Chapter Six #2
What peeved him more than the decision to turn back, however, was how little resistance he offered it.
He had wrestled far more with leaving her earlier and with the spare manner in which she had accepted his departure.
Her “Okay” had held no protest, and her “Good luck” had neither warmth nor acceptance, but something quieter and more impenetrable.
As she’d made for the water, the bucket swinging from her hand, he’d turned twice, half expecting that she might pause or call out to him, though he could not have said what words he imagined she might use.
Was he expecting her to insist he remain, to question his judgment, to express even the faintest dissatisfaction at his leaving?
The thought had irritated him enough earlier that it might have been the energy behind the first several minutes of his trek.
In truth, though, he hadn’t imagined the last he’d seen of her this morning was the last he’d see of her ever.
He’d already planned that upon finding or being reunited with his men, he would direct them back to her dwelling and lay at her feet all that he could in appreciation for her aid, despite how grudging some of it had been.
Whatever provisions the army had to spare would be given to her, for she had undoubtedly saved his life.
Another truth, which took a little more time to acknowledge, was this: had there been no Avery of the entrancing blue eyes, he would be pressing on still, forcing his body into obedience, angling south or east in search of signs or a trail, unwilling to concede so easily.
He would not be retracing his steps toward the shelter of her hut and the narrow clearing that had, in the span of only a day and a half, grown familiar already.
He did not consider his return a failure, though he was aware of how easily it might be judged as such.
It was strategy, he told himself, the deliberate preservation of strength until it could be used effectively.
Even so, by the time the roofline of her dwelling emerged through the trees, sweat had gathered heavily along his back and beneath his collar despite the coolness of the day, and the strain of the walk had stripped him of any illusion that he might have continued much farther.
“Avery,” he called as he neared the hut, unwilling to startle her if she were within.
The yard lay quiet, the door shut. There was no answer, and he imagined she might be at the woodpile or along the path to the loch, attending to her tasks as though he had never crossed her threshold. The thought carried a faint sting that pride did not allow him to examine too closely.
He crossed to the stump beneath the overhanging eaves and lowered himself onto it with a pained grimace, uncaring that the empty yard bore witness to his faltering.
He sat for the better part of half an hour, long enough that when the hound’s approach finally sounded through the brush, his chest no longer labored and the sheen of exertion upon his skin had cooled, though the ache in his thigh remained sharp and insistent.
He saw her before she saw him, her arms today laden with blocks of peat, her stride unhurried, and recognized the precise moment she became aware of his presence.
Though she didn’t startle exactly, her gaze sharpened slightly before smoothing again into its habitual reserve.
If her step altered with any surprise, it did so by the smallest measure, prompting him to wonder if she might have expected that he wouldn’t have gotten far.
“It seems I’ll trouble ye another night,” he said by way of greeting, and nearly added if ye dinna mind, though the words remained unspoken. He was not accustomed to seeking permission.
She adjusted the peat against her hip before answering, as though the weight required consideration more than his return did.
A strand of hair had worked loose from the braid she’d made in it and fell now over her shoulder, catching briefly in the light before she flung it back with a small flip of her head.
“Okay.”
He couldn’t read her tone and didn’t know that word still, couldn’t say that he detected either triumph or relief, but mayhap only resignation.
He studied her a moment longer than was strictly necessary, as always infinitely curious about her. “I dinna go far.”
“No,” she said blandly.
She carried the peat forward, stacking it with the others near the woodpile at his left.
Only then did he notice how carefully she had arranged it all.
The wood was kept elevated on a rough board to prevent damp from creeping upward, and beneath it, separated cleanly by that same plank, lay the darker blocks of peat.
A curtain of bark woven with thatch had been draped along the outer side, weighted at the bottom with stones so that wind would not lift it and allow rain to spoil the supply.
She moved about her work without commentary, and he watched with the awareness that this place—and she—had long functioned without him and would do so again once he was gone.
The day passed with Avery keeping to her quiet industry. Morggán remained near the house, unwilling to venture far yet and unwilling, too, to admit how often his attention drifted beyond the clearing toward the open country south of the hut.
The dwelling sat just inside the forest’s edge, half hidden among the trees, but its door faced outward toward the rolling grasslands beyond.
Forty yards from the threshold the shelter of the woods simply ended, giving way to open ground that rose and fell in long green swells beneath an open sky.
From there a man could see a fair distance in clear weather—far enough to spot riders crossing the hills long before they reached the forest.
More than once that day he found himself standing near the edge of the trees watching those distant slopes.
Unless they believed him dead, his men should have found some sign of him by now.
Twice he moved beyond the forest altogether, out into that tall grass, listening for the faint clatter of harnesses or the distant murmur of armed men traveling beyond his sight.
Every shifting gust of wind drew his attention.
Once he turned sharply at the sound of movement beyond the rise only to find deer breaking through the tall grass instead.