“That’s nae off any sword, Miss Fiona,” young Diarmid protested.
Tormod cuffed the footman on the back of the head. “Dunnae ever accuse a lass of lying,” he grunted. “Especially nae this one.”
“I apologize to ye, Miss Fiona,” the servant said, scowling. “Ye ken I meant ye nae offense.”
“None taken. But even if I cannae prove it to ye,” she continued, “think of the bragging rights and the free beers ye’d earn fer producing this at the Fair-Haired Lass. And ye’ve walked all the way oot here, anyway.”
The lads from the village and the castle muttered together for another few moments, before Tormod nodded. “We’ve an agreement, then. Whoever finds the cow, gets the leather. But ye’re paired with Brian Maxwell, Miss Fiona. Ye’re the one least likely to knock him on his arse.”
She nodded, not surprised. “Let’s get moving, then.”
As the others split off to search, Fiona straightened her green muslin skirt and tromped off south toward the edge of the bogs. “Thank ye, Miss Fiona,” Brian said after a few minutes of scanning the muddy ground for tracks. “I swear the gate was latched last night.”
“The gate’s nearly a hundred years old. It wouldnae hurt ye to replace the ropes holding it shut. Ye cannae let her wander, Brian. The next time she eats Mrs. Garretson’s onions, someone’s likely to turn her into a beef stew.”
As Brian grumbled again that the red was a good cow and he’d done as he’d said, his son Brady came trotting up from the direction of Strouth. “I came all the way up along the river,” he reported, matching pace with his stouter father. “She’s nae in the village, Da’. And I went through the MacKittrick gardens on the way back here just to be certain she hadnae wandered in after the flowers again.” The boy grimaced. “I saw the blacksmith oot searching to the west. I’m thinking ye’ve enough peepers trying to find her. I should go back to Strouth, to keep a lookout.”
Fiona stifled a grin. “Tessa Dinwoddie’s oot riding this morning, I hear. Though with the fog coming in, I reckon she’ll have to go back home before long.” Half the stable boys at the castle had suddenly needed something that could only be found in the village this morning, and she could swear some of the footmen had vanished, as well. That was why she’d only been able to round up five men to help her find Brian’s cow. Tessa Dinwoddie’s bouncing bosom was a powerful draw.
Brian cuffed his son on the back of the head. “Ye’ve better things to do than ogle a lass’s bosom, ye half-wit.”
“I’ve a cracked millstone to inspect,” Fiona said, “so if I’m looking fer the red, Brady, ye’re to do the same.”
“Itiscracked, then,” Brian put in. “I heard a rumor aboot sacks of grain piling up again.” He spat over his shoulder. “Bad luck, it is. The third stone in two years.”
“It’s a blasted drunk stone dresser who didnae file doon the stones evenly his last visit. Nae poor luck. He’ll mend it fer free this time, or I’ll try the stones on his skull.” Fiona topped the low rise overlooking the edge of the waterlogged expanse with its dead trees and leaf-covered bogs below, and stopped. Faint mooing came to her ears. “Do ye hear that?” she asked, gathering her skirt and hurrying down the rugged hillside.
“It could be an owl,” Brian stated, descending more gingerly behind her. “The red’s nae foolish; she wouldnae wander oot here.”
As Fiona trotted forward, careful to stay on the path, she pointed at a clear set of hoofprints edging one of the mudholes. “Then what’s that?” she retorted.
A moment later the heifer came into view. She’d stumbled directly into a large mudhole, and stood up to her chest in the thick, dark goo. Her face was muddy, her long red fur caked in the smelly stuff and sticking out in every direction. As Fiona approached, the big animal lurched forward, lowing, and managed to sink another few inches.
“Brady, go fetch us a rope,” she instructed, “and be quick aboot it.”
The lad ran off toward the village. With a scowl at where Brian Maxwell stood lamenting the heifer’s eminent demise from the safety of the bank, Fiona stepped out of her heavy work shoes and waded into the mud. The stuff was cold—much colder than she’d expected even in the foggy weather, and she gasped in a breath. The bottom sloped steeply downward, and in a moment she was in up to her waist with another ten feet to go before she reached the struggling animal.
She finally stretched out to grab a handful of heavy fur and pull herself forward. “Dunnae fret, girl,” she cooed, patting the cow on the rump. “We’ll get ye free of this mess.”
“Miss Fiona, are ye mad? Get oot of there before ye get kicked!”
“Ye might have said that before I waded in.” Fiona wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, trying to move the pesky tangle of brown curls out of her eyes without depositing more mud in their place. “I’ll climb oot when ye climb in, ye lazy oaf,” she retorted, grabbing the heifer’s tail and pulling sideways. The cold and wet of the mud sucking around her removed the last of her amusement. “No wonder the other lads didnae want to come help ye. This is yer doing, ye ken, because ye couldnae stay away from the tavern long enough to see yer own damned fence mended. I dunnae care who ye thought needed to be bought a drink.”
With an annoyed moo the cow lifted a few inches, managed a half step forward, then sank down to her chest again. Good Lord, this muck was thicker than Aunt Dolidh’s gravy. Mentally she cursed the downpour of the past three days. To her the weather bore more weight than any foul words long-dead MacKittrick could aim at his own tenants, the arrogant, selfish man.
“My Brady’ll be back in a quick minute,” Brian countered, stomping a thin film of mud from the bottom of his boots. “And she isnae going anywhere in the meantime.”
“She’s sinking, yeamadan. She’ll be off her milk for a week as it is, and another six inches’ll drown her if she panics.”
“Then stop yanking on her tail, woman!”
Narrowing her eyes, Fiona waded deeper into the mudhole. “Dunnae ye ‘woman’ me, old man. Get in front of her and help keep her head up. I’ll nae let ye lose a prime milk cow because ye dunnae want yer boots muddy.”
The heifer settled deeper on the tail of Fiona’s words, and the animal’s lowing took on an edge of fear. Cursing, Fiona dug both hands into the mud, leaned in, and shoved at the animal’s hindquarters. Sucking cold mud slid up her shoulders to her neck, but the cow lurched forward a foot or so—before she gave up and sank again.
Todaywouldbe the day Tessa chose to go riding. Fiona glanced down at her mud-covered chest. Nae, she wasn’t as amply proportioned as Miss Tessa Dinwoddie, but neither was she daft enough to risk complete ruin by trotting about in a ridiculously low-cut riding habit. Those mighty bosoms could spring loose at any moment, and then who knew what might befall?
“Brian, I’m nae telling ye again,” she snapped, losing her footing and nearly submerging. “Either get in here and help me or go fetch Tormod and the others. This is yer damned cow.”
