by Stobie Piel
Molly tensed and growled at the guard. Safe on the other side of the bars, he chuckled.
"I require bandages. If you would alert the surgeon . . ."
"Tie up that dog, and we'll talk. In private. I've got something in need of a wench's care . . ." The guard adjusted his trousers and arched his brow meaningfully.
Miren grimaced and looked away. She knew what he wanted. The woman in the cell next to hers had obliged him the night before, with loud, slurping noises. Rams were so much more respectful of ewes when mating.
"Never mind." Miren returned to her bench and gathered the half-finished herring net again.
"If you change your mind, wench, you know where I am." The guard laughed again, locked the steel door, and resumed his position at the end of the hall.
Molly rested her nose on Miren's knee. Waiting. Miren had nothing to give her. No treats, nothing. She shared her meals, because the warden refused to bring extra for a dog. Miren wasn't hungry anyway.
Making her way as a shepherdess was one thing. There was honor in such a vocation. Being shipped to Australia as a criminal was another thing entirely. Uncle Robert wouldn't be pleased about that, even if she could somehow reach America.
Tears filled her eyes, but she kept picking at the net, twisting and tying the harsh ropes. Tears had come too easily since Nathan MacCallum's visit this morning. She felt alone. Since her father died, she'd been without human companionship, but she'd never noticed. Not really. She had Molly, her sheep. She had a purpose.
She wanted a home, and a family. The only family she knew of lived in America. So she had to reach America to reach them. She wanted a good life for the only things in her possession, her sheep and her dog. She believed that a person's worth wasn't dependent on what they owned, or said, or could make other people believe. What mattered was integrity and kindness, to live in accord with what she valued.
As the sky darkened outside her window, Miren felt for the first time that it wasn't enough. She wanted to affect someone's life, to be part of their joys and sorrows. She wantedto know what someone like Nathan MacCallum thought about, feltwhat moved his heart. She wondered if he had a wife and children. He hadn't mentioned a wife, but it seemed unlikely that a man like him would remain unattached.
Miren's heart sank, her sore fingers slowed their task. His wife would be beautiful. She would laugh a great deal, and probably tease her stoic young husband. She would know his secrets, and he would be safe in her arms.
Miren suspected that his wife had red hair, with cheerful curls. Maybe he had children. He would be a good father. He would play, he would laugh. He would take them for rides on their fat Shetland ponies. And he would know their ponies' names.
He remembered Molly's name. Miren set aside the herring net and wiped moisture from her cheeks. She hadn't realized she was crying. Because she thought of him, and the life she was sure he had. The life she longed for, too.
A bell rang, signaling the end of the workday. Miren looked out the tiny window above her bench. The hour was past ten, but in the Scottish spring the light remained until nearly midnight, even through the steady rain. The damp weather didn't trouble her. A clear sky, like hope, would be so much harder, when viewed from confinement.
Miren unfolded her thin hammock and strung it between the wall hooks. Inveraray was certainly consistent. Everything whitewashed, with black trim. Even her night basin, white with a black rim.
She straightened her back and looked out the window again. Nathan MacCallum was like a clear sky. He was like hope. Looking at him hurt. She hadn't understood why until now. It was easier to plod through Argyll after her sheep than to look at him and allow herself to dream.
Miren didn't cry, though the dream made her ache inside. Contacting him had been a mistake. She did it to see him again, to involve herself in his life, if only through her sheep. Had she seen the matter clearly, she would have restrainedherself, but she had been so afraid.
Don't go wanting what you can't have, lass. Her father gave her that advice when she was a little girl, when he caught her admiring a pretty dress in a tailor's window. Her father was right.
The guard rapped on her door, probably to escort her to the washroom. She would have a brief moment to bathe and see to her teeth, then return to her cell.
''Prisoner, make ready for entrance." The guard spoke without familiarity, so Miren knew the warden must be in the hall, too. The warden wasn't unpleasant. He ran the Inveraray Jail like a strict schoolhouse. Unfortunately, his idealistic approach failed to affect his guards' attitudes.
With the warden present, Miren felt safer bathing. She seized a towel from the shelf, then arranged her hammock. Molly waited by the door. The guard unlocked the door, and Miren gripped Molly's collar. Molly growled anyway.
The warden positioned himself behind the guard, but he smiled in a bright, enthusiastic manner. He held up a dark blue lady's gown. Miren eyed him doubtfully. "What is that?"
"You're to put it on, Miss Lindsay, after you make use of our washroom." The warden spoke like the proprietor of a hotel. He was still smiling.
"It isn't mine."
"It is now, miss. Freshen up, and I'll escort you to your coach."
Miren shook her head. "What coach? I'm not being sent to Australia tonight, am I?"
The warden beamed. "Not to Australia, miss."
"Then where am I going?"
"You're going home."
Nathan MacCallum had come for her. Miren gazed through the coach window as they left Inveraray, then headed south past the castle. Nathan hadn't exactly come for her. He'd senthis coach, and a dress, and had somehow arranged to have her sentence repealed. For a man who had been in Scotland only a few weeks, he had considerable influence.
She wasn't going to Australia, after all. Not yet. Her prison record was erased, and Uncle Robert would never know. Miren considered her good fortune, but a pang of disappointment refused to surrender. Because though he'd sent for her, he hadn't come himself.
Nathan MacCallum was a kind man, a man of duty. A man who took responsibility for others. Miren's disappointment turned to guilt. She had no right to involve him, nor to ask for his help. Then again, she hadn't asked for his help. She'd offered a business proposition, on behalf of her sheep. It never occurred to her that he would see fit to rescue her, or alter her unhappy fate.
Still, she should have known. She'd incited his sympathies, however unintentionally. Miren adjusted her dark blue skirt and crossed her legs at the ankles. She would repay him. As soon as she saw him, she would make her intentions clear. Charity was out of the question.
Molly hopped from one seat to another, as if testing the quality of the cushions. She seemed excited, happy. Miren studied her dog's pert face. At home.
Molly placed a paw on a cushion, testing it. She scraped violently, making herself a bed. "Molly . . ." Miren pulled the dog onto her lap. "You mustn't damage anything. It's not ours."
Strange that a dog born and raised outdoors should be so at ease on a cushion. Miren wondered where her sheep were, if they were together, if they were all right. Molly didn't seem upset by their loss, but Miren patted her head in reassurance anyway. Border collies fixated on their sheep, and had to keep the flock in sight at all times.
So even if Molly didn't seem bothered, Miren guessed it troubled her somewhere.
Molly poked her nose into the fattest cushion and went to sleep.
The coach wound its way down twisted roads, past Garrison Campbell's property. Miren winced at the sight of his overturned potted plants. Before they reached the spot where she'd first encountered Nathan, the coach turned left toward Loch Fyne.
They followed a narrow gravel drive which opened on the left to a sloping meadow filled with bluebells. They reached a fork in the road. To the left, a grass path led to a small stone church. Miren noticed a monk bending over as he worked in a small garden.
The straighter drive led farther up the hill. She saw Nathan MacCallum's manor, a bro
wnstone with three gables. It was beautiful, like a jewel on the meadow's brow. The coach stopped at the fork. The coachman got out and opened a gate, then returned to his seat. He headed the team through the gate to a small whitewashed cottage with a heather-thatched roof.
It looked east over Loch Fyne and was surrounded by a stone wall. She couldn't see what was in the pasture, because the coachman led her around the back. A heavy mist crept inward from the loch, spreading around her feet and shrouding the little cottage as if it floated on a cloud.
The coachman lowered the steps and opened the door. Miren hesitated, running through her planned speech to Nathan MacCallum.
Molly didn't wait. She hopped down and bounded from the coach. "I should have taught her 'stay.'" Miren took a short breath and followed her dog.
The coachman stood silently, holding her small pack.
"You're Mr. Grainger, as I recall."
His brow arched in surprise. "I am, at that. Good you are to remember!"
Grainger's accent wasn't Scottish, which surprised her. Few Englishmen traveled to Scotland to work as servants. "Have you worked for Laird MacCallum for a long while?"
Grainger averted his eyes and kicked the grass casually. Miren's attention perked. "I've been working up here for, oh, say twenty years, miss. Lady MacCallum hired me on just after she married the former laird. Needed extra help, what with having her son around and all."
"I see. You're not Scottish."
"No, miss. I'm a Yorkshireman from birth. Been all over Britain, though. London, Bath. May not think it to look at me, but I was a wild youth. Couldn't get enough of life, if you follow me." Grainger sighed. "Times a man's life gets a bit stretched from his control." The coachman straightened, looking proud. "But if he uses his head"Grainger tapped his skull for emphasis"he can get himself where he needs to be."
Miren had no idea what he meant, but he looked pleased with himself. "You speak, I think, of redemption."
"That I do, miss. And you're a quick one to see it."
Miren didn't press for further information on Grainger's life. It wasn't her business, and she held to the Scottish value of privacy. Something about him intrigued her, though she wasn't sure what it was. She couldn't guess his age. His hair was gray, but blended with pale blond. His trimmed beard concealed much of his face.
"You were gracious about not running over my sheep. Thank you."
Grainger chuckled. "Didn't have much choice."
"No, but still . . ."
Miren's voice trailed as she looked around. Nathan MacCallum wasn't waiting for her as she expected. The cottage's thatched roof hung low over its white walls. It had a pleasant light blue door and two square windows. A lantern glimmered inside, and Miren saw a small sitting room.
Miren eyed the coachman. "Where are we?"
"We're at the east end of Laird MacCallum's estate, miss. Down by the loch's edge."
Miren turned to the cottage. "Who lives in this little house?"
"You do, miss. Just you and . . . them."
"Them?" Miren looked around. Molly snarled, then flopped to her stomach as if sudden grief overwhelmed her. A bell tinkled. A low, deep "baa" emanated from the darkness. "Sheep!"
"Yes, miss. That they be."
Miren clapped her hands and seized the coachman's arm. "Are they . . .?" She paused to contain her hope. Hope could be devastating. "My sheep?"
"Counting up as sixty Blackface ewes. One scrawny ram, too."
"Huntley!" Tears swarmed Miren's eyes as her flock came around the corner of the cottage and emerged from the mists. Molly took one look, then aimed at the cottage door. "Molly, drop!" Molly stopped, but didn't crouch at attention. "We don't want to lose them again, do we?"
"There's a stone wall runs all about this pasture. They're not going anywhere. Miss Lindsay, these sheep be here to stay."
The sheep circled in, Blossom at the fore. Molly stared in disbelief. Blossom stared back, smug. Chewing her cud.
It didn't seem possible. When Molly saw the coach waiting outside the jail, she'd felt sure their troubles were over. Molly had recognized the plush interior at once. She detected the recent presence of the kind, dark man. Clearly, he had sent for his new mate. Odd that he wasn't here to bring her in, but maybe humans had to enter a mating season before they bonded.
It shouldn't take too long to secure a permanent position. Molly was well on her way to becoming a favored and well-loved house pet. Yes, it had all looked so promising . . . until now.
Until Blossom ambled toward her through the mists, reminding her she was born to be a sheep dog, not a house pet.
That was Blossom's constant message, and why Molly disliked her beyond the other sheep. Huntley, for instance, simply ignored Molly's presence. Blossom aimed for her every time. Molly couldn't count the times she'd been knocked flat by the old ewe.
Molly turned her back on the flock and made her way to the cottage door. The coachman swung it inward, and Molly walked in. She looked left and saw a boxed-in bed, hung with spotted curtains. Two cushions looked inviting, but it wasn't quite as large a bed as Molly conjured in her fondest imaginings.
Near the bed was an inset fireplace, fitted with tools and black pots. A cabinet held plates and pitchers. All good for feeding, but nothing spectacular. A square wooden table sat in the center of the room. It looked . . . used. Molly looked to the right and saw two comfortable chairs for sitting purposes. Adequate, but not grand.
An ominous hall led out from the human quarters. Molly sniffed and recognized a byre for animals, though she detected no recent activity, not even a chicken. Miren came into the cottage, eyes wide, as if she'd entered a far grander dwelling. "It's beautiful!"
Molly eyed her doubtfully, wondering what she was looking at. Miren raced around the cottage, then discovered the byre. She shoved open the byre door to the field, allowing access to the sheep. Molly positioned herself at the door and growled.
"This is their home, too, Molly."
Blossom entered the byre, butted her way past Molly, and aimed for the living quarters. The coachman blocked the entrance to the sitting room, and Molly wagged her tail. Blossom wasn't deterred as she explored the byre. She found an old mound of hay and took a large mouthful, despite the fact she couldn't be hungry.
Molly braced to attack, but Miren took her collar.
"Molly, come."
Miren led her from the byre, back to the human quarters. At least, she wasn't expected to watch the flock at night.
The coachman backed toward the door. "If there's nothing else, miss, I'll be getting back to the manor. You'll find food in the larder and a jug of clean water. Laird MacCallum instructed that I was to deposit you here, see to your needs, and allow you to rest."
Miren nodded, but Molly thought she looked sad. The coachman left, and Miren slumped down into a chair. Molly sat beside her, looking up. She knew the girl's feelings, and they mattered to Molly. When Molly first chose Miren for her companion, it had been the girl's gentle and open manner that attracted her.
Up until Miren came to view the litter, Molly had bitten several rough, work-worn hands. But Miren came into the barn quietly and sat by the litter box. She patted Molly's dam with respect and admiration. She spoke in a sweet voice. She remarked on the beauty of all the puppies. Not once did she ask about their prospects with sheep.
Molly had intended to inspect the girl a bit further before making her selection. Miren wasn't dressed expensively, though she smelled clean. Molly couldn't see if she'd arrived at Fergus's farm in a well-appointed coach. But when Fergus held up one of Molly's sisters, saying she was a natural with sheep, Molly knew she wanted Miren for herself.
She wagged her small tail, she licked Miren's hand. That was all it took. Miren said she was beautiful seven times. She pressed her cheek against Molly's head. And Molly felt a warmth inside she'd never known before.
She loved her young owner. So it was her duty to see to a better life, to direct her away from that useless flock
and into better circumstances. She realized, dimly, that circumstances wouldn't change Miren Lindsay. For this reason, more than anything else, Molly intended to see that Miren lived in the finest circumstances life could offer.
The MacCallum manor was set on the hillside, looking down over a field, east over Loch Fyne. Nathan stood by his bedroom window. He could see the thatched roof of Miren's little cottage, but the thick pines and rhododendrons obscured a better view.
He saw the rambling stone wall that circled the hut. He saw the Blackface sheep spread out across the field, grazing. The cottage sat near the edge of Loch Fyne. Probably Miren Lindsay sat on her front steps, her dog beside her, gazing out over the water. A soft breeze from the loch would tumble her long hair . . .
He'd waited three days without going to see her, but he'd thought of nothing else. Nathan shook his head, fighting his imagination. He started to turn away, but Miren appeared in the field, walking amidst her flock. His pulse quickened at the sight of her. He couldn't see her well, she was too far away. Nathan eyed his captain's trunk, then looked out the window again. He should keep an eye on her, after all.
Nathan succumbed, and pried open his trunk. He withdrew his spyglass and returned to the window, adjusting the lens for clear viewing. He found her, and centered his glass upon her as she bent to check a sheep's foot. She tossed something aside. Probably a pebble caught in its cloven hoof. Miren patted the sheep and scratched its ears, then moved on to inspect the others.
Nathan checked for the dog. Odd that it wasn't overseeing its flock. There at the end of the paddock nearest the cottage, he spotted Molly. She lay at rest, her back to the flock. As if pretending they weren't there.
Nathan found Miren again. She was still wearing the dress he had sent for her. It fit well enough, better than her sackcloth garment. Her hair was bound loosely behind her head, falling over one shoulder. He adjusted the glass, but he couldn't bring her face into clearer focus.
