Chapter Sixteen
Glad of sunshine that morning as he worked alone on the broken bridge, Evan wedged another rock into the toothy gash in the bridge. Carrying rocks from those scattered on the hillside, he had managed to shore up some of the loose stones.
Straddling the breach, he secured the rocks, then walked up a forested slope to gather stout branches. Using a handsaw, he broke them to appropriate lengths and fit them across the gap to add some necessary counter tension to the sagging arch. Though temporary, it would help.
Wiping a bare forearm across his brow, he glanced down the glen, seeing figures moving along the foot of a slope.
For a moment he hoped it was Catriona and her friend Morag MacLeod; they had gone out again that morning to collect scarves and such from crofter wives.
Catriona had offered to meet him by the fairy bridge, as she called it.
He told her he planned to make some repairs there himself, and advised her to walk another way. But she had laughed.
“If we go into the hills, we will take the bridge,” she had said.
“Not yet. Let me do what I can.”
But now he saw that the figures far off were two men.
Shrugging, he turned back to his work, shifting and fitting more stones until he was satisfied that he had shored up the gap in the bridge for now.
So long as no one used it, the makeshift repair would give him time to find a crew to do a more thorough repair.
That too would be temporary until he could determine when a new bridge could be built on his property.
He brushed dust and dirt from his hands, and picked up his cast-off coat to shrug into it. Then he walked down the steep embankment to scoop water from the cold, clear stream that ran beneath the bridge, drinking thirstily from his cupped hands.
Looking up, he saw that the men were approaching, coming along the dirt track that led past the gorge and bridge toward the eastern end of Glen Shee.
“Hey! Kildonan!” One of them waved, and Evan saw Arthur Fitzgibbon, then recognized that the other gentleman was the doctor, Kenneth Grant. Lifting a hand in reply, he waited. Both men wore tweed jackets and caps and carried long-barreled hunting guns.
“Kildonan! Good to see you here! Mr. Grant invited me out for a bit of shooting on his lands,” Arthur said. “He lent me an older rifle. I haven’t seen many of this sort, fine weapon with a true aim. We had an excellent morning.”
Evan shoved his hands into his pockets. “Good. Did you bag much?”
“Two brace of grouse on the moorland near Kilmallie, a few partridges in the hills to the south, and a couple of wild ducks near the river. We divided the lot and Grant’s gillie took them to Kilmallie and Kildonan.”
“Mrs. Baird and Cook will be pleased,” Evan said.
“Do you hunt, Kildonan?” Grant asked. “Your father was quite a sportsman and had a good collection of guns. He had an impressive row of stag heads displayed in the house.”
“He did. I do not often hunt,” Evan replied.
He had never been interested in hunting, and he had not objected when his sister ordered most of the guns sold off and had the stag heads removed—“horrible things,” she had called them.
After all, their father had died after his gun accidentally fired during a morning of deer stalking.
“I believe you occasionally went out with my father and his guests,” Evan went on.
“Aye, sometimes, when your father was at Kildonan,” Grant said. “I rarely saw you, as you were estranged then, I believe. You know I acted as his physician as well. He was in good health and a superb stalker out in the fields.”
“So I recall,” Evan said. “But we don’t hunt for sport at Kildonan now. My sister had most of the guns sold off. That helped pay some of the duties on the estate.”
“I see. If you do not hunt, sir, what sport do you prefer?” Grant asked. “You look vigorous enough. Surely you take some exercise.”
“Kildonan is an excellent golfer,” Arthur said, “though he prefers climbing.”
“Climbing! Of course. You were on the mountain the other day,” Grant said. “And today you seem to be breaking rocks like a laborer.”
Evan brushed at his dusty clothing. “Just some needed repairs on the old bridge.”
“Why spend the day hauling stones when a hired man can do it?” Grant asked.
“I just shored up some of the damage until a crew can repair it or even rebuild it. The center of the arch has collapsed, as you see, though it is still used as a footbridge. Damned dangerous,” Evan added. “Should have been done long ago. I wonder if my father was aware of it.”
“He was,” Grant said. “He thought repairing it would be too expensive, and tearing it down was more practical.”
“The bridge is necessary here. That makes repairs necessary too,” Evan said.
“Kildonan is a bridge engineer by education and profession,” Arthur said proudly. “He has done some exceptional designs. This small bridge is simple for him.”
“Ah, just the man for the job then,” Grant murmured.
“Not simple,” Evan said with a smile. “And it is my responsibility. I’ll have a sign posted and a barrier put up until it is fixed.”
“Very good,” Grant said. “Are you heading back to the castle? I have neglected to offer my congratulations to you and your new bride. I was disappointed to miss seeing her. Thought she might be out walking, as is her habit, or even out here with you.”
“Thank you for the kind thought. Lady Kildonan is out today with Mrs. MacLeod.”
“Ah, the Highland knitting scheme! An impressive charity. She is devoted to the welfare of the glen folk.” Grant’s narrowed brown eyes seem to say something that differed from his mild tone.
For a moment, Evan had a sense that the doctor disliked him heartily.
He frowned, wondering if Grant had some reason to disapprove of the marriage.
He had been at the Glenachan manse the day it was discussed, and surely would have objected then.
But only Catriona had reason to object to it, he thought.
He gave a polite smile. “My wife enjoys charitable work,” he responded.
“She does. Let’s see the bridge,” Grant said, leading the way as they walked there.
“Fine job, looks safer,” Arthur Fitzgibbon commented.
“The glen folk have been leaping that gap for a long time,” Grant said. “They are nimble as goats and will likely continue using it, even if you try to close it.”
“I wanted to do a little work on it. My wife used it just the other day,” Evan said.
“So you made it safer for your bride.” Grant smiled.
Again, Evan saw a flash of something dark, at odds with the man’s amiable demeanor. “Safer for everyone,” he said.
“Mr. Grant is a climber too, Kildonan,” Arthur said. “We were discussing the merits of mountaineering. He tells me there are some excellent challenges among the local peaks.”
“Aye, so they say. I grew up here, but have not tried these slopes.” Evan collected his hammer and hand saw and led the two men off the bridge. “You’ve done climbing around here, Mr. Grant?”
“Aye, but I have not yet made it to the top of Ben Shee. It’s the jagged peak at the center there.
” He pointed to the loftiest height in the range of snow-topped mountains that ringed the glen.
“I’ve made attempts in the past, but they were spoiled by bad weather.
Temperamental mountain, that one. No one has ever climbed to the top, they say.
I’ve had better luck scaling mountains elsewhere in the Highlands and on Skye. ”
“Good climbing on Skye,” Evan said. “Fitz and I were there last year.”
“We took on Sgurr nan Gillean in a fine mist,” Arthur said, remembering.
“An impressive peak in the mighty Cuillin chain. Some say it is well-nigh impossible. You must be expert climbers indeed,” Grant said.
“Cautious but persistent,” Evan said. “Sgurr nan Gillean has a rough surface that provides a good grip all the way up, despite its sharp incline. We simply kept moving up.”
“So no one has climbed Ben Shee to the top?” Arthur asked.
“It is a perfect quest for our Alpine group, as some of us are keener for a hard climb than a scenic scramble. The ladies will forego it, I dare say. Kildonan, we must invite Mr. Grant to join our adventure. He knows these mountains, and his medical expertise will be helpful.”
“If Mr. Grant is interested,” Evan demurred.
“I would be honored.” Grant smiled.
“Our friends will arrive soon,” Evan said. “We will discuss it with them.”
“Grant is an excellent addition to the Scottish Alpine Climbing Club,” Arthur said.
“My expertise is nothing to boast about,” Grant said modestly. “By the way, you’ll want the best Highland guide if you plan to attempt Ben Shee.”
“Who would you recommend?” Evan asked.
“Mr. John MacLeod, a crofter, Morag MacLeod’s husband.
His ancient mother lives on the lower slopes of the mountain.
John has been up and down those slopes and peaks all his life, and he was my guide in scaling other peaks in the Torridon chain.
But he’s getting on in years. I would also recommend your factor, sir.
Finlay MacConn knows these mountains as well as anyone.
Though he does not like Ben Shee,” he added, scowling.
“Finlay?” Evan glanced at Grant.
“He and his brothers and father used to climb regularly. That was before the reverend was injured and the older son died on the mountain.”
“I heard something about that.” Evan frowned.
“Lady Kildonan’s brother?” Arthur asked.
“Aye. Erik MacConn went climbing one day and the weather turned bad—just as it did for both of you,” Grant explained.
“He slipped and fell to his death. Finlay and his father went searching, and the reverend fell, too. Terrible weather that day, treacherous slopes. Reverend MacConn has been a changed man since Erik died. But he took comfort in his faith. His wife died shortly afterward, as well, brought on by grief, I suspect. And then many of their kin and parishioners were evicted from the glen. The MacConns have not had an easy time of it.”