Hot Blooded Read Free Page A

encountering a car or two in the otherwise quiet mountains. She might have been only eight when her mother took her away from Scotland, but she recalled how quiet and still life had been.
    A glance at the directions next to her had her turning left onto a dirt road that was more mud than anything. She drove around puddles not knowing how deep the holes might be and not wanting to get stuck.
    Even after so many years since she lived in the Highlands, she still recognized the gate ahead of her. Iona stopped the car and put it in park, staring at it. Her father had set her atop the gate when he had opened and closed it. It was one of the few memories she allowed herself to remember, because opening that floodgate would do her no good.
    Iona unbuckled her seat belt and threw open the door. Her hands shook as she walked to the gate and unbolted it before she pushed it wide. It creaked loudly, silencing the birds chirping around her.
    She looked around at the dense forest. Her photographer’s eye noticed the deep green of the pine needles, the paler green of the ferns that blanketed the ground and how they added contrast against the dark-colored bark and the sun filtering through the tree limbs.
    It would make a beautiful picture, but documenting her trip was the last thing she wanted to do.
    Iona returned to her car and drove through the gate before getting back out and shutting it behind her. She then drove slowly down the narrow road through the woods. Twice she had to stop to miss a pine marten that darted across the road.
    When the trees thinned and she came upon the clearing with the small cottage, she had to stop the car, she was so overcome with memories.
    Iona drew in a breath, her throat tight with emotions. Her eyes welled with tears, but she refused to shed a single one on a man who hadn’t tried to contact her in twenty years. He was her father, and she would bury him since she was his only relative, but she wouldn’t cry for him.
    Or for the memories of the past.
    The last time she saw the cottage was in the middle of the night during a vicious thunderstorm. She was drenched by the time her mother dragged her screaming to the car. All the while her mom kept telling her what a good life they would have in Kent, and that while England seemed a long way, it really wasn’t.
    Iona hadn’t paid much attention to her mother. All she could do was stare at the silhouette of her father in the doorway as he stood watching them leave. She screamed for him to stop her mother. She held out her arms to the man who had never let her down.
    But that night she discovered the man her father really was.
    He watched them leave without uttering a single word. He didn’t try to stop her mother or even attempt to keep Iona with him.
    For weeks afterward she knew her father would come for her. He would take her back to the cottage and their woods, but the days turned into weeks and weeks into months. He didn’t call, he didn’t write, and he never came to see her.
    Iona blinked away the sudden rush of tears and drove the last few hundred yards to the house. She was slow to exit the car. Once she had, she didn’t move. She wasn’t sure she could go into the house.
    Leaning against the rental car, she slowly perused the area. The cottage itself was in neat order. There were bird feeders everywhere, something that had been added after she was gone.
    How many times had she begged her parents for a bird feeder? She hadn’t had a camera at that age, but seeing the birds had been just as good.
    Iona straightened and walked around to the back of the house. A wooden deck had been extended from the back door. A wrought-iron table and two chairs were perched on the deck as well as a book, opened and lying facedown.
    The wind riffled the pages, damp from the frequent rain showers. The book had been set aside as if her father planned to return. Which meant his death had come about suddenly.
    That was one thing