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“Papa!” Flora cried. “Make a snow angel for Aunt Attie!”
Fraser moved his arms and legs, and Flora waved toward Devon and his son. “Sebastian, come here—youmustsee this.”
An assertive little thing—Flora might be a MacGregor by name, but she was a Hart by nature, and she’d inherited her mother’s strong will.
Clutching his son’s hand, Devon approached their host, who lay on his back on the snow flailing his arms and legs about like an upended beetle.
Then he stopped and stood, leaving an imprint in the snow—a human form, with a long skirt and wings for arms.
“Look at that, Francine!” Rowena cried. “A proper angel.”
“Can you show me how to do that, Uncle Fraser?” Sebastian asked.
“Of course,” Fraser said. “Come here, and I’ll show you what to do.”
Sebastian looked up and cried out. “Who’s that?”
A solitary figure stood further up the slope, watching them—a young boy.
“One of the estate children, perhaps,” Delilah said. “He shouldn’t be up here on his own, poor little thing.” She called out to the boy. “Are you lost, child?”
The boy shook his head, and Devon recognized the blonde hair and wide expressive eyes.
“Hamish—is that you?”
“How do you know the boy?” Fraser asked.
“I met him yesterday,” Devon said. “He fell on the mountain, and I helped him up. Hamish, you shouldn’t be here on your own. Doesn’t your ankle hurt?”
The boy nodded.
“Who is he?” Delilah asked.
“He lives in the cottage on the edge of the forest near the foot of the mountain,” Devon said, then he lowered his voice. “His father died last winter, and Hamish has to look after his mother and baby sister.”
“Oh, that’ll be Morag MacGregor,” Fraser said. “Her Duncan was one of the six killed in the avalanche last year. How’s your ma, lad?”
“I’m looking after her,” Hamish said, his voice betraying his fear. “I shouldn’t be here—don’t tell!”
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Delilah asked.
Hamish shook his head.
“He’s not been to school,” Devon said, “not since his father was killed.”
“Oh, poor soul!” Delilah cried. “Well, you’ll at least come to the Yule King party on Christmas day, won’t you, young man? All the children will be there.”
The boy shook his head. “Ma can’t spare me, now I’m the man of the family.”
Dorothea moved toward the boy. “You can bring your mother—and your baby sister,” she said. “We’ll take care of them, so you can enjoy the party.”
“I don’t know…” The boy shook his head. “Ma won’t like it.”
Devon leaned toward Fraser. “Is there nothing you can do for him?” he asked. “He’s your tenant. Didn’t you know they were on their own?”
“We did all we could for those widowed in the avalanche,” Fraser said, “but some of them refused. Said they didn’t abide by charity. Some people are just too proud to accept the help of others.”
He looked at Devon, understanding in his clear green eyes, and Devon colored under his brother-in-law’s scrutiny. He hadn’t only been speaking of Morag MacGregor.
