Chapter Eleven
THEY TRAVELED VERY SLOWLY FOR TWO DAYS. BRONWYN tried to get Kirsty to stay in the wagon, but she only laughed. Stephen said Kirsty came out in self-defense after trying some of Bronwyn’s cooking.
“This is the worst rabbit stew I ever tasted,” Stephen said in disgust one evening. “It has no flavor at all.”
“Rabbit?” Bronwyn said absently. She was holding the baby, watching its eyes follow the movement of the dying sunlight on her brooch. “Oh, no!” she said as she finally realized what Stephen had said. Her face turned a becoming shade of pink. “The rabbits are still hanging on the side of the wagon. I—”
Stephen’s laughter cut her off. “What happened to that smart woman I married?”
Bronwyn smiled at him with great confidence. “She’s still here. Anyone can cook. I can—” She stopped and looked up in bewilderment.
“We’re waiting,” Stephen said.
“Stop teasing her,” Kirsty said quietly. “Bronwyn, as beautiful as you are, you don’t need to cook. And besides, you are courageous, fearless, have great practical sense and—”
Bronwyn laughed. “See!” she said to Stephen. “I’m glad someone appreciates me.”
“Oh, Stephen appreciates you,” Kirsty smiled. “In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen two people more in love than you two.”
Bronwyn looked up from the baby, startled. Stephen was staring at her in an idiotic way, rather like the first time she’d seen him.
“She is pretty, isn’t she?” he said. “If only she could cook.”
He said it so wistfully that Bronwyn grimaced and threw a clump of dirt at his head.
He laughed and seemed to come back to the present. “Let me hold my godson, will you? He spends too much time with women.” He laughed again at the reply Bronwyn made.
Late the next evening they rolled into sight of Kirsty’s parents’ home. It was a typical crofter’s cottage, whitewashed stone with a thatched roof. There were a few fields of barley near it and some sheep as well as cattle. A steep rock formation ran along the back of the land not far from the cottage.
Kirsty’s parents came out to meet them. Her father, Harben, was a short, gnarled little man, his right arm gone from his shoulder. His face was obscured by gray hair and a voluminous beard. But what could be seen looked to be forever angry.
Nesta, Kirsty’s mother, was a tiny little thing, her gray hair pulled back tightly. She was as warm as Harben was cold. She hugged the baby, Kirsty, and Bronwyn all at once. She thanked Stephen and Bronwyn repeatedly for delivering her only grandchild. She kissed Stephen as enthusiastically as she did Donald.
Stephen asked if they could stay the night and be on their way in the morning.
Harben’s face looked as if he’d just been insulted. “Stay only one night?” he growled. “Wha
t kind of man are ye? That wife of yers is too skinny, and where are yer children?” He didn’t wait for Stephen to answer. “My home brew will put a baby in that flat belly of hers.”
Stephen nodded his head as if he’d just heard a great piece of wisdom. “And here I always thought that it was what I did that’d make her pregnant, and all along it was the home brew.”
Harben made a sound that could have been a laugh. “Come inside and welcome.”
It was after a simple supper of milk, butter, cheese, and oatcakes that they all sat around a peat fire inside the single room. Stephen sat on a stool whittling a toy for Rory Stephen. Bronwyn sat on the dirt floor, leaning against his knee. Kirsty and her mother were on the other side, Donald and Harben facing the fire.
Donald, who’d already shown he was a good storyteller, had just given a hilarious account of Bronwyn selling the drink and Stephen’s reaction to her enticing movements. He finished with the story of Bronwyn meeting the MacGregor.
Bronwyn laughed at herself along with the others.
Suddenly Harben jumped up, overturning his stool.
“Father,” Kirsty said quietly, looking worried, “is your arm hurting you?”
“Oh, aye,” he said with great bitterness. “It never stops, not since the MacArrans took it off.”
Stephen immediately put his hand on Bronwyn in warning.
“Now’s not the time,” Nesta began.