Page 8 of A Scot on the Rocks

“What’s wrong?” Ewan asked.

Jamie looked up. “Where did they draw the water for this batch?”

Ewan hung his coat by the door. “Where we always do. The upper burn.”

“Near the alder trees?”

“Aye.”

Jamie looked toward the window. The heavy rain two nights before would have changed the flow there, washing soil from the bank and running over rock that stayed dry most of the summer.

“Use the spring tomorrow for the next brew.”

Ewan took the cup from him and tasted.

“You think it’s the water?”

“Aye.”

Ewan swallowed and tasted again. “Seems fine to me.”

“It is fine.”

“That sounded suspiciously like criticism.”

Jamie held out his hand for the cup. “The last batch was better.”

“The spring was barely running.”

“Then we wait until it is again.”

Ewan gave him a disbelieving look. “You want Alasdair to stop a run because you think the whisky tastes a wee bit different?”

“I want him to use the spring water.”

Ewan snorted. “Tell him your bloody self, and I want to be there when you do.”

“Why?”

“Because he’ll throw something at you.”

Jamie tore off another piece of bannock. “His aim isn’t verra good.”

“He hit Fergus last month.”

“The lad is slower than Morag.”

Ewan laughed and poured himself another measure.

They ate by the fire while rain struck the stones outside, talking over what had to be done the next day and whether the excisemen would come farther into the glen. By the time Ewan left, Jamie knew the water mattered even though he couldna say exactly why.

Morning brought a pale sky, wet grass, and the news that Dunarraidh’s ghost had spent the night screaming from the hillside.

Jamie heard it from Catrìona MacRae, who intercepted him on the path as the sun rose.

She was five, small for her age, and looked at him with the solemn disappointment of a minister addressing a fallen congregation.

“Ye forgot.”