Thorn in My Heart (8 page)

And then comes a mist and a weeping rain,
And life is never the same again.

G
EORGE
M
AC
D
ONALD

K
eep your horse to the path,” Rowena had cautioned him. “And beware the bogs.” Useless words when the hoary mist was so thick Jamie could barely see past his geldings nose. The night air crawled about like a living thing, nearly smothering him. His damp shirt clung to his skin, and hair sprang from beneath the brim of his tricornered hat in unruly waves. No wonder Evan returned from hunting looking so
frichtsome.
A gendeman's grooming was no match for Galloways wild autumn weather.

Jamie squinted into the mist, straining to see what might lie ahead. The narrow track along the Water of Trool would lead him west to his first night's lodging at House o’ the Hill Inn. An hour earlier he'd copied a map from his fathers adas, the crude rendering now safely tucked inside his small traveling pouch. Two new cambric shirts and a fistful of coins rested beside the map and a brief but vital letter from Rowena to her brother, Lachlan McBride, giving the McKie blessing on the marriage. He'd also packed bannocks and hard cheese to last a day or two. Not that he'd likely need them. After a short night's sleep, he would break his fast and turn south to Monnigaffand Creetown, veer east to Gatehouse and Carlinwark, then press on to Newabbey and his uncle's farm a few days hence. It was the long way but by far the most traveled. Coaching inns and taverns awaited him at every junction. Let his brother sleep on the moors and hunt for his supper. Jamie intended to rest his head on a pillow and dine from a pewter plate.

Plodding on through the mist, he consulted the watch hidden in his waistcoat pocket and groaned. Midnight, and already his legs ached.
Please God, by weeks end he would be setded at Auchengray. Odd to think of living anywhere but Glentrool, even for a few weeks. Already he itched to get back to his ledgers with their long columns of neat and orderly numbers. Though his father had sent him to university to be trained for the kirk, it was managing land and breeding sheep that stirred Jamie's soul. He'd returned from Edinburgh to become overseer of the McKie flocks. Henry Stewart, Glentrool's head shepherd, had taught Jamie everything his books had not.

Did his uncle have sheep at Auchengray or only fields of grain and two daughters? Jamie tried again to picture how his cousins must look, grown as they were, but only vague images came to mind. Would Leana or Rose be the one to bear the name McKie? At least there were two to choose from; he'd have some say in the matter.

Jamie flexed his hand, trying to ease the pain of the dagger wound that scraped across his palm, when a twig snapped close behind him. He held perfecdy still, senses on full alert. Had Evan followed him, intent on planting a blade in his back? Ever so slowly Jamie lowered his right hand to the dirk firmly nesded in his boot. The feel of the hilt in his grip gave him a fresh measure of confidence. He straightened and jerked Walloch's reins, abrupdy swinging the horse's head around, then called out into the swirling mist. “Show yourself, man.”

Neither sight nor sound greeted him. Only the sensation of an unseen presence permeated the foggy air. Jamie swallowed his fear and spoke again, louder this time and with more conviction. “If you've come to finish what you started, Evan, I'm prepared to do the same.” He pressed his long legs against the horse's sides, urging Walloch forward. “Come out where I can see you.”

Silence.

Apprehension, like an icy finger, trailed down Jamie's spine. If not his brother, then who? Jamie had no enemies, no outstanding debts, no quarrel with neighbor or kin. Gypsy traveling folk, a common sight across Galloway, seldom ventured far from the main roads. Who else might trail him across the boggy ground at night, and why? He waited, listening for a footfall, the jingle of a harness, another snapping twig. No sounds met
his ears except that of the water gently lapping on the banks of the Trool and the sheep bleating on the
braes.
Feeling foolish, he turned west again, determined to think no more of his red-haired brother. He would do as his father had oft instructed: “Pray to God and walk forward.”

Soon the rushing waters ahead grew louder, plunging over steep linns and swirling around granite boulders. The Minnoch, icy cold from its journey through the Merrick range, would soon meet with the Trool, a treacherous crossing to navigate in the best of weather; in the dead of night, in heavy fog, it could be lethal. Walloch knew the fording spot well and boldly plunged into the water, carrying them both across without incident, other than soaking Jamie's breeches. No matter. The patrons at House o’ the Hill would hardly notice or care. It was a rough place, favored by smugglers heading east from Portpatrick. A bowl of hot stew and a heather mattress were all he required.

“There's a welcome sight,” Jamie murmured, patting the horses neck with relief as the inn came into view at the crest of a hill, its four small windows aglow from the hearth. He pointed Walloch toward the cluster of stables situated downwind. The stock pens were crowded with packhorses belonging to the
lingtowmeen
, named for the coil of rope, or
lingtow
, which they wore around their shoulders as they transported smuggled goods inland. Jamie was grateful he had only one leather pouch to carry. His shoulders and legs ached, his seat was numb, and all his thoughts had dwindled to one: sleep.

A scruffy lad in a tattered shirt hurried out to greet him. The boy eyed his horse, then flashed a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Will ye be spendin’ the nicht, sir?”

“Aye, I will.” Jamie dropped to his feet with a muffled grunt. The mere mention of rest, however thin the mattress, had him digging for a copper penny to pay the lad for his horses keep. “I'll be off at first light. You 11 have him groomed, fed, and saddled, will you?”

The boy winked, slipping the coin into his pocket. “I'll no’ fail ye, sir.”

“And your name, lad?”

The young man ducked his head. Shy, embarrassed, or half-asleep— Jamie wasn't sure which. “George,” he finally confessed.

“Like the king himself, is it? Well done, George. I'll give you another coin like that one in the morning when I see his coat gleaming. Are we agreed?”

The toothy young smile returned. “We are. What d'ye call him, sir?”

“Walloch.”

The lad eyed the horse's hooves. “Dances, does he?”

“Aye. Off with you now. With any luck I've an empty bed waiting for me.”

Convinced Walloch was in good hands, Jamie slung his pouch over his shoulder and trudged back uphill toward the inn, its whinstone walls promising dry shelter at the least. He'd passed the place dozens of times, shared a flagon or two with friends there, but never slept beneath its pitched roof. Strange to be lodging so close to home. Jamie pushed open the weathered oak door, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the murky interior. Few souls inside the low-beamed room even looked up, so intent was their conversation. Narrow benches stretched along roughly hewn tables stained by flagons past and present. Mismatched but sturdy-looking chairs huddled close to the blazing fire in the far corner where a stew cooked unattended. Along the wall a battered wooden sideboard displayed a row of pewter plates and bowls, one of which, Jamie hoped, would soon contain his belated supper.

He stepped further inside, searching the two adjoining rooms for a suitable place to land, when his gaze halted abruptly. A familiar head of hair, red as hot coals, poked above the crowd.
Evan.
His brother sat there, plain as day, with his chair pulled up to the fire and his broad, plaid-covered back to the door. Jamie edged into a shadowy corner, his heart slamming against his chest. What was Evan doing at House o’ the Hill? Jamie hadn't breathed a word of his lodging plans to anyone. Had Evan followed him after all? Or was it ill luck and nothing more?

A male voice bellowed across the room, “McKie! Where've you been?”

Instinctively Jamie swiveled in that direction. So did Evan. In a half-second his brother would turn and discover him—alone and poorly armed. Jamie lunged for the door, yanked it open, then pulled it shut
behind him with a muffled bang, his breath ragged, his face hot. Had Evan seen him? Would he come roaring outside with his dubious friends in tow? Jamie quickly pulled his dirk from his boot, his gaze glued to the inn door as he backed down the hill toward the stables. Glentrool was his, and Evan could do nothing to change that. Except kill him.

To that dark inn, the Grave!

S
IR
W
ALTER
S
COTT

S
ir, was there somethin wrong with Megs barley stew?”

Jamie whirled around to find the stable lad edging toward him, confusion on his grimy features.

“I had some o’ that stew meself and
thocht
it right
guid
—”

“Never mind the stew!” Jamie hissed. “Where's my horse?”

The boy fixed his gaze on Jamie's unsheathed knife and shifted from one foot to the other. “S-sir, I've b-barely started rubbin him down. Pardon me sayin, but afore ye take him out again he needs a proper feedin—”

“All right.”

“He's drippin wet, sir—”

“All right, I said!” Jamie shoved the blade inside his boot with a groan of frustration. Either Evan hadn't seen him, or his brother was deliberately waiting inside the inn and making him suffer.

“Pay me no mind, young George,” Jamie muttered, starting to pace. “By all means, care for the horse. That's what I paid you good copper to do.” He waved the boy back to his labors, wanting time to think, to plan the hours ahead. Though he needed to eat, he had food enough in his pouch. And though he needed to sleep, he'd not catch a wink in the rafters of House o’ the Hill, knowing Evan lurked just below him. Worse, he'd have to get past Evan and his cronies first, and the odds were not in his favor.

Jamie turned toward the stable hand, who'd gone to work brushing Walloch's black coat with long, sure strokes. “Tell me, lad, have you a plaid you might loan me for the night?”

“A plaid?” His brow tightened. “What would ye be wantin that for?”

“Warmth,” Jamie snapped and produced another coin. “For your trouble.”

“N-no trouble.” The boy disappeared into one of the stalls and returned with a tattered length of wool. “Will this do?”

“ ‘Twill have to.” Jamie tucked the worn plaid under his arm. “Under no circumstances is anyone to walk off with my horse, no matter what manner of tale or how many shillings he offers. Do you understand?”

George nodded. “Yer mount will be here ‘til ye come to claim him yerself.”

“Clever lad.” Jamie impulsively ruffled the boy's hair. “See you at dawn.”

With plaid and pouch firmly in place, Jamie turned to face the road, peering down one direction, then the other, weighing his options. Evan would expect him to ride south toward Monnigaff, the very route he'd planned. Jamie would head north, if only for the night, toward their Uncle Patrick's estate of Glencaird. It was the last place Evan would look for him and for a very good reason: Two cairns—burial chambers from the dawn of history—dotted Glencaird's grazing lands, and Evan was exceedingly superstitious. Who knew what evil spirits one might still find among the hallowed stones? “The deid are not to be trifled with, Jamie,” his brother had once warned him, eyes wide with horror. “Mark my words.”

“Consider them marked, Brother,” Jamie announced to the misty night air, lengthening his stride as he reached the bottom of the hill. To the nearby cairn he'd go. A slab of rock would make a fair bed, sparing him the unhealthy dampness of the ground. He scrambled over the
dry stane dyke
that bordered Uncle Patrick's land and aimed for a grove of rowan trees standing guard near the ceremonial site, keenly aware of an uneasiness growing inside him.

He slowed his steps across the uneven ground until his boot struck one of the rounded stones encircling the cairn. Older than King David of Scotland, older than King David of the Bible, the ancient ruin had lost many of its stones over the centuries, exposing a long chamber lined with split boulders. Across the top was a massive slab of granite too
heavy to be carted off by a local farmer in need of building materials. Beneath it were buried the remains of men lost to history, their bones long since turned to dust. Jamie swallowed hard, his gaze taking in the desolate scene. By day, a cairn was naught but a pile of rocks. At night, the stones whispered of mysteries untold and dreams forgotten.

Mustering all his courage, he moved toward the tomb. Even if Evan did discover him asleep, his brother wouldn't have the nerve to step inside the sacred circle. Jamie shook out the musty plaid, preparing to spread it across the stone slab, when his boots brushed against a cluster of berries hanging from stout, purplish stems. The flowers had faded, but the profusion of glossy black fruit remained. Something to add to his meager bedtime meal perhaps? He reached down and plucked the good-sized berries and brought them to his lips, then cringed at their disagreeable taste and spewed them out. “Stick to your bannocks,” he muttered, tossing the berries aside and brushing off his hands. He settled onto the plaid and made do with the provisions in his sack, trying not to think of the flagon of ale he might have had at House o’ the Hill nor the soft heather mattress in the rafters. Nor the rocky grave beneath him.

He thought instead of the terrible days events, of his father's face when he'd served the old man goat meat for venison. Before they parted, son and sire had forged a tenuous truce, and his father had extended a second blessing on him—this time on purpose. But all the grand words in the world could not erase the ones spoken earlier: “You have brought shame to Glentrool this day, James McKie.” Even now, that shame pressed on Jamie's chest like an enemy's shield, forcing him to his knees.