Page 56 of The Heather Wife
He swallowed hard, eyes stinging. So that hadn’t been a dream.
The door opened again. Elder MacRae entered, his cane in hand, his face pale from lack of sleep but his eyes bright with relief.
“Ye look like a ghost, son,” he said, voice roughened with emotion.
Calum managed a rasp of a laugh. “Feels not far off.”
The old man crossed the room and laid a steady hand on his son’s uninjured shoulder. “Thank God ye’re back. I near thought we’d lost ye.”
“How fares the keep?”
Domnhall drew the stool closer, settling beside him. “Whole and holdin’. The men pushed the raiders back. Not a life lost within the walls. Your warnin’—and Sorcha soundin’the horn—turned the tide before they reached us proper.”
Relief flooded Calum, leaving him dizzy. “We’d just reached her trainin’ clearing when we heard them,” he murmured. “Raiders in the trees. She’d her bow drawn. Liam Dunn was among them.” His jaw tightened. “He aimed for her, Father. She didna see. I only meant to push her clear…”
“Aye,” Domnhall said quietly. “She told me as much. And she blames herself for it still.”
Calum’s brow furrowed. “Blames herself?”
“She thinks it punishment—” Domnhall’s gaze flicked toward Sorcha, asleep in the chair. “—for sparin’ him. Says if she’d done her duty and hanged him when she should, he’d never have brought ruin to our gates.”
Calum stared at her, at the faint tremor in her fingers where they rested against his hand. “She carries guilt enough to bury her,” he said hoarsely.
Domnhall nodded. “Aye. She’s been nursin’ ye like a priest with a dying saint. Barely eats. Barely breathes. The healer says ye owe her your life twice over.”
Calum tried to smile, but it caught somewhere deep in his chest. “Then I’ll pay it back however she’ll have me.”
A flicker of warmth crossed the old man’s face. “Ye’ve found your sense, then.”
Calum huffed a slow, painful breath. “I found it too late, maybe.”
“She’s no one to turn from a man who’s willin’ to learn,” his father said quietly. Then his eyes went to the plaid draped about Sorcha’s shoulders. “That’s your mother’s tartan, is it no’? I thought I’d not see it again outside the chest.”
Calum followed his gaze. The wool, once his mother’s, was dulled now by wear, but the weave was unmistakable. “Aye,” he murmured. “I gave it to her.”
Domnhall nodded slowly, something soft and proudflickering in his eyes. “A fitting gift. Your mother would’ve liked her—Sorcha’s the kind of woman she’d have called a match for our line.”
Calum turned his head slightly, looking at Sorcha as she slept. The firelight played along her cheek, casting her in gold and shadow both.
“I love her,” he said, the words rough but sure. “God forgive me, I think I always have. I just didna ken it ’til she was near lost to me.”
Domnhall said nothing for a long moment. Then, quietly: “There’s no sin in learnin’ late, lad. Only in not sayin’ it when ye’ve the chance.”
Calum’s throat tightened. “She said somethin’ to me, while I was out. I thought I dreamed it.”
“What did she say?”
Calum turned his palm upward, showing the brooch resting there. “That I’d given her this to keep—and she’d keep me with it. Said she’d never shut me out again.”
Domnhall’s eyes softened. “Then ye’d best make good on that, when she wakes.”
“Aye,” Calum said quietly. “I mean to.”
For a while they sat in silence, father and son, the only sound the low crackle of the hearth and the slow, even breathing of the woman who’d kept him alive.
Domnhall rose at last, setting a hand to Calum’s shoulder once more. “Rest now. Ye’ve both bled enough for one night. I’ll tell the clan their laird stands yet.”
Calum nodded. “Thank ye, Father.”
