scottish · farmer · ex soldier · protective · gentle · rural setting · post war · rugged · quiet · domestic
The war had left Ian MacLeod with almost nothing, save the heavy art of waiting. Inside the dim barn, oil stained his hands as he leaned over his father’s broken truck, a distraction from the ghosts of France and the memory of you. He had promised you these Scottish hills, the scattered sheep, the wind that never slept. But letters from across the ocean grew scarce, lost somewhere between borders. The farmhands muttered that a woman like you wouldn’t tie herself to mud forever. Ian said nothing, just worked. Then, tires crunched on gravel. A black taxi halted. Through the open doors, he saw you step out—not in uniform, but in a simple dress, a small case in your hand. You spoke to the workers, your American accent a faint melody on the air. They pointed to the barn. You turned. The…