Rodric didn’t know whether to laugh or shout in frustration. Perhaps both.

It was with a sense of determination that he rode through the narrowest, shallowest part of the river—the water reached the horse’s knees and no higher—then allowed the animal to run full-out through the tall, rippling grass.

He’d made the ride countless times before, but never while driving the horse beneath him to a full gallop except on the rare occasion when he’d lost track of time and knew his father would tan his hide for coming home so late.

It was suddenly very important that he reach Alan quickly.

His jaw smarted when he smiled, but only slightly. She could still land a blow. A shame there had to be butter involved.

Oh, he should’ve known. She wouldn’t have changed that much, couldn’t have. All along, he’d harbored a quiet belief that she’d married Alan because she’d wanted to. A belief he hadn’t wished to admit to himself.

How furious Alan must’ve been. No wonder he’d begun a feud.

But what in blazes had he thought he was doing, forcing Caitlin into marriage? Connor McAllister had little to offer in the way of monetary offering. He’d be the one to benefit from such an arrangement, all but bringing his clan under the protection of the more powerful Andersons. Unless more had changed than he’d ever thought possible, that would still be the case.

What, then, had Alan to gain? Furthering peaceful relations between the clans? It could’ve been, and had Ross Anderson been alive, he might have advised such a match for that motive alone. The two clans, bordering each other’s lands as they did, had been at one sort of war or another for generations prior to Rodric’s birth. His grandfather and two uncles had, in fact, been killed by members of the McAllister clan.

That was behind them—at least, it had been Ross Anderson’s chief purpose to make it so. Alan could easily claim that he’d been only attempting to further his father’s cause.

Why start things anew, then? Why not work with Connor rather than against him?

Not that Connor McAllister was a man who believed in dealing fairly, of course. Rodric had never borne much goodwill for the man, who he knew had all but abandoned his stepdaughter after practically causing his wife’s death. Any fool could’ve seen the woman wasn’t fit to bear his children—or, seeing as how Caitlin was so healthy and vibrant, that he wasn’t fit to sire living babes.

A rough creature of slovenly habits, if he remembered correctly. His housemaid and cook had often gossiped about their neighbor, and from what he remembered of the conversations on which he’d eavesdropped, the man had fallen into ruin after Caitriona’s death. He’d stopped caring for himself entirely.

Because he’d loved her? Because of the guilt he surely had to struggle with? Regardless of the reason why, he’d become a hardened, bitter, slovenly man who was more than likely partly to blame for any inflammation between the clans.

Rodric could just imagine the two of them going head-to-head. His grim smile set off another twinge of stinging pain from the blow Caitlin had delivered.

The pain would pass.

Knowing that he’d hurt her wouldn’t fade so easily.

He hadn’t been able to help himself, though the knowledge did nothing to ease the crushing guilt at the memory of her crestfallen face. She hadn’t deserved it. He’d been a cruel beast for making it sound as though she’d been little more than a trollop.

When he thought of her grief at the notion of being sold in marriage to his brother…

The courage it took for her to run…

The skill she’d used to survive the journey…

His heart swelled with pride. His Caitlin, if she still wanted to be his after the terrible way he’d treated her.

He’d find a way to make it up. He’d express his sorrow and explain that he’d only wanted to see how she’d react. To test how she’d truly felt about her marriage—to understand whether it was simply Alan she’d been opposed to, or the entire idea of marriage to someone other than himself.

He’d gotten a face full of butter for his efforts, but then he’d never been good at expressing himself in a way which wouldn’t earn a slap in the face. Especially when it came to her and her temper.

When the house came into view—at a distance—his heart swelled with pride and longing he hadn’t realized existed.

He did love it so. He had missed it so.

Perhaps that had been another reason for staying away, one he hadn’t considered a possibility. Staying far away because the thought of returning to a place which held such deep significance in his heart was too much to bear. Knowing he’d have to leave again, that his brother would undoubtedly make decisions which would put the two of them at odds and drive a wedge between them tight enough that it might never be removed.

The future of the clan and of the tenuous relationship they’d always had were too important to jeopardize over nothing more than a little homesickness.

The house grew larger as he continued to ride, though at a slower pace than before. He wanted to drink it in with his eyes, to hold it in his mind as there was no way of telling when he’d be back.

The rock wall had been repaired, he noted, the stones no longer crumbling. Someone had long since patched the thatched roof, too—a good thing, since it had leaked even before he took his leave and like as not would’ve been clear open to the sky by then. So Alan had seen to it that the house was kept in good order.

The fields were well-kept, too, the hay neatly baled and stacked against one of the barn’s long outer walls where it could quickly be brought into use by the lads who tended the livestock. His shoulders and back ached at the memory of long hours spent with the beasts, cleaning their stalls and ensuring they were fed and watered.

The sort of work that made a man a man, his father used to remind him with a gleam in his eye and a bit of a smile.

Would that he were still alive. So many things might have gone differently.

A game he often played with himself, a habit he’d tried to break long since. The unfortunate habit of wallowing like a pig. How would life differ if Ross Anderson had lived until his middle son returned from war?

A waste of time to dwell on these matters. Things were the way they were. Nothing could change it. He had only to make the best of what had transpired.

He reached the split-log fence which separated the pen where the horses took the air and rode along its length, noting the neighs from inside the stables as well as the snorts and bellows from inside the barn. So Alan was indeed responsible for the thriving conditions around the place. It spoke well of his abilities. Perhaps he had changed somewhat over the years.

Not enough to keep Caitlin from running away, a voice inside his head whispered.

“Is that young Rodric?” An old woman in a smudged apron and kirtle came on the run from the side door which led to the kitchen. At least, she tried to run, though at her advanced age the attempt was all but futile. Cook had seemed ancient to him even all those years earlier.

He quickly dismounted, tossing the reins over a fencepost before meeting her with arms outstretched. It sounded as though she were weeping when she fell against his chest.

“It’s a blessing, to be sure,” she sniffled, shoulders shaking. “We thought the worst many a time, young Rodric.”

“Not so young anymore,” he chuckled in an attempt to brighten the old woman’s spirits. “It’s been a good many years since last we saw one another.”

“Too many years.” And now it sounded as though she were accusing him of something. When she straightened up, her watery, faded blue eyes were hard with anger. “What did you think you were about, staying away for so long? Worrying us all near to death. This is your home, young man.”

Time had not softened her tongue, nor her spirits.

He winced with embarrassment even as he slung an arm over her shoulders and steered her in the direction of the kitchen door. “You know how it is, Cook. A man’s life doesn’t always follow a straight line.”

“Nonsense.” She sniffled before blowing her nose on a handkerchief which she tucked back into her sleeve. “There’s no excuse for leaving the ones who love you with no word of your well-being, Rodric Anderson.”

“Surely you knew I was living.” He chuckled, embarrassment clawing at him in spite of the lighthearted manner he pretended.

“We knew you were living, aye, but nothing of how you were living. And I thought you’d come back for the wedding feast, too.”

He froze just before stepping foot over the threshold. “You did?”

“Aye,” she replied, stepping inside without hesitation. “What with your brother being wed and you and young Caitlin always having been such good friends. When we didn’t receive word from you…”

She went on, her voice fading into the background of his thoughts.

He hadn’t gotten word of the wedding until after it had taken place. No one had alerted him to the upcoming event. The sudden knowledge of his brother’s marriage had hit him like a death blow to the chest, as though a bludgeon had caught him at the height of its force and knocked the life from him.

Yet the household had been led to believe he was aware the wedding ceremony was to take place, that he’d simply ignored the announcement.

Damn that Alan. Not until that moment was Rodric certain that his brother had understood the full weight of what Caitlin meant to him. What had he expected? A violent brawl on her behalf?

Cook was unaware of the turmoil in his head, prattling on about everything he’d missed. Who had wed whom, who was no longer in the clan’s service, who had come into the household to replace those who’d left. He wouldn’t have been able to keep track of it all even if he’d been paying attention.

“The kitchen looks the same,” he observed, looking about himself.

Unlike the repairs which had been done to the outside of the house, the kitchen appeared just as rundown and overcrowded as ever.

“No one will be touching my kitchen,” the old woman warned, eyes narrowed dangerously.

Naturally, she would never have allowed anyone to step in and advise her to run things more efficiently. Several young women bustled about, cutting and plucking and watching him as though he were the first interesting person who’d crossed the threshold in years.

Perhaps he was.

“I’d expect nothing less.” He eyed the doorway which led to the great hall.

She read his gaze. “Your brothers are both at home—I only just served the midday meal,” she murmured. “Late, of course, but Alan rarely rises from bed before late morning. The evening meal is sometimes served close to midnight.”

“I see. I suppose neither he nor Padraig received word of Gavin McMannis’s passing?”

“Och, we heard of that,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Your brother instructed that none of us were to leave for the services, as there was more than enough work to be done about the house. I had planned on calling upon poor Sorcha McMannis on my afternoon off.”

“I see.” It was a stupid thing to do, but well in keeping with Alan’s general disregard for anyone but himself. A graveside appearance, even a brief one, would have spread goodwill. He’d never cared much for behaving with diplomacy.

One reason of many why it would’ve been better had he not been born first.

“I suppose I should continue on,” he murmured, rather unsure of himself all of a sudden.

What would he find when he confronted his brother, who now rarely rose from bed before mid-morning and had refused to pay his respects to a lifelong neighbor? Just how had leadership changed him?

And what could Rodric possibly do about it?