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Jamie stopped.
“Forgot what?”
“The sweet.” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.
“I was busy.”
“With the ghost?”
“With the excisemen.”
“The ghost wouldna forget my sweet.”
Jamie searched his coat pockets and came up with a button, two coins, a length of twine, and half a biscuit.
Catrìona watched every item appear, and when he held up the biscuit, the look of offense on her face almost made him laugh at the wee lassie.
“That isna a sweet. I want the sugar one.”
“I’ll bring ye one tomorrow.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Ye said that yesterday.”
Jamie crouched in front of her. “I’ll bring ye two tomorrow.”
“Three.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Why three?”
“One for today. One for tomorrow. One because you forgot.”
Jamie stared at her as Catrìona folded her arms.
“Ye have a cruel heart.”
“Three.”
He sighed. “Three it is.”
She smiled sweetly and skipped away.
Jamie straightened to find old Mrs. MacInnes watching from her doorway.
She shook her head. “You’re too thin.”
“So I’m told.”
“Come inside and eat.”
He should have refused. Instead, ten minutes later he was sitting at her table with a bowl of porridge while she told him he needed a wife, better stockings, and a decent roof, not necessarily in that order.
By the time he escaped, Donald had caught him near the well and asked him to look at a broken cart pin. Jamie repaired it while Donald’s wife sent their eldest boy for another tool, their youngest daughter asked Jamie whether ghosts ate porridge, and Donald complained about the excise tax with increasing creativity.
This was how mornings disappeared in Glenbrae. Someone always needed a hand with something. A latch or a horse. Sometimes a leaking roof or a letter carried to the next glen.
