Thorn in My Heart (26 page)

When he saw Duncan in the paddock ahead inspecting the tups, he thought of Henry Stewart, and a lump caught in his throat. Stew would be doing the very same thing today, readying the rams. So would Gordie Briggs, the shepherd who'd fed him a bowl of stew and wrapped him in a plaid—was that only a week ago? All over Galloway, shepherds were about their work. Soon he would be counted among them.

Duncan nodded to him, then straightened, releasing the ram's curved horns with care. “Come to help, lad, or just to visit? Not that I wouldn't welcome it. They say the shortest road's where the company's good.”

“I'd like to offer more than company, Duncan.” Jamie shook the water off his tarn. “I've come to be of some assistance. If you'll allow me, that is.”

“I might.” The man's blue eyes were two bright spots on a gloomy morning. “Not without testin ye though. Tell me what ye've learned about…och, start with shearin'. What d'ye ken about sheep shearin ?”

Jamie thought a moment, then rattled off the most important facts.
“Start as early in the day as possible. Drive the flocks quietly into the sheepfolds, over the barest ground.”

“Aye, guid. And?”

“Two men are needed: one to clip the wool, one to roll the fleece.”

“And if you cut the skin?”

“Treat it immediately with balsam and sulfur.”

Duncans slight smile was his only response. “Go on.”

Jamie searched his mind for something that might impress the seasoned shepherd. “Sheep will teach you their habits if you'll inspect the pads of their feet.”

“Will they now? Studied that at
scuil
, did you?”

“Nae. Henry Stewart, our head shepherd, showed me how.”

“Then show me.” Duncan stood back and waved Jamie forward.

Jamie brushed his hands over the nearest ram, calming him with his voice and bending closer to examine the animal's forefoot. “A healthy tup, this one. You've led him across some stony ground of late, but it looks as if he's been feeding in a grassy pasture all of his two years.”

Duncan slapped him on the back, nearly knocking him on top of the ram. “Right ye are, lad! Well done. Now then, why d'ye think I might be worried about my flocks this year mair than most?”

Jamie watched the man's face twitch with amusement and took an educated guess. “Might it be because the old shepherds say, ‘A leap year is never a good sheep year’?”

“Och! Ye're too
diver
for me, young Jamie. And what d'ye know of breedin?”

“Nothing, sir,” he said with a solemn face. “I'm a bachelor.”

The shepherd cackled like an old woman, slapping his leg so hard he frightened the tups, which bounded away from him. “I'll enjoy havin yer company, lad, and that's a fact. It gets lonely, this work. How lang will ye be staying at Auchengray?”

“A month,” Jamie said. “Long enough to help with the breeding.” Long enough to earn Lachlan's trust. Long enough to win Rose's heart.

“Until Martinmas, ye say? Lucky for me. D'ye raise blackface up in Glentrool?”

“Aye, we do. Only one lamb per ewe, due to die hills, but healthy ones.”

“And how d'ye ken when a ewe is ready to lamb?” Duncan was testing him again.

Jamie smiled. “Her udder drops.”

“Should ye move a ewe once she starts in?”

“Nae sir, you should not. Move the ewe, and she'll tarry with her lambing.”

“Aye, that she will.” Duncans grin was ear to ear. “That she will.” He filled a trough with fresh feed, whisding to himself as he did, then turned to reach for another sack. “So tell me, Mr. McKie, is Lachlan McBride payin ye for yer labors these lang thirty days?”

“Food and lodging is all. Salary enough for a young man who appears at his uncles gate unannounced with only the clothes on his back and those in tatters.”

Duncan eyed him, the smile still in place. “I ken a canny man when I meet him. You'll get mair from yer uncle than bannocks for breakfast and a pair of auld boots, or my name is not Duncan Hastings. I think ye might have in mind claiming his most valuable possession. Am I right, lad?”

“Perhaps.” Jamie looked away before the man saw the truth in his eyes. “Time will tell.”

Duncan squeezed his arm with a gruff tenderness. “Aye, I believe it will. Come, we've rams to feed, rain or no. Woe to the shepherd that leaveth the flock, eh, Jamie?”

They worked side by side, the veteran shepherd and the
hauflin
, as Duncan called him. A half-grown lad, green and untested. For once it felt good to be younger, to be the new hand on the farm. He was learning the hard way, learning by doing. Duncan was patient with his mistakes and generous with praise. When Jamie moved too quickly, Duncan held out a steadying hand. When Jamie spoke too loudly, Duncan's index finger, pressed to his pursed lips, said all that needed to be said. The two quickly grew comfortable with each other, exchanging herd lore.

Other shepherds came by as they worked, observing the tups, offering
their opinions on which animal would produce die most lambs come Eastertide. One feisty lad, no more than a dozen years old, declared with certainty, “The best rams are the ones with a twin brother.”

“And who told ye that rot?” Duncan demanded.

“You did, sir.”

“Aye, and I was right. Twins make the best rams.” He winked at Jamie. “Ye ve a twin
bnther
back at Glentrool, d'ye not?”

Jamie's neck grew warm. “Aye, I do.” What had Lachlan told his overseer about Evan? “But not a true twin. Sired by the same father but of different seed.”

The young lad piped up, “Who was born first then?”

“It depends,” Jamie said, busying himself with a sack of oats.

The boy persisted. “Depends on what?”

“On whom you ask. My mother will tell you I'm the older.”

Duncan laughed, and the others joined in. “Who better to ken sic a thing? If yer mither says ye're the firstborn, lad, believe it with all yer heart.”

Not only his mother.
God said so.
That's what Rowena McKie had told him. From the beginning of Jamie's life, the Almighty had placed his hand on the lad, his mother said. Held it there still, if Jamie's strange dream proved true. When Alec McKie had laid his gnarled fingers on Jamie's head that last night at Glentrool, Jamie sensed that it was more than a father's touching his son; it was God's blessing flowing through the patriarch's fingers. Odd that he should think of that today, standing up to his ankles in mud and sheep dung, shepherding a flock not his own.

“Whaur is yer head, lad?” Duncan punched his shoulder with a gende fist, rousing him from his reverie. “Time to clean up for supper. We'll work tomorrow and Wednesday mornin, but then ye've a fine dinner to dress for.”

“A dinner?”

“Aye. Mr. McDougal is coming to pitch his woo at Miss Leana.” Duncan's eyes had a mischievous twinkle. “If ye ask me, I dinna think the lass is holdin out her hands to catch it.”

Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows
Like the wave;
Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men.

M
ATTHEW
A
RNOLD

L
eana was present at the dinner table, and yet she was not. Her hand moved, lifting the glass to her lips. Her head bobbed in deference to her father, to Mr. McDougal, to Cousin Jamie. Her mouth curved into a smile when Rose served up diverting anecdotes like they were date pudding. Leana swallowed when necessary, spoke only when spoken to, and clenched her toes to keep from weeping.

Neda, watching over the elaborate dinner service, eyed her with particular curiosity. She had no way of knowing how Leana suffered in silence, grieved by the sight of that lecherous farmer—that hatesome man!—seated across the table from her. Regardless of her misery, dinner proceeded on schedule, all five of them playing their roles like marionettes on a Paris stage. Serving platters came and went, covered with fish, then flesh, then fowl: trout from the nearby River Nith, smothered in cream;
reested
mutton, salty and smoky; and roasted duck in a rich gooseberry sauce. Carrots from her summer garden, prudently stored in the cellar, added color to the overflowing plates. Leana ate what she could, which was very little.

Willie, scrubbed and dressed like a proper house servant, faithfully stood behind her chair, offering her a spoonful of this, a slice of that, but she repeatedly shook her head. It was not food she hungered for; it was freedom. The freedom to choose for herself a man who could make her happy, a husband whom she might please for the rest of her days. That man was seated across from her, though not directly so. On Mr. McDougal's right sat the one she'd placed her hopes upon.
Jamie.

All at once her cousins gaze found hers. “A shilling for your thoughts, Leana.”

Her mouth fell open. She closed it just as quickly while gripping the napkin in her lap. “Cousin James—”

“You know better,” he chided her gently. “Call me Jamie.”

“Aye, Jamie. My thoughts, you say? I was…thinking of…”

“Ewes!” Rose smiled as she said it. “Tell us about your work with the tups, Jamie.”

He cleared his throat, the slight shake of his head a tender reproach. “Hardly a topic of dinner conversation, Rose.”

“How wrong you are, lad.” Lachlan, playing the merry host, beamed at his nephew and winked at his guest. “Mr. McDougal and I would be delighted to hear the details.”

Jamie warmed to his subject, though Leana noticed he worded things with great care to avoid sending his lady cousins ducking under the table in red-faced embarrassment. The older men, despite all their farming experience, seemed fascinated by Jamie's astute observations. Leana and Rose stared at their plates and pushed the food around with their forks until, blessedly, Jamie was done discussing his morning hours with the tups.

“Something of interest to the lasses now,” Jamie suggested. “Rose?”

Lachlan interrupted before she could answer. “Women care about only two things: husbands and bairns.”

“Not so!” Rose jerked her chin, clearly miffed. “Many things occupy a woman's mind. Gardens. Poetry. Music. And food.” She aimed a pointed gaze at their plates. “Something which men find of great interest.”

“Hear! Hear!” Mr. McDougal banged the handle of his knife on the table in agreement, grinning all the while at Leana. “What sort of cook is your sister, Miss McBride?”

“Leana is a fine cook, sir, and an even better seamstress. She's skilled with a spinning wheel and gifted at making things grow.” Rose turned toward her, love and compassion shining in her eyes. “But my sister's mind is her greatest asset. Wise is the man who appreciates it.”

Leana marveled at her brave sister speaking in her defense. If only she could be so bold herself. Fergus McDougal did not affirm her sisters heidie comments, but Jamie nodded ever so slighdy, as though he might secredy agree—or not. It was difficult to be sure.

“That's quite enough, Rose.” Lachlan trained a stern eye on her. “No need to praise your sister's merits. They are only of interest to one man at this table, and he is already quite convinced. Am I right, sir?”

“Aye.” Fergus leered at Leana.

Jamie gazed at Rose. Only Rose.

Nae.
Leana looked down at her plate, refusing to see what was plainly written on Jamie's face.
Nae.
Rose would never let such a thing happen, even though the lost Maxwell debut had struck a terrible blow.

After moping around the house all yestreen, Rose had awakened as her usual, buoyant self. Before breakfast, bundled in their cozy box bed, the two sisters had revealed their deepest secrets: Leana admitted to caring more for Jamie than might be proper. Rose confessed that, soon after Jamie arrived, he'd kissed her—briefly—standing in the middle of their sheep pasture.

Leana was shocked. “He…
kissedyovi”

“It was nothing. Like the kiss of an older brother or an uncle,” Rose assured her in a whisper. “Now we must see that he kisses
you
, and not like a relative!” They'd stifled their laughter in their pillows. “Aren't we a pair?” A pair determined to see Jamie choose the right sister for his bride. Unless it was too late. Unless he had already chosen.

“Miss McBride.” Fergus McDougal's voice brought Leana's head up with a snap. “Your sister declares you a good cook, yet you've no appetite.” His brown eyes studied her across the table. “Are your thoughts…elsewhere?”

“Nae sir.” She managed a faint smile. “They are very much centered on a certain gendeman at this table.” He would think her coy; she spoke naught but truth.

“I'm glad to hear it.” He looked pleased with himself and exchanged nods with her father.

Her clever comment was not so clever after all. If she wasn't careful, Fergus McDougal would end their meal with a formal proposal of marriage.
He'd made his intentions quite clear. Once their promises were made, sealed with the pressing together of their thumbs and an exchange of gifts, there would be no turning back.

But she had no gift for Fergus, least of all the gift of herself.

She could not let it happen. Not today. Not ever.

Please, God!

Leana could not bear to look at the man seated across from her, yet if her gaze strayed toward Jamie, her own intentions would be obvious. She would address her father then and make certain Jamie was in her line of sight. “Father, tell us your plans for Martinmas.”

He shrugged. “The same as Mr. McDougals, I suspect.” Her father oudined their November outing to Dumfries while Leana took in the firm line of Jamie's chin, the curve of his high cheekbones, and the heat of his gaze, pointed in one direction:
Rose.

Her father's voice faded. Leana felt the room pull away from her, as though she were looking at it through Reverend Gordons new telescope and adjusting the lens. Her perspective changed. She could no longer refuse to see what was clearly before her.

She had been deceived. By no one but herself.

Leana pressed her lips so tighdy together she feared she might pierce the skin with her teeth. Despite what she'd foolishly believed, her father would not be dissuaded regarding Fergus McDougal. That was painfully obvious. Yet there were delusions greater than that one, lies she'd whispered into her pillow every night since Jamie had arrived.