Page 80 of The Speed of Lightning
He let out a wild howl. “Yes! Chase, Bog, chase!”
The dog hit a straightaway, closing fast.
“Engage!”
Bog clamped on the stag’s heel, jerking it down. Calum yanked his stag knife free, crashing on top of them and ending the animal’s misery with a few quick strokes.
When the field dressing was done, he tossed Bog a strip of fresh meat. “Good kill, Bog.”
Panting, the dog rolled to his back, rubbing against Calum’s ankles in delight.
Chuckling, he rubbed the arch of his chest. “Back to being a numpty, I see.”
He paused, remembering how Bog had torn through the caterans the night of the attack, dragging men down by arm, leg, and throat to shield his father. Grief crushed his chest, and the tears he had long held back finally broke free.
“Good dog. You’re a verra good dog.”
Grief clung to him as he straightened, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. The days of fighting beside comrades, leading men into battle, of chasing redemption, were gone. Now his only war was with the forest. Forbidden to gather with his former team, he was reduced to a simple huntsman.
Every farthing of his inheritance now belonged to Ragnall. The man wasted no time claiming his prize, evicting the sevenfamilies who had sheltered in the meetinghouse and casting them into his former residence for the winter. The watchtowers, bell, and ring fort repairs were dismissed as needless expense. The guard disbanded. With Týr dead and Calum stripped of power, the clan was “safe enough.” Ragnall’s new tànaiste, Rory MacDonald, and even King Dómhnall reinforced the claim.
Even more unthinkably, Ardtornish had passed into the hands of a new master: Alexander Stewart, the newly appointed Justiciar of Scotia?2. From there, he seized disputed lands in Argyll and Bute, and launched a new reign of terror on Chattan, Mull, and Skye, striking the territories that had caused him the most trouble. He then surrounded Garmoran, moving in to wrest it from the weaker MacDonald septs.
Dómhnall, for his part, simply gave up—vowing to rein in the Island chiefs and even turning the MacDonald fleet against its own to keep them pinned to their shores. It was self-preservation, and it was cowardice. Stewart’s war had stained the Isles anew with blood, and Dómhnall had let it happen.
Calum sucked in frigid air as he hauled the deer toward Knockrome, fury and sorrow twisting in his gut. Why had King John died? Why had they lost the war when they’d been so close to victory? Why had his clan been left to suffer ninety-one dead—his parents among them? Why did God allow Ragnall to take the chieftainship? Nothing was going well. Nothing was turning out the way he’d prayed it would.
The stag grew heavier as he dragged it, his arms aching with the weight. A hard pit settled in his stomach. If this was the answer to ten years of faithful prayer, it was incomprehensible.
Is this not God’s provision for today?The thought flickered, his arms laden with the deer. His strength ebbed, even as he recognized God in his day-to-day.
How long could he pray for contentment without ever tasting it? How long would he beg God for the simplest of all his requests—to soften his wife’s heart?
His wife.A pang of longing struck so sharply he faltered on the path, nearly missing the turn to Knockrome. There was friendship between them—laughter, shared work, a quiet peace. But no love. Each day he searched for it, the way he looked for snowdrops in winter, a promise of spring that never came. He studied every brush of her hand, every flicker in her eyes, hoping for a trace of desire. Just one.
He pushed open Ogilhinn’s gate, dragging the deer behind him, his strength nearly spent, his patience dwindling. He could scarcely look at her, scarcely endure the heat that surged through him whenever she drew near.
Each night after the house was secured and laid in order for morning, she descended from the loft in her nightrail, firelight illuminating the golden lengths of her hair and tracing her silhouette. He’d change swiftly behind the chair, then slip into their bed steadying his thoughts, wishing their bond was something more than a careful friendship. Mouth dry, he held the covers open for her waiting.
“Coorie in,” he’d murmur.
She would crawl beside him, her back against his chest, her face turned toward the fire. He covered her gently and leaned forward, brushing her hair aside. Only then did he dare press a single kiss to her temple. After that, he always drew back to a respectful distance, eyes shut tight, whispering scripture to her in the dark until sleep, at last, overtook longing.
God knew how fiercely he wanted her. In the three months since learning the truth of her feelings, he had fought to master his own. What they shared was little enough—a faithful hound, a broken-down bothy no one else wanted, a modest purse filled by his hunting and her embroidery. Yet when she was near, itfelt a king’s ransom. Each day he fell a little more in love with her, as his constancy nurtured her fragile confidence. If she felt even a fraction of what he did—if she would only let him love her without reserve—he could make his peace with the loss of his mission, his title, his birthright.Please God, just a fraction.
As he neared the skiff Fraser had lent him, his chest clenched. Cut off from his team, cut off from the world, Freya was the only tether left to a fractured calling. He loved her desperately, wholly, and it broke him that she saw him only as a friend and ally. He let the hart slump to the ground and lifted his eyes to the gloaming stars. How he wished for Da, for a father’s voice to steady him.
“Heavenly Father, please…please. I know You are working on Freya. Work on me too. I dinnae ken what to ask. Just give me a glimmer of hope, some sign.”
Nothing happened. No star fell from the heavens. No warmth in his chest. No voice. Only silence. Endless silence. He waited, scanning the skies for any sign. Hector said at times he could distinguish the voice of God. Léo dreamed dreams and saw visions. Birdy had been spared from the waves of the Hebridean Sea by God’s hand. Surely God could grant him something.
“Please…”
More silence. And then, beside him, Bog farted.
He snorted, feeling glum. Of course all he’d get was a message from a flatulent dog.
He hefted the deer into his boat and whistled for Bog, who leapt inside. Catching his dim reflection in the still water, he saw himself splattered with deer blood. Not wishing to meet his wife in such a state, he shed his cloak, hood, kyrtill, tunic, and trousers. From the bag Freya had filled with fresh clothing, he drew out clean trousers. As he tugged free a kyrtill, something slipped from the folds and landed in the bottom of the boat.
