Chapter 17
The wall wasn’t high. He could vault it easily, and yet it seemed to him like the most forbidding of barriers.
Evan stood leaning against the stone, hands resting on the weathered top, staring out over the stretch of land that had once been his responsibility.
Beyond the low boundary wall, the fields rolled gently down to a cluster of cottages gathered around a narrow track.
Smoke rose in soft spirals from chimneys.
A dog barked somewhere. The sun glinted off a fishpond in the distance.
It looked prosperous. That, more than anything, unsettled him.
He had told no one he was coming. Not Niall.
Not Ruby. He had made this decision after speaking to Niall this morning and had acted before he had time to change his mind.
Before he had time to flee like he always did.
He could have asked Niall to come with him, but that would have been another form of cowardice.
He needed to face this alone.
His palms were damp despite the cool breeze that skimmed over the grass. A faint tremor ran through him—not fear exactly, but something close to it. Anticipation? Or shame?
He had left this land years ago in a storm of pride and resentment, telling himself that he owed the people who lived here exactly nothing. At the time he’d thought it was self-preservation. Now he couldn’t tell the difference between that and cowardice.
He drew a slow breath, tightened his hands on the rough stone, and vaulted the wall. He landed lightly on the other side, boots thudding against packed earth. He adjusted his tunic, squared his shoulders, and began striding toward the settlement.
The first person to notice him was a man working near the edge of a barley field. He straightened slowly, shading his eyes against the sun. His brow furrowed, clearly wondering who this newcomer was.
Evan kept walking. Another head lifted. Then another. By the time he reached the track that led between the cottages, several pairs of eyes were following him. A murmur passed through the air, low and uncertain.
They didn’t recognize him, and how could he blame them? He’d changed much in the intervening years. The older generation—the ones who had known him as a reckless, mud-streaked boy—were fewer now. The faces watching him were younger, and he didn’t know any of them.
He stopped beside a man mending a fence. “Is the headman about?” Evan asked, keeping his voice steady.
The man blinked, clearly startled to be addressed so directly. “Aye,” he said slowly. “Hamish MacLaren’s around.”
Hamish MacLaren. Evan was surprised at how relieved he was to hear that name. At least one thing hadn’t changed.
“Where will I find him?” Evan asked.
The man gestured toward the largest cottage at the far end of the settlement. “His house is over there, by the ash tree.”
Evan nodded his thanks and moved on. Children began trailing after him almost immediately, pointing and whispering.
“Who is he?”
“He looks important.”
“Look at those knives!”
Evan resisted the urge to turn. As a boy, he’d been one of those children, chasing after riders or strangers who passed through, hungry for novelty.
He wondered what they saw now. A stranger. A man too well-dressed for a tenant, too weathered for a nobleman. Someone who didn’t quite belong.
The thatch on the cottages was neat and recently repaired. The vegetable patches were well-tended. A new well stood near the center, its wooden frame sturdy and freshly painted.
This was not the downtrodden settlement neglected by its laird that he’d expected to find. A flicker of unease twisted his gut, and he suddenly felt more out of place than ever, like he was a trespasser who had no business intruding into these people’s lives. He’d lost that right long ago.
But he steeled himself and kept walking until he reached the cottage under the ash tree. There he stopped, finding a tall, bull-necked man waiting for him.
Hamish MacLaren was older than Evan remembered of course, shoulders thick as oak beams, his hair now more gray than brown. His arms were folded across his chest, his expression stern. Suddenly, Evan felt twelve years old again.
He cleared his throat and put on his charming, roguish smile. “Good morning, Hamish. It’s been a long time.”
The older man’s eyes narrowed, studying him from head to toe. “Evan Campbell.” There was no warmth in his tone. No welcome. But then, Evan had not expected one.
“I—” he began.
But before he could go any further, Hamish took two long strides and pulled Evan into a crushing embrace. His breath whooshed out of him.
“Heard ye were back,” Hamish said. “Wondered when ye’d show yer ugly face!”
Evan froze for half a second before laughing and returning the man’s hug, clapping him hard on the back.
“I thought ye’d be ready to thrash me,” he said when Hamish finally stepped back.
The older man snorted. “I was tempted, believe me. But my old bones aren’t up to giving a thrashing these days.” Hamish cocked his head. “Bloody hell, lad, is the man I see before me really the boy who used to get into so much mischief? Do ye remember the time ye tried to ride that bull bareback?”
Evan groaned. “I was twelve.”
“Ye were a menace. Nearly broke yer neck.”
“And ye dragged me home before my mother found out.”
“Aye,” Hamish said, shaking his head. “Though she knew anyway. She always did.”
“She did. And as I recall, she probably gave me a thrashing.” He smiled, feeling a little of his tension ease. “How are Archie and Sally?” he asked, referring to Hamish’s children. When they’d been youngsters, the three of them had been as thick as thieves.
“Archie’s married now,” Hamish replied. “Three bairns of his own. Canna keep them from climbing everything in sight.” He gestured toward one of the boys lingering behind Evan. “That one’s his eldest.”
Evan turned slightly, offering the child a nod. “And Sally?”
“Engaged to a blacksmith’s apprentice in Edinburgh. Lives there now. Visits when she can. Anyway, come inside. Ye look like a man who could do with a drink.”
Evan didn’t argue. Inside, the cottage was just how he remembered—warm and homely, if a little smaller than he recalled. Hamish’s wife, Morag, emerged from the adjoining room, wiping her hands on her apron.
She stopped short when she saw him. “Am I seeing things?” she said, eyes widening. “Evan Campbell?”
He gave a sheepish smile. “Hello, Morag.”
She crossed the room in two brisk steps and cupped his cheek as if he were still a boy. “Ye’ve grown into yer bones at last.” She poured him a cup of warm cider, pressing it into his hands and bidding him sit at the table.
He ran his finger along its smooth surface, feeling something dangerously close to comfort settling around him.
Hamish and Morag seated themselves opposite, and for a while they spoke of small things—weather, harvests, marriages.
Subjects that didn’t cut too deeply, that skirted the edge of why he’d really come here.
But the weight of what he’d come to say wouldn’t let him relax. He took a deep breath, met each of their gazes in turn.
“I owe ye an apology,” he said at last. “I owe everyone here an apology. I turned my back on ye. I shouldnae have done that.”
Silence stretched between them. Morag placed her hands on the table. “It was a difficult time after yer parents died,” she said gently. “A lot of turmoil. A lot of pain.”
“Aye. But that doesnae excuse what I did. I was to be yer laird. The stewardship of these lands was given into my keeping. I had obligations. Instead I left ye to fend for yerselves.”
Hamish leaned back in his chair, studying him. “Aye, ye did,” he said. “And there are some in this village who were angry at ye. Some still are. But we survived. And we weren’t abandoned, we had someone who looked out for us.”
“Oh?” Evan asked. “Who?”
Hamish and Morag shared a glance. Then Hamish said softly, “Yer brother, Bryce.”
Evan blinked. “Bryce?” he asked incredulously.
Morag nodded. “He made sure we had enough stores to get through the winters, helped us build the well when the old one dried up.”
“And when the dispute with MacAllister over the grazing land came to a head,” Hamish added, “it was Bryce who stood for us. Took it to court. Paid the fees himself.”
Evan scowled. “I’ll bet he did. Trying to seize these lands for himself, no doubt.” The old fury flared up in him.
But Morag shook her head. “It wasnae like that. He asked for nothing in return. Only that we continue as we were.”
Evan stared at his cider, the surface trembling slightly as his grip on his cup tightened. “That canna be right.”
“Ye think yer brother incapable of generosity?” Hamish asked.
“I think him incapable of doing anything that doesnae benefit himself,” he snapped.
“Perhaps,” Hamish allowed. “But whatever his reasons, he didnae abandon us.”
Like you did.
The unspoken words echoed in the space between them yet when he looked up, Evan found no resentment on his old friends’ faces. He had expected hostility. Blame. Anger. But Bryce had stepped into the breach he’d left and helped this place prosper.
Bryce. The brother he’d built into a villain in his mind so completely that there had been no room for anything else. Nothing was turning out how he had expected.
Had Bryce acted harshly after their father died? Aye. Had he been driven by fear as Niall claimed? Possibly. But had he also stepped forward when needed?
It seemed he had.
Evan felt a strange sensation: doubt. Doubt that the certainties on which he’d built his life these past years might not be so certain after all. That the story he had told himself of abandonment, greed, betrayal might not be the whole truth after all.
Perhaps it was time to find out what was.
A KNOCK AT THE DOOR made Ruby jump. She climbed to her feet and pulled the door open to find Evan standing on the other side.
“Ruby,” he said, shifting his feet awkwardly. “I...er... hope I’m not intruding.”