by Aileen Adams
Perhaps they thought that he would do nothing about it. It had only been after the fire that they realized he intended to uphold the law, regardless of who the victim was. That’s why they had gathered in front of his office. He wasn’t going to apologize for doing his job. That’s the way it should be. He didn’t like prejudice, no matter from which direction it came.
He couldn’t deny something else—his growing attraction and reluctant admiration for Iona. He couldn’t get the memory of her in his arms out of his head, nor distance himself from it, trying to convince himself he would have done that for anybody. Of course, he would have saved anybody that needed saving! Still, he knew he was fooling himself. His attraction was personal. Though he tried to disregard it, ignore it, and pretend it didn’t exist, he knew it did.
He had no doubt that Alasdair was also aware of that attraction. The last thing he needed was word of that to get out. As if Alasdair could read his mind, his next statement caused Colin’s stomach to drop.
“Ye better hide your longing for the lass better than ye have.” He shook his head, pulling his horse to a stop as they came to the part of the trail where Alasdair would ride north back to his own property, and Colin would continue westward toward the village. “I don’t blame ye for your attraction, Colin, but the villagers might not be so understanding.”
“Am I that easy to read?”
Alasdair shrugged. “Perhaps not to everyone, but to me, aye, ye are. Just be careful. Don’t trust anyone. Emotions are running high right now, especially with the new law coming into effect. There’s going to be trouble, and you’re going to be right in the middle of it.”
With that, Alasdair turned his horse and rode away.
Colin contemplated his words, knowing that he was right. He had no business being attracted to Iona Douglas, but he wasn’t quite sure what he could do about it. He stared out at the landscape spreading lush and green around him, feeling torn between his duty to support the villagers while at the same time following the law. He didn’t want to be in the middle of this, but he was.
With a shake of his head, he turned his horse around to return to Iona’s property. If she didn’t abide by his words of warning, she would get into trouble. He had no doubt of it. As such, he felt obligated to at least convince her to only go out hunting for her elusive treasure during the daytime. After that, he would return to the village to deal with his everyday routines: complaints about a neighbor, a dispute over whose sheep belonged to who, perhaps someone who refused to pay a debt.
He also had to determine who had set Iona’s house on fire. He knew that talking to the townspeople would be a difficult task despite years of association and friendships. How had it come to this? He couldn’t help but feel angry and disappointed at many of their attitudes, and he had a bad feeling that in the coming weeks, the town might literally be divided into two—those who opted to leave Iona alone and not blame her for her heredity, and those who would go to extremes to ensure that she left, sooner rather than later.
By the time he rode back onto Iona’s property, she was gone. She wasn’t rummaging through the remnants of her house, and she wasn’t in the tent they had just set up, and she wasn’t down by the stream.
He muttered low under his breath. Had she discarded his warning already? With a sigh, he dismounted and was about to call for her when he changed his mind. Instead, he carefully observed the tree line all along her property, even beyond the meadow and past the road. He saw no movement. The scent of smoke from the burned ruins of her home still hovered in the air, so he couldn’t tell if anyone had camped nearby.
Shaking his head, he eyed the tree line. He would leave his horse here. She couldn’t have gone far in the short time since he and Alasdair had left, but some of those thickets were dense, and he figured he would make faster progress on foot.
He stepped into the woods, brushing aside a branch of a fir tree and then ducked beneath the wide breadth of a pine bough. He scanned the ground looking for footprints and found one a short distance away—a small footprint heading into the deeper growth of trees. He supposed that if she wanted to go treasure hunting, he couldn’t stop her. She was a grown woman, and foolish or not, she had her reasons. Then again, he realized that she really had no other recourse. She likely thought of herself as a woman who had to fend for herself; an enemy in a strange land, not her own doing certainly, but as a result of the political strife and resulting resentment, and of course, her own issues with abandonment. He felt bad about that, but also acknowledged the truth, but she was making his job more difficult.
Didn’t she understand—
A sound not natural to the forest caused Colin to pause and tilt his head.
Then he recognized the sound for what it was.
Humming!
Shaking his head again, he made his way through the shrubs, not making any noise, placing his feet carefully, not to spy on her, but to teach her a lesson. He paused a short distance farther when he spied her standing in front of a large thicket, plucking berry after berry from a bush twice as tall as she.
In one hand, she held a scorched basket, or what remained of one. She paused to pop one into her mouth, oblivious to his presence, humming a song, and not too softly at that. The next moment, she began to sing. No doubt she had a beautiful, melodious voice, but she was also offering anybody in the area her exact location. Didn’t she remember that he had told her that outlaws roamed these woods? Didn’t she realize what could happen to her? Didn’t she know…
“Iona!”
His sharp voice startled her so much so that the basket flew from her hand, berries going this way and that, the basket crashing to the ground as she spun, eyes wide, mouth open. She stared at him for several moments but then her face flushed and her eyebrows furrowed.
“Colin! I… Sheriff Ramsey… you frightened me! You—”
“I’m glad I frightened ye,” he said, tamping down anger and frustration. “When are ye going to start listening to me? Take my warnings seriously? What would ye have done if I was an outlaw or someone bent on doing ye harm? And ye are out here humming and singing, letting everyone know exactly where ye are?”
“I’m on my own property—”
“It doesn’t matter. I told ye to be careful. I’ve warned ye about the dangers—”
“But I was just gathering some berries,” she protested. “I wanted to make some pies and tarts, give some to Beitris, Elspeth, and Endorra. Maybe, if someone will do business with me in the village, I can earn a few more coins.”
He didn’t understand why her gathering berries made him so mad. Frustrated. Worried. He admitted it. He worried about her. Someone had already tried to kill her once. It was possible… probable, that everyone in the county now knew about her presence, and that she was alone. She wasn’t an old woman like Endorra. She wasn’t a native or a familiar face or name…
“What would you have me do, Colin? Sit in my tent and twiddle my thumbs all day? I’ve got work to do!”
It didn’t sink in immediately that she had called him by his first name. “It doesn’t matter whether you were gathering berries or looking for your mythical treasure. What does it take to make ye understand the danger you’re in? Someone just burned your house down! Someone might be watching you, waiting for ye to be—”
She sighed loudly with frustration, crouched to retrieve her basket, and then began plucking her spilled berries from the ground and placing them back in the basket. She scowled, glared at one bruised berry, then tossed it into the bushes behind her. He thought maybe he should get down and help her. After all, he’d frightened her and made her spill them in the first place. He decided not to. She had to take this seriously. She glanced up at him, anger on her face.
“I’m not going to live my life cowering in a tent! I can’t, don’t you understand that? I have to live my life! I have to start over, I know that, but what do you expect me to do?”
Truth was, he didn’t know.
“Well? Do
you have a suggestion?”
He shook his head, but she kept talking, not expecting an answer from him anyway, it seemed.
“How can I buy supplies to rebuild without money? How can I buy food if I have nothing to barter with?” She snorted. “These berries don’t cost anything, but I have no flour. I’ll have to use one of my two remaining coins to buy some… if the mill owner will even sell it to me—”
“He will,” Colin broke in.
“Oh? And how can you be so sure?”
He looked down at her. He would make sure that the mill owner would sell her flour. He would not allow Iona to starve.
She shook her head, attention back on the berries scattered on the ground around her as she continued.
“I’m not going to count on the generosity of Beitris, Elspeth, and Endorra forever.”
She paused. He saw her throat move, the hard swallow as her movements stilled.
“I don’t want to be a burden to anyone. A charity case.” She looked back up, her gaze fierce with determination. “I carry my own weight, and regardless of the dangers, I see no other options for me.”
When it came right down to it, he didn’t either, and if he were to be honest with himself, he knew that if she had been a man, he wouldn’t be at all concerned, or perhaps not even bothered by such a man’s bad luck. But she wasn’t a man. Attitude and stubbornness only took one so far. She was no match for outlaws or vengeful villagers who wanted nothing more than for her to go away.
“Well,” he grumbled. “The least ye could do then is to keep your location as secret as possible. Don’t be making a lot of noise when you’re in these woods. I heard you. I remind you. What if it had been someone who meant ye ill—”
She gestured toward a stout stick lying near the base of the bush. “Anyone comes near me, they’re going to get whacked in the head!”
“But ye have to hear them first, Iona,” he said calmly. “And ye didn’t hear me approaching, did you?”
Again, she flushed, clearly knowing that he spoke the truth.
“Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll keep my mouth closed, and I’ll tiptoe through the bushes, so no one hears me. Will that satisfy you?”
His anger left him, as did his frustration. Why couldn’t she understand that he was only concerned for her safety? “It’s not a matter of your satisfying me. I just don’t want to see ye get hurt.”
“It’s a little too late for that.” She shook her head, then stood, returning to her task, plucking berries from the bush and dropping them into her basket. “I’ve been dealing with that my entire life.” She plucked another berry and dropped it into her basket, then reached for another.
He smiled as the third berry she picked ended up in her mouth rather than the basket. Didn’t anything bother this woman? She’d nearly been killed and burned alive. Her house burned down, she had nothing to her name, and yet here she was, collecting berries as if it were just an ordinary day. She picked another one, turned with a smile, then suddenly tossed the berry toward him underhanded. It hit him in the chest, bounced off, and landed in the soft dirt near his boots. She made a face.
“Well, you followed me, you warned me, and now what do you want?”
Indeed, what did he want? He stood, watching her, not sure how to answer that.
“You’ve got two choices.”
Her voice was soft and calm, her frustration with him apparently forgotten.
“Och?”
“Either you can help me finish picking berries, or you can leave. Which is it?”
With a sigh and shaking his head again, he started on the berries.
16
Iona smiled to herself as he walked away, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. He’d picked maybe fifteen berries before turning to her, grumbling that he was the sheriff and had more important things to do. He’d turned to leave, but not without one more severe warning not to venture any farther from the house. At least, not today.
Without waiting for her to reply, he stalked back through the trees.
A few moments later, she heard the distant sound of his horse’s hooves retreating. Glancing down at her basket of berries, half-filled now, she turned to follow Colin’s footsteps back to the house, or what remained of it. Just the thought of her ruined home gave her somber misgivings. Her amusement over Colin’s reluctant venture at berry-picking gone, she scowled. How was she ever going to rebuild? The tent would suffice for now, but when the rains came? The only skills that she had that might earn her some money were sewing, cooking, and baking. She snorted in disgust. A lot of good those skills would do when no one in the village liked her and would not likely be willing or agreeable customers.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she muttered, gazing at the dense trees surrounding her. She couldn’t just give up. How many times in the past had she faced obstacles and challenges? She had overcome every one. She was not one to allow herself to wallow in self-pity for more than a day or two, but the burning of her house and the fact that someone could have killed her, well that would take more than a couple of days to get over.
With a heavy exhale, she moved swiftly, though quietly, through the trees. Colin’s warnings were not lost on her. Every sudden snap of a twig, a shadow moving in the distance—whether caused by a breeze against tree boughs or a deer—sent a chill racing up her spine. She took a deep breath and continued on. Warily, but bravely. She had to. Her thoughts returned to the ruins. Maybe she could salvage some timbers that weren’t too badly damaged and clear them away from the pile of what had once been her home. What good that would do, she wasn’t sure, but she had to do something. Maybe, if she gathered some planks from the ruined structure, and using the stones from the foundation, she could begin construction of a small hut—nothing nearly as nice or large as the house had been, but it was better than a tent. She was sure that once she had laid a gridwork of sticks lashed together for a roof, she’d be able to bundle handfuls of the plentiful long grasses in the meadow to fashion a roof.
It seemed simple enough, although she knew that building even a small hut would likely be more complicated than she imagined. Nevertheless, if there was one thing people could say about Iona Douglas, it was that she was determined and stubborn. Not always stubborn in a good way, but stubbornness had brought her this far, hadn’t it? Also, Colin was right. She couldn’t just go off wandering into the woods without some sort of plan.
Colin.
When had he become Colin in her mind instead of Sheriff Ramsey?
Come to think of it, why did her heart always give a leap of excitement when she saw him? Was it because he was almost the only person in this town who had befriended her? Or had he? He was the sheriff, charged with keeping the peace in the region. He might not be her friend exactly, but at least he wasn’t running her out of town. Still, how hard would he try to find out who’d set her house on fire? And, if he found that someone, what would happen? The act had caused more than property damage. It had been an attempt on her life. Would the sheriff really choose her side over that of the villagers? When it came right down to it, would her presence here cause him to be in danger as well? She couldn’t imagine that the villagers were too happy with him as it was. And what of Alasdair, Beitris, and Elspeth? They had befriended her in a way, and only her family link to Elspeth had probably prompted that, but between them and Endorra, they had shown kindness and compassion.
She reached the tent and gazed at it a moment, lips pursed in thought. A few flowers in front of it might give it a homier atmosphere. She placed the basket of berries just inside, and then stood, hands on her hips, surveying the ruins, the surrounding meadow, and the trees beyond. She decided that she would try. All she could do was try and give it her best. After all, what had her ancestors done? When they’d migrated to new lands, they’d had to build their homes out of what was available. She would do that as well. She gazed at the meadow, at the swath of purple and yellow wildflowers growing on the far side. She smiled, thinki
ng it took so little to bring her a sense of pleasure. A colorful patch of wildflowers. So be it. She would transplant some of those flowers along the front of her tent.
It was a start.
By midafternoon, she felt pleasantly exhausted as she paused to survey her handiwork. She wiped the sooty back of her hand across her forehead and ruefully gazed down at her dirty gown, though she was pleased with her efforts.
She glanced toward her tent, again cheerful at the sight of a row of wildflowers that she had planted in front. It did look nicer. That task taken care of, she’d turned her attention to the burned-out house. She had managed to salvage a half-dozen thick timbers from the ruins. Though charred on their surface, a rough stick as long as her forearm scraped along their surface had managed to remove much of the burn, exposing solid beams beneath. She hadn’t yet found anything salvageable from her household goods, nor any clothing or bedding, but she was determined to remain hopeful. She wasn’t sure what she could do with the timbers without nails and a hammer, but she would worry about that later. First things first. She could lay a foundation for a hut with stone, and then construct a frame for the hut, using the timbers as upright posts in the four corners. She would dig holes to set the timbers in, so for that, she’d need to fashion a shovel of sorts. She grimaced. It seemed there was always something more she needed.
She would require four more planks to serve as lintels, perhaps lashed together, which would help support the stone walls that she planned on building. It would likely take her weeks, if not several months, but if she worked diligently, she felt confident that she could have a shelter constructed before the weather changed.
Would building a house, such as it was, convince the villagers that she planned on staying? Would they… Maybe when they realized they couldn’t chase her away, scare her away, or threaten her away, they would realize that she, a lone woman, posed no threat to them. After all, in spite of the tensions between Scots and the English, she didn’t hate them. She understood their anger toward the English, and she also understood why the English were so at odds with the Scots. Still, she wanted to live peacefully. Was that too much to ask? Would it ever happen?
