But had she?
How had she lived when the rest of her kin had perished?
When he reached the stream, he saw something stuck between two rocks at the water’s edge. A dead fish. A wee bit away was another, then another.
Logan walked along the shoreline, counting the dead fish washed ashore. There were eighteen. Not a coincidence. Not some sickness that overtook so many fish at once. It was likely something they ate—something he fed them.
Poison.
His blood ran cold. But he did not feel ill. Still, poison fed in small amounts…. Miss Woodburn was doing it. That’s why she insisted on preparing his food. She was killing him slowly. She’d wasted no time. What was he going to do about it?
Astoundingly, he was not as angry as he thought he should be. If he found out that anyone else was trying to kill him, he’dwaste no time being first to draw that person’s blood. But he did not want to hurt Miss Woodburn. So, the question remained: what was he going to do about it?
One thing was for certain. They were not going to eat fish for breakfast.
He left the water’s edge and turned toward the trees, hoping to hunt for something to eat. Halfway to the tree line, he looked over his shoulder at the house. Nothing moved. She was asleep.
He briefly considered going home and waking her with questions. But she would deny trying to poison him. If, on the other hand, she proudly admitted to the deed, what would he do but appear the fool when he let her get away with it?
Nae. He would let her sleep. Besides, he was hungry.
He would not mention that she was trying to poison him to his cousins if they came by today. They would not take kindly to it. But he wouldn’t offer them any food.
And he would not eat anything she prepared. He’d only eat his own damn food.
He spotted a quail just within the tree line and he shot it with his pistol. He hurried into the trees to retrieve his prize. When he saw another bird, he followed it deeper into the woods and shot it.
After securing the second quail to a long stick he found, he walked further in, searching for roots like silverweed and wild carrots. Also, bog-myrtle leaves to flavor his food.
When he entered a small, sunlit clearing, he spotted some pignut growing in patches of tall grass. He went to it and picked some to roast.
Shoving the last pignut into a pouch hanging at his side, he heard a sound and turned to his left.
When he saw Miss Woodburn standing at the tree line, looking into the clearing at him, he thought about drawing his dirk. Nae. He wouldn’t let her know that he knew.
“What are ye doin’ here, Miss Woodburn?” he asked as she came forward.
“I saw ye from the house and hurried to catch up to ye.”
Aye, she did not like being alone.
He nodded and turned away from her to continue looking around for more food.
“I tried not to make too much of a clamor since I saw that ye were hunting,” she explained, though he had not asked. “Did ye change yer mind about eating fish?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“Quail stew then?” she pressed when he stopped speaking. “Let me pre—”
“Nae. I will prepare it. I dinna know how I would prefer it. I will decide and cook it how I wish. Ye are free to go sew or explore or whatever ye feel like doin.”
“Hmm, I will likely just stay with ye.”
“Nae,” he told her. “I dinna want ye to stay with me. I want ye to grow accustomed to bein’ alone and comfortable in it.”
“Grow accustomed to being alone?” she repeated, going pale and then crimson. “Where do ye intend to take me? Mr. Cameron, ’tis worse to be surrounded by people and still feel alone than it is to truly be alone. Which new master will ye pawn me off on?”
“I dinna intend to pawn ye off on anyone.” He saw dandelions and pulled up their roots. “Ye willna be surrounded by anyone. Ye will be alone. Here.”
