Merdia’s face fell. “But ye cannae do any better than Fraser. He’s going tae be our leader one day, Bridget. It only makes sense.”
Perhaps to everyone but her.
“Go on with ye,” Bridget finally said, waving her hand at her friend. “I have work tae do.”
“Think aboot it, Bridget,” Merdia called out as she turned to leave. “’Tis only a matter of time, after all.”
Bridget shoved the pitchfork in the pile of hay angrily. If Fraser did approach her father, then there was a good indication that he would accept the young Scot’s proposal. Her father had started to question that Bridget should be wed in the first place, which meant she was on borrowed time.
“Och, there ye are, lass!”
Bridget paused in her work as she greeted yet another visitor, the widow Mary Tursen this time. Mary and her husband had come seeking her father’s help years ago, having experienced their village being burned to the ground by a rival laird, and he had allowed them to build their small home on the edge of the land. Bridget had become fascinated with the couple, and they had treated her like the daughter they had never had.
“Mary,” she said with a smile as the woman walked into the barn, “wot are ye doing here?”
The widow greeted Bridget with a smile before holding out the basket before her. “I’ve brought the supplies for yer father’s salve.”
Bridget smiled as she saw the various herbs in the basket. “He will be grateful.”
Her father had started to have pain in his knees recently, and Mary had created a salve for him to rub on them in the evening after the work was complete. A former healer, Bridget knew that Mary was smitten with her father as well, but no matter what she did, her father wouldn’t acknowledge the young widow other than in passing. Bridget suspected that it was because he was still pining after the loss of her mother, but that had been ten years past, and she wanted to see her father happy.
“Will ye come tae supper this evening?” Bridget asked.
“Oh, I mustn’t,” Mary exclaimed, her cheeks pink. “Yer father doesnae want me there.”
“I dinnae care wot he thinks,” Bridget urged. “Come tae dinner. Ye can help me make the salve.”
The other woman tucked her hair behind her ear. “Alright. I will come then.”
They chatted for a few more minutes before Mary took her leave, and Bridget quickly finished the rest of the stalls before taking the basket and walking out of the barn. The air was starting to turn colder, which meant that winter was on its way, and soon the farm would be preparing for the brute Scottish winter. Bridget herself had been busy all fall, ensuring that they had enough jarred goods to get them through the months, as well as the dried meats and wheat that would feed the horses. It was everyone’s responsibility to see to their own preparation, but since her father was the proclaimed leader of their small community, she always made certain they would be prepared for whatever would come for all who were on the land, not just their little family.
Reaching the hut she had called home all her life, Bridget pulled open the door and walked inside, the warmth of the fire in the fireplace greeting her cold cheeks. Her father was already seated at the table, poring over his ledger by the firelight, and Bridget shed her coat before placing the basket before him.
“Mary sends her herbs for ye. She will be joining us for supper.”
Leathen Wright looked up at his daughter, and she saw the faint pinkening of his cheeks. “Aye, well, she is always welcome.”
“She likes ye,” Bridget teased as she sat in the chair before him. “Ye should court her.”
He cleared his throat, the brief moment gone. “’Tis none of yer concern, Daughter. I have no need for a wife.” He then arched a brow. “Unless the rumors are true and ye are aboot tae be courted.”
Bridget rolled her eyes. “I dinnae wish tae be courted by Fraser.”
Leathen chuckled, his green eyes twinkling. “Aye, so ye have told me. Ye are in yer twentieth year, Bridget. ’Tis time tae start thinking of yer future.”
“Which means if I think aboot mine, ye should do the same,” she said cheekily, not wishing to have the conversation at present. “Someone has tae look out for ye if I’m not here.”
Leathen opened his mouth to retort, but there was a knock on the door suddenly, and Bridget rose to answer it. She didn’t recognize the Scot standing on their doorstep, though the tartan he had draped over his shoulder told her all she needed to know.
“I need tae speak to Leathen Wright,” he stated, giving her a once-over.
“Aye,” Leathen replied, having come to stand behind Bridget. “Wot do ye want of me?”
The Scot thrust a folded parchment in his direction. “I was asked tae deliver this tae ye, courtesy of the McPearson clan.”
Bridget drew in a heavy breath as her father cursed and took the parchment. “Ye will find fresh water and feed for yer horse in the barn,” she forced out. “Would ye like some bread or ale?”
He shook his head. “Mah thanks for yer kindness. I will rest a few hours in the barn before heading back if that’s alright.”
