An Auctioned Bride (Highland Heartbeats #4)(3)

Placing his hand almost reverently against one of the stones, he felt a surge of emotion. It'd been thirteen years since he seen his brother. The last he'd heard, from Jake actually, was that his brother had indeed gone off to fight with the Scots against the Norwegians.

Hugh had actually run into Jake before he'd been wounded and returned to Duncan lands. Jake had word from another clansman a few years ago that his brother was now in the shipping business and owned a couple of ships that carted goods between England, Scotland, and France.

He was glad that his brother had survived his battles and moved on to make a good solid life for himself. Hugh had done much the same with the Duncan clan. Still, there was that a bit of envy he felt for his brother, for his intelligence in starting a shipping business. Not that he was interested in shipping, or starting a business. He liked being in charge of Duncan security forces, protecting the villagers, the manor, and his loved ones. He didn't want to do anything else.

Ducking his head, he stepped inside the hut, glanced around, memories flooding his brain. Images returned, of roasting a rabbit over a fire with his brother, of wrestling and laughing, of talking about what they would do when they were grown men...

It looked like some wild animals had perhaps wintered within its walls, and it smelled of damp earth, but in a matter of days, he knew he could repair the thatched roof and brace up that sagging section of wall.

He sighed, muttering to himself, making a list of things to do, and then realized what he was doing. He shook his head in disgust. Only a few days spent alone, and he was already talking to himself.

He grunted.

He decided he wouldn't start on any repairs until morning. It was already growing close to dusk. He needed to bring in the few supplies left in the pouch tied behind his saddle.

His horse could forage nearby, and then he would bring the gelding inside the hut for the evening. While he wasn't concerned with finding food, he was a good hunter, he would have to venture to the village that he knew lay a couple of days away to the east, located near the coast, for other supplies. Flour, salt, some grain for his horse, and perhaps a blanket or two.

Though summer, he remembered the nights up here always grew cool. He kicked at a few scraps of animal dung. He would need to chop some firewood, repair the wall, the roof, and create some type of shelter and holding pen for his horse—unless he just kept him inside at night.

He looked forward to the physical labor, and, stepping outside, glanced up at the sky. Twilight had come to the small valley, the dying rays of the sun casting the craggy, rock-strewn hills surrounding him into varying darkness of shadows. The hoot of an owl in the distance and echoing through the trees brought a smile. His horse stomped restlessly, blew heavily, and shook his mane.

“All right, don't get impatient,” he said, giving the horse a friendly slap on its rump.

By the time he had found enough forage for his horse, brought him inside, darkness had fallen.

Hugh sat cross-legged, back resting against one of the walls, a small fire in front of him casting undulating shadows on the wall. His weapons close to hand, he acclimated himself to the sounds of the woods surrounding the hut. He knew that in a matter of days he would be familiar with the way the wind blew, the sounds it made as a sifted through the trees, the sound of wolves, owls, and night creatures echoing off the rocks.

Tonight though, he knew that he would sleep restlessly, alert for every snap of a branch, every gust of wind.

He would watch his horse, the flick of his ears, as good as any sentry at detecting scents that he couldn't.

His sword close to hand, he closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, and drifted into a semi-wakeful state, allowing the memories of years past to meander through his brain.





2





In less than three days, Hugh had completed his initial repairs to the hut. He'd patched the roof, not waterproof against a deluge, but good enough for a moderate rain. He'd chopped down two small trees deeper in the woods and used the smaller branches for a stack of firewood, its sturdier portions to brace the wall from inside. He had constructed a lean-to that would shelter his horse between two close-growing trees to the side of the hut. It was visible from the doorway, which would be adequate to protect the horse from the north winds.

He had even fashioned a small corral, using the natural thickness of the undergrowth, clearing some brush away, and constructing a framework of other small saplings that he had chopped to contain the gelding.

The gelding wouldn't run off; he wasn't concerned about that, but was more interested in providing a bit of protection for his horse against not only the elements, which could change at a moment's notice, but wild animals.

The morning following his arrival he'd carefully walked around the area, looking for any trace of fresh animal or human tracks close to the hut. He found none. The few animal signs he spied had been left earlier in the spring. Still, he knew enough not to take the lack of animal sign tracks for granted. His and his horse's scent would carry for miles on the wind, and sooner or later, wild things would come to investigate; perhaps a wolf or two, maybe even a boar.

By the third day, he was satisfied that the shelter was sturdy enough to provide him adequate shelter for a couple of months.

He had run out of supplies. The previous evening, he had snared a rabbit for supper, but he also knew that he needed to venture to the village on the coast for the additional supplies he would need for his short stay.