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

Until her hero had stepped in, shoving Alan with all his might. Perhaps it was surprise which had knocked the bigger, older brother off his feet. He’d been taken off-guard by the brother who’d almost never managed to land a punch when they’d tussled.

Or perhaps Rodric had been so overcome at the sight of Caitlin’s horror that he’d found strength he didn’t know he had. Perhaps that had been enough for him to knock Alan to the ground.

The doll had been left in the bucket. Caitlin would never forget the extreme tenderness with which her seven-year-old hero had lifted the rag doll, squeezing gently so as to wring out some of the water, then handed her over.

She had fallen in love with him then and there, and the feeling hadn’t dimmed with time. If anything, it had grown brighter and stronger until there was nothing in the world but him. Rodric. Her hero, always, from that day on.

And, where was he? Gone. Dead, perhaps. No one had heard from him in ages, ever since the death of his father. From the few times she’d had the displeasure of being in Alan’s presence, she’d gathered he believed his younger brother to be jealous of his claim over the clan. He claimed that Rodric wouldn’t return because he believed he should be the one to lead the Andersons.

There was no sense in telling him she didn’t believe this. It wasn’t in Rodric’s nature to be jealous—besides, he had never wished to be in Alan’s place. He was the second son. He’d never once harbored delusions of one day taking on his father’s role. It simply wasn’t done. Why would he then carry on such a pointless desire?

Because Alan liked to believe he’d won. Won what? She couldn’t say. Perhaps he couldn’t, either. Perhaps it was just enough for him to feel like the winner. He had won the clan. He had won the girl.

Her.

The very thought brought sickness to her stomach. He hadn’t wanted her, not for a single minute. He’d only wanted to have what his brother couldn’t have. He wanted to be the winner.

She’d never had a brother or sister. She didn’t understand the pain of sibling rivalry—yet even if she had a sibling of her own, Caitlin was certain she’d never treat them the way Alan had treated Rodric. She wouldn’t ignore them, either, as he’d ignored the youngest brother, Padraig.

It wasn’t until her twelfth year that she understood, truly understood, the wedge between the first two sons. At the time, Rodric had been nearly fourteen—an exciting, dashing older man as far as she’d been concerned—and Alan, sixteen and a man by anyone’s standards.

The storm had raged for two days—days full of wind and hard, driving snow. It had come up quickly, without any warning, while Caitlin’s stepfather—and, thus, Caitlin herself—had been visiting the neighboring Anderson clan.

The thought of being trapped in the great Anderson house, with the second son, had all but stopped Caitlin’s twelve-year-old heart. She had imagined so many situations in which they might be alone together. Even if they only exchanged a few words, a glance or a touch of the hand, it would be enough for her to live on until they saw each other again.

But he’d been preoccupied throughout the storm, his father ordering the men to get the livestock under cover. It had been all but impossible, the wind whipping the snow into a curtain which left any who stepped out of doors blinded and half-frozen in an instant.

Even so, Ross Anderson had insisted the older two of his three sons go out into the storm and assist the other men. Caitlin had all but fretted herself into a frenzy, wringing her hands and pacing the room to which she’d been relegated during the commotion. Would he come back? When? And in what condition?

When one of the older men returned, snow caking his beard to the point where he could hardly speak for the ice which covered the lower half of his face, and reported having lost sight of the Anderson sons, she was certain she’d die.

Judging by Ross Anderson’s reaction, he thought he would as well.

But it was Rodric’s name he repeated over and over. Rodric he demanded someone look for. Not Alan. No one else seemed to notice this or think it strange. Perhaps she’d noticed because she, too, was so concerned for him that she saw his father’s panic for what it was.

He loved Rodric as she did.

Alan? Alan was his son, his heir, the one who would take his father’s place one day by sheer luck of the order in which he’d been born.

Yet Ross did not much care for him. He protected his son, yes, perhaps a bit too fiercely.

Caitlin had never been one to agree with her stepfather on anything, but she couldn’t help believing he was correct when he declared Alan Anderson to be in dire need of a good whipping.

Perhaps if he’d received that whipping from a young age, and as regularly as necessary, he would’ve been a bit better disciplined instead of flying into a rage of temper whenever he didn’t get his way.

Yet Ross had never seen fit to mete out such punishment. And his son had grown wild. The wilder he grew, the greater the distance between him and his father’s affections.

She’d always recalled that storm, the type of squall which would’ve been remembered for its fierceness even if it hadn’t otherwise been so momentous. She had never forgotten the rejoicing in her heart when Rodric had stumbled in, half-dead but still breathing, still smiling through his chattering teeth when their eyes met from across the great hall.

“Caitlin!”