Rodric Anderson!” the tavernkeeper shouted when the four of them entered. “A face I’d never expected to see again in this life!”

“Nor had I expected to see yours, MacKendrick.” The men clasped hands before Rodric turned to introduce his companions. Any hope of quietly entering Anderson lands was dashed in an instant—he knew word would quickly spread of his return and eventually meet his brother’s ears. So be it, then, he thought with a grim smile as the four of them sat about a large table.

“You lot look as though you could use a large meal and an even larger tankard of ale.” MacKendrick chuckled, his bulbous stomach jiggling as he did. He looked a fright, as always, though he took pride in maintaining a clean tavern. As though the time he could’ve spent washing himself and investing in a clean tunic was spent on scrubbing the place, instead.

“Aye, and we thank ye most heartily,” Quinn growled, having complained of hunger for at least a dozen leagues prior to their reaching the tavern. If it had been up to Rodric, they would never have stopped. He hadn’t wished for the news of his arrival to spread so far in advance of his arrival at his brother’s doorstep.

His brother’s. All his brother’s. Everything that had ever mattered to him was Alan’s.

“Are you back for the burial, then?” MacKendrick asked, a sour look marring his features.

Rodric’s stomach dropped, and he was suddenly as far from hunger as was humanly possible. “Burial?” he croaked.

Not her. Not her, please, not her. Anyone but Cait.

“Aye. Old Gavin McMannis. Passed away two days back. They’re putting him in the ground this very day.” MacKendrick patted him on the back. “I thought certainly, since ye were so often seen on their land in your youth…”

The fact that he felt relief at the announcement of Gavin’s death had to speak poorly of his character. Did it not? He could breathe again. He could think again. Because it wasn’t Caitlin who was being placed in the ground.

He realized then and there that he very much wished to see her again, even though he’d been set against it only moments before.

“I’m sorry to hear of it,” he murmured, quite sincere. “A good man. A loyal man.”

“Aye, and with no one to mourn him but his poor wife.” The tavernkeeper shook his head. “It’s a pity, to be sure, but at least the sickness took him quickly. They say he barely knew who or where he was for much of it, a fever wiping out his reason.” MacKendrick hurried away—if a man of his size could be said to hurry—in order to see after the needs of another patron.

“You knew this man of whom he speaks?” Brice asked.

“Aye. Gavin and his wife, Sorcha, were good friends. The uncle and aunt of a childhood friend whose home was not far. She spent most of her time there, and I followed suit whenever possible.”

“She?” Brice raised an eyebrow but did not comment. Wise of him.

Better to get it out of the way now. “Aye. I told you of her last night—indirectly, at least. Caitlin McAllister. The stepdaughter of the man with whom my brother is feuding.”

“Ah,” came Brice’s soft sound of understanding.

Rodric ignored it. “Theirs was a happy home. A warm, loving home. They had no children of their own, so they welcomed our presence. Kind, generous people. I’m sorry to hear Gavin came to an end.”

He smiled to himself at the memory of the games they had once played, the races they had run from the well to the barn, from the barn to the stables, then back to the house. They were young and so full of life, vitality, seemingly never fatigued.

Sorcha never grew tired of their boundless energy, either. She had indulged them, laughing at their antics, feigning surprise or wonder at their feats of strength and speed.

Caitlin had been the ideal playmate, in some ways the brother Rodric had always wanted. She wasn’t temperamental and rough as Alan, nor was she a baby like Padraig. She looked up to him, saw him as a brave and daring older boy, and he’d basked in the glow of her adoration.

All of this had taken place under Sorcha’s watchful eye, with Gavin’s hearty laughter and understanding nature a welcome change from the often-fractious nature of the Anderson home.

Those were golden, peaceful, idyllic days. When he was too young for his father to expect much from him, at the age when it was more desirable that he find something to do outdoors, away from clan business. Ross Anderson had always been a busy man, always smoothing over one dispute or another, always seeing to it that his clan’s lands were held fast.

After a time, his eldest son’s exploits had taken a good deal of attention, too.

And by then, Caitlin had become more than just a playmate to Rodric.

Their refreshments arrived, and not a moment too soon.

“I thought I’d soon have no choice but to eat my own arm,” Quinn admitted before sinking his teeth into a hunk of browned, sizzling meat hanging from a thick bone.

“To hear you talk, I’d think you never knew hardship,” Fergus snorted. “You forget what it was like out there, in the field. Now that was real starvation, laddie, and it lasted longer than half a day.”

“Half a day?” Brice laughed. “Half a day would’ve seemed a grand miracle. I’d have felt like a king if the longest I ever had to go hungry was from the time I broke my fast until the time the sun was just past overhead.”

“I suppose younger men simply grow hungry faster than you older ones,” Quinn shrugged, and the three of the burst into good-natured laughter.

“Aye, or perhaps you were a bit busy this morning with one of the village girls—I saw a pair of them making sheep’s eyes at you as we left the Duncans,” Brice grinned.

“I think you overestimate even my stamina.”

They laughed again, louder this time.

Rodric smiled, tried to stay in the conversation, but it was no use. The past tugged at him, pulled him back into its embrace, wrapped itself around him in the form of memories he’d worked so hard for so long to free himself of.

And they were so vivid, too, as if the ignoring of them made them that much stronger. They’d been untouched and were therefore fresh once he reached a tentative hand their way. It seemed strange that, on looking around himself, it wasn’t Sorcha and Gavin seated across from him. It should’ve been Caitlin at his left hand instead of Quinn. He could nearly hear their laughter. They were always laughing.

He’d lived such a wonderful life in those days without ever knowing it. Perhaps that was the saddest part of life, that the good times never appeared as good while a body was going through them. Only after, and usually in comparison to something terrible.

Like the war. How many times had he wished he were back home and fighting with Alan while in reality he was camped out in the mud, the stench of blood and sweat and rotting flesh hanging heavy in the air? Life at home had seemed all but unbearable at times thanks to the bitterness between father and eldest son, a bitterness which had at times left Rodric feeling as though he would choke from it.

In those ugly, stark moments just after a battle, he would’ve given anything to go back to when everything was simpler.

As good as things were, seated around a table with his friends, in a warm and welcoming place run by a man happy to see him, Rodric still wished himself back to when life was simple.

When Caitlin was his.

“I ought to go and at least pay my respects.”

He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until three pairs of eyes turned his way, the table suddenly silent.

Fergus spoke first. “What was that?”

“I said, I ought to go and pay my respects at the burial. It’s the least I can do.”

“And what are we to do in the meantime?” Quinn asked.

“Aye, and what of the promise to Jake?” Brice added, eyes narrowing.

“We’ll be on our way right after the burial,” Rodric promised. “If ye don’t wish to come with me, take a room for the night at the inn. We have more than enough silver, thanks to the payment from Phillip. I’ll even pay for it out of my share.”

“It’s that important to ye,” Brice mused, sitting back in his chair.

“Aye. It is.”

“Ye don’t wish us to come along?” Quinn asked, the skepticism heavy in his voice.

“Nay, it’s best I do something of this nature on my own. It’s less than a half-day’s ride from here. I’ll be back for ye in the morning, at the latest. Perhaps I’ll spend the night at the McMannis house, depending on how long the visit takes. Otherwise, I’ll return tonight and take a room at the inn with you.”

The more he considered it, the better it sounded. He’d make an appearance at the church and offer his assistance to Sorcha, who might or might not accept it. Surely, it would give her comfort to have a man about the place for at least a night—she’d never lived alone, he reasoned.

And if Caitlin happened to be there, or somewhere in the area, all the better.

He barely finished his mug of ale, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve as he stood. It seemed foolish to wait another minute once a course of action had been set.

“Tonight or tomorrow morning, then,” he announced, offering Fergus silver for a room.

“Keep it,” his friend insisted, shaking his head with a roguish smile. “You’ve given us all reason to spend a bit more time in the area and, erm, become acquainted with a few of the lasses who ply their trade nearby.”

Rodric grinned at the memory of the brothel they’d passed along the road. “Try not to lose everything we’ve only just earned.”