by Stobie Piel
Miren had scouted the area beyond, too. Only a narrow road leading north, between a rocky hill and the stream. That should keep them back. Maybe.
Miren shifted her gaze to her flock. "Just one more set of lambs and we'll have enough to make a profit at shearing season."
Molly didn't move her head, but her eyes shifted. The impression given was that they had too many sheep already.
Miren folded her arms behind her head. The air felt warm and soft. No rain. Spring gave way to summer, and it promised to be a fine season. The field was covered with bluebells, a bee drew nectar, then flew away. Miren's eyes drifted shut. She would miss this time when she was in America.
But she would be with her family. All that remained of it, anyway. William Lindsay died, and left her alone, but his brother would welcome her. Uncle Robert would understandhow her father had suffered. After her mother died, William went into a decline that lasted many years.
His family emigrated to America, and William spoke of following, of new beginnings. As Miren reached adulthood, he gathered his wits again and began planning for her future. The challenge heartened him, and he launched himself wholeheartedly into a new career. Despite the fact he knew nothing about farming, he purchased a flock of Blackface sheep, intending to earn enough money for emigration.
Before a profit could be made, William died, leaving Miren with the flock, and nothing else. After his death, she learned that he had sold their cottage, for a pittance, to pay for the flock. Miren was ordered off the property, and the cottage was destroyed.
Miren refused to surrender the dream of emigration. There had to be a better life in America. Thousands upon thousands of impoverished Scottish families had already gone, as the country turned from farming to industrialization. America offered hope, and Miren needed hope. If only the sheep would cooperate . . .
It hadn't been easy. The worst incident, so far, was when an irate farmer near Lochgair aimed a gun at Miren and threatened to feast on her sheep if she didn't remove them from his pasture. If she shouted loud enough, waved her arms, and blew on her shepherd's whistle, she could get the flock to move. Assuming that Blossom, their leader, moved first.
When held at gunpoint, Blossom had seen the error of remaining in the field, and Miren's sheep were spared. Miren had avoided disaster then, and she would continue to do so. She would go to America, and everything would be all right. Maybe Uncle Robert would be proud that she had survived, on her own, with only her flock as inheritance.
Miren's breath slowed at that comforting though. The sun warmed her face. Such a lovely pasture. If only they could stay awhile . . .
The last glimpse of white wool disappeared over the pasture's crest. Molly didn't move. She eyed her sleeping mistress, then the empty horizon. Gone! It was a start. A good start. Now if the young mistress could be persuaded not to wake . . .
Molly resisted a small pang of guilt. Miren would be upset. She might even cry. Molly's tail flipped to one side. It was for the young mistress's own good. With the sheep gone, she'd have to find a new vocation.
And take Molly with her.
"You're Nathan MacCallum, boy, and don't you forget it."
Simon MacTavish leaned forward in his seat, glaring. An expression Nathan considered permanent. Nathan gazed out the coach window at a neat, ordered pasture. Scotland was beautiful, perhaps, but he longed for the sea. "I've forgotten nothing."
Simon snorted in derision. "You never had much to remember, but now it matters. You're a laird's son. A laird's son must adhere to social standards at all times."
Nathan rolled his eyes, but he didn't respond. Simon tapped his knee. Nathan resisted the impulse to swat the old man's stubby hand away. "Mind my words, boy . . . Another slipup like this morning . . ." Simon sputtered incoherently, probably in reference to Nathan's refusal of a starched cravat. "You're not in America anymore."
"That much is certain." Nathan turned his gaze to Simon. Simon's blue eyes blazed, at the height of emotion. Nathan drew a calm breath. "Should you refer to me as 'boy' again, indeed our position might be suspect."
The blaze of Simon's eyes intensified. "You're bound to be putting on airs, and I'm bound to follow. Don't you be forgetting who you are, or why we're here."
Nathan held Simon's fiery gaze until Simon twitched and looked away. "I know why we're here. When my brother'sdeath is avenged, and his son secure, I will waste no time returning to 'what I am.'"
Of all people to be confined with, Simon was the worst. They shared a common goal. They needed each other to restore justice in Scotland, and avenge a bitter wrong. All the more reason to hurry the process and be gone.
"It's been two weeks, and we don't have a speck of an idea why old Dr. Patterson turned murderer."
"We'll find the answer once we know the right question to ask."
"I can't see no reason why he'd want either Kenneth or young David dead." Simon crossed one short leg over the other. "It was a piece of luck he got killed in his own fire, though. He'd have been after the boy next."
"Which is why we must keep the child's existence secret from Irene MacCallum and her son."
Simon nodded. "The Fates act in a circle, boy. Patterson snuffed out two lives in a blaze started by his own hand, then got himself crushed by the door before he could get out. That's the way I'm seeing it. Holding onto the evidence, he was. Pinched the MacCallum badge, and it proved him a murderer."
Nathan retrieved the badge and looked at it. "I find it hard to believe that Patterson's sole purpose was robbery. This badge can't be worth that much."
"It's worth nothing."
Nathan eyed Simon doubtfully. "You said it was priceless."
"To a Scotsman, it is, boy. Something your kind couldn't understand."
"In what way is this worthless badge of value? If it could explain Patterson's greed . . ."
"Only a man of honor would understand. Patterson, he weren't that." Simon seized the badge from Nathan's hands. "It speaks of a time past, before the Jacobite Rebellion, before the atrocities of Culloden. It speaks of a time when clansdetermined their own fate, when our chieftains spoke with God, and God answered."
Simon passed the badge back to Nathan and sighed as he looked out the window. He didn't look at the landscape. He looked at the sky. "Time's gone, now. But we don't forget. Scotland bows to English rule, our manor houses serve as hosts to their nobles. A good part of our chieftains now are just those who sided with our enemies in the past, and got themselves rewarded with our land."
"Kenneth MacCallum remained Scottish."
"He did, boy, and don't you forget it. He weren't a good man. He drank too much, and when he drank, he got mean. Poor little Glenna, she suffered at his hands until she couldn't suffer no more."
Nathan's jaw hardened, his lip curled in disgust. "That I know."
"She dinna want her baby to suffer, too. So she ran off, and I helped her do it."
Nathan studied Simon's craggy face. Beneath the contempt of Nathan's own heritage, beneath the gruff exterior, Simon MacTavish acted on honor. "Yet you admire this man. I've never understood why."
"Old Kenneth, he held to the Gaelic way. He even spoke the tongue. He dealt with the English, but he never bowed to them."
"His new wife is English, as is her son."
Simon scoffed. "Kenneth married Irene Edgington to cover his loss of Glenna. He was a widow, she lost her husband off in India. She had a son by that first husband. Mealy boy, he is, but she's devoted to him."
"Almost as devoted as she is to Muffin."
Simon frowned. "Glad I am to be out of earshot of that dog, and no mistake. Cursed thing bites. But only when the lady isn't in the room. You noticed that, boy?"
"I noticed. Several times."
Simon issued a long sigh, then turned his attention back tothe Scottish sky. Nathan reclined against the coach wall. Time, and reason, would reveal the truth. His investigation moved forward. He'd convinced Irene MacCallum and her son that they were welcome to
remain at his manor home. They accepted with grudging, reluctant gratitude, as he knew they would.
Everything worked according to plan. Nothing got in his way. He would set right the bitter wrong, then leave Scotland to memory. His memory would contain little but rain. Today was the first in a week to reveal the blue beyond the clouds.
Nathan closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the late spring air. Fresh, clear. Faintly scented with blossoms. Some sort of livestock animal. Which seemed odd . . .
The coach jerked to one side, a horse snorted. The coach stopped and Simon banged on the door. ''What's going on, Grainger? Get moving!"
Nathan sat forward and adjusted the curtain to view the road. At first he saw nothing unusual, though he heard the coachman's muttered curses.
"Can't, sir." The coachman sounded both nervous about Simon's anger and annoyed by whatever circumstance delayed them.
Simon's ruddy face flushed red. "What do you mean, can't? What's stopping you?"
"Sheep, sir."
Nathan eyed Simon, then looked out the window. "Sheep?"
"Any amount of them, sir. Everywhere."
Nathan tried to open the coach door. It bumped something. Something both soft and sturdy. He shoved harder. Something grunted, then pushed away. Nathan looked out and down. "Sheep." He bent to look out the door. "Everywhere."
Behind the coach, beside, and before, Blackface sheep mulled. They appeared annoyed, as if they'd been harassed in some way. Some munched at roadside shrubs. None appeared eager to remove itself from the coach's onward path.
Simon peered down from behind Nathan. "Scatter them, Grainger, and move onward."
"No place to scatter them, I'm afraid. We're between rock walls, both east and west. Ran into them at a bad spot, we did."
Nathan scanned the area. A thick, high stone wall ran along the western pasture, overhung with ancient rhododendrons budding with new lavender blossoms. Nathan grit his teeth in annoyance as he stepped down from the coach. A large, fat ewe shoved against him, then wedged herself toward a flowering shrub.
Simon squeezed his stout body from the coach and positioned himself behind Nathan. "This is unacceptable."
"Tell them that." Nathan edged a sheep aside. "I'll move them. We don't have time for this."
Simon trembled with irritation. "You'll do no such thing." He lowered his voice. "A laird's son does not tangle with sheep."
"Then the 'laird's son' is stuck."
"Where"Simon's voice came as a low growl, the Scottish burr intensifying with his anger"where is the shepherd?"
Grainger held the team's reins in one hand and shaded his eyes. "Looks to be up that way, sir."
Nathan made his way toward the front of his team. The two gray harness-horses looked tense as the sheep mulled around their legs. The narrow road ahead twisted around a bend, and there a woman appeared, a black collie close at her heels. She blew a high-pitched whistle violently. She waved her arms and shouted. The dog did nothing.
Nathan waited. The woman looked up and noticed his coach. Her shoulders slumped. Her head bowed, but she trudged forward, picking her way through the sheep. The dog followed her, but the sheep paid no attention to its presence.
In fact, the sheep paid no attention to either mistress ordog. The girl had to wedge between them as they focused on the roadside shrubbery.
"Blossom! Move aside." The girl reached down and pushed the fat ewe out of her way. The dog disappeared beneath a mound of white wool, although Nathan heard occasional growls as they progressed toward him.
Simon stomped through the sheep. "Here she be . . . Wench!"
Nathan seized Simon's arm and met his eyes with a cold expression. "I will handle this."
Simon's bearded lips tightened into a frown, but he didn't argue.
The girl emerged from her flock, dog in tow. Like her sheep and her dog, the girl was a mess. Her hair fell in unkempt, light brown waves halfway down her back. Her dress resembled a sack, and no lady's gown. A worn tartan was tied around her waist, probably to keep the gown from falling off. She carried a pack over one shoulder.
She adjusted a tattered cape, revealing a glimpse of a lace collar around her neck. A touching attempt at fashion. Nathan's temper softened. She stopped in front of him, her head still bowed. She drew a quick breath, then looked up.
For an instant, she said nothing. Her eyes widened as if his appearance surprised her. As if she'd never seen anyone like him in her life. Strange, because no Scotsman so far had noticed anything unusual in his appearance.
"Good morning, sir." A forced and formal smile appeared on her lips.
Nathan couldn't answer. She was dirty, her hair was tangled. She obviously owned only one dress, and had worn it for months. Maybe longer. Her face was delicate and alert, despite her tense expression. Her eyes were dark blue, like a highland loch in a storm, wide and filled with hope.
And he'd never seen so lovely a woman in his life.
She was waiting for his response. Nathan cleared his throat. "Good morning, miss."
Her lips parted in astonishment. "You're American!"
"I am."
A sheep spotted a dandelion beneath the team and shoved its way beneath the lead horse. The horse picked up one hoof gingerly and tensed.
The girl closed her eyes as if in prayer and tried to smile. She seized the sheep by the wool and extracted it from beneath the horse. "Blossom, no!" She faced Nathan, looking pained. "They're not afraid of horses, you see."
"I see. They don't seem afraid of anything." Nathan eyed the Border collie at the girl's side. It waited eagerly, and paid no attention to its flock. Instead, the dog seemed more interested in inspecting his coach.
The girl noticed the direction of Nathan's gaze. "Molly is only a year old, and I haven't finished training her."
Nathan wanted to ask when she expected this "training" to begin, but restrained himself. He had a meeting to keep in Lochgair, where Dr. Patterson had tended an aging baroness. "Miss . . .?"
"Miren Lindsay, sir." She held out her hand. He took it. It felt small and warm in his. Her fingers were dirty, the nails broken, but still delicate. She shook his hand, then straightened. "And you are called?"
"I am Nathan MacCallum." He waited for the inevitable surprise, the intense, feminine interest when she recognized his name. Everyone in Argyll seemed to know of his arrival and subsequent ascension to MacCallum's estate. But Miss Lindsay didn't react.
"And you own this property?" She gestured to the field of wheat beyond the wall.
"I do now."
Simon uttered a low, warning growl. "Laird MacCallum has recently arrived from America, young woman, which is none of your concern. He is the rightful heir to Kenneth MacCallum, from the laird's first, tragic marriage to Glenna Reid."
Miren glanced at Nathan, who sighed at Simon's rushed disclosures. "This is Mr. Simon MacTavish. My . . . valet."
"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. MacTavish."
Simon huffed, and Miren turned her attention back to Nathan. "Have you been in Scotland long, Mr. MacCallum?"
"Two weeks, Miss Lindsay."
Simon tapped his cane to the ground between sheep. "And he's in a hurry."
Nathan had been in a hurry. Until now. He had duties, responsibilities. But speaking with Miren Lindsay had its appeal.
"Until recently, I've been aboard a ship."
"You're a sailor?"
"After serving the Northern Army in the Civil War, I gained my own ship, Miss Lindsay. I was captain."
"That sounds honorable." She didn't seem overly impressed by his accomplishments, nor to care whether he had swabbed decks or given orders. "So you're settling in Argyll . . ." She spoke casually, in a conversational tone. As if she'd prefer to chat than to remove her flock. As if chatting were her only option at this point.
"It's pretty land." She gazed around pleasantly, although she looked a little tense. She glanced back at him, biting her lip. "I suppose you own the fields just south of here, too
?"
"Why do you ask?"
"No reason!" She bit her lip hard. "We passed in that general direction, by mistake. Wheat can recover from such things as violent storms, deer . . . sheep."
"Sheep."
Simon braced into indignation. "Generally, a shepherd gets permission from a landowner before grazing his, or her, flock on their property."
She sighed, unaffected by Simon's budding wrath. "And I would, but I never know where they're going next." She coughed suddenly. "I mean, I usually get permission, but this was an accident, and I only just caught up with them."
Nathan smiled. If Scottish women had Miren's charm, his venture here might be more interesting than he first imagined.
"Where are you headed, Miss Lindsay?"
She looked proud. " America."
Nathan's brow angled. A shame that such a beautiful, pleasing girl should be mad. He cleared his throat. "Have you considered the presence of the Atlantic Ocean as an obstacle?"
A frown flickered on her soft lips. "I have." She sighed. "It may take a while." Simon groaned, but Nathan felt uncomfortable. Maybe he should help her. He could arrange for some sort of care . . .
"Why do you want to go to America?"
"My family went there years ago. My Uncle Robert runs a small business in the state of Maine . . . I have spotted its location on a map." Miren sighed wistfully. "So many Scottish people were driven from their rightful land by the English during the Clearances, so Uncle Robert had to start again. People were starving. That couldn't happen in America."
Nathan's mood darkened. "There are some who might disagree."
"Who?"
"The American Indian."
Miren's brow angled doubtfully. "They are a primitive race, aren't they? Small, painted persons, fond of wearing feathers and beads, and little else? Surely their lot has improved under American protection."
Nathan sighed and glanced heavenward. "There's a wider ocean than I thought"
"Molly! No!"
Nathan turned to see the black dog worming its way into his coach. Its tail wagged cheerfully as Miren Lindsay eased past Nathan. "I'm sorry." She seized the dog and extracted it from the coach. "She's tired of walking, you see."
