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“I want you to have fun, too,” Joseph earnestly said. “So you’ll keep staying with us.”
She took the boy’s free hand as they crossed the street into a quiet square. “Of course I’ll keep staying with you. And you and I always have fun, don’t we?”
Joseph gave her a tentative smile.
Time to start putting it out there, old boy.
“We both hope Donella will stay with us for a very long time, son.” Logan glanced over to meet her gaze. “And I’d also like to note that I can be fun as well.”
She frowned at him, clearly a bit fussed by his remark. He simply gave her a bland smile in return.
For a few minutes, they walked in silence, and Logan found an odd sort of peace settling over him. To be strolling down a quiet, tree-lined street, his son safely tucked between them, felt . . . right. It seemed like something almost forgotten had slipped into place, like a missing puzzle piece found between the cushions of an old sofa and put back where it belonged.
“Papa.”
“Yes, son?”
“Why did that lady have to be so mean? She doesn’t even know me.”
Donella’s quiet sigh echoed his own. Joseph was too smart and too sensitive to let the matter go, especially now that he was getting older.
“I expect it’s because Mrs. Ferguson is an unhappy person,” Logan said, trying to feel his way through the morass. “Unhappy people try to make other people unhappy. For some reason, they think it will make them feel better.”
“She called me a heathen, but I’m not.” Joseph blew out an exasperated breath. “I’m just me.”
“There isnothingwrong with you, son,” Logan said. “And there was nothing wrong with your mother, or your grandparents, or the Mi’kmaq, or the Acadians, or the Scots, or anyone else. Sadly, people like Mrs. Ferguson find all sorts of reasons to hate other people. For the longest time, the English hated the Scots, especially Highlanders. SomeSassenachsstill do.”
“Which is probably why we shouldn’t call themSassenachs,” Donella pointed out.
“Tell that to Angus.”
She ignored his feeble joke. “Joseph, sometimes people are afraid of what they don’t know. It’s a great shame, because often when we talk to people we’re a little afraid of, we discover they’re actually quite nice.”
“I don’t think Mrs. Ferguson would want to talk to me even if I tried to be nice to her,” the lad quietly replied.
“Well, as Grandda always says, ‘Ye canna argue with stupid’,” Logan said. “There’s no point in wasting your breath on the Mrs. Fergusons of the world, son. Best ignore them.”
“And try to forgive them for their ignorance,” Donella added.
Logan snorted. “I noticed how forgiving you were when you dumped that table on her.”
“An unfortunate accident,” she said, shooting him a look.
“But I saw you hook your fingers under the table and tip it,” Joseph said.
Donella’s cheeks flamed pink. “Oh, dear. I didn’t want you to notice that.”
Logan smothered a laugh. “Fair warning, lass. Joseph has eyes in the back of his head.”
“Joseph, it was very wrong of me to lose my temper,” she ruefully admitted, “and just as wrong to pretend that I didn’t.”
The boy glanced up at Logan. “Do you think she was wrong to do that, Papa?”
He hesitated. “It’s tricky, son. Sometimes you have to stand up for yourself. To fight back against something you know is unfair or wrong.”
“By hitting people?” Joseph asked in an uncertain tone.
“It’s usually best to avoid that sort of thing, if you can. Donella’s method was much more effective.”
