~*~
A short ride and only a few minutes later, or so it seemed, he saw that the joke was on him.
Farmer Steckles did have a badger.
But the creature wasn’t a pet.
He was a huge snarling beast-of-wood who somehow managed to look both ferocious and amused as he ‘guarded’ the tree-lined approach to Frogbottom Cottage.
Apparently carved into the base of a once-massive tree, the badger also kindly confirmed the location by holding up a sign that declared that this was Frogbottom.
Lucian didn’t know whether to be perturbed or to laugh, then decided on the latter.
Steckles obviously had a sense of humor.
He was also an excellent craftsman, as Lady Melissa and others had said. The badger looked so real that his eyes almost glittered. His gaze seemed to follow Lucian as he rode past toward the small stone cottage that was set well back from the heath track, close to a cluster of lichened boulders at the edge of a large sandpit pond. Clearly ancient, the cottage also indicated the farmer was at home as earthy-sweet turf smoke rose from the chimney.
Sheep bleated somewhere close by and Lucian was sure he also caught the moo’ing of a cow. A large gray cat came around the corner of the cottage and stood staring at him, but Lucian ignored the cat and didn’t bother to look for the other animals.
The air had turned much colder, the wind was quickening, and the first large drops of rain began to fall just as he reined in and swung down from his saddle.
The cottage’s red-painted door opened at once and a bearded man with shaggy iron-gray hair smiled at him from the threshold. Over sixty, if Lucian guessed rightly, the man – he assumed Alan Steckles – had lined, leathery skin that revealed a long, hard life spent outdoors, but his blue eyes were bright, and welcoming.
“Mr. Steckles?” Lucian strode forward. “Lucian MacRae, Laird of Lyongate in Scotland,” he said, smiling.
“That I can tell.” The older man opened the door wider, gesturing him inside. “And, aye, I’m Steckles.”
Lucian hesitated before he ducked beneath the low-cut lintel. “Do you always give strangers such a welcome?”
The farmer chuckled. “If they pass old Bamber, aye.”
“The badger?”
“So it is.” Steckles moved aside so Lucian could step past him into the cozy, lantern-lit cottage.
As he’d known, a turf fire glimmered in the hearth. Simple but clean red-and-white striped curtains hung at the open windows, but the farmer went there now to close the shutters against the worsening rain. The stone-flagged floor proved well-swept, and the splendidly-made but unpretentious table and chairs, and benches, were spotlessly clean and well-scrubbed. If anything, Frogbottom Cottage could have been a Highland croft, transported to the vastness of London’s Hampstead Heath.
But one thing set Steckles’ home apart…
Shelves lined the walls and each one brimmed with wooden carvings of every imaginable woodland creature. Larger carvings crowded corners, mostly domestic animals. Life-size renditions of dogs and cats, wearing collars or bows, and like Bamber the Badger, they all looked uncannily real.
About to bark, meow, wag a tail, or start forward to saunter proudly across the room so that his or her feline grace could be duly displayed and admired.
Lucian looked back at the farmer, not surprised to see a hint of pride in his eyes.
“I am impressed,” Lucian spoke true.
“So was Badger or you wouldn’t be here.” Steckles pulled out a chair at his table, indicating Lucian should sit.
When he did, the farmer nipped into a tiny kitchen niche and busied himself preparing tea, and then returned to the table with a teapot, mugs, a small pitcher of fresh and creamy milk, and a platter of what Lucian, as a Highlander, would call thick, fresh-baked oatcakes, and cheese. All this Steckles arranged neatly before his guest before taking his own seat and encouraging Lucian to help himself.
Lucian did, pouring a cup of steaming tea. “So the locals were right. The badger is your watchdog?”
Steckles chuckled. “You were at Spaniards?”
“Aye.” Lucian tried his tea, sure he’d never tasted better.
Though, were he honest, he suspected the afternoon’s raw weather had something to do with that. Highlanders appreciated a steaming cuppa when a cold wind raced around the eaves and rain beat on the roof.
