It was totally my fault. He was trying to help, and I was frustrated and being stubborn. I lost my temper, and he reacted in kind. Just let it go. Please?”
He studied me for a long moment, and then nodded, looking relieved. “All right. But if you change your mind…”
“I know where to find you.”
Smiling, he squeezed my hand. “You’re a nice lass, Amelia.”
Rory emerged from the sea, raising both hands to slick the water from his hair. His upper body was incredible. Tommy hadn’t been exaggerating when he said Rory swam a lot. I couldn’t keep from checking him out, my eyes dropping from his broad shoulders to his sculpted chest and abdomen, stopping for a long moment on his deliciously cut obliques, and continuing down to where his wet shorts clung to thighs muscled from what must be thousands of miles of walking.
His skin was golden and lovely and only slightly darker on his forearms, so either he used really good sunblock or went bare-chested often, which really wouldn’t be fair to—well, any other men.
I realized I was staring at him, and snapped my eyes back up, feeling my face grow hot. But I needn’t have worried. His gaze was focused on my hand, still resting on Tommy’s forearm, and Tommy’s hand covering mine. I started to pull my hand away—why, I didn’t really know; it wasn’t like I was doing anything wrong—but Tommy tightened his grip and leaned in close.
“You’ll let me know if you change your mind about me talking to him?”
“I will.” It would never happen, but it was kind of him to offer.
He let go of my hand and stepped back. “Okay. Catch ya later.” His grin seemed broader than the moment warranted, but whatever.
I turned back to talk to Rory, but there was only a trail of wet footprints on the rocks leading toward his tent.
Just as well. There was no way I could look him in the eye right now, anyway, let alone have a serious conversation.
I was weary to my very bones, but it was still light out, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep yet. Maybe a (slow) walk would clear my head. I wandered down the beach in the opposite direction from the rest of the group, needing the time to myself. I stopped by a large pile of rocks and absently poked through them, but my mind was on my confrontation with Rory.
Why did he get under my skin so much? That was easy. Because he kept tapping into the questions I’d been asking myself: What was I doing here, on this difficult trail, when I had practically no hiking experience? What made me think that being in decent shape and doing a few long walks on a flat path came even remotely close to preparing me for a trail that ascended and descended mountains and skirted cliff edges, where a moment’s lapse in concentration could mean injury…or worse?
The answer to those questions was simple: I was doing this for Carrie. Because she couldn’t. And so, I would do it for her, every single step, no matter how painful. Until the very end. And I wouldn’t let Rory, no matter how surly or critical—or hot—distract me from that.
But why was I letting him get to me? With that last argument, we’d practically devolved into “I know you are, but what am I?” I certainly had enough on my mind without wasting the energy and breath picking fights as if we were in junior high school.
Maybe that’s why you’re doing it. I froze, my hand buried wrist-deep in the loose rocks. No, that couldn’t be it. Couldn’t it, though? When you were arguing with Rory, were you thinking about Carrie?
I thought back to the confrontations we’d had. Each time I’d mouthed off to him, each time I’d let him get to me, my mind had been focused on him. Each time, I’d walked away angry, grumbling under my breath or in my head about what a jerk he was. And each time, I hadn’t thought about Carrie
—why I was here and she wasn’t. I hadn’t felt guilty for enjoying a fantastic view or for being exhilarated from a quick climb up to a peak.
I’d subconsciously been fighting with Rory to make myself feel better. But this wasn’t about making myself feel better. Not when Carrie was…not okay. And it wasn’t fair to Rory. I needed to stop picking fights with him.
The sun was dropping behind the Trotternish Ridge. I needed to return to camp. Yes, I’d snidely told Rory that I had a flashlight with me, but right now it was in my pack, which was in my tent. The last thing I needed was to get stuck out here in the dark—or worse, have him come looking for me with an “I told you so.”
I braced my hand on a rock and pushed myself to my feet, knocking over a pile of smaller rocks in the process. One of them landed faceup, displaying the embedded spiral of some kind of fossil.
“Oh, cool,” I breathed. Yes, this beach was supposed to be excellent for finding fossils, but I didn’t think I’d actually stumble upon one. I stuck it in the pocket of my fleece and returned to camp.
“Tommy, I found one!”
Grinning, he took it from me and examined it. “It’s an ammonite, a prehistoric mollusk. Pretty neat, right?”
“It’s awesome. What did everyone else find?”
It turned out I was the only one who’d been successful. Maybe it was a sign. Of what, I didn’t know. That Carrie would be okay? That she wasn’t mad that I might have subconsciously sought to distract myself from worrying about her to argue with a cute guy?
Exhaustion swept over me. I needed to get to bed before I collapsed.
While it was still light enough to see, I hurried out of sight of the camp to pee, then brushed my teeth.
I returned to my tent and zipped it nearly all the way up, leaving a small opening for the last bit of daylight to come in. I changed into my pajamas and slithered into my sleeping bag.
I turned the gray rock over in my hand, tracing the delicate grooves and ridges with my fingertip. Because of my exasperation with Rory, which had led me to wander down the beach, I’d found a perfect souvenir for Carrie. Maybe it was a sign.
Under a Storm-Swept Sky Page 6