Page 2 of Love’s Charity

She glared at him, daring him to rise to the bait. Her sapphire eyes sparked with the same lightning they always flashed whenever he dared to tell her what to do. Did the fool woman not realize he was trying to look after her well-being?

“I dinna think ye are an eedjit.” He jerked back around and tugged on the reins, doing his best to ignore the urge to lead her under a low-hanging branch and dump snow on her. “I think ye are an impossible hen with a head as hard as Ben Nevis.”

“Evander! Hush it!”

That was all he could take. He came to a halt and jerked around. “Dinna tell me tohush it, woman! I am nay yer spoilt bairn.”

“Then stop acting like one.” With a bitter scowl, she aimed a furry mitten toward a spot off to the right. “Listen. Over there somewhere. Can ye nay hear it?”

“All I hear is yer nattering.” He waded through the knee-deep snow to that side of her horse and peered through the glistening tree trunks blackened with winter’s ice. Then it came to him. A faint cry. Like the weak mewling of a dying animal. He handed her the reins. “Hold fast while I go see.”

“Take care,” she called out after him. “Evander!”

He paused and looked back. “Aye?”

“Just take care, ye ken?”

Her gentler tone warmed him. ’Twas a dangerous warmth, but a heat he sorely needed. After a nod, he drew his dirk and eased forward, honing in on the sound. Fresh meat roasted over a crackling fire wouldn’t go amiss on this cold evening.

“Help me.” The frail cry became louder and clearer.

The sudden urgency to render aid overrode the disappointment of no fresh meat on the horizon. He sheathed the blade and shoved through a bank of snow that turned out to be a snare of gorse disguised by the drifting. The spiny barbs snatched at the wool of his plaid that peeked out from the hem of his long, fur-lined coat. Tangled in the center of the wicked bushes was the tiniest old woman wrapped in a heavy wool cloak as black as soot. Festive clusters of holly leaves with their bright red berries still holding fast bordered the edge of her hood.

“Praise our Lord ye answered my call,” she said with a relieved smile. She reached for him like a trusting child begging a parent to pick them up. “God bless ye, my son.”

“Are ye injured?” Small and frail as she appeared, he didn’t wish to harm her any worse than she might be.

“I am nay hurt, my son. Merely tangled in the thorns and canna escape.”

“What is it?” Marianna shouted. He was amazed she had stayed behind with the horses. “Evander! Be ye safe?”

“’Tis a woman,” he called back. “Ready a fur from the sledge.” More than likely, the poor lady would have to travel on the sled, weak as she seemed.

As gentle as he could, he slid his arms around the crone and lifted, then yanked, then finally took out his knife and hacked at the branches refusing to let her go. “How came ye to be stuck in here?” He grunted as he stumbled backward with her against his chest. ’Twas like holding a wee bird. She weighed no more than a small sack of feed.

She patted him with a rag-wrapped hand. “The roof of my home canna withstand this storm. I needed fresh boughs to strengthen it.” Her amused chortling filled the air as she pulled her wrap closer under her chin. “Snow’s a falling into my fire. Hisses something fierce and scares wee Gabriel.”

“Gabriel?” he repeated as he trudged back toward Marianna and the horses. Why hadn’t Gabriel seen to the roof instead of her?

“Aye, Gabriel is my precious mite.” She bubbled out a high-pitched cackling like a joyful hen excited about extra grain. With her hands held a small space apart, she gave him a toothless smile. “A fine wee moggy he is, no bigger than this and black as my cloak.”

“I see.” Evander forced a polite smile as he cleared the last drift between them and the horses. Gabriel was the woman’s cat. He locked eyes with Marianna. “Think we can fix her a place on the sledge?”

“Of course.” Without a moment’s hesitation, Marianna rearranged the bundles intended for the MacGougans, one of the poorest families of Clan MacCoinnich, who lived in a more remote area. As soon as Evander lowered the woman onto the spot, she covered her with a fur. As she tucked the wrap around her as snug as could be, she gave the old soul a smile. “I am Marianna, and this is Evander. Ye’re lucky we heard yer call over the wind.”

“Our Lord Almighty sent out my call.” The wispy lady beamed up at them both. “I am Hanna. ’Tis a joy and pleasure to be brought into yer path.”

Evander met eyes with Marianna to be certain he understood what the old woman just said.Brought into their path? The Lord Almighty sent out her call?Marianna twitched a barely noticeable shrug and wiggled a brow. Aye, she had picked up on the strange turn of phrase, too, but acted as if they shouldn’t question it. Perhaps that was for the best. After all, living alone might make an old woman odd.

The rising wind whistled through the trees, swaying every branch in its path. A hearty chunk of snow plunked onto Evander’s head. Marianna clapped a hand over her mouth but didn’t succeed in stifling her laughter.

Biting his tongue to keep from cursing aloud, he shook off the icy wetness before it slid down the back of his neck. “Where be yer home, Mistress Hanna? The storm grows worse. We best be taking shelter.”

The smiling crone pointed westward. “Toward the light, of course.”

Evander brushed away the last of the snow and did his best to hide his weary scowl. A darker, drearier day had never existed, and yet the woman talked of a light? Was she tetched? Perhaps she had almost frozen and trod too close to death’s door. With a patient calm he didn’t feel, he scrubbed his face, then let his hands drop. “To the west, ye say?”

“She is right, Evander.” The awe in Marianna’s voice filled him with unease. She tugged his sleeve and pointed westward. “There. What is that?”