Page 18 of The Heather Wife
"She killed the one who cut down poor Alastair. Shot him straight through the eye."
Then came the confessions.
"Lady Sorcha came to my cottage when the bairn had the fever. Brought herbs. Stayed the night."
"Mended our thatch after the last storm. Said it wasn't proper for a child to sleep under leaks."
"Brought food when we had none. Never said where it came from."
One by one, the clansfolk remembered what they had refused to see: the Glenbrae lass had bled for them before they'd ever offered her bread. She had been mocked, shunned, and left to fend for herself—and yet she had done what was right.
Even when they hadn't.
They remembered how Calum had treated her. The coldness in his eyes. The dismissive tone he took when he spoke to her. The way he looked through her like she was a stone in his path instead of the woman meant to walk beside him. How he had never once corrected Elspeth's cruelty.
How his silence had given others permission to do the same.
And for the first time, Elder MacRae saw shame spread across their faces like mist over the moors.
On the fifth night, he called a meeting in the longhouse. Only the senior warriors, the tenants, and a few of the wise women came. He did not ask for permission.
He stood tall despite the pain in his knees. "Lady Sorcha MacAlasdair is of this clan by bond and by deed. If my son cannot see it, that is his failing—not hers. From this day forth, any man or woman who slanders her does so at the costof my respect. And they'll find little welcome hereafter."
His voice cracked, but he did not lower it. "This clan owes her a debt. And I'll see it paid."
There were no cheers. Just nods. Bowed heads. An old woman in the corner wept softly, dabbing at her face with a worn kerchief.
Later that night, Elder MacRae found Sorcha in the stables, tending to a horse that had taken a cut to the flank.
"You should rest," he said gently.
She didn't look up. "Not tired."
He didn't press her. He stepped beside her and looked over the wound. "He'll carry the scar, but he'll walk."
"So will I."
He nodded. Then, after a long pause, he said, "Your father spoke often of your skill, Sorcha. Not just with numbers or managing a household, but with the bow and the sword. I confess, I thought it was merely a father's boast." He paused. "I see now I was wrong."
Her lips parted, just slightly—like she might speak. But she said nothing.
Sorcha didn't answer. But her hands slowed. Her shoulders eased—just a little.
It wasn't forgiveness.
But it was a start.
Chapter Ten
Sorcha
Smoke still clung to the hills like a warning not yet lifted, and the reek o' ash soaked into Sorcha's clothes no matter how often she washed. The raid was over. The bodies had been buried. But the cost still echoed in the breath of the wounded and the grief of the mourning.
Sorcha did not wait for orders. She rose before dawn, did her usual chores in the kitchen and then went to the edge of the village to help the old woman who'd lost her roof. She tied beams, stacked stones, and held the ladder steady while her grandsons repaired what they could. She did the same the next day, and the next, ignoring the throb in her arm.
No one spoke to her at first. They looked, though. She felt their stares on her back, their murmurs in the corners of fields and hearth-warmed halls.
But then, something shifted.
