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her.
    Pulling the massive quilt tighter, China Stuart settled into a deeper sleep with a smile on her face as the wind howled around The Cuckoo like something possessed. Yet she found the storm strangely soothing. In her dreams, she wondered what the new day would bring.

Chapter 3
    The following morning was the day before the funeral. By some divine miracle, the rain had finally stopped, the clouds dispersed, and the sky turned an ice blue. Morgan woke China up with loving licks around her face, despite her protests. Squinting at her watch, she was horrified to find it was only half past five in the morning.
    Guilt stopped her from turning over and trying to get back to sleep, as she suddenly remembered she had promised to ring Anthony back in Manchester the minute she set foot on that tiny dot in the Minch, the Sea of the Hebrides. Of course, even when she waved her mobile around standing on her bed, she couldn’t get a signal. She was sure she had seen a mast just behind the pub, but maybe The Cuckoo was in a dead zone.
    “Sorry Anthony,” she said to herself as she washed and dressed, staring up at the piercing blue sky through the room’s skylight. This was the island China remembered from her childhood. Long walks to the tiny stone Kirk, the wind ruffling the course grass into waves that rippled down from the hillside. The air so fresh if you could have bottled it you’d have made a fortune, and the smell of the sea all around her.
    Breakfast, consisting of toast, sausages, bacon and eggs with a steaming pot of coffee, was waiting for her on the bar, as the homely Mrs. Baxter was up and about polishing the antique round tables.
    “I’m starving!” China cried, tucking into the pile of fresh toast. “How did you know I was up?”
    “The water pipes in this old place tell a story every morning, banging and whistling. And that’ll be the sea air giving you an appetite. You could do with a few square meals inside of you, there’s nothing of you, lassie!”
    The hours spent in her expensive gym back in Manchester to keep that trim figure suddenly faced off against the pile of carbs before her. The bread won, and she slipped Morgan a sausage as he leaned against her legs, appearing by magic at the smell of cooking. He certainly seemed to have taken a shine to her, and she hoped it wasn’t all for food.
    “That hairy con-artist has already had his breakfast.” Mrs. Baxter scowled at the dog. Morgan’s ears went down and he tried to hide under China’s stool. “Donald’s waiting outside,” the landlady let slip as she dusted the various paintings adorning the snug. There was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes as she told China this. “He says he’ll take you up to the Grange.”
    Although China thought she remembered the way, the idea of spending a couple of hours in the fisherman’s company rather pleased her. Demolishing the remainder of her breakfast, she grabbed her coat from upstairs and raced Morgan for the front door. The fresh air hit her like a solid wall. She closed her eyes and just soaked it all in.
    Donald rose from the wooden bench at the front of the pub dressed in the same oilskins she’d first seen him in. But he looked as if he had attempted a shave and had put a comb through his untidy hair. China felt honoured. As he fussed the massive dog, he pointed back up the natural slope of the island, towards the woodland over its hills.
    “Remember the way?”
    “Try and catch me!” She laughed and ran on ahead, her boots splashing through the puddles left from the previous night’s storm.
    He let her win for a few hundred yards, of course. It was all part of the game. But as she reached the beginning of the heather-covered hillside, China managed to snag her sweater sleeve on an old barbed wire fence.
    Donald took too long to untangle her, standing far too close.
    “What are you smiling at?” she asked, testing the water.
    “You.” He couldn’t resist. Leaning forward, his lips were