Page 11 of Steel & Surrender

Aye, he’d mocked his brother for his interest in such an unfeminine woman.

He didn’t now.

Brìghde Boyd was a poor choice, yet if it would bring his brother back, he’d happily give the two of them his blessing.

But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

“Ye should have given the list to Davy,” he continued, speaking to the hearth as if Alistair could actually hear him. “He’d do those things for ye. I would just fail.”

His hand lifted, his fingers flexing as the warmth of the fire flickered across them.

Best to burn it, to spare everyone. Best that no one knew.

Something stopped him.

It was as if a hand had just wrapped around his wrist and held it fast.

The skin on the back of his neck prickled.

Ye gave me yer word, brother. Does it mean nothing?

Greig stiffened. His hand lowered then, bringing the roll of parchment back to his side.

Life had stripped away everything from him in just the turn of a year. There were times when he went to bed wishing he wouldn’t wake up in the morning.

Yet he’d give anything to bring Alastair back, and this list was the only thing he had of him left.

He couldn’t burn it.

4: A THROWN SHOE

GREIG DREW HIS horse up on the muddy track. Then, gritting his teeth, he swung his leg over the saddle and gingerly lowered himself onto the ground. Practice had taught him to avoid trying to put any weight on his left leg. It had given way under him a few times now when dismounting, with humiliating consequences.

On his feet now, his boots sank into the sticky mud. Muttering a curse, Greig squinted up at the brooding sky. He’d been caught in a rain shower when he headed out for his ride, and then, as was often the way on this island, the rain had passed, and the sun had broken through.

Now another front was sweeping in. He could see it boiling across the sky from the direction of the mainland.

He was about to get thoroughly soaked.

Turning, he leaned down and ran a practiced hand along Tàirneanach’s leg to his fetlock, picking up a heavy, feathered hoof. He then breathed another curse. It was as he’d expected. Tàirneanach’s gait had just become uneven, favoring his off foreleg. The gelding had thrown a shoe.

“Great,” he muttered, lowering the gelding’s leg. “All I bloody need.” He took his stick down from where it was strapped behind the saddle. Moving up to his mount’s head, he caught the reins and led him forward. “Looks like a slow walk home.”

Tàirneanach snorted and tossed his head, bit jangling. The gelding, a dark roan, had been with him for years now, even before he’d followed Andrew Murray’s cause and left Mull for a spell. After returning home, badly injured, he’d occasionally visited Tàirneanach in the stables. However, for a long while, someone else had exercised him.

Until one day, injured or not, Greig decided he’d had enough of sitting around.

Mounting was always tricky. He placed his left foot in the stirrup and pushed off with his right leg. He used a mounting block in the outer courtyard to get on his stallion’s back, yet it was still an ungainly sight. As such, he preferred to climb into the saddle when there was no one watching.

The first drops of rain spattered down.

“Here we go,” Greig muttered.

And sure enough, after a few moments, the tempo increased, and then the heavens opened. Icy needles of rain swept across the hillside.

God’s teeth. It was supposed to be summer. The past two years had brought warm—hot even—days, but this summer was proving to be cool and grey. It was as if the weather knew that the Macleans of Duart grieved.

How could the sun shine when Alistair was gone?