The evening grew chill now that the sun had left the sky. The air had been sharp but tranquil while he’d strolled along with the lass. Now a westerly wind tried to push that lovely memory away.

The bite of cold air against Kerry’s knees was invigorating and reminded him that he’d enjoyed no physical feel of the weather while roaming the moor, so he’d be grateful. But truly, if it got much colder, he’d consider unfastening his great kilt and wrapping it about himself.

He began to doubt whether he’d made a poor wager in the chip shop. Without looking back, he had to rely on his hearing to tell if the lass was coming after him. But either she was a sly wee thing, or she was sticking to her ultimatum.

Which made him wonder, again, why she would harbor such a policy. Why not take photographs of the people she loved? Empathy distracted the lass?

More’s the pity if it’s true. He considered turning back and chasing after her, which would prove ironic, but the sound of hurried steps meant there was no need. The lass was coming after all. And just to prove himself a clever fellow, he held his palm out to the side, inviting her to take it.

She slapped his hand away, and he laughed.

“You were playing me, Mr. Mather.” Her tone was accusing, but she came to walk beside him in any case.

“Like a well-tuned fiddle, Miss Lennox.” He glanced to the side long enough to wink at her, then turned toward the water and slowed his pace. “I thought ye might care to see our lovely bridge.” He gestured toward the rock expanse that crossed the South Esk river. “The first arch was built nigh two hundred years before the second, but ye wouldn’t know by looking, aye?”

Jordan was paying no heed to the bridge. Her fists perched on her hips as they had earlier. The wee lass was about to make a stand again.

“I’ve decided I’ll take your picture tomorrow.”

“Have ye now?”

“And I’ll meet your terms. Breakfast, lunch—”

“A picnic.”

She nodded. “A picnic for lunch, and dinner.”

“And ye vow ye’ll become involved with me, then?”

She recoiled and he snatched one of her hands before she could retreat too far.

“I was funning with ye, lass. Just funning.”

She wrinkled her nose and gave him what was no doubt her best attempt at an evil eye, but it had the opposite effect, for now he wanted to make her do it again.

“Detached, I believe ye said.”

“Yeah?”

“All I ask is that ye dinna make it yer watch word for the day, aye? Such a lonely place it sounds—to be detached. And I’ve known it all too well.”

She nodded, finally. “Is that why you walked away?”

Suddenly uncomfortable with the morose tone, he smiled brightly. “Nonsense. I walked away so ye’d come after me again.”

She used her shoulder to push him off balance, but it didn’t work. Then she started walking away.

“Ye canna blame me, lass. I so enjoyed yer frown the first time.”

She kept marching, he tried to catch up with her, but it was difficult what with how hard he was laughing.

“Where do ye go, Jordan?”

“I’m going to check out your bridge.”

He composed himself and caught up.

“What’s it called?”

“The bridge? Brechin Bridge. Why do ye ask?”

“Oh, I just thought all your bridges were supposed to have charming names.”

“Like Brig o’ Doon?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

He reached the bridge first and held out his arms as if to present it to her. “I fear those instructions never reached the townsfolk of Brechin. For behold, Brechin Bridge.”

The woman moved to the side and set her bag on the stone wall. Then she climbed upon the ledge to sit beside her things and hung her legs over the water far below.

Kerry found himself jealous of South Esk because it stole her attention from him. The childish emotion took him quite by surprise, but there was no use denying it.

“Dinna fash, lass. I will think of something charming ye can name this beast.”

She said nothing. Just kicked her heels and watched the river pass.

“Let me see...” He brought a hand up to his chin, but she noticed nothing. He leaned across the ledge, inching into her vision. “Brig o’ Kerry?”

His suggestion won him only a vague sigh.

“Brig o’ Fish—sans Chips?” That won him an eyeroll. But what he truly wished to win was a kiss. “Brig o’...”

“Brig o’ Cold Wind,” she said, and pulled her feet up, to climb down. “When did it get so cold?”

“The warmth must have left ye after running after me, aye?” He grabbed one of her hands and held tight. “Ye’re naught but frozen bones, lass. We need a fire.”

“I need to get back to my B&B.”

“And where is that?”

“Just off the city square and the statue.”

“Plenty of walk to warm ye, then. Perhaps we can come back to the Brig o’ Photos on the morrow.”

Finally, he won a laugh and a genuine smile from her. “Brig o’ Photos it is.”