by Stobie Piel
Hell.
His father had warned him of this fate. Nathan glared across the green pasture, but he saw himself at sixteen, defiant. Determined to join a war that Taregan, his father, said could only hurt their people's cause. Taregan had been right. The Seneca were divided, some sent to Kansas, a few remaining in New York.
Taregan defied the government's orders and built a farm on the old Seneca territory. The government took everything away, and sent Taregan and his daughters to Kansas. Glenna had remained behind, as the only person able to help David raise his baby son.
All the while, Nathan branded himself a war hero, and lived his own life without care about those he left behind. The war hadn't been horrible for him. He spent its final year at sea, apart from the nation's bloodiest battles. He'd spent it with salt spray in his face, adored by his crew, admired by women. He'd spent it making money and improving his ship.
When he returned after the war to the Seneca lands, he arranged for his father and sisters to be sent back to New York, but it was too late. His father's land had been lost, his pride shattered.
Taregan looked Nathan in the eye, and the bitter words still echoed. ''I have no son." The proud, dark face became imbedded in Nathan's mind as Taregan turned away.
Glenna wept, and begged Nathan to go after his father, to beg forgiveness. But Nathan's pride equaled his father's. He left the reservation, and returned to his ship, to the sea, and made himself renowned for his skill and ingenuity at trade.
When he returned, ready to make peace with his father, David was dead. And even Glenna turned her back.
"I've failed everyone who mattered."
Molly seated herself at his feet, then placed her paw on his knee. Nathan patted her. She lifted one ear for scratching. He complied. "I can't fail your mistress, Molly. I can't let her depend on me."
Nathan caught himself and groaned. "I'm talking to a dog." He peered down at her. She peered up at him. "You understand, don't you? I think I'm talking aloud to myself, but you're keeping tabs in your head. You know. I suppose you'll report back to her." The thought didn't seem impossible. "Well, you can tell her that I'm not doubting my decision. I'm sending her to America as soon as I can. Tell her. . . tell her I'm not a man capable of love."
"Boy, you've lost what you had of your mind."
Nathan jumped, he gasped. His arm ached from the shock. Simon clambered over the stone wall and circled around Nathan as if his disease might be catching. "You can't resist, can you? Tell me, is it typical of the Scots to flay wounded men?"
"Aye." Simon's face twisted to one side. "Only if they're English." He seated himself beside Nathan, then crossed one short, stocky leg over the other. He rubbed his ankle as if it pained him. "Old lady expects her cherished bairn back in three days. We'll have at him then, and find out if he's the one wielding a blade, trying to make off with your girl.''
"She's not 'my girl,' Simon. Our engagement is a ruse, for the purpose of drawing Brent Edgington out. It appears it worked. Too well."
Simon snorted and laughed. Not the response Nathan expected. "You're a fool if you think I'm believing you."
Nathan looked to the side, confused. "It's true."
"You got down on your kneesI know, because I fished it out of old Ireneand begged that lass to marry you. Promised her any number of things, just to get her wee 'yes.'"
"It was necessary."
Simon shook his head and clucked his tongue. "It's a shame when a man stoops that low. To crawl"he issued another long series of disapproving clucks"begging, lad. That puts every man worth his salt down a peg."
"The little weasel wouldn't comply unless I agreed to certain demands. It was done for practical reasons."
"Name one. Besides drawing out Edgington. I can think of a lot better ways of egging him on besides marriage."
"The queen's entourage was brought solely as marriage material. That could get in the way of my plans."
Simon cocked a brow. "And little Miren couldn't?"
Nathan felt tense. Cornered. "Since she'd already involved herself, I thought no further harm could be done. I was wrong,
true, but I didn't know it then."
"Weak. Try again."
Nathan sucked in an angered breath. "Most significantly, my engagement was viewed as both Scottish in nature and romantic by the queen. Which garnered her approval, which is necessary if I'm to secure David's inheritance and pass it to Nathaniel, which is my intention here."
"Good little speech. Not that I'm believing even a scrap of it . . ."
Nathan set his jaw hard, his teeth grinding together as he repressed violence. "Why not?"
"You couldn't know the old queen would take to our lass. Like as not, she'd pitch her up and to Inverness. You got lucky, boy. And not for the first time."
Nathan closed his eyes, fighting for patience. "What is your point, Simon?" Amazing, how well he controlled his voice. The old Scotsman wouldn't pierce his armor, no matter what he tried.
"You proposed to that girl because you're as smitten and foolish as they come. I've seen men in bad ways before, lad, but you're the worst. Falling all over yourself to please her, to spend time in her company. Following her to market . . . Lad, you'd be carrying her skirt train if she asked it, and no mistake."
No response seemed adequate. Simon was an old man. Probably dotard. Nathan could strike him down easily, kill him without effort. No trouble at all. Nathan exhaled a long, miserable breath instead. "I know."
Simon patted his knee. It occurred to Nathan in his numbed state of shattered pride that Simon had called him "lad" rather than "boy." An improvement, albeit still condescending. "Glad I am you're not up to denying it. Man does best when he faces his weakness head on."
"I suppose you've 'faced' your weaknesses?"
"I only had one, lad, and that were long, long ago." Simon drew a long breath, gazing out over the quiet loch. "Comesa time a man sees himself as hero, and that's dangerous. Most dangerous thing there is. A man gets a chance to protect the thing he loves most, and gets ideas as to how it's going to pan out."
The old Scotsman was speaking of Nathan's mother. At another time, Nathan might have taken pleasure in pointing that out, but instead, he remained silent. Perhaps because Simon's words resonated deep. Too deep.
"This man, he has every reason to keep his hands to himself. Knows what's right and what's not. He puts her safety first. Respects her, and doesn't ply her when she's in need. Waits, figuring maybe a day will come when the time is right. Maybe when her husband forgets all about her and takes another wife."
A strange and curiously moving admission. Nathan knew what had happened, he'd guessed Simon's motives, but to hear that low, rolling burr as it released its sorrow . . . Nathan's heart beat heavy and slow.
"He goes back when he's got some coins tucked away. Maybe he's lost a bit off his waist, trimmed his beard to best advantage . . ."
Nathan smiled at this, but he didn't speak. Simon had charm. His heart was full and kind. And broken.
"He comes into the village where he left her. He's aiming to take her away and see to her happiness himself, now that he's made his way enough to provide for her. And lad, when he sees her, she's like the sun. Prettiest girl a man ever saw. Black hair, blue eyes. Maybe she looks a bit like your little Miren, only not quite so practical. Maybe not quite so crazy, either."
Nathan frowned on Miren's behalf. "Miren isn't crazy." He clapped his hand to his forehead. "What am I saying?"
"You're defending your lass, as you ought. When I say the girl's crazy, I'm not meaning she's got no sense. I mean she don't think like the rest of us. She thinks on her own, like maybe she's got connections to the Wee Folk."
"That doesn't seem unlikely."
"As I were saying afore you interrupted . . . This man, he stands and he watches her as she's laughing with some other women. He don't see them. Only her. He takes off his cap and puts it over his heart, as a gentleman ought when he's speaking up. And he takes one
step. Just one step, heart a'pounding. And as he's stepping, another man comes up behind her."
Simon paused as if the memory still grieved him. Nathan waited for the story to unfold, tense, though he knew the outcome.
"This other man, he puts his arm around her middle and he kisses her neck. Something this man I'm speaking of never imagined doing in his fondest dreams. He's thinking maybe he should shoot the young fellow. But she turns around and she sees him standing there, even as he's reaching for his gun. And she smiles, that God-sent smile that shows itself in his every dream. She waves, happy as a skylark to see him. Calls his name like a long-lost friend."
Simon fell silent for a long while. Blossom issued a perfunctory "baa," then sidled closer to Earnest, who responded with surprising fervor. Flip edged in closer, as if hoping for trouble.
"Tells him not to be shocked, not to hate her for a sin. But this young man, him wearing next to nothing besides skin breeches and a sawed-off tunic, a pair of leggings strapped over moccasins. A headband wrapped over way too much black hair . . ."
Nathan smiled at the detail of Simon's recollection. "Not quite 'nothing,' Simon."
Simon angled his stubborn chin. "It weren't decent."
"No . . . probably not."
Simon nodded, satisfied with Nathan's agreement. "She tells him this half-naked man is her husband. And she, with her eyes shining like stars, she tells him she's to have another bairn. And then . . . and then she thanks him for setting herfree to find her heart's desire, for giving her boy a new father, one he can trust."
Nathan stared at Simon, but Simon's eyes never left the loch. "He used to think she carried Scotland in her eyes. Blue and green, they were. Never saw such a shade." Simon coughed and cleared his throat, containing emotion.
"He didn't think of going back, not for a long while. But he wondered, this man, if that half-naked boy could do right by such a fair lass. So he finds himself heading back to the village. Maybe, even if he don't admit it to himself, he's hoping the boy turned tail and left her. Hoping she needs him again. But when he gets back to her, the boy is a man, prouder than a laird. And there, trotting along at his heels, smacking at shrubs with his little tomahawk, comes the most annoying, black-eyed brat the world ever produced"
"Me."
Simon turned his gaze from the loch to Nathan and nodded. "You."
They looked at each other for a long while. A slight smile twitched beneath Simon's beard, then began to grow. Nathan smiled, too. The smile became a laugh, and they laughed until their eyes watered.
Simon dried his eyes with an old handkerchief, then stuffed it back into his pocket. "You made my life hell, boy. Every time I saw you, I thought I'd gone a little deeper into the fiery pits."
"Do you know, I couldn't wait for your visits? Every summer, I spent long nights planning."
"That ain't a surprise. Some of those tricks of yours must have taken months."
"A few."
"Young David, he were a good lad. So good as to be a sliver on the boring side. I'll tell you this once and never again. It was you as carried the Scots' blood, that which comes down from the Ancient Ones, from the Picts. Glenna, her line goes back beyond the dawn of Scotland. WhereasKenneth, his branch of the MacCallums don't go farther than the Normans."
"You kept coming back. Why?"
"When I first came, I came to see Glenna, to gut myself with what I couldn't have. But after a time, I came just to be among people who lived like those first Scots."
"The Iroquois are't as primitive as the ancient Scots."
"Maybe not, but they weren't so far off as we're seeing up at the manor."
Nathan couldn't argue. "You could have a point there."
"Aye. Indians even take to painting themselves, tattooing. Which is how the Picts got their name. 'Painted ones.' It takes a blind man not to see the likeness."
"Then I have been blind. I've never seen so peculiar a land as this."
"It'll come, lad. It'll come. Maybe when you hear the pipes echoing in the Highland hills, and something in the far back of your mind remembers battles raging. Maybe when you wake early and the mist is on the glen. Maybe when you look in a pair of dark blue eyes and see a Highland loch."
Nathan sighed. "I was wrong. I've been there, after all."
Nathan and Simon took shifts guarding the cottage, but Miren's attacker didn't return. Miren began to feel restless. Nathan spent hours in her field, among her sheep, but he never talked to her beyond perfunctory greetings. She thought she'd seen him speaking to Molly, but she couldn't be sure.
He did tell her that he'd sent a message to her uncle, but that encouraged her very little. He slept in her cottage at night, on the floor, but he didn't eat with her. Simon shared her meals instead.
Nathan seemed to have made his peace with Simon, which gave her a small amount of pleasure. They spoke sometimes, as they switched shifts. Sometimes their conversations lasted well into the afternoon.
They'd spent most of the afternoon deep in conversationtoday. Simon had gone into Inveraray to interview the cutlery merchant, and learned that the Englishman who bought the knife was light-haired and fairly tall. He said he'd probably recognize the man againdespite the fact that all Englishmen looked alike.
His only doubt was about the man's age. He could be anywhere from twenty-five to his late forties. Not much help. He wore a mustache, like Brent, but he couldn't recall whether it was trimmed or long.
Nathan had retired to the cottage to sleep, and Simon stood guard alone. Miren's restlessness grew. She'd spent several days going nowhere beyond her field. Beyond the manor, a large meadow spread out like an invitation. She eyed it wistfully.
Maybe she would visit the monks. She could pick flowers, take Molly for a walk. Flip might even come, too. He'd shown a sudden interest in Molly's scent that threatened to distract him from sheep.
Miren positioned her Lindsay tartan over her shoulders and approached Simon. He didn't notice. "Excuse me, Simon."
Simon stood up and doffed his cap respectfully. "Lass."
"I want to go for a walk in that meadow." Miren pointed to the lush field. Simon frowned and shook his head, and Miren puffed an impatient breath. "You can see me from there. You'd certainly see if a rider approached. I want to go." She paused. With men, one had to be firm. "I will go. I will call out if I'm in need. I'll take Molly with me, and Flip, if he'll come."
Flip greeted Molly eagerly, his tail high, his neck arched. Molly seemed coy, spinning away and running in circles as she invited him to play. Flip complied, without his usual dignity and reticence. "Dogs are so odd. . . . If you have no objections, I shall go."
Simon opened his mouth to speak, but Miren held up her hand. "Thank you."
"You'd best take Nathaniel with you. I'll wake him."
Miren's eyes shifted to the cottage. "That won't be necessary. Molly and Flip are enough. I'll keep the loch in sight at all times, I promise."
"Not sure Nathaniel will approve."
"I don't require his approval." Miren decided to end any further argument. She hurried across the field to the gate, then headed to the meadow beyond.
Molly and Flip raced in circles. Flip seemed like a puppy. Miren's spirits rose as she watched the dogs play. Molly bounded through the bluebells, and Flip bounded after her. Molly was faster, but Miren noticed with wry approval that Molly let Flip catch up before daunting his pride.
Miren glanced back to be sure the loch was in sight. Simon stood alone, watching her. She held up her hand and waved. He waved back. Miren turned back to the dogs. They bounded over the crest of the meadow and down the other side. Miren made her way to the top and looked down.
Molly and Flip dashed around, spinning one way, then the other. Miren sighed. The walk did her good. The afternoon sun shone in her eyes, and she held up her hand as shade. Far across the meadow, just north of the abbey, someone moved. A man emerged from the forest, then walked along the edge of the pasture, keeping close to the trees.
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It wasn't a monk. Miren's heart held its beat, her breath caught. He couldn't reach her before she got back to the cottage. She lingered a moment to see who it was. Blond hair glinted in the sunlight. His gait was unmistakable. Brent.
He hadn't seen her. Miren eased back until the crest obscured her presence from his view. She walked casually closer to the road. Simon wasn't looking. In fact, he seemed to have fallen asleep beneath the willow's shade. Miren relaxed. Brent wasn't prowling the west side of the meadow for her. But why? He wasn't carrying a gun, so he couldn't be hunting.
Miren's nerves calmed and she considered the matter. Maybe he hid his mask and black cloak in the trees. If she found them, Nathan's search would be over. Miren hesitated.
Better to let Nathan or Simon handle it.
"Miren!" Brent called to her, and Miren jumped. He laughed, then came toward her, smiling. He didn't look dangerous, but the blood drained from Miren's face as he approached.
"Brent . . ." Miren gulped. She couldn't let on that she suspected him. She had to remain calm. "I didn't realize you were back from your hunting trip. Did you have a good time?"
"I'm afraid most of our trip was fogged out. Didn't bag a thing."
Because he hadn't been hunting. That was obvious.
"What a shame."
Brent laid his hand on her shoulder. Miren tensed, and his eyes narrowed. "Are you all right?"
"Just a little tired."
Brent removed his hand. "Mother tells me that Nathan's been spending a good deal of time in the sheep pasture. Anything wrong?"
Dear God. Fishing for information. Miren swallowed hard. "Wolves. Well, not wolves. Some kind of predator." She gulped. "It frightened the sheep once or twice, so we're keeping a closer eye. That's all.
"That's a shame." Rather than leering or threatening, Brent just looked confused. "Hope you get it driven off." Brent paused. "Did this creature come after the sheep at night or in the morning?"
Miren hesitated, having no idea why he asked. "At night."
