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Martin Moffatt darted a glance sideways at his cousin, Caitlin, as she snapped shut the reloaded firearm. Damn, she was fast. Martin slotted two cartridges down the side-by-side and placed it in the outstretched hand of the lady guest in front of him. These shoots his father held at their Scottish Lowland country estate were usually a breeze, but this weekend Caitlin had made it a nightmare. She was so competitive.
“Who’s winning?” Martin’s father threw him a smile before shouting, “Pull!”
A volley of gunfire echoed across the heather-covered moor at the top of their property. The pheasant weren’t co-operating today, so Martin and Caitlin had set up the clay-trap beside a clump of bracken fern where the machine flew the clay-pigeons out and up. They had to keep the guests happy.
“I am, of course, Uncle Kieran.” Caitlin spared Martin a glance. With one hand she grabbed the used shotgun from the grasp of the gentleman guest in front of her, and with the other, thrust a reloaded small-bore sporting rifle into his waiting hand. She snapped open the shotgun she held. Two spent cartridges flicked out in no time.
Martin took the shotgun from the lady guest in front of him and handed her a newly loaded firearm. The woman’s eyes narrowed as she took it.
Caitlin had tied her long blonde hair back like she wore it at work. Martin had dropped in to see her once.
Bad move.
It had been a chaotic day in the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary Emergency Department where Caitlin was a nurse. She had asked him to never come to her workplace again. Martin hadn’t ever visited her at her flat, either.
Martin managed a disgruntled huff as he stood behind the lady guest. He and Caitlin lived in the same city during the week, but they never crossed paths. Maybe she’d go to Majorca with the family this year. One could live in hope.
“Daydreaming won’t get my gun reloaded, sonny.” The narrowed eyes stared into his face.
“Oh, okay.” Martin snapped shut the firearm he’d filled with two cartridges and handed it to the lady guest, then grabbed the shotgun she held under his nose.
Man, he had to concentrate. No wonder Caitlin was winning their bet. She was always so focused.
“Pull!” His father’s authoritative voice bellowed out and another round of gunfire ensued.
Martin fumbled with the cartridges as he shoved them into the over-under shotgun.
“Fat-finger syndrome today, cuz?” Caitlin’s blue eyes flicked up from one more reloaded firearm.
“Leave me alone, bully,” Martin teased.
“A few free coffees from that place you work at on the Mile will do, Mista Barista.”
“Okay,” Martin sighed. “You’ve won.”
“Where’s my gun?” The lady guest spun around to face him; a vertical line creased her brow above her nose and her eyes narrowed to slits. “Less talk. More reloading.”
***
WITH THE SHOOT FINISHED, Martin’s father drove the guests back to the main house, while Martin and Caitlin collected the firearms, ammunition, trap, and left-over clays, and loaded them into the 4WD. Martin drove the vehicle down the moor’s narrow track. They called it the Lowlands, but this part of Scotland had undulating hills carpeted in greens and dark browns. Today, clouds dragged themselves over the hills whose sides would soon be an eruption of purple as the summer brought the heather into bloom. Warmth burst in Martin’s chest. He’d spent his life, from early teens until recently, living on this estate after his father had built his electronics business and made his fortune. Martin had had some great times with his father then, who had been able to relax and spend time with his children after years away building his business.
“You’re very quiet.” Caitlin broke into his reverie. “But then, you’re never one for small talk. Or are you just mad at me for beating you?”
“No.” Martin laughed as he shook his head. “Couldn’t be mad at you.”
“Mr Silent Man, that’s what you are.”
“Am I?” He threw his half-smile at her.
“So, what are you?” She pressed.
“Physics student.”
“You like that, don’t you? Makes people think you’re intelligent.” Caitlin squinted. “And?”
“Son of a wealthy man.”
“So, you see yourself as that.” She didn’t hold back her critical tone. “A rich kid?”
“Well, I am.” He shrugged. “Dad worked hard for it. Why not?”
“You’re more than that.” Caitlin smiled and turned to look out the window.
They drove through a small wood of silver birch and ash as the main house, a double story Georgian mansion, came into view. Barley fields lay either side of the house. A sample of the next batch of scotch made by the local distillery, using their barley, would arrive soon. He dropped Caitlin off at the back door, and then parked the vehicle in one of the garages that sat in a row behind the house.
As Martin made his way to the front door, the late afternoon sun angled beams of gold through the doorway and large windows, illuminating the paintings hanging on the walls of the front vestibule. Scenes of Scottish lochs hung beside portraits of past lairds. A fan of Lochaber axes glinted next to a display of claymores mounted on the bare-stone wall.
Caitlin stepped out of the front door with her bags in her hands and walked to her car parked in one of the parking spaces at the front of the house.
“Leaving already?” Martin followed and leaned against his luxury class sedan parked next to her two-door run-about.
“Yes. Some of us have to work. I’m not a uni student anymore.”
“Dig. Dig.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I do work, you know. Here and at The Mile of Coffee.”
“You owe me some of its wares. I like cappu—”
“...ccino. I know. And you’ll get it. Just come in and claim your prize when I’m working. Darren, my boss, doesn’t give away freebies.”
Caitlin smiled and threw her bag into the back seat. Her blonde hair had come loose from its tie and brushed the pale skin of her neck.
“Are you coming to Dad’s birthday party?” Martin asked.
“Of course.” She sat in the driver’s seat and turned the ignition key. Nothing happened.
“Going already, Caitlin?” Theresa’s voice came from behind him, grating his nerves as usual.
“It appears not.” Martin turned to his older sister. Theresa had a way of belittling Caitlin and she did it every time. Like it was her hobby. “Try it again, Caitlin.”
Caitlin’s hand turned the key as her mouth screwed to one side.
Nothing.
“You need a mechanic.” Theresa was on to it—as usual. “There’s one in town. Not the wee village, the town. Phone him up, he’ll be here in no time.”
“The call-out fee will be more than I can afford.” Caitlin’s shoulders slumped.
Theresa tilted her head and pursed her lips.
Like she even cares.
“Pull the bonnet. I’ll have a look.” Martin moved to the front of the car.
“What do you know about cars, Martin?” Theresa asked. “Does theoretical physics cover the internal combustion engine?”
There Theresa was, denigrating his studies once more.
“I do know a wee bit about cars,” he snapped.
Lifting the bonnet, Martin pushed his hair out of his eyes and tucked it behind his ear. He examined the engine while he clicked the fingers of his left hand. Then he twiddled some wires and tubing. It was an easy fix. “Try it now.”
Caitlin tried the ignition key. This time the engine turned, stuttered, and went quiet.
“And again,” Martin called.
He looked through the windscreen. Caitlin’s face flooded with relief as the engine came to life and stayed there. A smile tugged at the corners of Martin’s mouth and he shut the bonnet while Caitlin revved the engine.
“Thanks, Martin. You’ve saved me.” Caitlin’s face lit up with her smile. “But you still owe me a coffee!” Her index finger pointed his way.
“Okay. See ya next week.”