Page 44 of The Heather Wife
The stave slipped from her hand. For a heartbeat, only her breath filled the clearing. Then, before she could turn away, Calum’s arms came around her from behind, solid and sure.
She froze—but when she tried to speak, the words broke apart. A sob caught at her throat, and she realised, with dull astonishment, that she was crying.
He said nothing, only held her. After a long moment, she turned in his arms, her forehead finding his shoulder.
Calum’s voice was quiet against her hair. “Ye’ve carried too much for too long, mo chridhe. Let it down, just a while.”
She shook her head, trembling. “I can’t.”
“Aye, ye can,” he said softly. “No one will take it from ye. But let me bear a little of it beside ye.”
He drew a slow breath, his next words rough with truth. “I ken I’ve not been a good husband. I cannae change what’s past, but I mean to learn—to do better by ye. You’re a remarkable lass, Sorcha, and I’ve been a blind fool not to see it sooner. Any man would count himself lucky to have wed ye.”
His arms tightened slightly, steady and warm. “Let me be the man who stands with ye—no longer the one ye must stand against.”
The branches above them stirred faintly in the wind, the clearing still but for the rhythm of their shared breath and the quiet thud of his heart beneath her cheek.
When at last her breathing slowed, she leaned into him—not in surrender, but in weary acceptance. Somewhere deep within, she knew she would rise again, fight again. But for this small, stolen moment, she let him bear a piece of the weight she’d carried alone for far too long.
Calum’s arms tightened around her, his breath warm against her hair. “Ye’re not alone in this, Sorcha,” he murmured. “Not anymore. I see ye, lass—and I’ll spend the rest of my days makin’ certain ye ken it.”
Chapter 39
Calum
The afternoon sun hung pale over Strathloch, its light thin and cool as it spilled across the hills. Since the night in the clearing, Calum had found his thoughts drawn to her more often than he cared to admit. That morning, when she hadn’t appeared in the yard or the hall, an unease had settled in him. He’d gone from the kitchens to the healer’s hut, to the weaving room, and finally the stables, where one of the lads had said, “The lady’s gone to the fields, my laird— seeing to the cattle and the feed.”
So he’d followed the worn path beyond the east gate, where the wind carried the smell of turned soil and the calls of men working the pasture.
He paused, watching Sorcha move among the farmers, her loose strands of hair whipping about her face in the wind. Though he couldna hear her words, he saw the calm certainty in her gestures—the way she listened, pointed toward the fields, and steadied the men with a nod. She knelt beside a trough to check something for herself, her fingers tracing the cracked edge of the wood before she rose again, giving quiet word to one of the men.
For a long while he stayed where he was, content to watch her work. Of late, he had tried to learn her better—toread the small things that spoke when words did not. the tilt of her head when she listened, the quiet strength in her hands, the weariness she tried to hide. She carried herself with the same steadiness she showed in council—calm, deliberate—but he could see the weight she bore in the set of her shoulders and the tired bend of her mouth.
The farmers straightened when they saw him coming, murmuring greetings before drifting back toward their work. Sorcha turned, surprise flickering in her eyes.
“Calum,” she said quietly.
The sound of his name from her lips caught him off guard. Not long ago, she’d have kept to formality —“Laird,” always “Laird”—a title that had felt like a wall between them. Hearing his given name instead stirred something warm in his chest, small but steady.
He inclined his head. “Walk with me a moment?”
She hesitated, then nodded. Together they fell into step, following the narrow path that ran beside a low stone wall skirting the field. They walked on until the noise of the men faded behind them and only the wind moved through the dry grass. Beyond them the land stretched wide and brown, the fields lying bare and waiting for winter’s first touch.
Calum stopped near the edge of the pasture, his hands clasped behind him. For a moment he said nothing, only drew a steadying breath.
“I’ve been thinkin’,” he began, his voice low. “On all ye said to me in the clearing—on the truths I should’ve seen long ago.”
Sorcha’s brow furrowed, but she did not speak.
“I’ve spent years commandin’ men,” he said. “Driven by pride more than sense—thinkin’ I always kenned best. But I’ve learned more this past month, watchin’ ye and hearin’ ye,than in all the years I’ve worn this title.”
He reached into his plaid and drew out a folded length of tartan—deep green and black, edged with pale threads of his family’s weave, the wool softened with age.
“This belonged to my mother,” he said quietly. “She wore it when she stood beside my father. When I became betrothed to ye, my father gave it into my keeping and told me to pass it on to the next Lady MacRae. I should’ve done so then. But I didn’t.”
He exhaled, a long breath that clouded in the chill air.
“I told myself I was waitin’—for a moment that felt right. Truth is, I was selfish. She died bringin’ me into this world, and this plaid was one of the few things my father kept of her. I held to it as if it could tell me who she’d been… or what she might’ve thought of the man I became. It took me too long to see what it truly meant.”
