He could still see her face now—the expression of shock and hurt when he’d more or less told that her love didn’t change how he felt. He gritted his teeth. Except he hadn’t said anything. He’d just shaken his head like a robot.
But he hadn’t been able to make his voice work. Marta’s random appearance was such an unsettling reminder of what would happen if he allowed the separate strands of his life to overlap, that her astonishing words and his own feverishly joyous response to them had been silenced.
Of course, seeing Lottie upset had hurt—badly—but not enough to blan
k his mind to the fear, so that when she’d told him she wanted to go home he’d told himself that it was for the best.
But it wasn’t.
It was the biggest mistake he’d ever made.
* * *
The next few days were interminable, and he realised that time was not a great healer. Being alone in the house—or worse, in his bed—was like pressing against an open wound, and after one more day of agonising solitude he went down to the stables and led Camille out into the yard.
He rode blindly, seeing nothing, caring about nothing, just trying to put as much distance between himself and his silent home as he could. But when they reached the top of a hill Camille slowed and, leaning back in his saddle, he gazed down at the waterfalls. His eyes blurred—and not because of the freezing wind.
The sky was dark and low and the wind was bitterly cold against his face. Any rational, sane person would be happily sprawled out on the sofa in front of a log fire. But he didn’t feel rational or sane or happy. And that was why he was here, roaming the freezing hills.
It was ridiculous and illogical to act like this.
Signy certainly thought so.
Probably Camille, too, but thankfully horses couldn’t talk.
Only he didn’t know what else to do.
For years he’d relished coming here. Even before ice/breakr had gone global it had been a place of sanctuary—somewhere he could take a breath before the next storm hit.
His hands tightened against the reins.
But not any more. Now his house was an empty, echoing reminder of his stupidity and cowardice. For so many years he’d had to fight to keep his life orderly and tranquil, and now he had succeeded in achieving his ideal. After expelling Marta from his home, even his family were keeping their distance—only instead of relishing his solitude he hated it.
He missed Lottie and Sóley.
Without them life had no purpose, no value.
But she deserved a better man than him.
So be that man, he told himself. Be the man she needs you to be. Find her and fight for her.
And, turning away from the waterfall, he pushed Camille down the slope towards the only future he wanted—a future he was not going to let slip away again.
* * *
Looking up at the Suffolk sky, Lottie flinched as a few flakes of snow landed on her face. She was standing in the back garden of her cottage, supposedly trying to decide where to put Sóley’s swing. All week it had been threatening to snow, but of course it had to wait until today, her daughter’s birthday, to actually make good on its promise.
As if she didn’t have enough reminders of Ragnar Stone already in her life.
All the shops were filled with fur throws and cushions for Christmas, and when Lucas had finally managed to drag her to the pub one evening she’d caught sight of a blond man crouching in front of the open fire and, ignoring her brother’s exasperated protests, had simply reversed back out through the door.
But of the man himself there had been nothing.
Not a word in nearly three weeks.
No phone call.
No text.