Thorn in My Heart (11 page)

“Guid Lords Day to ye, sir!”

Jamie looked up with a start and found George bounding out to greet him, the wiry lad's clothes appearing even more threadbare by the light of day. Jamie handed him the plaid with a hasty apology. “Beg pardon for returning with your plaid but not, alas, with your coin.”

The boys cheerful countenance fell. “I'd hoped to put it in the collection box this mornin. For the
puir
, ye ken.”

Jamie's neck grew warm. “I'm sorry, George. Truly I am. You see, I…I
lost
my traveling pouch.” What was he to do? Confess to a child that he'd been robbed while he slept? “When I find it, I'll be certain to pay you what I promised.”

“I'm sure ye will, sir.” George studied him closely, his grubby fingers wrapped around the plaid. “Are ye not the laird's son?”

The heat in Jamie's neck spread to his face. “Aye.”

“A McKie without coins in his pockets?” The boy shook his head in wonder. “Niver heard of
sic a.
thing.”

“Well, now you have.” Jamie marched past him toward the stable, anger and shame fighting for the upper hand. “Saddle my horse, and I'll be on my way.”

George scrambled to catch up with him. “Home to Glentrool is it, sir?

Jamie ignored the question, slowing as he approached his tethered mount.
Home?
Walloch was all he had left of home. He ducked beneath the crudely thatched roof laid with branches and bracken and lowered his voice. “Morning, boy.” The gelding lifted its sleek ebony head and whinnied in greeting. All at once Jamie felt calmer.
Speak quietly. Move slowly.
Glentrool's stable master had taught him well. Jamie stroked the horse's neck, putting them both at ease.

“Ye've got a fine animal there,” the stable lad said softly. “Already been fed and watered. I'll have ye saddled in a blink, Mr. McKie.” The lad was good as his word. Moments later Jamie was riding over the crest of the hill with the Crée Valley behind him and the glistening Trool before him. He brought Walloch to a gende halt and gazed down at the familiar landscape.
Home to Glentrool, is it?
And then what? Ask for more money, draw another map? Or admit defeat and beg his brother for mercy? Having no money in his pockets meant no lodging at inns along the way, no evening meals at friendly tables. A plaid on rocky ground and stale bannocks from a pouch were good enough for one night but a poor prospect for several nights in a row, even if he still had such things in his possession, which he did not.

Behold, I am with you.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose to attention. A remnant from his troubled sleep perhaps. Or the lingering taste of Jacob's ladder. It was decidedly of the God of Abraham and Isaac, not the God of his grandfather Archibald and his father, Alec. Only a dream at the end of a wretched day. He was alone and must fend for himself, without silver or copper, without map or compass. Taking hold of the horses reins, Jamie
descended into die glen, toward the opposite side of the loch from Glentrool. He would head due east through the mountains. Not the longer, more civilized route south, then east through
clachans
and burghs, as he'd planned. Rather, the shorter, wilderness trek toward the Rhinns of Kells and across Raploch Moss, with only his horse and the rising sun to guide him.

It was rough going, dodging boulders as he threaded through the ancient forest of oak and hazel. An occasional break in the trees gave him a last look at Glentrool. He slowed, finding it hard to bid farewell to the place he'd called home. There was the island he and Evan had paddled out to as lads. The steep falls of Buchan Burn, whose rushing waters had lulled him to sleep on warm summer nights. By day the twins had often shoved each other into the Buchan's turbulent linns, arriving home cut, bruised, and laughing. Whatever brotherly relationship they'd once had, it was gone by the time they were grown, ruined by greed, pride, envy, anger—he no longer knew which to blame.

Jamie rode across the meadows beyond the loch, pausing at Glen-head for a final backward glance before resolutely turning east, swallowing hard as he rode. The sun arced across the sky at an autumn angle, its warmth a welcome hedge against the stiff winds blowing down from the Merrick range. Now and again he spied a fox darting through the undergrowth though nothing edible crossed his path. Walloch was well satisfied with the bubbling water of Glenhead Burn and the abundance of grass along its banks. Jamie's stomach was not so easily appeased. As the day wore on, it ceased growling and merely ached. He scoured the ground for berries and searched the sparse woodlands for a wild apple tree. Thoughts of food consumed him.

The woods gave way to stark moors and rocky fells. Above him, brown-and-white goats perched on craggy shelves no wider than their hooves, looking down at the intruder on horseback. Their staccato bleating sounded as if they were laughing at his plight.
Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.
Across the vast track of moorland, the distant call of red grouse taunted him.
Go-back, go-back, go-back.
The hours dragged on, gray and
colorless as the landscape. His seat ached from riding, his hands from gripping the reins. By late afternoon when a shepherd's bothy came into view, Jamie offered up a grateful prayer and urged Walloch forward toward the low cottage. The walls were made of rough stone without mortar, the roof thatched with heather. A bright-eyed shepherd came out to greet him, bearing a brimless Scotch bonnet on his head and a kind smile on his weathered face.

“D'ye ken whaur ye're goin, lad?”

Jamie waved vaguely toward the moors. “East to New Galloway, then south along the banks of the Ken.”

The older man appraised horse and rider, eyebrows arched. “Not a path the
gentrice
usually favor.”

Jamie only shrugged in agreement, hoping to discourage any further questions.

“Names Gordie Briggs,” the shepherd offered, jerking his head toward the cottage. “Join me for a bit o’ supper? ‘Tis naught but broth and barley, hardly what ye're used to eatin, but—”

“Aye.” Jamie had already dismounted, not caring how eager he appeared. “Much obliged, Gordie.” He followed him inside, noting the freshly swept earthen floor and the stone flags round the hearth, the tidy shelf of provisions, and the peat fire as warm and inviting as Gordie himself.

Within minutes Jamie was busy tucking away a generous serving of thick broth with bannocks as hard as Walloch's hooves, grateful for both. In return, he served the shepherd a plateful of neighborhood gossip, knowing the tales would travel far beyond the peat-blackened walls of the bothy. In the lonely glens, a shepherd spread news more efficiendy than the
London Chronicle.
Jamie mentioned nothing of consequence, keeping an eye on the open door and the fading sunset beyond it. An hour at the most and darkness would descend on the hills like a shroud.

“Ye sure ye won't spend the night, lad?” Gordie peered at him by the flickering light of a fir candle. “ ‘Twill do ye good to sleep near a warm hearth stead of
oot
on the moors on a moonless night.” A faint
smile, more gums than teeth, decorated his wizened face. “I've ne'er seen a more
wabbit
soul in all me days.”

“Aye.” Jamie's shoulders sank at the admission. “I'm weary, no denying it.”

The shepherds eyes held no judgment, only compassion. “Seems ye're in a hurry to put a
meikle
mountain or two between yerself and whatever it is ye're runnin from.”

Jamie's mouth grew dry. “B-beg your pardon?”

“I'm thinkin this journey east was not of yer
ain
doin.” The shepherd met his gaze and held it, then slowly rose and moved about the bothy, tidying up after their meal. “Ye'll be safe here, lad. No one bothers Gordie Briggs. Find a spot by the hearth, and I'll throw a plaid o'er yer back.”

Jamie was too tired to argue. He did as he was told, yanking off his boots, then stretching his long frame across a sheepskin spread over the flagstones and using his forearm for a pillow. “I'm much obliged, Gordie,” he mumbled as a plaid was dropped over him. The familiar scent of the peat burning on the grate warmed him from head to foot, and he soon sank into an untroubled sleep.

When Gordie shook his shoulder, starding him awake, Jamie was distressed to find the sun filling the forenoon sky. He'd given his brother more than enough time to catch up with him. Jamie made short work of straightening his clothes and washing his face with the wet cloth Gordie offered, rubbing the cold rag over his rough cheeks.

“Ye'll not leave without a dish o’
brose,”
the shepherd insisted, his tone firm as he handed Jamie a bowl and a horn spoon. Too famished to refuse, Jamie bolted down the watery oatmeal mixed with salt and butter while the shepherd chattered on about the fine weather, praising God and quoting Thomson like a scholar: “ ‘Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined, and spreads a common feast for all that lives.’ Isn't that the way of it this mornin, lad?”

Incredulous, Jamie paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth. “You've read
The Seasons?

The shepherd grinned like a
brownie
, his merry eyes dancing.
“Ye're lookin at this wee hovel o’ mine and thinkin I ve not been schooled.”

Jamie shoved the spoon in his mouth rather than admit that was exacdy what he'd been thinking.

“Me mither taught me to read from the pages of the Buik sixty-odd summers ago.” Gordie pointed to a thick Bible next to the cottages only window. “When I'm on the hills mindin the flocks, I read this.” He pulled a battered volume of poetry from his shirt, holding it up long enough for Jamie to see the title, then tucked it back inside. “Belonged to my father,” he explained. “The sheep seem to like the sound of me voice.” His gaze grew wistful as it aimed toward the door. “And I like sayin the words. They roll round yer mouth like fresh-picked
blaeberries
, hard and sweet.”

“So they do, Gordie Briggs.” Jamie regarded the man with newfound respect. “I'll wager your flocks are longing for a line or two of verse this morning.” He stood, putting the bowl aside to brush the dirt off his breeches. “You've been more than hospitable. It's time I saddled Walloch and made my way to New Galloway.”

The shepherd followed him outside, eying his mount without blanket or pouch. “Have ye no plaid?” Gordie asked. “Or are ye stayin at the coach inn?”

“I'm…not sure yet.” Jamie couldn't bring himself to confess the truth.

The shepherd disappeared into the dark confines of his bothy once more and emerged bearing a parting gift. “Best take this, lad. The night wind blows hard o'er the Black Craig of Dee.”

The stout plaid that had served as his bedding was thrust into his arms. Jamie accepted it with a duck of his head, humbled by the man's generosity. Gordie Briggs, a shepherd with litde to his name, gave freely. Jamie, inheritor of a vast estate, had nothing to give but thanks, and that came with some effort. The shepherd pointed out the best route to the distant village, then sent Jamie on his way with a block of hard cheese wrapped in cloth and a squeeze from his sturdy hand.

The going was slow along the shores of Loch Dee, shadowed by the
rugged heights of Cairngarroch with its rocking stone, an enormous boulder so precariously balanced that even the slightest breeze tilted it back and forth. His late breakfast carried him through the day, and the shepherd's cheese served as a fitting supper. On the Sabbath he'd prayed for daily bread and a place for his head; he could not deny his needs had been met.

He emerged from the hills to face the bleakest part of his journey later than he'd hoped. The setting sun grew cooler on his back while the moon rose above the far eastern hills. Before him stretched nothing but moors, desolate and uninhabited, rife with bottomless mossy patches that could swallow man and beast in one black, gurgling gulp. He trained his eyes on the slow-moving stream called Clatterinshaws Lane and eased his grip on the reins, trusting Wallochs instincts to choose the safest passage through the watery, dark bog.

Behold, I am with you.
The words, whatever their source, pounded inside him.
I will never leave you.
Comfort indeed when he felt so alone. With each breath the air grew colder, moistened by the peaty ground of Raploch Moss. He threw the plaid over his shoulders and tucked its ragged ends inside his coat, his spirits lifted by thoughts of the helpful shepherd. He would need another meal tomorrow. For now, solid ground and a safe spot for tethering Walloch would be sufficient.

“Soon,” he whispered into his mounts ear, his eyes straining to see ahead. The gloaming had nearly faded into night when Jamie felt Wallochs hooves strike the packed dirt surface of the Edinburgh road. Sheer relief made him giddy. “Ride, boy!” he cried, not caring who heard him. The horse needed no further urging, lengthening its gait into a full gallop. Jamie grinned as the night wind blew past his ears. The rhythm of Wallochs hooves pounding the road matched the merry beat of his heart.

When it grew too dark to ride so recklessly, Jamie slowed to a trot and looked for a proper hiding place for the night. Before long he spotted an inviting grove of pines by the wayside and guided the horse toward the tall evergreens, then dismounted. Walloch stepped cautiously over the soft carpet of pine needles, and Jamie did the same, confident
it was dry and sleepworthy. He unbuckled die girth and lifted off the saddle with a grunt, then used the shepherds plaid to brush the worst of the debris from Wallochs coat. “You'll be missing young George tonight,” he murmured, doing his best to make his mount comfortable. “Things will be better once we get to Auchengray, I promise you that.”

Jamie perched his hat on a fallen log, then wrapped the plaid around him. He knelt down in a thick pile of needles, sinking into them with a weary sigh. Three long, anxious days had taken their toll. He would sleep soundly, knowing Walloch would whinny at the slightest threat or disturbance.

Closing his eyes, Jamie fell asleep in mere moments. If he dreamed, he did not remember it. It was black as midnight when a coarse, guttural voice woke him with a start and the thud of a heavy branch on the back of his neck sent him sprawling across the ground.