Was Caitlin merely lying to herself, or did it seem as though she was getting away with her deception?

Perhaps the truth was even plainer. People simply didn’t look at her as she traveled down the wide road which had become more and more populated the further she went. While dressed as a woman, she’d never been able to avoid glances, looks of interest, outright stares from men and sometimes even other women.

She’d never taken it as a compliment, and not only because to do so would be sheer vanity. She’d simply assumed it to be the way of life, that a traveler riding along, alone, would attract attention.

Only if that traveler were female, evidently. A man—even one in clothing far too large for him—could come and go as he pleased with no one paying much mind.

Still, she kept her head down as she rode, avoiding meeting the eyes of those she passed as much as possible. Men’s clothing or no, she still looked like a woman.

Excitement thrummed in her veins, a mixture of nauseating fear and the certainty that she was getting away with the grand risk she’d taken. She’d get past anyone who might identify her to her husband.

Her husband. Oh, the horror of it all. The very thought sent a jolt of disgust throughout her body. What had once been excitement in her veins turned to ice. Her hands clenched tight on the reins, her teeth grinding together as though a cry of revulsion would escape her throat otherwise.

She wasn’t entirely naïve. She knew many women married men not because they wanted to, but rather out of a sense of familial duty or because they’d been promised from a young age. She understood enough of the world to comprehend that marriage was not always a result of love.

But Sorcha and Gavin had loved each other. She liked to believe her mother and father had, as well. Why Mother had married Connor McAllister was anyone’s guess, though Caitlin suspected the arrangement to be more one of necessity than anything else. A new widow with a young daughter, no man to protect her. Connor had like as not appeared to be a savior sent from the heavens.

And he had been kind to Caitlin when she was young. She remembered it well, most likely because he’d changed so over time. Such a contrast from the patient, kind, friendly man her mother had married. Perhaps he’d put on an act to convince Caitriona that her daughter would be loved if the marriage took place.

Perhaps he’d led her to believe he’d never sell her daughter in marriage.

The closer Caitlin drew to the village which sat just outside the border of McAllister land, the greater the danger. She was aware of this and made an effort to maintain a sense of calm as a result. It was critical that she do nothing to arouse suspicion as the mare trotted over the well-worn road.

Which only made her more aware of herself, and more likely to behave as though she had something to hide. Sweat rolled down the back of her neck. While it was a warm day, to be sure, the hat she wore made it worse. Would that she could remove it.

Though there was something to be said for the freedom afforded by trousers. No need to concern oneself with gathering skirts, tucking them strategically, being careful not to show more leg than was considered proper. How was a woman supposed to exist in the world when she had to worry about her kirtle getting in the way?

The church steeple stood out against a clear, cloudless sky, the beacon which drew her in. There was no telling when the burial rites would be performed, but she had nothing better to do than to wait.

Her mother was there, as were the brothers she’d never known, but she decided against visiting them. Her presence at their graves might arouse suspicion. She needed more than anything to avoid causing those around her to ask questions.

At least the yard surrounding the church was empty, telling her there was time before the services would begin. Perhaps she might meet up with her aunt before the other mourners arrived.

It was a poor church, a poor village, and the condition of the graveyard reflected this. The corners of her mouth pulled down as she took in the overgrown grounds, weeds choking out every other living thing in an attempt to take over. If she were there as herself, she’d clean off the graves of her family and perhaps even plant something pretty.

The weeds would only choke it, too. Like everything else.

There was a fresh hole dug not far from Mother’s grave, which she guessed was intended for Gavin. A lump formed in her throat when she imagined him there, at the bottom of a grave, covered in the dirt which sat in great piles along the edges of where he’d be laid to rest. It was doubtful that Sorcha would have the silver on hand to afford a marker for the grave.

He deserved better. They both did. Would that she were in a position to provide for them.

She might have been able to, had she stayed with her husband. A sobering truth, to be sure, but still a truth. While Alan wasn’t the most thoughtful of men and had a temper worse than any she’d ever witnessed, he wasn’t an animal. He had feelings. He could reason.

She may have talked him into providing for Sorcha in the future. Into at least seeing that her needs were met. Connor most certainly wouldn’t—Gavin was his dead wife’s brother, so Sorcha meant nothing to him.

At least there was no chance of Connor appearing at the burial, nor of Alan’s presence. She knew them both well enough to be certain.

This knowledge helped her dismount smoothly, without looking all about herself as she tied the mare off to the post which ran the length of one side of the old church. Some of her earliest memories involved it, or standing in the shadow of it, during so many burial services. Too many for a child as young as she was to attend.

Connor had insisted she attend for her brothers. She’d insisted she be there for her mother.

As had Sorcha.

All the more reason for the risk Caitlin took that day, walking about in the shadow of the church to avoid notice while fetching a bucket of water for the overheated horse. “There, girl,” she whispered, stroking the smooth, gray neck of the sweet beast as it drank deeply of the cool liquid.

Sorcha had stood up for Caitlin so many times—for a quiet, unassuming woman of small stature and even smaller voice, she’d become a tower of strength and fortitude in the face of Connor McAllister’s callousness.

Would that she could’ve talked him out of Caitlin’s marriage. Not that she hadn’t tried, but both ridding himself of the daughter he’d never wanted and securing his friendship with the Andersons had been far too tempting a prospect for him to give in.

The familiar sight of the wagon which her aunt and uncle had always used to carry crops to the village brought tears to Caitlin’s eyes. There it was, passing under the low-hanging branches of a towering birch tree. She recognized the team of workhorses which pulled it and noted the way their heads hung low.

As though they felt the absence of their master.

She wouldn’t doubt it, as Uncle Gavin had been so wonderful to them and every animal on the farm. A born farmer, really, though he could easily have bred horses and possibly made a much more comfortable living.

“I’d miss the earth, lass,” he’d remind her whenever Caitlin asked why he wouldn’t choose the more profitable vocation. “I’d miss watching things grow,” he’d said.

How sad for him that he’d never gotten the chance to watch children grow—then again, she reflected with a bittersweet smile, he had. Nearly every happy memory of her childhood could be attributed to either her aunt and uncle or to Rodric.

There was Aunt Sorcha, riding beside the deacon. A young man, fresh-faced, he held the reins. His forehead was deeply creased, the weight of his task clearly written there.

Caitlin barely spared him a glance, focusing on her aunt instead. Why, she looked five years older than she had the last time they’d seen each other on the day of Caitlin’s ill-fated wedding. There was a faraway look in her eyes, a sort of lost expression on her face. Rather blank, unfocused. The gray-streaked auburn hair was arranged in a messy braid, as though the fingers which wound it cared little even for such deeply ingrained movement.

She should’ve left in the night, no matter the dangers of traveling in the dark. She should’ve found a way. She might have provided comfort the night prior to Gavin’s burial, might have washed and braided her aunt’s hair and seen to it the woman had something solid in her stomach and a little tea to fortify her.

Caitlin’s heart wrenched. How terrible it must’ve been to lose one’s love so suddenly, without the chance to express all that had been left unsaid. To face the prospect of a life spent alone.

Tears flowed freely down her cheeks as she watched from behind an overgrown hedge. The wagon came to a stop beside the church, not far from where she waited. The deacon—a man Caitlin had never met, indicating his status as a newcomer—alighted from the driver’s box and hurried around to help Sorcha from her seat.

She stumbled.

Before she could stop herself, Caitlin lunged forward and darted over to where her aunt struggled to right herself.

The deacon made a fretful, sympathetic noise which she supposed was meant to comfort Sorcha.

Caitlin took her aunt’s arm, wrapping her other arm around the older woman’s waist and nodding in the deacon’s general direction.

If anything, he looked relieved as he walked to the back of the wagon and motioned for the gravediggers to join him—Caitlin hadn’t noticed them before, meaning they must have emerged from wherever they’d been resting at the approach of the wagon.

They’d be removing the body from the wagon. Caitlin bit her lip, struggling to hold back a fresh flood of heartbroken sobs at the thought of her uncle’s body being so close, wrapped in linen in preparation for what was to come.

Sorcha hadn’t noticed who held onto her, eyes fixed on the ground. “I’d like to visit my sister-in-law,” she whispered, clutching the hand which gripped hers.

Another wave of emotion threatened to knock Caitlin off her feet, but she complied, helping her aunt to the site of her mother’s grave.

Sorcha trembled slightly as she stood there, looking at the humble marker which time had already begun to wear down. “You see, Caitriona lost her husband as well,” she explained in a voice hoarse with strain. “And with a young daughter, too. Though at the time I thought—God forgive me—that at least she had young Caitlin to remember him by. I have nothing of Gavin. No child.” The trembling increased until the bereaved woman shook from head to toe.

“You have the love he shared with you,” Caitlin whispered. “That love was a great comfort to your niece when she needed love the most. She thought of you two as her parents after her mother’s death. You were her strength and solace.”

Sorcha nodded. “Aye, darling, but that was a long time ago, and now you’ve run away from us, and I didn’t know until just now that you’d survived.” She raised her head to look into Caitlin’s eyes. “I should be furious with you for coming, but it’s so good to know you’re alive. I needed you so.”

Caitlin broke down, leaning on her aunt as much as her aunt leaned on her. “Oh, Aunt Sorcha, I’m so sorry.”

The two of them stood there, holding one another up, as Gavin’s body was placed on the soft ground beside the freshly-dug grave.

“How did you know it was me?” Caitlin whispered.

“I would know you anywhere. The moment you touched my hand, dear. I last held yours not so very long ago, remember.”

“I do.” The night before the wedding, when she’d sobbed through the night with her aunt at her side.

“Where have you been?” Sorcha asked, barely whispering.

“With Fiona.”

“Aye, I’d hoped as much. Alan never knew her, or her husband.”

“Which was why I chose their home to flee to.”

“You took quite a chance, coming here.” Their eyes met, and Sorcha’s crinkled at the corners as they narrowed. “He wouldn’t like it, if he knew.”

No, Uncle Gavin wouldn’t have liked it at all. “I needed to be here. I needed to be with you.”

“As I said, I should be furious that you’d take such a chance—”

The sound of approaching hooves caught their attention, and Sorcha stiffened at the sight of the mourners on their way to the graveyard.

“Quickly. You must hide yourself.”

Caitlin didn’t wait to be told twice, releasing her aunt and fleeing to the hedge behind which she’d hidden prior to Sorcha’s arrival. It sat in deep shadow, untouched by sunlight thanks to the trees on either side whose branches formed a roof overhead.

She watched, barely peering out from around the hedge, as one after another horse and wagon arrived. All of them carried sorrowful friends, faces Caitlin recognized. It seemed the procession would never end.

Was it Caitlin’s imagination, or was her aunt’s back a bit straighter than it had been when she’d arrived at the church? Some of that was surely an attempt to keep up an appearance of strength in front of others, but she wanted to believe her presence had bolstered Sorcha at least a bit. If that was all she managed to accomplish, the journey and its risks would be well worth it.

Her eyes moved across the sea of faces, all of them either tear-stained or looking as though they were about to be. Gavin had touched so many of the neighboring families with his humor and generous nature. It did Caitlin’s heart good to see them there, to know they remembered him fondly.

What did not do her good was the sight of a familiar shade of dark hair as a rider descended from his horse. Thick and wavy as ever, the sunlight seeming to hit it straight on so as to catch her eye.

Sorcha said she would’ve known Caitlin anywhere.

Caitlin would’ve known him anywhere.

The last time she’d seen that hair of his, not to mention the broad back and wide shoulders and the way he’d carried himself in the saddle—so straight and tall—had been the day he’d ridden off and left her behind. She’d seemed much younger then, but as deeply in love as anyone could be.

Deeply in love and certain of his return.

Certain that he would make her his wife one day.

“Rodric,” she breathed.