by Stobie Piel
The road to the manor passed by the field, and Molly kept her eye intently upon it. Since they'd arrived, she'd seen several fine coaches passing to and fro. Lavishly attired humans got in and out, then entered the manor house. Molly itched to see the interior of the mansion. From the outside, it appeared to be ideal house pet accommodations.
Molly looked back at the cottage. It wasn't unpleasant. There was plenty of food. Miren let her sleep on the bed, which was far preferable to the floor. Still, it fell short ofMolly's plan. For one thing, her plan didn't include spending the day watching sheep.
The young mistress had already turned back to her task. Molly wasn't sure what had stopped the young mistress from seizing the obvious mate, but she felt it prudent to be on the lookout for another.
The past three days had taught her that coaches don't stop unless you make them stop. Each day, their passage to the mansion grew more irritating. Molly felt the need to control them. To nip at their front wheels, to hedge the harness horses' onward movement. She understood this came from her innate herding instinct.
Her instinct didn't direct itself at sheep. Why would anyone want to control sheep, let alone keep them together, and nearby? But coaches . . . that was another thing entirely. One could inspect the passengers, check the interior, and possibly gain entrance to the mansion on the hillside.
Molly listened. The coach that came and went daily had left early that morning. It had to return sometime. She cast a furtive glance at Miren, who was hand-feeding Huntley clover blossoms. Painful to see. But at least her attention was diverted. Molly crept closer to the rock wall. An easy leap for an animal who wasn't burdened by wool and fat.
The coach was coming, just as Molly predicted. She heard the horses' hooves plodding, unsuspecting. The wheels kicked up small pebbles on the dirt road. A noise that never failed to incite her aggressions.
The coach came around the bend, and Molly crouched low, quivering. It drew closer, and she could barely contain herself. The horses passed just beyond the stone wall, and Molly jumped, bounced once on the wall, then dove toward the front wheel.
A horse startled, the coachman pulled him in. "Get, you vermin!"
"Molly! Oh . . . Drop! Drop!" Miren raced across the field, breathless as she came to the rock wall. Molly growled andbarked at the wheel, knowing time was short.
''I'm so sorry . . . She's never done anything like this before. It's the herding instinct, you understand." Miren paused. Molly abandoned the wheel, hopped to attention, and wagged her tail. Miren seized her collar and drew her back from the coach. "You're supposed to do that to sheep."
"Apparently, she finds manor carriages more appealing," a man said as the coach door swung open. Molly scrutinized his appearance. He was tall, although perhaps not as tall as Nathan. His color was much lighter. His hair was nearly as light as Blossom's wool, and some assembled over his lip, too. He paid no attention to Molly. His gaze fixed on Miren.
That might be promisinganother male scenting out the young mistress. Good. Molly sat back on her haunches and waited. Miren's face looked unusually pink as she greeted the new male.
"I'm sorry, sir . . ."
"Brent. Brent Edgington. And you must be Miren Lindsay." His gaze ran up and down Miren's entire body. Molly guessed that sight told humans what smell told a dog. He must be sizing her up for breeding purposes. Which meant he couldn't have another mate. Molly eased toward him and sniffed. She detected the presence of another female, but one well past breeding age.
"I am. And I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Edgington. I hope my presence on your farm isn't too disturbing."
"Not anymore."
Molly decided she preferred Nathan's voice to Brent's. He sounded constricted, as if he hadn't relieved himself in a while. Still, his presence might prove useful. Nothing inspired a male to faster action with a female than the threat of another male.
"I had no idea Nathan's 'guest' was so . . . appealing. Americans have better taste than I realized." Brent spoke in a quieter voice this time, as if he didn't want someone in the coach to overhear his words.
"Mr. MacCallum and I have a business agreement, pursuant to my flock of Blackface sheep." Miren sounded annoyed again. The girl was certainly hard to please where males were concerned.
"Of course. I didn't mean to imply anything untoward."
"Good."
"Brent! What's delaying you, darling?"
Here was a voice Molly never wanted to hear again. Shrill, affected with an annoying lilt, and spoken as if the neck muscles strained over every utterance. Molly's lip curled into a snarl.
"I'm meeting Mr. MacCallum's lovely new charge, Mother."
The woman poked her head out the coach door and scanned Miren as if inspecting a carcass. "Indeed."
Molly detected at once that Brent and this female were related by blood. So there was no way she could allow Miren to bond with that one. She would use him to inspire young Nathan to action, but nothing else.
She turned away and nudged Miren's legs. Something uttered a squeak that almost resembled . . . a bark. Before Molly knew what happened, that something landed on her head and bit hard.
"Muffin! Get that dog off poor Muffin! Brent, shoot it!"
Molly squealed in fright, with no idea what had attacked her. She whirled and spun, but the thing clung to her neck. Nothing had ever terrified Molly more. Miren called desperately to her, but Molly was too frightened to listen.
Molly jumped, dove, and spun around. The evil creature knocked her off balance, and she fell to her side. Molly rolled to her back, and the creature came loose. A torrent of squeak-like yips followed. Molly righted herself, and the thing squealed as if she'd attacked it.
Which was just what Molly planned to do.
She turned with a growl to see her enemy. The creature before her defied imagining. It couldn't be a dog. It wassmaller than a newborn lamb. Smaller than a barn cat, and far more horrid. It had pointy ears and a pointy nose, now curled in a growl. Its little bushy tail curled over its back. It bristled for the sake of bristling.
The creature didn't maintain a defensive posture as most dogs, by a code of honor, did. It attacked for the sake of attacking. It attacked to kill.
Molly had no idea how to deal with a dog who didn't respect the code. Her instinct to fight back abated, and fear filled her heart. The little menace recognized her fear. Its lip curled into an evil snarl.
Miren fell to her knees beside Molly and scooped her into her arms. Molly shook all over. Miren was crying. She was shaking, too. Molly licked her face in reassurance. As long as Miren held her, she was safe.
An odd sound came from Brent. It sounded like awkward, controlled, congested laughter. "Muffin doesn't know her own size."
The woman removed herself from the coach and picked Muffin up. She cooed and reassured the wretched pest as if she'd been the victim. "Poor dear, poor Muffin."
"Poor Muffin?" Good, the young mistress was rising in defense. " 'Muffin' just attacked my dog, from behind . . . above . . . A creature like that should be kept on a leash!"
Brent coughed and placed himself between the two women. He held out his arms to both. "Now, now . . . Ladies, I know these little friends mean a lot to you, but let's not"
"Young woman, are you aware to whom you are speaking?"
"I assume you're Lady MacCallum." Miren spoke without deference. "I am Miren Lindsay. I'm sorry my dog stopped your coach. She won't do it again. But I won't have her threatened because she defended herself against that . . . that little hornet."
"How dare you! Muffin's breeding places her so far above that farmer's mutt. Young woman, you may have wormedyour way into Nathan MacCallum's bed, but your place is no higher in society than your dog's. Stay here as a rich man's tart. You're not the first, and you certainly won't be the last. But I warn you, keep away from the manor house, or I'll see that vicious hound of yours shot!"
"Mother, please"
"Brent, resume the coach." The woman embraced Mu
ffin close to her chest, tossed her head back at a prideful angle, and retreated into the coach. Brent hesitated, and cast a final glance Miren's way.
"Not the best first meeting with your new hosts, I'm afraid. But don't let it upset you, Miss Lindsay. Muffin is Mother's pride and joy." Brent lowered his voice. "Can't stand the little rodent myself, but you understand." He chuckled again, that same forced laughter, then followed his mother into the coach.
The coachman sighed heavily, cast his eyes heavenward, and urged his team forward. Molly took a long look at the wheels and decided that no temptation was worth another entanglement with Muffin.
"Well, you've certainly distinguished yourself."
Miren jumped, gasped, and whirled around to see Nathan MacCallum standing in her doorway, grinning. His brown eyes sparkled. "Mr. MacCallum . . . What are you doing here?"
Molly sat on the wooden table, waiting patiently as Miren tended her wound. Miren wrung out her cloth, then dried the area around the cut. She tried to behave casually, as if Nathan's arrival didn't disturb her senses in any way. "I'm sorry. You startled me."
"Forgive me." He entered the cottage, glanced around, then turned his attention to Molly's neck. "I understand Molly had a run-in with Muffin. I'm sorry I missed it. Molly holding Muffin by the neck, shaking her . . ." Nathan shook his head and issued a "tsk" noise.
Miren braced. "That was not the way it happened. That wretched mite jumped out of the coach, landed on Molly's head, and bit her. And she wouldn't let go, either. I suppose Lady MacCallum said Molly did the dirty work."
"She described a hound from hell, yes. But since your version resembles quite closely what Muffin did to Simon two days ago, I'm forced to believe you." He was still smiling. Miren relented, and smiled, too.
"That creature is obviously inbred."
"And with the queen's own Skiffy." Nathan's voice took on a lilting, silly tone, like a pretentious old lady. Molly quirked one ear and looked uneasy.
"Skiffy?" A bubble of laughter threatened to erupt. Miren poked her tongue into her cheek to stop herself.
Nathan's brow arched. Miren looked away. She liked him. She liked having him around, she liked speaking with him. It had been a long while since someone made her laugh.
"So what did you think of Lady MacCallum and her son?"
Miren dabbed warm water on Molly's wound, proud that Molly didn't flinch or whine. "Lady MacCallum and I aren't likely to end up as friends, that much is certain. But I liked her son well enough."
"Brent seemed to like you, too. He seemed intensely interested in the nature of our relationship. You, Miss Lindsay, have a way of attracting male attention."
"That wasn't my intention." She glanced down at her dress. It was splattered with mud from carrying Molly. Her hair hung over one shoulder, clean but hardly coiffed like a lady's. "One look at me should tell you I'm not dressed for the purpose of attracting anyone."
"One look at you tells me you don't have to be."
His voice sent pulses through her nerves. Miren kept her eye on her job. Molly's skin was broken in two places. Small but deep, the effort of Muffin's sharp teeth. "I can't believe that little monster did this," she said. "Attacking a dog twice her size. No sense whatsoever."
"Maybe she thinks her breeding makes her a warrior."
"Breeding is overrated."
"Tell Muffin that."
Miren bit her lip, but she smiled anyway. She wrapped a cloth around Molly's neck, then set her to the floor. "Why aren't you married?"
Nathan seated himself on her table, bringing them closer to eye level. Miren endured an intense regret at having asked. "I never met anyone I wanted to marry."
Miren dusted the table around him casually. "You must be very picky."
"I've never been in one place long enough to consider it, I suppose."
"And you don't want to pick one woman and settle down."
"Maybe not. To marry, that is to take a woman's life into your hands. And soon after, children. Before I offer that to anyone, I want to know I have something worth giving."
Miren studied his face. "You mean more than money and position, don't you? Because you have that, you know. I suppose you mean you must give a full heart or nothing. That is fair. A woman would want a full heart."
"What do you want of a man, Miss Lindsay?"
Miren shrugged. "I haven't thought about it much. I know young women are supposed to plan for marriage, but that phase of my life passed by while my father was dying. I'm twenty-four now, you know. Most women my age are married."
"You haven't answered my question."
"I don't know what I want." Miren paused, considering. "I suppose I want a friend. A man I can trust, and who values the things that matter to me."
"What matters to you, Miren?"
His voice did peculiar things to her senses, even when she wasn't looking at him. It crept into her and stole a place she'd never exposed to anyone. He crept in and encouraged her . . . to dream.
"Truth, to know a person fully. That matters." Miren noticed that Nathan looked down at the tabletop. Of course, she'd chosen that quality for a purpose. She knew he kept much to himself. She knew truth wasn't paramount in his sojourn in Scotland. She had no right to ferret out the truth, but it still intrigued her.
"Truth is sometimes disappointing. You might find the prince is only a frog."
"I always liked that story. Because I thought if the prince had been a frog, if only for a while, he would be a better person when he became king."
Nathan eyed her doubtfully, one dark brow angled. "Unusual interpretation."
Miren met his eyes and smiled. "I always liked frogs. They're so innocent, so vulnerable."
Nathan laughed. "You have a strange relationship to the animal world. I'm surprised you haven't deified them."
"The Celts deified many creatures. Trees, too. It is, I know, offensive to the Church's current teachings, but I thought perhaps it was symbolic."
"That is true of the native tribes in America."
"Do you mean the Indians?" Miren watched him intently. He looked overly casual. "What do they believe?"
"It depends on which tribe you address. The native peoples of eastern America are different from those in the West or the Plains."
"You know quite a lot about Indians. Have you ever met one?"
"One or two." Nathan looked uncomfortable now. Miren wondered why.
"Where did you spend your childhood, before Laird MacCallum found you?"
"Western New York." Nathan was looking around her cottage. He picked up the towel she used to dress Molly's wound, and fidgeted. "And you, Miss Lindsay . . ."
"I have a map."
"What?"
"A map of the United States of America." Miren pulled her old pack from her dressing table and spilled the contents onto the table. She fished through her gear and pulled out the worn map. Nathan watched as she spread the map out beside him. "Here is New York." She set her finger near the Great Lakes. "Where was your home?"
He swallowed, rather hard. Miren kept her eyes on him as he affected a casual expression. "Oh . . ." He ran his finger around the state of New York, then tapped once just below a large lake. "About here." He withdrew his finger and eased from the table.
Miren scrutinized the map, bending over it to make out the small words. "Here I see the Genesee River. Were you near that?"
"It was around somewhere, as I recall."
"What is this?" Miren squinted. "Canan . . . something lake."
"Canandaigua." His voice altered, the accent shifted.
"You said that very well."
"I've heard it before."
"What is the land like there?"
"It reminds me of southern Scotland, actually. Valleys of rich soil, highlands, many lakes. And yourself, miss . . .?"
"Where did the Indians live?"
Nathan sighed, probably at the intensity of her persistence. "The Iroquois nation tribes are spread along the lakes through New York. M
ost are on reservations now."
"Nations? What nations? I didn't know Indians had nations."
"The Iroquois Confederation was composed of many tribes, the Mohawk, Onondaga . . . the Seneca. It was a great and successful union, which might be said to precede the current government in America. Naturally, they are given no credit for ingenuity."
"As I said before, your knowledge is impressive."
"I grew up in close proximity to the Seneca. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"
"Not entirely. What do they look like?"
"Who?"
"The Indians. These Seneca persons."
Nathan shrugged. He looked impatient now. Perhaps annoyed. "They look like people. What do you mean, 'what do they look like?' The men look like men, the women like women."
"Is their skin dark?"
"Darkish."
"Do they wear beads and feathers?"
"Some do"
"Earrings?"
"It's not uncommon . . ."
Nathan began to pace. Miren felt a warm rush of satisfaction. "Well, well."
He eyed her suspiciously. "If we might conclude your instruction in native peoples, there is something I need to know."
Miren angled her brow, to make it clear to him that she knew he had deliberately altered the subject. "What?"
"Dr. Patterson . . . What do you know of him, other than his lecherous tendencies?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"There remains an unsettled matter concerning my father's death."
"What?"
Nathan drew a strained breath, fighting for patience. Miren smiled. She'd never enjoyed antagonizing someone before. It provided untold delight now. "Do you really need to know?"
"I do. Dr. Patterson accompanied your father when they went to America to find you. They died in a fire. I see nothing unusual about that."
Nathan's eyes flashed from brown to black. "Patterson didn't just die in the fire that killed my father. He caused it."
Miren's mouth opened. "Truly? How do you know?"
"Simon . . . I was there, remember?"
"Umm. So you want to know why he would do such a thing, is that it?"