A Soldier's Salvation (Highland Heartbeats Book 7)(13)

All of this had taken place under Sorcha’s watchful eye, with Gavin’s hearty laughter and understanding nature a welcome change from the often-fractious nature of the Anderson home.

Those were golden, peaceful, idyllic days. When he was too young for his father to expect much from him, at the age when it was more desirable that he find something to do outdoors, away from clan business. Ross Anderson had always been a busy man, always smoothing over one dispute or another, always seeing to it that his clan’s lands were held fast.

After a time, his eldest son’s exploits had taken a good deal of attention, too.

And by then, Caitlin had become more than just a playmate to Rodric.

Their refreshments arrived, and not a moment too soon.

“I thought I’d soon have no choice but to eat my own arm,” Quinn admitted before sinking his teeth into a hunk of browned, sizzling meat hanging from a thick bone.

“To hear you talk, I’d think you never knew hardship,” Fergus snorted. “You forget what it was like out there, in the field. Now that was real starvation, laddie, and it lasted longer than half a day.”

“Half a day?” Brice laughed. “Half a day would’ve seemed a grand miracle. I’d have felt like a king if the longest I ever had to go hungry was from the time I broke my fast until the time the sun was just past overhead.”

“I suppose younger men simply grow hungry faster than you older ones,” Quinn shrugged, and the three of the burst into good-natured laughter.

“Aye, or perhaps you were a bit busy this morning with one of the village girls—I saw a pair of them making sheep’s eyes at you as we left the Duncans,” Brice grinned.

“I think you overestimate even my stamina.”

They laughed again, louder this time.

Rodric smiled, tried to stay in the conversation, but it was no use. The past tugged at him, pulled him back into its embrace, wrapped itself around him in the form of memories he’d worked so hard for so long to free himself of.

And they were so vivid, too, as if the ignoring of them made them that much stronger. They’d been untouched and were therefore fresh once he reached a tentative hand their way. It seemed strange that, on looking around himself, it wasn’t Sorcha and Gavin seated across from him. It should’ve been Caitlin at his left hand instead of Quinn. He could nearly hear their laughter. They were always laughing.

He’d lived such a wonderful life in those days without ever knowing it. Perhaps that was the saddest part of life, that the good times never appeared as good while a body was going through them. Only after, and usually in comparison to something terrible.

Like the war. How many times had he wished he were back home and fighting with Alan while in reality he was camped out in the mud, the stench of blood and sweat and rotting flesh hanging heavy in the air? Life at home had seemed all but unbearable at times thanks to the bitterness between father and eldest son, a bitterness which had at times left Rodric feeling as though he would choke from it.

In those ugly, stark moments just after a battle, he would’ve given anything to go back to when everything was simpler.

As good as things were, seated around a table with his friends, in a warm and welcoming place run by a man happy to see him, Rodric still wished himself back to when life was simple.

When Caitlin was his.

“I ought to go and at least pay my respects.”

He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until three pairs of eyes turned his way, the table suddenly silent.

Fergus spoke first. “What was that?”

“I said, I ought to go and pay my respects at the burial. It’s the least I can do.”

“And what are we to do in the meantime?” Quinn asked.

“Aye, and what of the promise to Jake?” Brice added, eyes narrowing.

“We’ll be on our way right after the burial,” Rodric promised. “If ye don’t wish to come with me, take a room for the night at the inn. We have more than enough silver, thanks to the payment from Phillip. I’ll even pay for it out of my share.”

“It’s that important to ye,” Brice mused, sitting back in his chair.

“Aye. It is.”

“Ye don’t wish us to come along?” Quinn asked, the skepticism heavy in his voice.

“Nay, it’s best I do something of this nature on my own. It’s less than a half-day’s ride from here. I’ll be back for ye in the morning, at the latest. Perhaps I’ll spend the night at the McMannis house, depending on how long the visit takes. Otherwise, I’ll return tonight and take a room at the inn with you.”

The more he considered it, the better it sounded. He’d make an appearance at the church and offer his assistance to Sorcha, who might or might not accept it. Surely, it would give her comfort to have a man about the place for at least a night—she’d never lived alone, he reasoned.

And if Caitlin happened to be there, or somewhere in the area, all the better.

He barely finished his mug of ale, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve as he stood. It seemed foolish to wait another minute once a course of action had been set.

“Tonight or tomorrow morning, then,” he announced, offering Fergus silver for a room.

“Keep it,” his friend insisted, shaking his head with a roguish smile. “You’ve given us all reason to spend a bit more time in the area and, erm, become acquainted with a few of the lasses who ply their trade nearby.”