Page 24 of An Allusive Love
“I see ye watching, Kirsty.”
Embarrassed, she turned on her heel, picking up speed and emerging from the wood into the bright sunshine. She grabbed her skirts with one hand and took off at a run. Behind her, Brodie followed with whoops of laughter.
“Ye can run but ye canna hide, love,” he called. “I will always find ye.”
They ran across the emerald meadow, a hawk in full spread gliding above to cast a flittering shadow over their path. At a row of hedges with sweet-scented white flowers, Kirstine stopped and caught her breath. She motioned Brodie to the privet bushes. Opening the drawstring pouch at her waist, she withdrew a small knife and began cutting the white flowers.
“I appreciate the gesture, fair lady, but I should be the one presenting you with a posy.” He crossed his arms and grinned at her. “But if ye’re one of those independent lasses, I’ll graciously accept.”
She rolled her eyes and handed him her sack. “We add the flowers to sweet water or tea. It helps with any disease that needs cooling or drying. And fluxes of the belly and…” Brodie didn’t want to know about women’s menses. “They’ll no’ be in bloom much longer, so I like to gather as many as I can when I come across them. Then we’ll collect the berries in late summer.”
“And what kind of potion do ye make with the berries?”
“Their ideal for washing sores when made into a lotion.”
“I’m impressed with what ye ken about these things.” He squinted into the bag as she carefully laid the blossoms inside the pouch. “Who have ye helped with yer healing, Kirsty? Tell me about yer work.”
She paused, a smile tugging at her lips at his request. Perhaps Glynnis was right. Her Brodie was making an effort to be attentive. She retrieved the sack and placed the last petals inside, along with the blade, and tied the laces to her belt.
“The first serious patient I remember,” she began, not counting the goat she’d found at the age of seven, “was the shopkeeper in the village. He’d fallen from a ladder while stocking his shelves. His leg was broken, and his shoulder dislocated.”
“I remember that. It took him months to recover,” added Brodie. “Grandda worried he’d ever be the same.”
“Ma taught me how to put the shoulder back into its rightful place. The mon was in terrible pain but never made a sound.” She grimaced. “I suspect he didna want to frighten his new wife.”
“Is it a difficult procedure?”
She shook her head. “Ye need strength, though. I couldna have done it when I was younger. And ye must do it as quickly as possible. The longer it takes, the more pain to the patient.”
“What else have ye done?”
“Let’s see. I’ve assisted with several births, but I believe I could deliver a bairn on my own if there were no complications. I’ve attended those with fever or flux, sewed up several long gashes—”
“Ye’ve stitched a mon? With a needle?” His azure eyes widened. It was a well-known fact that Brodie hated needles.
She chortled. “Careful, ye’re turning green.”
“Aye, right.” He gave an exaggerated shiver. “I get lightheaded just imagining a needle poking into my skin.”
“Remember when Brigid fell from her pony and hit her head? My mother gave her close to a dozen stitches.”
“I recall her tumbling from the horse but no’ the surgery.”
“She never made a sound, not even a whimper.” Kirstine poked him in the stomach. “You, on the other hand, swooned and yer brother had to catch ye before ye hit the floor.”
“We all have our Achilles’ heel,” Brodie grumbled, then grinned. “But I never scream and do a jig when a spider drops from a tree.”
It was her turn to shiver. “I concede. Everyone has a weakness.”
He took her hand again and pulled her onto the dirt lane. “Do ye see that as yer purpose, then? To take yer mother’s place some day?”
She nodded. “Healing is in my soul. When I help someone who suffers from illness or injury, it fills a part of me that nothing else does. It’s my calling, just as yours is to be chief when the time comes.”
“So, ye believe in fate?” His gaze traveled her face, the humor gone from his tone. “That we all have a predestined role to play in this life?”
“Why, Brodie MacNaughton, what has ye so philosophical today?”
“I want to be a better mon for ye, Kirsty. I want to be the one ye bring yer problems to, the one ye trust with yer deepest secrets.” He let out a long, ragged sigh. “But I need to ask and listen instead of doing all the talking. I’m no’ fickle, not really. My loyalty to this clan never wavers.”
