Page 4 of Highland Steel

“Papa, don’t try to talk. Save your strength.” Rhoswen hurried alongside Logan, talking as they made their way to the back door of the tavern. The horses of Blaine and Newell were tethered there as well, so Logan knew they were safely inside.

“They stole . . . the sword,” said her father.

“I know,” she answered. “I’m sorry.”

“You need . . . to find it.”

“I will, Papa. I promise, I will get it back.”

“No more talkin’,” said Logan, thinking these Sassenachs were addled. The man was on the edge of death and yet all he seemed to care about was his stolen sword. He even had the nerve to tell his daughter to find it, and she so obediently agreed. Didn’t they realize the danger they were in? And telling a girl to do the job of a man was preposterous. Especially when they were English on Scottish soil.

“Logan, is that ye?” Caleb stuck his head out the back door of the tavern. He jerked backward when he saw them. “What in the bluidy hell is goin’ on?”

“Clear off a table, quickly,” Logan instructed. “We’ve got a man here that is close to death and needs immediate attention.”

“Blethers! Callum is goin’ to kill ye, bringin’ a wounded Sassenach into his tavern,” Caleb warned him. “He’s already no’ happy about the youngins that came in earlier sayin’ ye sent them here.”

“The table,” Logan repeated, having no patience for Caleb and all his idle chatter right now. He swore the man talked more than a wench sometimes!

Caleb rushed over to a kitchen table, using his arm to swipe the items atop it to the floor. Metal tankards, wooden bowls, freshly-baked bread, and cooking spoons hit the ground with a loud clatter. Caleb’s pet pine marten ran across the table next and dropped to the floor as well.

“Hey, what are ye doin’!” shouted the burly cook as he looked over from stirring a pot at the fire. “Get the hell out of my kitchen and take that bluidy Sassenach with ye!” His arms waved wildly in the air, still holding the ladle.

“It’s all right, Mule, calm down,” Logan told him. “These people were attacked and we need to help them.” The cook was a tall man with a big belly whose name was really Cuithbeart, or Cuddy. But Logan and his friends liked to call him “Mule” since he often acted like an ass. Of course, that only ruffled Cuddy’s feathers more than ever.

“Mayhap ye should no’ call him Mule right now,” Caleb whispered. “I dinna think he likes it.”

“First, yer wolf steals my chicken and now ye push a mornin’s worth of bakin’ to the floor, and ye have the nerve to ask me to help ye?” the man ground out, throwing down the ladle and pulling a cooking hatchet from a block of wood as he moved closer.

“Now, now, Cuddy, that was Caleb who threw yer bread on the floor, no’ me,” Logan pointed out.

“Mmph,” growled Cuddy, his eyes settling on poor Caleb.

“Wait a minute!” Caleb held out his open palms and took a step backward, away from an angry Mule with the hatchet in his grip. “Logan, ye were the one who told me to clear the table, so I did.”

“Please,” begged Rhoswen, bravely stepping in between Logan, Caleb, and the cook. “My father is nearly dead. I will pay you to help him.”

Cuddy grumbled, slammed the hatchet down into a wooden butcher’s block, and wiped his hands on a towel. Then he headed over to the table. “It’ll cost ye five shillin’s for me to look at him.”

“I don’t care,” said the girl. “My father’s life is worth much more than that.”

“Really.” Cuddy looked up at her and smiled a broken-toothed smile. He was an opportunist, just like Old Callum sometimes. “Then it’ll cost ye –”

“Just do it, Mule,” snapped Logan. “We can discuss payment later. The man is dyin’.”

“All right, all right,” grumbled the cook. “But stop callin’ me Mule or I’ll no’ help ye at all.”

“Sorry, Cuddy,” said Logan, trying to make peace. Cuddy was the cook at the Horn and Hoof, but he also doubled as the town’s healer. That came about from all the injuries that took place in the tavern with drunken men hurting themselves and sometimes fights as well.

“I dinna ken. He’s lost a lot of bluid,” said Cuddy, inspecting the man and shaking his head. “Caleb, bring me my bag so I can try to sew him up.”

“Of course,” said Caleb, rushing over to a shelf, grabbing the bag and bringing it back to Cuddy.

“Will he live?” asked Rhoswen with hope in her voice. “Please. I can’t lose my father.”

“I dinna ken. He’s wounded badly,” said Cuddy, pulling a needle and thread from his bag. He stuck the end of the thread between his lips and studied her with narrowed eyes. “I will no’ lie, lass. It doesna look promisin’.”

“Rhoswen!” The door to the kitchen banged open and there stood Blaine with Newell looking over her shoulder. Blaine rushed over to the table with Newell on her heels.