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A large, warm hand settled firmly on Mabel’s shoulder.

Mabel pulled back slightly, wiping her damp cheeks to look up. Callum stood beside his wife, his usually playful eyes shadowed with deep sorrow. He pulled Mabel out of Rhea’s arms and wrapped her in a tight, bear-like embrace that smelled of leather and rain.

“Ye look as though ye’ve fought half the Highlands yerself, little sister,” Callum murmured into her hair. He pulled back, keeping his hands on her shoulders, and offered a soft, reassuring smile. “Though I see ye managed to steal a coat from the Black Laird. I suppose that is a victory in itself.”

Mabel offered a wet, shaky laugh, sniffing back her tears. “He lent it to me.”

“Did he now?” Callum mused, his gaze flicking over her shoulder toward Caelan.

“Callum,” Rhea scolded gently, wiping her own face. She reached out and took Mabel’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “We rode as soon as the messenger arrived. I could nae let ye stand here alone.”

“I am nae alone,” Mabel said, glancing back toward the grave. She looked at Father Malcolm, then at the surviving MacAllister men, and finally at Caelan, who was standing quietly, giving the sisters the space they needed.

Callum followed her gaze, nodding respectfully at Duncan and Rowan before turning his attention to Caelan. “Laird MacCarron. Ye have our thanks for sending word.”

“He was yer family,” Caelan replied, his tone smooth and devoid of its usual defensive edge. “Ye had a right to be here.”

“Shall we proceed?” Father Malcolm asked gently, stepping back up to the head of the grave.

Rhea squeezed Mabel’s hand, and the three of them walked back to the edge of the freshly turned earth.

The wind died down as Father Malcolm opened his book again.

“William Crawford was a man of honor,” the priest spoke, his voice carrying a soothing cadence. “He dinnae measure his wealth in coin but in the loyalty of his people and the fierce love he held for his daughters. He taught us that a true laird does nae stand behind his walls when the wolves come. He stands at the gate.”

Mabel closed her eyes, a fresh wave of grief tightening her throat. He stood at the gate, so I could slip out the back.

“He leaves behind a legacy that fire cannot touch,” Father Malcolm continued. “For a clan is nae built of stone but of the people who carry its name. We commit his body to the Highlands, knowing his spirit rests in the halls of his ancestors.”

The priest closed the book. He offered a slow, solemn nod to the MacAllister warriors.

Four battered men stepped forward. They took the thick ropes resting under the oak coffin. With grim, silent coordination, they began to lower William Crawford into the ground.

The sound of the wood scraping against the dirt was the worst sound Mabel had ever heard.

Rhea let out a soft, broken sob beside her, hiding her face against Callum’s chest.

Mabel stood frozen, staring into the dark hole.

He is gone. I am the Lady of Clan MacAllister now. I daenae ken how to do this.

When the first shovelful of damp earth hit the top of the coffin, the dull, hollow thud severed the last string holding Mabel upright.

Her knees buckled.

She did not faint, but her legs simply refused to bear her weight any longer. She collapsed downward, the thick fabric of the oversized cloak pooling around her in the mud. She hit the ground hard, her hands sinking into the cold dirt at the edge of the grave.

She expected hands to grab her. She expected Callum to haul her up, or Rhea to fuss over her ruined gown. She expected the suffocating pity of the men watching her fall apart.

Instead, a shadow fell over her.

The rustle of heavy leather sounded right beside her ear. Caelan dropped to his knees in the mud directly to her left.

He did not reach for her. He did not tell her to stand up. He did not offer empty, meaningless words about courage or strength. He simply knelt in the dirt beside her, his broad shoulder a solid, unyielding wall against the biting cold.

Mabel turned her head slightly, looking at him through her blurred vision.

Caelan was staring straight ahead at the grave, his face a portrait of quiet, shared reverence. He was offering the only thing he knew how to give, an anchor. He was anchoring her to the ground, so she would not float away in her grief.