Ian grinned, not at the question, but at the way she said “bairn,” hesitating for an instant before saying it, as though afraid it might get away before she could clap a lid over it.
“I dinna ken for sure,” he said, in answer to her question. “She’s two years the elder of Uncle Jamie, though.”
“Oh.” Her face eased a bit at that.
“And it’s barely a year since she left Scotland and came wi’ Uncle Jamie, all the way across the ocean, and then makin’ their way hundreds of miles cross-country to Philadelphia. This journey may be a bit longer,” he coughed a little, thinking and just a bit more dangerous, “but we’ll have good horses and enough money for inns, where there are any.
“Besides,” he said, shrugging. “She says she’s comin’ with us. So she is.”
58
Telling Beads
JAMIE DIDN’T BOTHER WALKING softly. Bears weren’t afraid of anything. And it would likely be chance alone that determined who saw whom first.
The shadows that overlay the trail to the upper meadow they called Feur-milis were still black with the night’s cold. The yellowing trees that edged the path were slick and heavy with last night’s rain, and Jamie had pulled his plaid up over his head to keep the drips out. Old and worn as his plaid was, it was still warm and still shed water. I should have told Claire I want to be buried in it if a bear gets the better of me; it’ll be cozy against the grave-damp.
But then he thought of Amy Higgins, and crossed himself. He came out of the shadows into the high meadow, misty in the early morning. Three does grazing on the far side looked up at him, startled by the intrusion, then disappeared with a crash of shrubbery.
That answered one question, then: no bears were nearby. At this time of year, a bear likely wouldn’t bother with deer—the streams teemed with fish and the woods were still full of everything a bear thought tasty, from grubs and mushrooms to bee trees full of honey (and he did hope his present quarry might have found one of those recently; it gave a faint soft smell to the grease)—but deer had very set opinions of carnivores in general, and didn’t pause to reckon the odds when one showed up.
He quartered the meadow, then walked slowly round the edge looking for bear sign, but found nothing more than a crumbled pile of old droppings under a pine and claw marks on a big alder—made recently, but the sap had dried hard. Jo had seen a bear in the meadow five days ago, he said; clearly it hadn’t been back since.
Jamie stood still for a moment, lifting his face to the breeze that stirred the grass tops. A faint tang on the air: not bear. A buck deer close by, not yet in full rut, but interested in the does.
More crashing made him turn, but the eager chorus of mehh-hhs told him who it was long before his sister came up over the lip of the trail with four young nanny goats on a long rope. She had a gun over her shoulder and was looking keenly round.
“And what d’ye mean to do wi’ that, a phiuthair?” he asked conversationally. She hadn’t seen him in the shadows and swung round, startled, the fowling piece pointed straight at him.
He took a hasty step to the side, just in case it should be loaded.
“Dinna shoot, it’s me!”
“Gomerel,” she said, lowering her gun. “What d’ye mean, what do I mean to do with it? How many things can ye do with a gun?”
“Well, if ye’re after bear, I think your piece might give him a nosebleed, but not much more,” he said, nodding at the gun in her hand. His own rifle was still slung on his shoulder, loaded and primed. Not that it would likely stop a charging bear, but if the creature was only suspicious, a shot might make it keep its distance.
“Bear? Oh, is that what ye’re up to. Claire wondered.” She loosed the eager goats, and they dived headfirst into the thick grass like ducks in a millpond.
“Did she, then.” He kept his voice casual.
“She didna say so,” his sister said frankly. “But she saw your gun was gone, while we were makin’ breakfast, and she stopped dead, only for an instant.”
His heart squeezed a little. He hadn’t wanted to wake Claire when he left in the dark, but he should have told her last night that he meant to see if he could get upon the trail of the bear Jo Beardsley had seen. There’d been little time for hunting while they worked to get the roof raised before winter—they needed the meat and grease badly. Besides, they had only a few quilts and one woolen trade blanket he’d got from a Moravian trader. A good bear rug would be a comfort to Claire in the deep cold nights; she felt the cold more now than the last time they’d spent a winter on the Ridge.
“She’s all right,” his sister added, and he felt her interested gaze on his own face. “She only wondered, ken.”
He nodded, wordless. It might be a wee while yet before Claire could wake to find him gone out with a gun and think nothing of it.
He took a breath and saw it wisp out white, vanishing instantly, though the new sun was already warm on his shoulders.
“Aye, and what are ye doing up here, yourself? It’s a far piece to walk for forage.” One of the goats had come up for air and was nosing the hanging end of his leather belt in an interested manner. He tucked it up out of reach and kneed the goat gently away.
“I’m fattening them to stand the winter,” she said, nodding at the nosy nanny. “Maybe breed them, if they’re ready. They like the grass better than the forage in the woods, and it’s easier to keep an eye on them.”
“Ye ken well enough Fanny would mind them for ye. Is wee Oggy drivin’ ye mad?” The baby had vigorous lungs. You could hear him at the Big House when the wind was right. “Or are ye drivin’ Rachel mad yourself?”
“I like goats,” she said, ignoring his question and shoving aside a pair of questing lips nibbling after the fringe of her shawl. “Teich a’ ghobhair. Sheep are goodhearted things, when they’re not tryin’ to knock ye over, but they’re no bright. A goat has a mind of its own.”
“Aye, and so do you. Ian always said ye liked the goats because they’re just as stubborn as you are.”
She gave him a long, level look.
“Pot,” she said succinctly.
“Kettle,” he replied, flicking a plucked grass stem toward her nose. She grabbed it out of his hand and fed it to the goat.
“Mmphm,” she said. “Well, if ye must know, I come up here to think, now and then. And pray.”
“Oh, aye?” he said, but she pressed her lips together for a moment and then turned to look across the meadow, shading her eyes against the slant of the morning sun.
Well enough, he thought. She’ll say whatever it is when she’s ready.
“There’s a bear up here, is there?” she asked, turning back to him. “Shall I take the goats back down?”
“Not likely. Jo Beardsley saw it a few days ago, here in the meadow, but there’s no fresh sign.”
Jenny thought that over for a moment, then sat down on a lichened rock, spreading her skirts out neatly. The goats had gone back to their grazing, and she raised her face to the sun, closing her eyes.
“Only a fool would hunt a bear alone,” she said, her eyes still closed. “Claire told me that last week.”