An eighty-mile trek across the rugged, stunning beauty of Scotland’s Isle of Skye isn't something I imagined myself doing. Ever. This isn't a trail for beginners. And I'm not a hiker.

But I have to finish it, even if it kills me. I have no choice.

With the ever-changing weather and relentless terrain, I’m in over my head.

Rory Sutherland, my guide on this adventure, is not happy. We clash with every mile, but we recognize a shared pain. Not only is the journey a struggle, but the tension between us is taut with unsaid words. And hope.

He’s broken. I’m damaged. Together, we’re about to make the perfect storm.

Excerpt

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.

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About Beth Anne Miller

Beth Anne Miller has a fascination for all things Scottish (including, but not limited to, men in kilts), which has influenced all her writing to date. Her first novel is a time travel called INTO THE SCOTTISH MIST; her second, A STAR TO STEER HER BY, has a Scottish hero; and her newest book, UNDER A STORM-SWEPT SKY, is set on the Isle of Skye, and was inspired by her own long-distance treks in Scotland. A native New Yorker, Beth Anne lives on Long Island and works in the publishing industry. She’s looking forward to her next trip to Scotland.

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