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Then his conscience pierced his soul. It mattered not how disgusting his appearance might be—what mattered was that he was in a position to save an innocent life.
Now is not the time for self-pity, Devon, darling.
His wife’s words echoed in his mind. How many times had she said that to pull him from the quagmire of despair he often sank into? Though lately, she had refrained from speaking when the episodes of melancholy had overcome him. Was that because she’d given up on him? Or perhaps because she believed he’d given up on her?
The boy whimpered, and Devon reached forward again. Hate him or not, the boy needed him. He grasped the lad’s sleeve.
“No!” the boy cried.
“Be still, boy!” Devon roared. “Do you want to die?”
The boy shook his head and closed his eyes. Devon tightened his grip and pulled the boy toward him while he crawled backward until he reached the path.
“Boy,” Devon said, “are you hurt?”
The lad opened his eyes.
“The Beastie,” he whispered.
Devon sighed. But what else did he expect? He was a terrifying sight for a child at the best of times, let alone in the middle of a blizzard on a lonely mountain.
Then the boy did something unexpected.
He smiled—a genuine smile of friendship and gratitude—and he slipped his cold little hand into Devon’s own. Devon rose to his feet and pulled the boy up beside him.
“Thank you, sir,” the boy said. “I knew ye’d come.”
“You did?”
“Aye, my da, Lord rest his soul, sent the Beast of Beinn Mo Chridhe to save me.”
“I may look like a beast, but I’m just a man,” Devon said.
“Och, no, sir, ye mistake me!” the boy cried. “I’m no’ afraid of the Beast if Da sent him. And if ye’re a man, ye must be a brave one.”
“You think so?” Devon asked.
“Aye,” came the reply. “Ye have the mark of a hero on yer face!”
“My scar doesn’t frighten you?”
“No,” the boy said. “My da always said that a scar was something a man should be proud of—for it was evidence of his strength and courage.”
“Then we’d better get you back to your father,” Devon said. “He’ll be worried.”
“My da’s dead,” the boy said. “There’s only me and Ma—and the baby.”
“I’m sorry,” Devon said. “Let me take you to your mother. If she’s on her own with a baby, she’ll be in need of you.”
“I suppose.” The boy sighed as if the weight of the mountain were on his shoulders.
“Can you walk?” Devon asked.
The boy took a step forward and winced. “My ankle…”
“I’ll carry you,” Devon said. “What’s your name?”
“Hamish.”
