The Highland Fling(19)

“You can’t possibly smell him.”

“I can,” I insist.

“Then what does he smell like?”

“A kilt,” I answer, not even thinking about it.

“You’ve never smelled a kilt in your entire life.”

“False,” I say, running my nose over the back of the couch . . . oof, musty. “Last fall, Bath and Body Works sold a candle called Scottish Kilt. That’s what Rowan smells like.”

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“Have I?” I ask. “Or have I cracked the code on this man?”

“You’ve lost it.” Sighing, Dakota grabs her phone and pulls up her contacts.

“I don’t think calling your dad is going to be helpful right now. Not sure he knows much about Scottish plumbing.”

“I’m not calling my dad.” She holds the phone up to her ear. “I’m calling Rowan.”

“You have his number?” When the hell did she get that?

“Finella gave it to me in case we needed anything,” Dakota says. Ahh, that makes sense.

Wait . . . she’s actually calling him.

“No, you can’t call him. That’s exactly what he wants you to do. We can figure this out on our own.” Hurrying to the bathroom, I grab the toilet-water bucket and charge out of the cottage to the well.

Now, to be honest, I’ve never seen a well in person, but I’ve seen them being used on many a TV show and movie, and when I say “many,” I’m pretty sure it’s only been Disney movies, but that’s beside the point. Those badass bitches knew exactly what they were doing when they were fetching water.

Squatting down beside the short stone well, I lean my head under the well’s little thatched roof and peer down the hole.

Pitch black.

“Hello?” I call down, just to check that there aren’t any trolls or gremlins lurking below. The Scottish are known for their fables and storytelling so, you know, just have to make sure. “Anyone home?” I ask, laughing to myself.

When there is no response, I take that as my cue to use the bucket.

“See, we don’t need him,” I mutter to myself. “We can just get our own water.” Not ideal, and yes, I swore I would need modern plumbing when we first pulled up to the cottage, but I’ve become one with Scotland today. Sleeping on the rocks by a loch—ha!—will do that to you.

I pull down the rope that’s attached to a pulley system and tie it securely around the handle of the bucket. I make sure to yank it a few times to test that it’s completely secure. Don’t need to lose our toilet-water bucket.

Once I feel it’s ready, I let the bucket dangle over the well before grabbing the pulley’s handle and turning it. The bucket lowers a few inches.

“Aha!” I yell, looking behind me to the cottage and spotting Dakota in the front window, phone still held up to her ear. “Look, Dakota, I’m fetching us water. Get a picture for the Gram.”

I turn the handle a little bit more and marvel at how smoothly it’s lowering the bucket. It’s as if I was born to fetch water.

“We’ll be taking baths in no time,” I call out, even though the thought of doing this multiple times to fill the tub isn’t at all appealing.

Ugh, and to think families used to share the bathwater. I can’t even begin to think of all the dead skin floating around.

Dakota and I are close . . . but we’re not that close.

“Just got off the pho—Bonnie, what the hell are you doing?” Dakota asks from behind me.

I pause my work and crane my neck around, flashing her a grin. “Did you not hear me? I’m fetching us water. We don’t need Kilty McGrumpyshire to come over here and save the day. We are survivalists—we can make it on our own.”

“Your form of survival is Uber Eats.”

“Takes a smart woman to know where to get the best food, still warm, and for a good price.” I tap the side of my head. “Call Kilty back and tell him we’re good.”

“I’m not calling him back—and why are you calling him that? You haven’t seen him in a kilt. You don’t even know if he owns one.”

“Okay, let’s not be naive,” I say, lowering the bucket even deeper. “He smells like a kilt, he’s grumpy, and . . . I don’t know, ‘shire’ has a nice ring to it. Kilty McGrumpy—huh.” I frown, sensing a shift in the rope. “I think I just hit something.”

“What do you mean you just—?”

An ear-piercing screech fills the air, and before I can look over the edge to assess what’s knocked my bucket, a mass of blackness comes barreling out of the well, straight toward me.

I fling myself back on the ground as what must be hundreds of bats pour out of the well like a tidal wave of God’s fury crashing down on us.

Now, there is only one way to describe the sound that flies out of my mouth as a bat’s wing clips me across the forehead: the war cry of a pig in heat as the farmer steals its trough right out from under its nose.

It’s feral.

It’s disturbing.

It’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard fall past my lips.

And it isn’t just one scream.

It’s several.

“Ahhh! . . . snuff snuff . . . ahhhhhh bababa ahhhh snuff.”