It was mid-afternoon before Hugh returned to the hut. The cool bite in the air heralded the potential for early snow, and he knew that he should start making preparations to head south sooner rather than later.

It had taken him longer than he had anticipated to track, and kill a small red deer, but it would do to sustain them for now, and he could start drying more meat for their journey. He carried the animal over his shoulders, hunched under its weight as he paused at the edge of the clearing, hovering in the shadows at its edge as he gazed toward the hut and the small meadow beyond.

He didn't see Dalla. He frowned, sensing a bad feeling. The bad feeling increased as his gaze swept the trees on the other side of the meadow and then ventured closer to the hut.

He noticed that the woods were quiet, more than they would normally be from his simple and brief passage. No birds chirped in the trees, no squirrels scampering and frolicking, looking for morsels or nuts strewn on the forest floor, as was usual this time of day.

He remained just inside the tree line, searching the shadows, looking for anything out of place. Nothing. A very gentle breeze barely drifted through the long grass in the meadow, and the tree stump upon which he and Dalla had sat before was now empty.

After several minutes, he decided nothing was lurking in the trees beyond and ventured toward the hut.

He peered inside, then cursed softly when he saw that the horses were gone.

Gone!

He quickly glanced down, saw the imprint of horse hooves in the dirt surrounding the doorway. The deer slid off his shoulders and landed with a dull thud in the dirt by the doorway. Had she really done it? Had Dalla really left, taking his horses with her?

In disbelief, he quickly walked around the hut and down to the banks of the small stream, searching up and down, but saw no sign of her, nor any recent indication of her passing. Nor those of his horses.

He returned to the hut, following the prints of his horses as they headed around the other side of the hut and into the woods.

His confusion grew.

Two possibilities existed. The first that, for some reason that he couldn't fathom, she had taken the horses out of the hut, perhaps to allow them to graze in the small meadow and they had gotten loose, and she had chased after them.

The other possibility, and the more likely, was that she had actually left and taken his horses with her.

If that was the case, chances were that one of the animals would have been let go. Was she an experienced enough rider to take one and hang onto the tether of the other? Had she pretended to be an inexperienced rider on their journey, to confound him at a later time, when she made good on an escape attempt?

His anger growing, he ducked inside the hut and saw that his saddle and the saddle blankets were still inside. His confusion only grew. At that point, he was leaning toward the first possibility, but again, it made no sense. She didn't go near the horses. Especially his. His gelding was skittish around anyone but hi and would never allow her to ride him.

His heart began to pound as his temper roiled. He shouldn't have trusted her enough to leave her alone, unbound. He should've tied her up.

He stood outside of the hut for several moments, his gaze once again sweeping through the trees. Then, in an ever-increasing arc, he followed the tracks of his horses deeper into the tree line. He saw no human prints. As he studied the tracks and ventured deeper into the woods, he noticed something else. The horses were separated by a short distance, and while they were both heading in generally the same direction, they weren't traveling together. That either meant that she was riding one and had let the other go, or the horses had been released, perhaps spooked to run off.

More questions.

A short distance further, the horses separated, one of them heading higher into the hills, the other toward the east. Gauging by the size of the hoof prints, his gelding had headed east, downslope rather than higher into the foothills. While chances were that if Dalla chose to ride one of the horses, it would be the older mare, he also knew that time was of the essence. His horse wouldn't go far.

Hugh began to trot, weaving his way among the trees, slapping branches out of his way, his gaze continually scanning the ground, following the trail of his horse.

Perhaps an hour later, he reached the top of a hillock, crowded on all sides by pine, alder and yew trees, hampered in his efforts to follow a trail by thick growths of sweetbriar, creeping willow, and gorse. He looked down into a small and narrow valley, the gray slopes of the mountain rising to the north, a field of scattered boulders below, the valley floor gradually dropping away to the south that would eventually meet the bogs. His heart thumped in dread at the thought of his horse becoming mired in a bog, to eventually succumb and drown.

The thought infuriated him, and his anger with Dalla grew.

Grumbling, he noticed a slight indication of movement to the north, near the base of the mountain. He peered more closely into the shadows cast by the mountainside and felt a huge surge of relief when he saw his horse grazing near the base of a tall, finger-like boulder canted at an angle into the ground.

He quickly made his way down the hillside, whistling softly. His horse heard his whistle, lifted its head from grazing, ears flicking forward, tails swishing, and then with a soft neigh, trotted toward him.

His concern for his horse was alleviated, and he sighed and chuckled as his gelding lowered its head and brushed its muzzle against his chest.

Hugh took a few moments to scratch behind the gelding’s ears and pat its neck. Then, grasping a handful of the gelding’s mane, he leaped onto his back.

He would backtrack and follow the mare’s trail until he caught up with Dalla. He had no doubt whatsoever that he would. She was no match for the highlands, but he and his horse were. And when he caught up with her…

In less than half the time it had taken him to find his horse, he found the trail where the mare had separated from his gelding.

Overhead, thunderclouds were building, fast and dark. Why would she head up rather than down? Especially with the weather turning? It seemed an unnatural direction for the mare to go, north and higher into the hills rather than following the gelding downslope.

He slowed down his pace, carefully following the trail, which grew sparser the higher he climbed, and the rockier the slopes became. What had compelled Dalla to go this way? Before he could determine an answer, he saw a sign; a definite scuff mark of hoof against stone. Had the mare slipped? Had Dalla fallen off?

He stopped his horse, dismounted, and carefully looked around. There, near the base of a tree trunk, a splotch of blood on the base of the pine tree, staining the bark a darker color. Not a lot, but enough. She’d fallen off. Standing close to the trunk of the tree, he gazed around, seeking any movement, listening for any noise.

Nothing.

The fact that it was so quiet didn’t bode well. It meant either a predatory animal or humans.

Pulling his ax from his belt with one hand, reaching for his knife with the other, he crept slowly forward, his gaze scanning the dried pine needle and leaf-strewn ground around him, then he lifted his gaze to scan through the trees, rocks, and so many other possible hiding places.

He placed his feet carefully, trying to avoid the dryer leaves and pine cones.

Where was she? Where was the mare? After studying the area for several moments, he slid his ax back into his belt and reached for his horse’s reins.

Guiding him, walking slowly, he ventured deeper into the forest, pausing every few steps to listen. Was she injured? How badly? What if she—

A noise prompted him to freeze.

It only lasted a brief moment, and he couldn't identify what it was or from where it had come. The only thing he recognized was that it was different. It didn’t belong in a forest. It came from a higher level than that upon which he stood.

Ever so slowly, he inspected every rock, every tree that grew on the slope rising above him. Huge, tilting boulders interspersed with hardy birch and pine-dotted the slope. Undergrowth, wild-growing ferns, and briars grew interspersed with one another. He scanned even higher toward the trees, the seemingly solid rock walls of the mountain rising above, and decided she couldn't possibly have gone there.

So where was—

He heard the noise again, so soft it could have been a short breath of wind, the sound of a pine bough brushing against another high above, audible one moment, gone the next.

Once again, he eyed the boulders and the growth of brush interspersed among them. His gaze riveted on the briars, knowing that if it were he, the briars would be the most unlikely, the most uncomfortable, and therefore the best place to hide. But a hiding place for who? Dalla or a wild animal? Perhaps even a boar?

He glanced back at his horse, watching him, not appearing alarmed. If his horse had caught the scent of boar or bear, his ears would have been pointed forward, his muscles shivering with the anxiety of a hunt.

He took a chance.

“Dalla,” he said, softly, keeping his voice low so as not to carry and echo off the rocks above.

Nothing.

He pur away his knife, and tied his horse to a low tree branch and proceeded further, his ax held at mid-level, ready to use, while his left hand reached once again for the knife.

“Dalla” he hissed a little louder.

He heard another noise and this time was able to identify it as coming from the briars, its branches trembling ever so slightly. He quickly rushed forward, still keeping an eye on the landscape around him and spoke again.

“Dalla, you come out of there right now.”

He didn't raise his voice, purposely kept it calm, tamping down his anger and frustration. First things, first. She needed to get out of there.

“I can't.”

He couldn't fathom the relief that swept through him upon hearing that short, soft answer. It was at that moment that he realized she could have been gone forever, lost in this wilderness, dying slowly of starvation and exposure. Even worse, she could have been dead, falling off her mare, striking her head on a rock, or falling over the edge of a precipice.

And then his mind assessed the tone of her voice. Fear. Pain.

“Are you hurt?”

“I'm stuck.”

His emotions askew, he peered deeper into dog rose shrubs, seeking her. Wild roses in the highlands were no doubt beautiful, most appearing with small pink flowers, sending their lovely aroma downslope, but up here, they grew wild, tangled among themselves, creating thickets on the hillsides that could be difficult to penetrate.

It was a good hiding place, if one didn't mind getting scraped up by their sharp thorns. He couldn't see her.

He crouched down and tried to make openings in the long, branching vine-like protuberances, many of them curving back on themselves and forming circles or arches.

Unfortunately, the majority of the stems contained sharp, wickedly curved, reddish-brown thorns, effective in protecting its delicate flowers from rummaging animals. Not only that, but the thorns enabled the plant to grasp onto the most unlikely surfaces including rock and tree trunks, attaching themselves as they gripped, their stems climbing ever upward.

“Hugh, I can't get out. You're going to have to help me.”

He paused and located the source of her voice, just beyond an unusual growth of a deeper red rose, small and puckered in the cooler air. He would—

“These wicked thorns have captured my clothes, and I can't—ouch!—can't get myself loose.”

He heard shuffling in the midst of the tangled growth.

“Just hold still,” he muttered, his irritation with her now growing.

She was alive.

Now he could be angry.

He began to hack at a few of the branches with his ax and soon managed to create a small hole down near the ground. He saw a foot. A bare, white, foot with a wicked looking scratch along its outer edge. He cursed. What had prompted her to go running off with his horses like this? He should punish within an inch of her life. He should—

“I didn't run away, Hugh.”

He grabbed her ankle, and she muttered a soft yelp as his hand easily encompassed the joint.

“Cover your face,” he ordered.

He heard nothing for several moments.

“Is it covered?”

A muffled response.

“Hold your arms as close to your body as you can. The only way I'm going to get you out is to pull you out. You're going to get scratched. Keep your face covered.”

Another sound, again muffled.

He found and grasped her other ankle, then positioned himself to pull.

“One… two… three!”

He pulled, as hard and as quickly as he could.

At first, the shrub didn't want to release its grip upon her, but then, with the sound of rending cloth and a squeal from her, it did. His first tug exposed her breeches as far as her knees.

The thorns had torn the leg, and he caught sight of a shapely calf. He shook his head and pulled again. The second tug pulled her out far enough that he saw her hips. Unfortunately, he could also see several tears in the breeches now, slowly oozing blood.

Once again, he cursed under his breath. He leaned down, saw that she was doing as he told her, elbows clasped close to her body, arms and hands covering her face.

“One more pull, and you should be out. Keep your face covered!”

He barely heard a muffled yes beneath her hands.

He repositioned his feet, wrapped his hands around her knees, and with one, mighty pull, extracted her from the bushes.

The sight that met his eyes was not what he expected. The tunic, torn and dirty, her arms scratched and oozing blood, her hair a tangled mess, her hands still covering her face, dirty, scratched, one of them showing a bruise on the outside of her palm.

He crouched down, quickly scanning her body for more serious injuries. She didn't remove her hands from her face.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

She refused, but sat up, shoulders hunched forward, head still buried in her hands.

She trembled.

“Dalla, look at me.” Fighting back his frustration and impatience, he reached for her hands.

Though she tried to prevent him from doing so, it didn't take much for him to pull those petite, finely boned, yet surprisingly strong hands from her face.

Her expression startled him.

Dried tears had made paths down dusty cheeks, streaking their trails down her cheeks. A reddened nose and wide eyes swimming with tears.

He frowned. “Are you hurt?”

She didn't answer, but then, wordlessly pointed to her right knee. He looked down at it.

It wasn't twisted at an awkward angle, and he didn't see any blood, but when he touched it, she winced. He carefully palpated the joint with his hand, much as he would be tending to his horse’s fetlocks.

When he gently squeezed the outside of the knee, she winced.

He shook his head. She either had a very bad sprain, or she had managed to pull a muscle or ligament. It was at that moment that his anger once again began to burgeon.

“What were you thinking? Did you think you could run from me, survive in these highlands all by yourself?” He took a breath, trying to tamp down his rising anger. A pulse pounded in his neck, and his head throbbed with emotion. “And take my horses? Both of them?”

Her eyes widened even more, staring up at him now, in not only fear, but dismay. “But I didn't!”

He frowned, not understanding as he gestured around them. “What are you doing out here?”

She swallowed, took a breath, and replied. “I was in the woods, behind the hut and near the stream. I was gathering some nuts for one of the squirrels… you saw the one that—”

He slashed the air with his hand. “Tell me what happened.”

“I saw some men—“

“Men?” He frowned. “By the hut?”

She gingerly shook her head, a clump of hair that had loosened from its braid hanging alongside her cheek. He barely resisted the urge to brush it away and tuck it behind her ear.

“I saw them a little bit down the hill. Three or four of them. Two of them looked like—they looked like you. Dressed like you. Scotsmen,” she mumbled. “Long hair, beards, wearing leathers and tunics.”

Hugh didn't have a beard, but he gave that some thought. Since he had arrived at the hut he'd shared with his brother so long ago, he'd seen no sign of inhabitants in the area. He wasn't aware of any clans claiming this land, but it had been a long time since he'd been here. He could understand why she had run. She continued.

“One of them was dressed in finer clothes, as he came from a town—”

They both heard the noise at the same time.

He quickly stood and turned, both ax and the knife at the ready, his gaze scanning every bit of the landscape around them. He had to get back to his horse. Something was out there, and it wasn't anything good.

The noise had come from a distance, like a rock hitting another. He quickly turned and looked down over his shoulder at her.

“Can you walk?” He didn't wait for her to answer, but reached down to help her up.

While she managed to stand, her face lost its color, and a most definite grimace of pain marred her features as she placed even the slightest bit of weight on her right foot, he had his answer.

“Climb up on my back,” he said, hunching down.

“What?”

“Quickly, Dalla. Climb onto my back! Make no noise!”

She scrambled onto his back and clasped her arms around his shoulders, clasping her hands together at the base of his neck. She wrapped her left leg around his hips, the injured leg to a lesser degree.

“We have to get back to my horse.” He felt her nod and then she buried her head against his shoulder as he quickly darted through the trees, again careful to make as little noise as possible. A short distance away, he found his horse, no longer grazing, but looking downslope, ears twitching in that direction.

He quickly lowered Dalla off his back, and then immediately swung her up onto his horse. He followed, climbing up behind her.

Just as he turned his horse away from the trees, prepared to climb higher, a wisp of sound flew past his ear and hit the tree just beyond them.

He looked to find the shaft of an arrow vibrating from the tree bark. A chunk of bark shot off from the pine tree beside them, grazed by another arrow, causing Dalla to utter a gasp of alarmed surprise.

He felt several pieces of bark strike his arm as he urged his horse forward, hunched down over her as she huddled in front of him, protecting her as best he could while his horse lunged upward.

He felt the gelding's muscles bunching with the effort, scrambling for purchase on the steep slope, over rocks and tree roots.

Shouts from below echoed up into the hills, reverberating off the walls.

He had rounded a cluster of pine interspersed with birch before he felt something warm on his thigh.

He glanced down and cursed.

An arrow had pierced his thigh, and he was bleeding.

Badly.