Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

A s she was feeding the chickens the next morning, Mercy stopped suddenly to breathe on her frozen fingers. It seemed as though it might warm up marginally when the sun finally graced the mountain with its presence, but perhaps yesterday was summer’s last farewell. Once she’d lured the chickens away from their nests, she set about collecting eggs for a large breakfast.

Mercy had spent the rest of the previous day in the upper field, harvesting the last of the carrots, potatoes, and corn. She’d chopped at a small red cedar she’d felled days before, and collected a good amount of pennyroyal, speedwell, and stinging nettle, taking great care with that last herb.

Fortuitously, her father had stayed in bed all day with “the sick,” as he called it, and the giants had remained as yet undiscovered. When she’d finally plopped down by the fire at the end of the day, Amity had reported that they’d bedded down for the night, though the biggest giant was opting to sleep, once again, in the forest. Mercy had searched her sister’s face for any sign that the brute had told her or his brothers about what had occurred in the creek, but it seemed that he had not. When she’d finally got in bed and closed her eyes, she had whispered a silent prayer of thanks for allowing her to successfully avoid the eldest Mr. Macleod for the day.

Mercy finished up the last of her morning chores and, shivering, made her way back to the cabin. Once she was there, however, she remembered that Mr. Macleod had once again chosen to sleep in the woods last night. A foreign panic invaded her veins. Would she need to tell his brothers that the brute had frozen solid overnight in the biting cold, and that she had let him?

Though it was difficult, Mercy managed to stop herself from sprinting back to where she’d found him two nights ago. She gasped when she saw that the faded blue blanket and a half-drunk bottle of whiskey were there, but that the giant was missing. She frowned, desperately willing herself to calm down, then turned and ran straight into the man’s chest. She fell back and cried out in surprise, but he caught her by the arm and pulled her easily back to her feet in front of him.

He was so very tall. His hair was the color of damp, freshly turned earth, his eyes so dark that they were almost onyx, and his beard was an unruly mess of inky black. She was suddenly and unwelcomely reminded of how pleasing he had looked the day before, water dripping over his browned, sculpted body. A ferocious blush overtook Mercy as she felt her muscles tremble at the thought of her skin touching his under the water. She gulped, searching his face, then nodded once in relief: his jaw clenched visibly through his beard when he was angry, but the sharp muscle lines weren’t there, now. She wasn’t in the mood for a fight.

It was only then that she realized he was still holding her arm. Begrudgingly, she allowed herself to really feel the inviting warmth of his big hand wrapped around it.

“You shouldn’t stray far from here, Mr. Macleod,” she said after she regained her composure, pulling her arm away firmly but reluctantly. When else will I ever get the chance to be touched by such a beautiful man? When he didn’t say anything, she lifted her chin to stare him down. “If you’d frozen to death, or been sniffed out by wolves, or been seen by someone,” she began to say.

“Then what, lass?” he asked quietly, his eyes boring into hers.

“I know you said that no one was following you, but…” she started to say after a moment.

“Aye,” Mr. Macleod said, and he lifted an eyebrow. She wondered, then, if he had truly thought she had believed him when he told her that she was in no danger in assisting them. Did he think her daft? Probably. She knew how she looked. How she lived.

“Are ye afraid, lass?” he asked, looking down at her curiously.

“No,” she said too quickly, crossing her arms.

“Rory,” his brother called out quietly from the barn, startling them both. They peered through the trees and saw the red Mr. Macleod, as that is how she’d started to think of the middle brother, standing just outside the doorway. Mercy looked back to Mr. Macleod and finally noticed the dark splotches under his eyes, the half-lidded stare. His broad shoulders were slumped. Mercy hadn’t realized before, but this man was just as tired and run down as his brothers. Her gaze then went back to his brother who, though he looked a fair bit better than when he’d arrived, was still quite obviously weak.

From the corner of his eye, Rory saw Miss Barnett’s concerned frown return as she looked upon Rabbie.

“What is it?” Rory called back in a grating whisper.

“Cailean’s asking for ye.”

Though Rory would have preferred to charge to the barn like a bull, he kept pace with Miss Barnett, who walked briskly through the clearing and followed Rabbie past the doorway of the barn.

“Rory,” Cailean rasped, smiling and absentmindedly touching the gash on his forehead.

“Don’t touch,” Miss Barnett yelped, pushing past Rabbie and settling down next to Cailean in the hay. Rory was at first elated to hear his youngest brother’s voice in good spirits, but he grimaced when his eyes adjusted to the light. Cailean was pale and sweaty. His dark hair shone wet around his forehead. “We need to keep the wound clean,” Miss Barnett said, glancing up at Rory and biting her lip.

“Thank ye, Angel,” Cailean said, clutching her hand. “It’s good of ye to come see me today.” Rory thought he saw Miss Barnett’s face fall. She hadn’t visited Cailean at all the day before, and Rory was not faultless, as he was most likely the one she was avoiding. “Might we have something to eat?” he asked shyly. Rory bristled even though his brother looked near death.

“Cailean,” Rory said, trying but failing to sound stern, “we’ll not be taking anything else from the lady.” She turned to him with her mouth perfectly rounded and open, obviously appalled. Quickly recovering, she looked away, then whipped her head around and put on a wide, unconvincing smile. Under different circumstances, Rory would have found it charming that she was so very terrible at practicing charm.

“No,” she agreed, adopting a cheery, calm facade. “You won’t be taking anything else. However,” she said, holding a fingertip theatrically to her chin while the three of them stared at her with mixed reactions, “I do need some work done around the farm. The barn, in particular, needs some mending,” she said, looking up at the wooden beams that looked so rotted they might come crashing down on the goats during the next thunderstorm. “It would be so very helpful if you’d all stay and do some work.” Rory looked down at her, knowing that surprise was written all over his face. “In exchange for food and board, of course,” she added, nodding to herself.

She would not hold them to it—of that he was certain. But she was offering to let them stay a little longer, and that was a bit bewildering.

Rory didn’t know what to do. His baby brother looked deathly ill, and sober Rabbie looked tired to his very bones. He didn’t want to stay and trespass on the woman’s charity any longer, yet the thought of leaving made him ache all over, which made him want to leave all the more. He didn’t know what was coming over him. What he did know was that if he made his brothers keep moving, one or both might die. He sighed and rubbed his grizzled chin as the two of them waited patiently for his decision. Miss Barnett, flaring her nostrils, waited a little less patiently.

Just then, the goats began bleating furiously and their bells clanged around their necks. Miss Barnett’s eyes widened in what Rory thought was fear. He immediately ran to her, pressing an arm against her middle and drawing her back. He fisted his knife.

“No,” she whispered urgently after he’d thrown her body behind his, pounding twice on his arm. She met his eyes and, perhaps realizing that blows would not work, wrapped her hands around his forearm. “Stay here, and stay hidden,” she hissed before running from the barn.

Mercy watched her father stumble through the herd of goats, teetering this way and that. Thank God he was already so drunk that she doubted he’d be able to see the three giants if they were standing in front of him. Still, her panic didn’t completely leave her. Cailean’s wound was red and yellow and swollen, and his skin was slick with sweat. All three of the giants looked rather pale and weak. She needed to get rid of her father, and fast.

“Mercy,” her father called out. “Mercy.”

“Here,” she responded quickly, rushing to his side. Amity appeared behind him at the bottom of the stairs, wide-eyed, shaking her head.

“There’sss n’more hardtack,” he slurred, swaying. His gray eyes were glassy and seemed to focus in and out on her face. “And you’n’Amity are out here makin’ a cursed amount of racket for thisss time of morning. An indisposed man needs his, needs his sleep.”

“No, Father, there are no more biscuits,” Mercy answered, thankful he’d assumed the noises he’d heard this morning were only hers and her sister’s. “There hasn’t been a flour delivery to town in weeks. But there are eggs and potatoes,” she said, gesturing back towards the cabin. “Why don’t you go back inside and rest while I make you an egg fry?” She watched him carefully while he made his decision. The skinny, grizzled, white-haired man that she’d long stopped thinking of someone she loved could go one of two ways.

“Father, please come back to the cabin and we’ll have breakfast ready in no time,” Amity called pleadingly. Amity wasn’t afraid of their father the way Mercy was—she’d never been hurt by him the way she’d been, Mercy had made sure of that—but she’d always handled him with the same thick rags one might use to move the pan that Mercy was setting on the grates over the firepit.

“Yes, yesss.” He looked around as if surprised to see all the goats. Mercy’s whole body relaxed. “Yes, Mercy. A fry would be just the thing.” Mercy nodded, filled with relief that her father had gone supplicant instead of roaring mad, and raced to the cabin, where she clasped a hand around Amity’s shoulder briefly before taking the steps quickly and grabbing the flint and steel from the kitchen table.

The sisters stood by, holding their breath, as their father climbed the stairs to the cabin and wobbled through it, finally falling into his chair. Mercy stooped down under the steps and collected the basket of eggs and a large tin that she’d stashed there the morning before.

Wordlessly, Mercy and Amity settled down by the outdoor firepit, where they did all of the cooking. Before the storm two years prior, they’d been able to cook inside the cabin in the hearth, but that was before the chimney collapsed. Mercy wasn’t strong or educated enough in the science to repair it, and her father was never well enough. She’d been saving for nearly a year now, accepting money and favors and trinkets from the townspeople who required her for medicine and advice. Soon, she’d be able to pay some men to repair the cabin. Until then, she’d keep cooking over the firepit. Even in the depths of winter.

“Lass,” Mr. Macleod called quietly from the barn. Mercy glanced up briefly and shook her head.

“Alice,” her father yelled. He did that sometimes—called her by her mother’s name. Mercy whipped around and saw him hanging his head out the cabin door.

“Father, I’m making you breakfast. Go rest.”

“Be sure to add the cheese, Alice,” he said, then his head disappeared back behind the door. Mercy glanced back to the barn, where the Scot’s face had vanished.

“Go inside and preoccupy Father,” Mercy whispered to Amity, who nodded and left just as quickly. Mercy sighed and set herself to work, striking the flint against the steel again and again until the dried leaves under the cauldron caught fire. Mercy built a structure over the small flame with branches she’d stacked next to the pit days ago, then blew gently to coax them into burning and smoking. Next, she opened the large tin and pulled out a muslin cloth filled with goat’s milk curds, which she massaged quickly and unwrapped: a perfect smelling cheese.

Turmoil twisted through her mind: in her effort to stay away from the oldest Macleod, she had put the youngest in very real danger. If only I’d stopped in yesterday to see him . It made her furious at herself, furious at the giant brute for making her so ill at ease that she’d hid in the upper garden all day. At least she had tricked them into staying a little longer, as she had somehow known that the eldest Mr. Macleod would have refused any further care had he not been able to provide something in return, curse his foolish pride.

Once the fire was going, she got up and went to the barn, passing the tense Scots. All three stayed motionless, the oldest two coiled as if ready to strike, as she made her way to the back shelves that housed her least precious herbs. The herbs she couldn’t afford to be sold by her father were kept under the floorboards in the cabin.

“Mercy,” Mr. Macleod said quietly. She bristled. She had been called by her first name many a time by her father’s brutish, drunken friends, and it was an insult she couldn’t bear. However, she knew that just as she was repulsed by his familiarity, she was also enamored with the way her name sounded on his tongue.

“I’m making breakfast,” she snapped. “For him,” she motioned towards the cabin, “and for you and your brothers.” She spun quickly on her heel and returned to her fire, which was hot enough now. She cracked all the eggs and let the yolks and whites fall onto the large iron skillet that she’d placed on top of the rocks in the fire, then added some of the milk that she’d collected earlier, and the cheese. From one of the glass jars, she took some salt and sprinkled it over the mash, then she added some dried sage. She mixed it all with a large wooden spoon until it became slightly firm, then spooned it out into wooden bowls and delivered them to the barn.

“Here,” Miss Barnett said, handing Rory the stacked bowls, steaming with what he could only describe as a heavenly scent. He took them from her, then watched as she marched back out of the barn, stopping to retrieve her father’s breakfast before disappearing into the cabin. Rory turned and stooped down next to Cailean and hand fed him.

Rabbie silently took a bowl and sat down beside them.

“He’s going to be fine,” Rory said in response, concentrating on getting the eggs between Cailean’s lips. Cailean could barely keep his eyes open. His forehead was swollen and the wound was angry, expelling a sickly yellow pus. His hair had become thoroughly soaked with sweat. “Ye need to eat, lad,” Rory whispered. Rabbie shoveled food into his own mouth, looking worriedly from brother to brother.

“So cold,” Cailean rasped. “Tired.”

“Just try,” Rory pleaded as he set the bowl down and threw Rabbie’s blanket over the red one he was already wrapped in. Fear coursed through his veins like ice. He’d seen men this sick before, and they never made it through to the other side.

Rabbie came closer, his own way of asking what was needed of him.

“Get him some water,” Rory said. It made him feel better to act like he knew what to do, and he was sure it made Rabbie feel better, too. Rabbie sprang forward, a little weak on his feet, then dipped his bowl into the barrel of clean water. He brought it back, spilling half on the way, then handed it to Rory, who touched the bowl to Cailean’s lips.

“Right,” they heard Mr. Barnett call. “Right right.” Rory stilled his hand, and Rabbie froze. “I’ll be back in the morrow,” they heard him sing. Rabbie shrugged his shoulders and Rory raised an eyebrow.

“Goodbye, Father,” he heard the women call after him.

“Remember to count your bottles this time, and get a fair price,” Miss Amity added lightly.

“I’ll be back in the morrow,” he sang again, and his whistling grew fainter and fainter. Rory heard Miss Barnett’s light footsteps before she appeared in the barn.

“I need to speak with you,” she said, her eyes boring through Rory’s with urgency. “Both of you,” she said, glancing at Rabbie.

“What is it, lass?” Rory asked with an inconveniently shaky voice when the three of them were out in the clearing. Miss Amity sidled up next to her sister, seemingly awaiting orders. Rory feared that she was about to ask them to leave, but he wasn’t sure he could, what with Cailean in such a state. He rubbed the back of his head violently. “I need to,” he started to say.

“No, we need to act quickly,” she said abruptly, cutting him off. He dropped his arm in surprise. “Cailean,” she clarified. “Forgive me for using his Christian name, but it seems our situation,” she said, eying him, “has done away with niceties. We need to act quickly for Cailean. You stay here with him, Mr. Macleod,” she said, pointing to Rabbie. “Keep him cool. Amity, there are clean rags in the horse stable. Use the fresh water from the barrel. Apply the cloths to him—his head, his neck, his chest. Just not his wound.”

“Now listen, lass,” Rory snapped ineffectively.

“And you, Mr. Macleod,” she said, turning to Rory as Miss Amity scuttled away. “I’ll need your help.” Rabbie stood still, watching the two silently, until Rory nodded gruffly. At that, the middle brother followed Miss Amity into the barn. Miss Barnett was still staring Rory down.

“Ye’re going to save my brother,” Rory said softly with realization. Perhaps she was a witch.

“Yes,” she whispered, her silvery-blue eyes not leaving his. “Here,” she said. Rory broke their shared gaze reluctantly, and was surprised to see a very large knife in her hand. “Follow me.”

Rory was right behind her as she wove through the forest understory behind the barn. He didn’t know where she was leading him, and he stayed so close he felt as if he was in danger of trampling her. Eventually they stepped into a clearing, where a small cottage garden was beginning to lay itself down in preparation for winter, and an old bay was grazing on wild grasses.

“Cameo,” Miss Barnett called softly, and the horse lifted its head and sauntered over. “That’s my good girl,” she cooed, rubbing the horse’s nose and offering her a treat of some sort, which Cameo gobbled up immediately. Miss Barnett produced an old bit and bridle from the fence and flung it over the old mare’s ears, who took it without much fuss. She then climbed halfway up the fence and leapt onto the horse’s bare back with such grace that Rory felt his jaw drop. Her hems rose to her stockinged knees, what with both legs astride. “Come please,” Miss Barnett pleaded, and Rory closed his mouth. “We haven’t any time to waste.”

Rory stepped up onto the fence and managed to seat himself right behind Miss Barnett, who kicked the horse gently. She didn’t say any more, but for some wild and completely inexplicable reason, Rory trusted her. He hadn’t trusted anyone but his brothers in a long, long time, but she had somehow captured his faith. And that for some reason, made him much more uneasy than simply distrusting her.

She led Cameo out onto a well-worn path and urged the horse into a canter. He grabbed onto her waist and, had his brother not been knocking on death’s door, he would have enjoyed the feel of Miss Barnett’s hips in his hands, her buttocks practically in his lap.

“Here,” she huffed at last. Thank God, Rory thought grimly, his panic rising the longer they were away from Cailean. They’d reached the creek farther downstream, and the water there was much deeper and much faster.

“Mr. Macleod?” she asked, and Rory realized she must have said something.

“I’ll carry you,” Rory said at once, peering over Miss Barnett’s shoulder and assessing the deep creek. She must have said that they were going to cross it.

“No, no,” she said, exasperated. “You’re not listening. Here,” she said, pointing to a group of trees on the bank. “White willow,” she said in place of an explanation. “The bark can break a fever,” she said finally, urgency in her voice. Rory’s eyes widened in understanding and he dismounted.

“What do I do?” Rory asked, pulling her down from the horse’s back.

“You’ll cut a square from the tree,” she said, and as he lunged forward to the nearest specimen, she yelled out, “Not that one!” She placed her hand on a square scar of gray bark on that particular tree. “I’ve used this one, a few months ago. Use that one,” she said, and pushed him towards another trunk, though in truth he barely felt her shove. “You still have the knife?” Rory pulled it from his waistband and hesitated, looking over at her. “Just start cutting deeply, this way and that,” she said, motioning. “Exactly. You are much stronger than I am, Mr. Macleod, and I thought, correctly, that you would make fast work of this.” Rory was warmed by the comment and sliced through the bark harder, again and again, making a square. “Now pry it out from the top,” Miss Barnett instructed. Her confidence was a balm.

“And now?” he asked desperately, the plat of bark in his hands. He could hear the shameful weakness but the thought of losing Cailean had all but made him as feeble as a lamb.

“Back on the horse, Mr. Macleod, and listen closely.” Rory nodded, and so did she. “First,” she said as he took her by her waist and lifted her onto the mare’s back, “you’ll strip the pink bark from the white.” She paused as he jumped off a tall root and seated himself behind her. “You only want the pink bark, the innermost layer,” she continued.

“The pink bark,” Rory repeated, listening closely yet completely incapable of ignoring the overwhelming awareness of how powerful she appeared. In a strange turn, he found himself comforted if not enchanted by the way she commanded him, the way she refused to cower and worry over a disaster, but rather rise to the occasion and lead the way. There had been very few women in his past who had ever tried to manage him, and those few had done so with disastrous consequences.

“Then you’ll wrap the pink bark in muslin cloth,” she continued after urging Cameo faster. “Use the cloth from the tin by the fire, the one I used for cheese. Rinse it well in boiling water, then wrap the bark inside. Tie it tightly.”

“And then?” Rory asked loudly over the hoofbeats.

“You’ll need the kettle from the cabin. It’s most likely on the kitchen table. Fill it with water, put it over the coals in the fire, and when it boils, drop the muslin wrapped bark inside. Stir the water until it turns red. Blood red.”

“Blood red,” Rory repeated.

“Yes, Mr. Macleod.” Miss Barnett said with obvious relief. “Let Cailean have two cups. And make sure you fish out the wood before you give it to him,” she added, suddenly. “We don’t need him choking on a splinter,” she added grimly.

“Yes, lass,” Rory said just as they reached the clearing. The way she talked, she had him believing that with enough rapid action, they could actually save his brother. Or maybe he had to believe her, as the alternative was unthinkable.

“Get the fire going again, and then find the kettle,” Miss Barnett ordered. Rory dropped from Cameo’s back and held his hands out to catch her, who slid into his arms.

“And where are ye going?” Rory asked as she stole the knife from his waistband and ran to the barn. But she didn’t answer, and Rory immediately set himself down and began at once to blow on the small flames from the dying fire, which had, over the course of the morning, been reduced to mostly embers.

“Amity,” Mercy huffed out when she reached the inside of the barn. “How is he?”

“He’s sleeping, dreaming of terrors no doubt.” Cailean looked more pale than before, and the wound was seeping with yellow. He shivered and kicked as the red Macleod placed another wet cloth on his chest, and Amity looked up at Mercy bleakly.

“Right,” Mercy said, falling to her knees beside Cailean. She closed her eyes and called up

images of clear skies, fresh water, white snow. “Take away the 77-fold fevers, take away from thee,” she murmured softly with her hands suspended over Cailean’s chest. “Take away the 77-fold fevers, take away from thee.” She repeated the words her Gran had taught her as she envisioned a cold wind ripping through her body and into his. “Take away the 77-fold fevers, take away from thee.” She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. When she opened her eyes, she realized the red Mr. Macleod was sitting quite still by her side, his face screwed up into a distrustful grimace,

“Alright, Mr. Macleod,” Mercy said, feigning a smile and trying to act calm for his sake. She was used to people being fearful of her. “I need your help now.” The man dragged his eyes away from his brother and stared into hers with apprehension.

“Yes, Miss Barnett,” he said, and her heart broke for him as he tried to rid his face of any emotion. She could tell very well that he had no desire to reveal himself to anyone, and it gave her pain.

“Oh, Mr. Macleod,” Mercy said, leaning down to touch his arm. “You’ve done so well, and the other Mr. Macleod is making Cailean a drink that will help. But now I need you to help me.” The red Mr. Macleod took another look at Cailean, nodded, and stood up. “Amity,” Mercy started to say, biting her lip.

“I can stay here and keep him cool,” Amity said. “Go, go. I doubt seriously he could ravish me, in his state,” she added drolly.

“Honestly, Amity, is this really the time?” Mercy snapped as she picked up a wet rag.

“Not for him, that’s for sure,” Amity replied, applying another wet cloth to Cailean’s exposed throat. Mercy sighed and looked back to the middle brother.

“Thank you,” Mercy said, leading him outside. “See? There’s the other Mr. Macleod now, making the healing drink.” The poor Scot was coaxing the fire into larger flames with a face full of fear. “Now follow me.”