Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Creagan
Creagan spotted the farm as he came over the rise.
It sat in a shallow valley surrounded by fields, the stone farmhouse larger than most, with a barn and several smaller buildings scattered behind it.
Early fall had begun to touch the land. The fields nearest the house were golden with grain ready for harvest, the heavy heads bending beneath their own weight, while beyond them sheep grazed across green hills just beginning to show patches of brown.
Farther down the slope, cattle wandered through a broad pasture bordered by a low stone wall.
An orchard stretched along one side of the farmhouse, its trees heavy with red and green apples, and beyond it, Creagan could make out the neat rows of the kitchen garden where cabbages, onions, and other late crops still waited to be gathered.
A few trees scattered across the valley had already begun their autumn change, flashes of yellow and russet among the lingering green.
He smiled. It had been too long.
He left the road and took the familiar path through the fields.
He hadn't gone far when a shaggy head suddenly popped up between the tall stalks of grain. Two dark eyes fixed on him, and a heartbeat later the dog bounded through the field, grain bending and swaying in his wake.
Creagan stopped.
The large shaggy beast came racing toward him, barking as though an invading army had descended upon the farm.
“Is that any way to greet an old friend, Murph?”
Murph launched himself at him
Creagan laughed as he caught the dog and nearly went down beneath his enthusiastic greeting
“Aye, I've missed you too,” he said, laughing as Murph licked his face.
“Creagan!”
He looked toward the farmhouse.
A lad came tearing around the side of it, long skinny legs carrying him faster than Creagan remembered.
His unruly brown hair bounced with every step, and his freckled face was split by a wide grin.
He looked to have sprouted several inches since Creagan had last seen him, though he had yet to put any meat on his growing bones.
A lass appeared a moment later, her shorter legs working furiously as she chased after her brother. One of the ribbons meant to hold back her long brown curls had come loose, leaving half her hair tumbling around her round, rosy-cheeked face.
“Wait for me, Peter!” she shouted.
Peter didn't.
Creagan barely had time to straighten before the lad threw himself at him, but he caught him easily.
“You got bigger.”
Peter grinned. “You always say that.”
“Because you keep doing it.”
The lass finally reached them, breathless and indignant with her brother, and immediately wrapped both arms around Creagan's leg.
Creagan looked down at her.
“And you, Jennie.”
She tipped her head back and smiled, one front tooth missing.
“Grow more beautiful each day.”
Jennie’s smile widened.
“Creagan?”
The woman's voice came from the farmhouse.
He looked up.
The woman stood in the doorway staring at him as if uncertain she believed what she was seeing.
She was a pretty woman with warm brown eyes and thick chestnut hair caught in a loose braid that fell over one shoulder.
A few strands had escaped to frame a face browned by days spent outdoors.
Her sleeves were rolled above her elbows, and an apron covered her simple green wool dress, evidence she'd been busy with one chore or another before his arrival.
Then she planted her hands on her hips.
Creagan grinned. There were some welcomes a man never forgot.
She marched toward him. “You remember where we live, then.”
He feigned shock, slapping his chest dramatically. “You wound me, Fay? I could never forget such an amazing woman as you.”
Fay shook her head. “You could have fooled me.”
She reached him and Creagan opened his arms, expecting the embrace that always followed her scolding.
He got it.
Fay hugged him tightly, then stepped back and gave his chest a firm slap. “That is for staying away so long.”
Creagan rubbed the spot. “Again, you wound me, sweetheart.”
“Not nearly enough.”
He laughed and pulled her into another hug.
He had met Fay years ago, not long after she and her husband Tate had wed.
She had gone to market one morning and would never have made it home if Creagan hadn't happened along the road at the right time.
He'd seen her safely back to the farm, intending to leave as soon as he knew she was safe.
Tate had insisted he stay for supper. Supper had somehow turned into three days.
Creagan had been returning ever since. He'd held Peter when the lad was barely hours old and Jennie when she was even younger, Tate placing the tiny bundle in his arms while Creagan protested that he knew nothing about bairns.
Apparently, that had not mattered.
“Where's Tate?” Creagan asked.
Fay's expression changed. “Where do you think?”
Creagan glanced toward the fields.
Fay sighed. “Trying to do the work of three men.”
Creagan smiled and shoved his sleeves higher on his arms. “Then it's fortunate I arrived.”
Later that evening, Creagan sat stretched out before the hearth, pleasantly full from a supper Fay insisted he hadn't eaten enough of despite the three helpings he'd managed.
Peter and Jennie had fought sleep as long as they could, both determined not to waste a moment of Creagan's visit. Eventually Fay had sent them off to bed with promises that Creagan would still be there come morning.
Tate sat across from him, his legs stretched toward the fire, a tankard resting against his stomach. The years had been good to his friend. Hard work had broadened his shoulders and added lines around his eyes, but he remained the same steady man Creagan had first met all those years ago.
Fay settled into the chair beside her husband and looked at Creagan.
He knew that look.
“Nay, I don’t want to hear it,” Creagan said, shaking his head.
“I haven't said anything yet,” Fay said innocently.
“You don't have to.”
Tate chuckled into his tankard.
Fay ignored them both. “It's time you stopped living on the road.”
Creagan sighed dramatically. “Here we go.”
Fay continued to have her say. “Sleeping beneath whatever roof will have you for a few nights or a few months before wandering off again.”
Creagan grinned. “I am a most welcome guest wherever I go.”
“I'm sure you are,” Fay said, then rolled her eyes. “Especially if the household has unmarried women.”
Tate laughed.
Creagan raised his tankard to Fay. “Jealousy does not become you, sweetheart.”
She rolled her eyes again. “You need a home.”
“I have one. I'm sitting in it.”
Fay's expression softened. “You know you're welcome here for as long as you wish. But this is our home, Creagan. You need one of your own.”
He took a drink rather than answer.
“And a wife,” Fay continued.
Creagan nearly choked on his ale.
Tate laughed again. “You walked into that one.”
“One woman?” Creagan stared at Fay as if she'd suggested he take holy vows. “For the rest of my life?”
Fay nodded firmly. “Aye, one woman.”
Creagan groaned. “That sounds exhausting.”
“You would probably exhaust her,” Fay said and not playfully.
“Then I would need a particularly strong woman.”
“You need a woman who won't put up with your shenanigans,” Fay corrected.
Creagan grinned. “Where would be the pleasure in that?”
“And bairns,” Fay added. “You need bairns of your own to love.”
His grin remained but something inside him stilled.
He recalled Peter as a newborn in his arms, so small Creagan had been afraid his large hands might somehow hurt him. And Jennie, only hours old, sleeping against his chest while Fay laughed at how terrified he looked holding her.
He'd never told any of them what those moments had done to him.
Creagan glanced around the room. At Tate and Fay sitting together. At the small wooden horse Peter had left near the hearth. At Jennie's ribbon abandoned on the table.
He wanted this. Not their home or their life. His own family.
He wanted a woman he loved and who loved him in return. He wanted bairns who came running when he returned home. He wanted a place where he belonged and where no one ever wondered how long he intended to stay since he would finally be… home.
“Creagan?”
He looked at Fay.
Her eyes had narrowed. “You're actually thinking about it.”
His familiar grin returned. “I'm thinking you should pour me another ale before you have me wed with six bairns by morning.”
Tate laughed, but Fay shook her head as she reached for the pitcher.
“You make a jest of everything.”
“Life is far more enjoyable that way.”
“Not everything is a jest,” Tate said.
Something in his tone had Creagan looking at him.
Tate lowered his tankard. “Have you heard what's being said about the queen?”
Creagan's amusement faded, though his relaxed posture didn't change. “I've heard mumblings here and there.”
“It's more than mumblings now,” Tate said.
Fay handed Creagan his ale before settling back in her chair. “There are those claiming Queen Eudora has no rightful claim to the throne.”
Creagan's brow creased. He'd heard vague remarks during his travels through Morra Mist, whispers that stopped when a stranger drew too near and complaints about the queen from men who had consumed enough ale to loosen their tongues.
He'd paid them little mind. There were always those dissatisfied with whoever wore the crown.
“How many?” Creagan asked.
“Enough that people are beginning to listen,” Tate said.
That troubled Creagan more than the rumors themselves.
“Anyone saying who should be sitting on the throne instead?”
Tate shook his head. “Not that I've heard.”
“Then someone is stirring a pot without telling anyone what he intends to cook.”
Fay frowned. “You would put it that way.”
Creagan took a long drink.
He traveled Morra Mist more than most. From its prosperous villages and crowded ports to isolated farms like Tate's, there were few parts of the kingdom he hadn't visited over the years.
He knew its people, shared their tables, slept beneath their roofs, listened to their troubles, and celebrated their good fortune.
Morra Mist was the only place he'd ever truly thought of as home. He simply hadn't chosen one small piece of it for himself. And if he was already hearing mumblings against the queen in his travels, Creagan suspected there was more to them than idle talk.
He found himself listening for something else.
A summons, he suspected would come.
He took another drink of ale.
The only question was… when?