What if the people here were cold and unfriendly? What if they didn’t welcome strangers and bid her to keep moving?
Would she be forced to leave Maclean lands and venture across the border?
Tobermory lay farther up the coast, a bustling fishing port that would likely offer more opportunity—and they were her clansmen too, Mackinnons—but she’d lived her whole life among the Macleans. These lands were her home, and the thought of leaving them filled her with dread.
She’d already lost so much.
Knuckling away her tears, she sniffed loudly.
“Pull yerself together, lass,” she muttered, angry at herself now. “Weeping won’t help ye. Ye need a plan. Ye need a job, and ye need a roof over yer head. Come on. Don’t crumble now. Anything has to be better than returning to yer family.”
And with those rallying words, she lurched to her feet, clenching her teeth as pain lanced through her blistered soles.
Suffering through it, she hobbled down the slope and into Ardnacross.
Although it was small, the village sported a tavern. A squat stone building with a stable and an annex attached. A weatheredsign hung over the door, with a fading image of a shepherd standing proudly with his crook.
Squaring her shoulders, Fiona brushed at her face, ensuring no sign of tears remained. Then she drew a deep breath and pushed her way inside.
The smell of woodsmoke and something savory baking greeted her—warm, welcoming smells that made longing rise in her chest. For Dounarwyse: the home she’d found and then lost.
Stepping onto the sawdust-strewn floor, she looked around.
The tavern’s common room was empty at this hour. Not surprising, as most of its patrons would be out working the run rigs or watching their flocks.
It was a good time to ask questions without drawing too much attention.
“Welcome toThe Shepherd’s Crook.”
A woman, scarcely more than a couple of years her elder, appeared in the doorway to what was presumably the kitchen. She wore a flour-dusted apron over a worn homespun kirtle. Her face was warm, open, and pretty. Fine flaxen hair was tied back in a neat braid over one shoulder. Her bright blue eyes took Fiona in with interest.
“Good day,” Fiona replied, with what she hoped was a confident smile. “My name is Fiona … I’m a weaver from Craignure looking for work.”
“From Craignure, eh?” The woman eyed her, interest sharpening. “What brings ye here?”
“Family problems,” Fiona replied, even as her cheeks warmed. She didn’t want to lie, yet she couldn’t tell this stranger the truth. “Do ye know of anything going in the village?”
“Well … we do have a weaver already. Beth is her name. I can give ye directions to her home … it’s easy enough. This is a small place.”
Relief barreled through Fiona.Thank the Saints.
But the innkeeper went on. “She’s a prickly sort. If she denies ye, come back and see me.” She smiled. “I can’t give ye weaving work, but I need a lass to serve in here and clean rooms. My last one just went back to her family … belly full of bairn.”
Discomfort flickered through Fiona.
The words, though carelessly spoken, struck home like a well-aimed quarrel.
She and Ailean had been reckless. He’d spilled inside her. Soon, she might have another problem.
A sickly sensation rose then.Don’t think about it.
“I’m Eithne,” the woman said kindly.
“Thank ye,” Fiona replied, forcing herself to focus. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
A short while later, she leftThe Shepherd’s Crookand made her way up the dusty street to the weaver’s house. Eithne was right. It wasn’t far. Just as well, for she was limping badly now.
Knocking, she steeled herself.
