Page 20 of The Heather Wife
Sorcha
It had been two months since Calum left.
One month since the raid.
In that time, under Sorcha's steady hand, the keep and the village had begun to heal. Structures had been rebuilt, thatched roofs patched, and stores nearly replenished. But she had never once issued an order.
She simply rose at dawn and worked.
That morning, she'd helped deliver a bairn—a healthy, red-faced little girl who came wailing into the world like she meant to conquer it. The mother had cried with relief. The father had kissed Sorcha's hand, his calloused fingers trembling as he whispered thanks. The smell of blood and smoke still clung in the birthing room, mingled with the sharp tang of boiled herbs—but for once, the cries had been of new life, not mourning.
Now, she moved among the people, serving the midday meal with her sleeves rolled up, a braid tucked over one shoulder. Steam rose from the kettles, the scent of barley and leeks warming the cold air. Children darted between benches, their laughter a fragile thread stitching the clan back together.
"Thank ye, Lady Strathloch," one of the older womenmurmured as she handed over a bowl. Others echoed the sentiment—some with nods, others with smiles that no longer carried the hesitation they once had.
She didn't know when the greetings had changed. When the mistrust had softened into warmth.
But she still answered them the same way she always had—with kindness, and a quiet laugh when she could manage it.
"I'm just myself," she said when a younger girl called her my lady. "Always have been. I serve because my mother taught me that's what it means to belong to a clan."
After the meal, she went to check the supply lists. Grain was holding and salted meat would carry them through.
When she stepped out into the crisp afternoon air, she found Elder MacRae waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.
"You've near run this place better than Calum ever did," he muttered, squinting out over the bailey.
Sorcha blinked. "I've done what needed doing."
He looked at her then—truly looked.
"Aye. But you've done more than that. You've held us together."
She flushed. "I don't seek to lead."
"I ken that," he said. Then added, "But whether you meant to or not, you've become the soul of this clan."
She wasn't sure what to say to that. So she said nothing.
Instead, he gave her a folded message.
"Word came down this morning from the outriders. Our men will return before the next sunset."
Her mood plummeted and her stomach twisted at the thought that things might go back to the way they were when he returned. Would the clan still look to her—or would they slip back into silence and scorn the moment their laird stepped through the gates?
Two months. And now, Calum would be home.
Would he see what had changed?
Would he understand? Would he even want to?
And how would he feel, knowing that his love had been labeled a traitor and kept in a cell for a month now?
She looked back over the yard, where children played and women laughed, a few men worked side by side without bickering.
It was healing. Not healed. But better.
And for now, that was enough.
