Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

S he led the red Mr. Macleod in the opposite direction from the creek, deeper into the woods than she’d taken the eldest. They couldn’t take Cameo, as the forest this way was dense and the footing was uneven. They continued at nearly a run until she found what she was looking for. She heard them before she saw them. Bees.

She hadn’t been back in months, and she would have wept with relief that the swarm was still there if she were the crying type. These European bees, brought over with the very first colonists, never stayed in one spot for too long. In fact, this particular swarm had moved at least three times since she and Granny had first found them, and bee lining, or tracking them back to their new hive, could take days.

“Gather dried leaves and sticks, Mr. Macleod,” Mercy said with renewed vigor, staring up at the hive. “We need to build a fire beneath the tree. We’ll smoke them out, just for a little while.”

He did as he was told and built a large pile of dried underbrush on the ground beneath the hive.

“Do you fear bees, Mr. Macleod?” Mercy asked as he swatted one away.

“Nae,” he answered simply.

“Good,” she said. She crouched down and struck her flint until some of the leaves caught. The red Mr. Macleod got down on the ground and blew at the small flames while Mercy stood up and took off her skirts.

He glanced at her and quickly looked away, seemingly scandalized. Mercy picked up two large branches, put them inside the skirts, and fashioned a very large fan.

“I am going to need you to fan the smoke towards the hive,” she said, handing him the skirts and branches. She handed him the wet rag she’d snatched from the barn and instructed him to dampen the flames to create more smoke.

“Ah,” he said. “And what will ye be doing, Miss Barnett?” But Mercy was already pulling her half-dressed body up onto the lowest branch of the tree.

“I will be slicing off a part of the hive, without disrupting the whole colony,” she grunted as she climbed higher, the muscles in her arms and legs aching. “I’ve been relying on this hive for a year now,” she explained through gritted teeth. “I can’t take the whole thing down.”

“Shall I start now?” Mr. Macleod asked, peering through the leaves, trying to spot her.

“Yes,” she called back breathlessly. “Guide the smoke towards the hive.” The Scot complied and the bees began to panic. They were leaving, and she was safe to cut. She wrapped her legs around the branch below and grasped the bottom of the hive with one hand to steady it, then sliced carefully from the outside. Her eyes were watering from the smoke, and her arms and hands were burning with dozens of stings, but she kept going. After she heard a thump on the ground below, Mercy opened her eyes again and slipped quickly down the trunk and onto the forest floor below.

“Christ,” Mr. Macleod muttered, dropping the skirt and branches and looking at her, his mouth agape. She didn’t have to wonder what she looked like. She bent down and picked up the honeycomb as gingerly as if it were gold.

“Alright, Mr. Macleod,” she said calmly. “If you can manage to bring my skirts, we’ll go.” The man nodded, grabbed the skirt-fan from the grass, and followed her through the woods back to the farm.

Rory had just laid Cailean’s head back down after feeding him more of the red willow broth when he heard Miss Barnett’s voice in the distance. Mercy Barnett. Mercy. She will save Cailean .

Amity was over the barrel, wringing out another cloth which had grown hot with Cailean’s fever, and soaking it again with cool water. Rory glanced at the sister, then leaned back onto his heels and closed his eyes tightly in relief. He needed to be told what he should do next, and now that Mercy was back, she would do it. Rory had never wanted to be told what to do so much in his life.

He opened his eyes and stood. The sun was high in the sky now, and the warmth beat down on his cheeks through the barn doorway. He turned just as Mercy and his brother rounded the corner in a half-walk, half-run. It took several seconds before Rory flew into a rage. He had his own brother pinned against the horse stall door before he even knew what was happening.

“Stop!” Mercy cried out.

“What did you do?” Rory yelled. Rabbie gasped for air, his eyes wide in surprise.

“Stop, now, Mr. Macleod,” Mercy cried again, landing surprisingly strong blows to Rory’s arm and shoulder. When Rabbie tried to speak, Rory released him, utterly shocked at what he’d just done. He stood there motionless, his eyes wide in fear and confusion. Mercy’s skirts fell from Rabbie’s hand as he doubled over, coughing. “What is wrong with you!” she yelled, reaching down to help Rabbie back up. Miss Amity bent down and placed another cold cloth on Cailean.

“My goodness, is that how they say ‘Good day’ in Scotland?” she asked flatly.

“What is wrong with me?” Rory asked incredulously, ignoring Amity. “What is wrong with me?” He pointed down at the skirts, then to her body, clad only in a shift and stays, and then to her face, so swollen she was barely recognizable. “What did he,” Rory started to ask, then let out a dangerously low growl. “Who did this to ye?”

“Bees,” Rabbie wheezed. Mercy looked up at Rory in disgust. He could see the blue of only one eye, as the other had swollen completely shut, and there were several obvious bee stings on both her arms and hands.

“Bees,” Amity agreed, standing. She peered over at Rory with a question in her eyes that it seemed she wasn’t quite ready to ask. “She’s been stung something awful this time,” she said, assessing her sister. “Will you go fight the whole hive for my sister’s honor, Mr. Macleod?” she asked sweetly as she began helping Mercy pluck the stingers from her face and arms. Rory looked from the sisters to Rabbie, then dropped down next to his brother and grasped the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry, lad,” he whispered. It was the first apology he could ever remember making. Rabbie nodded and leaned back against the stall. “So sorry.” Once everyone caught their breath, Rory sighed. “What did ye do to yerself?” he asked Mercy in a low voice, still looking at Rabbie. Rory felt rather than saw her walk out of the barn. “I’m sorry, lad,” Rory said again, and Rabbie grasped his arm.

“Christ,” Rabbie managed to say, coughing. Rory nodded, then went to fetch Rabbie some water from the barrel.

“I don’t know what took hold of me, lad,” Rory said, handing Rabbie the drink. Rabbie took several deep gulps and wiped his chin with his wrist.

“I do,” Rabbie gasped.

“I do, too,” Amity said quietly with her eyebrow raised appraisingly. Before Rory could press them further, Mercy came back into the barn with the honeycomb, a small kitchen knife, and a bowl.

“Here,” she said, handing them all to Rabbie, who looked up at her quizzically. “If you’ve recovered from your ogre of a brother’s attack, you can start shaving the wax. It’s easier to think of it as a light chop. The honey will flow into the bowl.”

“Mercy,” Rory said softly. He was learning how to apologize to her brothers, but he didn’t yet know how to apologize to her.

“Don’t,” Mercy said quietly, in such a way that turned Rory’s veins to ice. The misery and rage worked through him quickly, but he was, to his surprise, able to squash both for the time being. “Good, Mr. Macleod,” she said as she watched Rabbie hack gently at the honeycomb. Rory stood back against the wall and watched as she went to Cailean, who was still unconscious on the grass bed, moaning every now and then with fever. She nodded at Amity, who was carefully applying and reapplying cold cloths to Cailean’s cheeks, neck, and chest. Mercy pulled out another small paring knife and went to work, pulling out all the stitches she’d so painstakingly placed two nights before as Amity continued to carefully pinch out the stingers in Mercy’s skin.

“What are ye doing?” Rory asked, his voice sounding strangled even to him.

“I need to reopen the wound. Clean it out, and pack it with honey.” Mercy said all this without looking at him. “Keep going, Mr. Macleod,” she called to Rabbie. She worked carefully, what with only one eye. “His fever is going down,” she said, still slicing gently through the thread. “You did well with the willow tea.” Rory knew she was speaking to him, but his tongue felt too thick in his mouth to answer.

Mercy bristled when the boar didn’t reply. Her left eye was useless and was watering profusely, but she couldn’t stop the work now. Cailean’s body was cooling down, and he seemed far more comfortable due to Amity’s compresses and the willow bark tea, but the wound was still dirty and a fever, she knew, could return swiftly and savagely.

She’d watched her grandmother tend to grimy wounds a thousand times, and she was cursing herself for not packing Cailean’s with honey the moment she brought them home. Her grandmother had been one of the first in those mountains to try her hand at bee lining, and when she found her first hive, she’d used the wax and honey in everything from candles to sweeteners to healing balms.

Close it tight , Granny used to say over torn flesh. She’d lick the thread before inserting it into the needle. If it’s hot, pack it with honey . Her gnarled hands worked swiftly. If it’s God’s will, the honey will draw it out. If it’s not, then say a prayer and your goodbyes.

Amity handed Mercy a bowl of salt water, which she poured over the wound. She paused, and when Cailean didn’t wake, she called back to the middle brother. “Mr. Macleod, bring me the bowl.” The eldest Macleod stooped down and snatched it up before his brother had the chance. He placed the golden nectar gently down by her side.

Without acknowledging him, she scooped out a glob of honey and applied it deeply into the wound, gently pushing and massaging. When she was satisfied with the pack, she took a clean cloth from Amity’s hands and wrapped it around Cailean’s head, then laid him down gently onto the grass and sighed. She touched his cheek again with the back of her hand and was relieved: his fever was definitely going down.

“Thank you, Miss Barnett,” the middle brother said. She turned and saw him standing against the stable door, his older brother holding him up with a tenderness she hadn’t seen in him before. She’d only seen one other creature go from dear to dangerous and back again so quickly, thinking back to the bear with her cubs by the creek.

“He’s not out of danger yet,” Mercy replied, sitting back on her heels.

“What do we do next?” the eldest Macleod asked hoarsely.

“We let him rest,” Mercy said, looking back down at Cailean.

“If that’s all that we can do,” he said gruffly, “then we’ll be needing to know how to treat yer wounds.”

“My wounds,” Mercy repeated, not understanding at first. “Oh,” she said, remembering the stings. Only a few truly hurt—the one below her eye most of all. She was used to being stung, having been collecting honey for her grandmother’s healing work for as long as there were bees in these parts. “I’m fine,” she said at last.

“She won’t let you tend to them,” Amity said, as if she’d tried many times before. She assessed her sister’s arms and face and, seemingly convinced all the stingers had been removed, stepped back.

“Ye’re not fine, lass,” Mr. Macleod said, leaning forward.

“I am.”

“There’s really only one way to treat bee stings,” Amity said brightly.

“Amity,” Mercy warned.

“But I’m sure she won’t want to waste her harvest on herself.”

“Harvest?” Mr. Macleod asked, frowning.

“Tobacco,” Amity said, ignoring her sister’s murderous stare, which, Mercy had to admit, was probably more pitiful than intimidating.

“Tobacco?” Mr. Macleod asked. Mercy glowered at Amity with the one eye she had to do it with. Amity smiled sweetly.

“I have tobacco drying in the back of the barn,” Mercy said shortly. “It will catch quite a few shillings, if not trade for labor and grain.”

“The tobacco, it can heal…”

“Yes,” Mercy cut him off and put her hands on her hips. “But I grew that tobacco leaf in a field up the hill myself, and…”

“Strange, silly woman,” Mr. Macleod said, stalking to the back of the barn.

“Listen to me,” she said, her good eye narrowing into a slit. Her tone made the man stop dead in his tracks. “Our father won’t survive the winter if we don’t get the cabin repaired. Our goats won’t survive the winter if we don’t get the barn repaired. As much as I’d like to do it myself, I can’t. So I need the tobacco. I need to sell it so that I can pay someone else to do it. I need the tobacco because it’s the only crop that will grow plentiful up here in these damned rocks. The healing I do doesn’t fetch the same price that our gran’s did. We need the tobacco,” she said again, knowing that she was sounding weaker by the minute.

The eldest Macleod stared at her while she ranted. She knew that she spoke plainly, and she also knew that most people were put off by that. But Mercy had never been talented with turns of phrase or strategic dismissals. The Scot needed to know that she couldn’t waste her crop on herself, that she wouldn’t. She’d never seen the point of demurely changing the conversation when a strong stance could do just as well.

“Forgive me, lass,” he said finally, his voice uncharacteristically soft and soothing, “but did ye no’ say we could stay here if we repaired the buildings ourselves?” Mercy lifted a brow, but saw quite quickly that he was sincere. “We’d surely be in trouble if ye went back on yer word, as we’d not survive the winter without the barn, either.”

Mercy was sure that the oaf had already figured out that the deal was just a way to get them all to stay temporarily while Cailean healed, but it seemed as though she and Mr. Macleod were both realizing in the same moment that the deal really was in both their best interests. Could she trust him to stay and do the work? She wasn’t expecting them to when she first proposed the idea, but now it seemed like her best option.

Rory felt Rabbie’s eyes on him as he said all this. Rabbie more than anyone knew that Rory had historically been unwilling to parry and placate a woman. He was learning this woman’s defenses and inventing ways to move past them, rather than charge through them. He felt almost embarrassed to be acting so very unlike himself in Rabbie’s presence.

“No,” she said finally. “I won’t go back on my word. I want you to help fix the barn and the cabin. But with six mouths to feed instead of three, we need the tobacco to trade in town.” This she said firmly.

“I can hunt,” Rory said at last. “If ye’ve got a bow or a musket, I’ll bring ye supper. And Rabbie is an excellent fisherman.”

“We haven’t got a bow. We had a musket, but Father sold it for whiskey not a year back.” Their father was quickly becoming one of Rory’s least favorite people, and that list was very, very long.

“We’ll set traps for rabbits, then. How much does she need for those stings?” Rory asked, turning to Amity and coming back to his original point. “How much tobacco?”

“Oh,” Amity said looking over her sister, “not more than a few leaves. The harvest was large this year,” she added.

“It’s not important,” Mercy said tiredly. “The stings, they’re not that bad.”

“Hush, lass,” Rory said softly, stepping past her carefully and walking towards the bundles of leaves hanging from the barn ceiling. “With yer permission, Miss Barnett,” he said, glancing back at her. When Mercy nodded, seemingly defeated, he tore eight leaves from a rope. “What now?”

“Water,” Amity said, looking over at his sister now with unconcealed concern.

“Rabbie,” Rory said gently, and his brother went to fill a bowl from the barrel without being asked. Rory walked past Mercy and bent down next to a slumbering Cailean, where the bottle of whiskey was sitting, half full. He grabbed up the whiskey, took a swig, then handed it to Mercy. She looked at the bottle with her one good eye. Instead of taking the bottle and smashing it over his head, she drank deeply from it, her throat moving with each swallow. When she’d finished, she wiped her lips with her delicate fingers.

“Ow,” she said weakly.

“What do I do with the water, Miss Amity?” Rory asked, still looking at Mercy. He took the bottle from her and set it down. Rabbie handed the bowl of water to Rory.

“Soak the leaves in it, then apply to the stings,” Amity said softly, taking her sister’s hand in hers. She looked into Mercy’s one good eye, which was drooping with exhaustion. “Come,” Amity said, leading her through the goat herd with Rory following closely behind.

It was uncomfortably dark and musty inside the cabin, and Rory counted three places in the ceiling that were patched only by boards and old floral skirts, which were stained black with mold. His boots knocked over empty whiskey bottles as he helped Mercy back to her bed pallet with Amity’s help.

“I need to steam the cedarwood chips,” she said lazily as he picked her up and placed her head on her pillow. “Feed the chickens. And gather the last carrots from the garden,” she murmured. “It won’t warm up again.”

“Alright now, lass,” Rory whispered, pushing her hair off her face. “I’m sure your sister and I can handle all that.”

“With permission, I’ll start now,” Amity said softly, touching her hand to Mercy’s leg gently. Rory wondered at this woman, so good, so brave, and so stubborn. He wanted to ask her sister if Mercy made a habit of getting herself savagely stung for strangers, but he didn’t. When Mercy had closed her one good eye, Amity stared searchingly into Rory’s face, and an understanding seemed to be made. She nodded amiably and left him with her sister.

Once Amity was gone, Rory placed the bowl of water onto the wood floor next to Mercy’s pallet. He got down on his knees and carefully dipped one of the large, dried tobacco leaves in it slowly, wetting it from tip to stem. When it was limp, he pulled the leaf between his first two fingers to rid it of excess moisture and applied it gingerly to Mercy’s right arm and hand, pressing with the utmost care to adhere it to her skin. By this time, Mercy was fast asleep.

Rory did the same with the next arm, and then drew back, admiring the way her jaw led into her neck. When she murmured softly in her sleep, he had the wild urge to take her in his arms, hold her until she didn’t hurt. Instead, he placed the last tobacco leaves into the bowl of water, wetted them sufficiently, then carefully dressed her eye, chin, and cheeks.