The conversation outside the bakery lingered in my mind: the warmth in Brianna’s voice when she spoke about her mother, the fire when she warned me that the town would fight for her. I hadn’t been able to forget the way she’d said it, not with arrogance, but conviction.
Visiting the other holdings across Pine Hollow this morning was slightly bittersweet. A small cottage on the hill with its elderly couple, a workshop of a carpenter, two shops along thehigh street and of course, Brianna’s bakery. Each one carried the same story: family businesses, quiet lives, history written into the walls. My grandfather had invested here because he’d loved this place, and I understood that now. Selling them off like lines on a ledger felt wrong. I’d already made a mental note to ask his estate why these places needed to be sold.
When I stopped by the bakery before leaving, Brianna was outside shovelling the path of snow. Her hair was loose, bright against the dull sky, and her cheeks were flushed from the cold. She looked up when she heard my footsteps crunch on the snow.
“Heard you’re done here,” she said, her tone careful but not unkind.
“Ah it's true what they say about small towns then, word spreads quickly.” I replied. “I’ve seen the other properties, spoken to the tenants. I’ll do my best to make a resolution that keeps everyone safe where they are. I don’t want anyone losing their homes or businesses if it can be helped.”
She studied me for a moment, her breath misting in the air. “You’ll do your best?”
“I will,” I said, meaning it.
“Good,” she replied softly. “Because I’ll hold you to that, Mr Grant.”
A faint smile tugged at my mouth. “I don’t doubt it.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was full, almost comfortable. A rare kind of quiet that didn’t need to be broken.
“Well,” I said finally, adjusting my coat. “I should get going if I want to make it back to Inverness before dark.”
She nodded, glancing past me toward the horizon where the clouds were already gathering again. “Safe travels, I heard the snow is going to come down heavily later tonight.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And Brianna?—”
She blinked, surprised by the use of her name.
“I’ll be in touch soon,” I added. “Promise.”
She didn’t reply at once, but the smallest smile curved her lips. “I hope you keep your promises.”
As I turned to leave, I couldn’t help glancing back once, she’d already gone inside, the bell above the bakery door chiming softly. I told myself it was just good manners that made me look back. I wasn’t sure I believed it.
The drive out of Pine Hollow was quiet, the roads narrow and still half-buried under snow. The radio couldn’t find a signal, and my phone had long since given up trying. I’d been driving for about two hours, the mountains flattening into open countryside, when the first warning light blinked onto the dashboard.
“Don’t you dare,” I muttered under my breath.
The car juddered once, then again and again. The steering wheel vibrated under my hands. A bright orangeEngine Management Lightglowed to life, followed by an unhelpful ping that felt almost smug.
“Oh, for god's sake.” I muttered.
Pulling over onto the verge, the tyres crunching over ice. The wind had picked up, scattering fine powder across the bonnet. I turned the key several times and listened to the engine cough, then fell into a sullen silence. No longer able to start.
I leaned back in the seat, staring at the ceiling. “Brilliant, Oliver. Just brilliant you are going to freeze to death in a car, in the middle of the Scottish highlands!”
There was no signal on my phone. Of course, there wasn’t. I dared to get out but as the snow fell harder, I knew I’d be buriedalive in the car. So, I got out, my shoes sinking into the snow, and surveyed the empty road. White stretched in every direction. A few skeletal trees. No traffic. No sound but the wind.
After a few minutes walking, perhaps I’d find an old telephone box and when I didn’t, I accepted defeat. I’d have to wait for the next passing car or, more realistically, walk back toward the last turnoff and hope someone there had a phone line.
After what felt like a good hour, a pair of headlights appeared through the snow, cutting a hazy path down the road. Relief flooded me when I saw the bulky outline of an old truck crawling toward me. The driver slowed, leaned out the window, and grinned through the swirl of flakes.
“Ah saw yer motor up the road there! Died on ye, did it?”
His voice was thick with a Highland accent–warm, rolling, and about seventy percent decipherable.
“Something like that,” I called back, trying to match his volume over the wind. “Would you happen to be heading toward Pine Hollow?”
He laughed, a big, booming sound. “Aye, every road leads tae Pine Hollow when the snow hits. Hop in, pal. Ye look half frozen.”